Clyde’s Chronicle of the First Gathering Part 3

Clyde didn’t have to think. He’d been forming the list since Theseus said the word Gravi-Maw.

“Sinbad Morso,” he said. “Limitless carrier in Arkos. Hears the rhythm under reality. Dangerous. Unstable. Exactly the kind of man you want facing something that fights in patterns.”

“Jerry,” he continued. “Hyper-intelligent squirrel in Viridia Wildlands. Daemos lab accident. Trickster, saboteur, folk hero. They dismiss him because he’s small. That’s their mistake.”

“Maximillian Finstad,” Clyde said. “The Silver Warden. Fell out of Silverpoint’s elite, built his own justice in the Wildlands. Knows how to fight with and without a badge.”

“Krakos,” he said quietly. “Sky-Hunter. First mortal who ever made dragons afraid of the sky. He’s awake. The world will either recruit him or be surprised by him. I’d rather the first.”

“Tina Warren,” he finished. “Ice-wielding cook with more heart than most commanders. She keeps Krakos pointed at the right targets. She’ll keep everybody else fed and anchored.”

Lazarus huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “You don’t recruit small, Heinhart.”

“We don’t have time to,” Clyde said. “Not anymore.”

They stood there a moment, Proven and mortal, watching the planet neither of them quite trusted to save itself.

“What are you going to call them?” Lazarus asked. “Your lot.”

“Doesn’t matter what I call them,” Clyde said. “World’ll name them after the first disaster they prevent.”

“Indulge me,” Lazarus said, eyes still on the curve of the world. There was a softness there, buried deep—a man thinking of a son in Gransport, of a brother at the black docks, of a life he’d broken and might yet try to fix.

Clyde exhaled slowly.

“Nova Guard,” he said. “Not saints. Not soldiers. Guards. People who stand between the old monsters and everyone else.”

Lazarus rolled the name around in his mouth like a coin. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That sounds like something my boy might grow up hearing.”

A bell chimed somewhere in the halls behind them, the way time was marked in a place that didn’t need clocks. Summons back to councils, routes, realms. Clyde turned away from the view.

“When they come back from the Expanse,” Clyde said, meaning Theseus, Goten, Hermoine, Hercules, “try to have a world left that’s worth handing them. They’re kids. They deserve at least one thing that isn’t on fire.”

Lazarus snorted. “You mortals and your demands.”

“Somebody’s got to keep you honest,” Clyde said.

The royal guard were waiting near the lift, silver halberds grounded, wings of light folded at their backs. They fell into formation as he approached.

“Clyde Heinhart,” the captain said, “your transit back to Nova Prime is ready.”

He glanced back once.

Afro leaned in a doorway, watching. Julius stood beside him, shadows curling like incense. Brenpachi towered over the wards, one massive hand resting carefully on Hercules’ shoulder, another roughly ruffling Goten’s hair. Hermoine spoke to Maelira in low tones, hands moving as she described something unseen. Theseus stared at the ceiling sigils like he was memorizing the way out.

Faith met Clyde’s eyes and gave one short nod.

War didn’t look up. He was already drawing lines and arrows across a glass pane, rebalancing futures.

The Heavbound had their path.

So did Clyde.

He stepped into the lift. Light swallowed him. Gravity turned. The next time his feet touched ground, it would be on a planet where dragons remembered the taste of man, the Council of Ancients whispered through shards, and the Ring of Saint Estes pulsed like a buried heartbeat.

That was fine.

He’d bring the Guard.

And for the first time in a long time, Clyde Heinhart felt like he wasn’t walking into the war alone.