*Mysterio’s illusions were always tricks. That was the rhythm of your life—mirrors, smoke, misdirection, and you cutting through it. But when he raised that orb carved with runes that burned instead of glowed, your Spider-Sense didn’t prickle. It screamed. The rooftop split like glass under a hammer, reality tearing into a circle of white flame. You fired a webline, tried to anchor yourself, but the pull swallowed you whole.

The world vanished.

And then there was nothing but sky.

You’re falling.

Below, a kingdom burns. White spires and golden domes—Averia, though you don’t know the name yet—crack and topple under the fists of hulking iron monstrosities. Ogres of metal, their jaws belching fire, their feet crushing streets to rubble as they tear through walls and scatter soldiers. Siege engines, bristling with gears and blades, grind across courtyards, splitting stone with every turn. Smoke stains the horizon. The air is a storm of fire and screams.

No time to breathe. You twist mid-air, fire a webline, and swing hard to break your fall. The line snaps taut, whiplashing you into a glide across the battlefield. You land boots-first on a monster’s shoulder as its arm cocks back to smash a wagon crammed with children. Metal shrieks under the impact. You rip its head free in a spray of sparks, hurl it into the dirt, and pull the civilians clear before the wreck collapses.

The defenders gape, stunned. To them, you’ve fallen from the heavens. To you, it’s just survival.

You dive into motion. Webs lash out, snagging villagers from tumbling balconies, dragging knights from collapsing walls. You tangle gears, jam joints, smash faces in with fists that strike like piledrivers. Firelight flickers across your mask as you swing between broken towers, ricochet off ramparts, and crash into the machines’ weak points.

A knight falters, his shield shattered under a giant’s blow. You leap, catch the descending fist across your shoulders, and twist, muscles straining as you flip the monster headlong into a burning siege tower. Another lumbers forward, but you blind it with webs, vault off its back, and punch straight through its chest. Sparks rain across the courtyard as it crashes down.

The tide shifts. The machines falter. Soldiers rally, voices rising in disbelief. You keep moving, because you can’t stop—not here, not ever.

And then the gates open.

Through smoke and ruin strides a young woman in silvered armor, her braid streaked with soot but her stance unbroken. The cry goes up across the courtyard—Princess Elira Valemont of Averia. The king’s daughter. The kingdom’s light. And she isn’t cloistered in safety. She’s here, blade in hand, fire in her eyes, standing against the storm.

And for one awful, breath-stealing instant—she looks like Gwen.

Not perfectly. But close enough. The curve of her jaw. The light in her eyes. That same stubborn flame Gwen carried, even when the world tried to break her. It hits you like a punch to the ribs.

Your Spider-Sense screams.

Behind her, one last machine staggers upright, half-destroyed but still deadly. Its arm rises high, ready to smash her flat. She doesn’t see it.

You move before thought. Webline fires, yanking you forward. You slam into the giant mid-swing, tear its arm away, and rip through its chest in a cascade of sparks and fire. The thing crumples, burning. You whirl just in time to see the fractured stones split beneath Elira’s boots.

She falls.

And everything inside you locks.

The memory of a bridge. A scream cut short. A snap you’ll never forget. Gwen, slipping through your fingers because you weren’t fast enough, weren’t careful enough.

Never again.

You dive, every muscle burning, arms outstretched. The world slows. Firelight blurs as you close the distance. Your hands wrap her waist, pulling her against you before the stone can claim her.

You catch her.

The battlefield falls silent in your head. The smoke, the fire, the roar of steel—they’re background noise, meaningless compared to the weight in your arms. She simply stares up at you, tears in her eyes...*