Heaven Has No Mercy

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Chapter 1

"I hear the bells toll. The lords... they are finally awakening," Milly whispered, her voice trembling as she gazed out of her window at the evening sky, now consumed by a permanent, fiery glow. The once serene blue had vanished, replaced by a horizon that burned golden, like the heavens themselves had caught fire.

The immense bells from the five kingdoms echoed across the land, their deep, resonant sound vibrating through the bones of every creature. These were not ordinary bells; they were the voice of the world's rulers, the Lords, and they tolled together only when they stirred from their eternal slumber.

Their sound was as old as the earth itself, ancient, ominous, and all-encompassing. Each toll echoed like a judgment, felt not just by the ears, but in the very soul. Below, the seas roared with newfound ferocity, as if answering the call of the heavens. The winds howled, restless and relentless, sweeping through the lands with the vigor of an impending storm.

The animals, ever attuned to changes humans could scarcely comprehend, cowered in fear. Something primal had shifted—an instinct deep within them warned of a terror that was no longer just legend. Milly, her heart pounding as violently as the waves below, tore herself away from the window.

"Brother! Brother!" she shouted, running frantically through the narrow streets. She shoved past people, their faces frozen between fear and fascination, their eyes glued to the blazing sky. To them, the end of times was both terrifying and mesmerizing—an event foretold but never truly believed. But Milly couldn't afford to stare. She had to find Modi.

"Where is he?" she muttered, asking every familiar face, but she already knew the answer. Modi. Always Modi. Of course, he would be in the Pit—imprisoned again. "Modi, why must you stray so far from the path of good?" she thought as her feet carried her toward the dreaded underground. The prison cells, known as the Pit, were hidden deep beneath the second body of every kingdom—an abyss carved into the earth, layer by layer.

Each level sank further into darkness, but those imprisoned in the lowest depths were said to never see the light again, their chains a permanent reminder of their eternal damnation. No visitors. No escape. Only the forgotten remained. As Milly neared the entrance to the Pit, she could feel the heavy presence of the Elites—silent, unmoving, ever-vigilant.

They stood guard at the entrance, their crimson armor resembling roses—roses that had long ago been twisted into something unnatural. Thick vines of spiked thorns pierced their flesh, drawing blood that seeped slowly, eternally, yet they never flinched. Their helmets, shaped like the heads of roses, bore no airways for breath, no eyes for sight.

They were, in essence, the perfect warriors, requiring nothing of the living world to survive. To many, they were a walking nightmare. But to Milly, they were strangely beautiful, like the last guardians of order in a world on the brink of chaos. She had always admired their unwavering duty. "I wish to see my brother, Modi," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart.

Without a word, two of the Elites stepped forward, their movements eerily fluid, and escorted her down into the depths of the prison. "Brother." Milly's voice broke the suffocating silence of Modi's cell. He sat in the corner, his back turned to her, his chains clinking softly with each shallow breath. "Our Lord Hak'al has awoken, yet on this day, of all days, you choose to bring shame to our family once more."

Her words were sharp, laced with disappointment, but there was an undercurrent of sadness too. Modi chuckled darkly, the sound more bitter than amused. "Why do you care, Milly? Why do you always care when I hurt myself, yet avoid me when I seek your company? Am I just a project to you? Another soul to save for the sake of your conscience?"

His voice dripped with resentment, and still, he didn't look at her. "If you came to lecture me, go away. Mother already gave me an earful not long before you." Milly's grip tightened around the cold iron bars of his cell. She wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to make him understand. "It's not about you! It's never been about you, Modi!" she hissed, leaning closer.

The Elites beside her shifted subtly, ready to intervene if necessary. "Our people are terrified. The sky burns with the fire of the end times, and you sit here, wallowing in your misery. You know what this means." She lowered her voice to a whisper, her eyes wide with fear. "The end of the Lords. It's all happening, just as it was written."

Finally, Modi looked up, his expression a mixture of anger and apathy. "So what? The stories they told us as children? You believe those fairy tales now? They were just meant to scare us into behaving." "No." Milly's voice quivered as the weight of the truth settled over her. "It's exactly as it was written, Modi.

When the sky is engulfed in flames, when the Silent Monolith moves in the sea, the oceans will rage, and life will know only fear. The end is near, brother. The end of the Lords." For the first time, there was a flicker of unease in Modi's eyes, but he quickly buried it beneath his usual bravado. "Let it come then. Let the Lords face their fate.

They've played with death for long enough. Perhaps now, the debt comes due." Milly swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "And when it does, what will become of us?"

Chapter 2

Modi gave his sister no response, only silence. Milly, wondering why she even bothered to warn her brother about a danger that had yet to reveal itself, slowly backed away from his cell. His back remained turned to her. "Alright, brother. I'll leave you to your thoughts. At this rate, people might start thinking I'm the eldest sibling if you keep acting like a child.

Father would be—" Before Milly could finish, Modi, enraged, lunged forward, rattling the heavy chains that bound him. The violent sound echoed through the pit. "Don't you dare!" he bellowed, his voice thick with fury. "Don't you dare mention him! You have no right!" Milly wasn't shocked by his outburst. She watched him struggle, tugging at the chains, his anger barely restrained, before she turned and walked away with a smirk, the elite guards trailing her.

"Now I have his attention," she thought to herself as Modi's furious voice followed her out of the pit. "I hate you! I hate you!" he screamed, over and over, his rage echoing long after she had left. A soft voice from the adjacent cell broke the silence that followed. "Young sir," it called, quieter than Modi's earlier screams, yet piercing through the quiet.

The voice sounded younger, though there was a strange calmness to it. "Who the hell are you?" Modi snapped, exhausted and annoyed that someone had witnessed his outburst. The young voice chuckled. "Just a fellow prisoner, chained up like you. Forgive me, but your argument was rather loud, and I couldn't help but overhear.

That, and... well, her news piqued my interest." Modi growled, still bristling. "And what business is it of yours?" Another chuckle. "In here, when the silence stretches on for days, sometimes weeks, one clings to whatever distraction presents itself. You understand, don't you? It's been so long since I've seen the sky, young sir. You were a welcome noise." Modi frowned.

There was something about the stranger's voice, a certain composure. "Who are you?" he asked, his tone calmer this time. "Ah, so you are curious." The voice sounded pleased, as though relishing the attention. "The name is Nel." "Nel?" Modi echoed, feeling a strange mixture of suspicion and intrigue. "How long have you been down here?"

"Long enough that I've lost track of time," Nel answered lightly. "But in truth, I think I've been here longer than most." He paused, his voice shifting to a more serious tone. "Your sister... you shouldn't take her words lightly." Modi sighed, leaning against the cold stone wall. "So you believe in those stories too? The prophecy? I almost thought you were different."

Nel chuckled again, a little softer this time. "The prophecy? Ah, yes. Many believe in it. But my people are different. We don't follow the lords or their whims. In fact, we believe that one day, the lords will fall. And if what your sister said is true... perhaps that day is coming soon." Modi narrowed his eyes, though he couldn't see Nel clearly in the shadows.

"You talk as if you're glad for it." "I am," Nel admitted. "The world has been ruled by these so-called gods for too long. Don't you think it's time for something else?" Modi remained silent for a moment, his eyes tracing the dirt on the floor. "I've never cared for Lord Hak'al, or any of the others for that matter. Their followers are blind, devoted to a false peace that will one day set this world ablaze.

And when that happens, they'll deny the truth, even as it burns before their eyes." Nel's voice, filled with surprise, softened. "You are... a rare one, Modi." Modi, surprised by the way his name sounded in Nel's voice, glanced up. "What do you mean by that?" "Your conviction," Nel said, almost reverently. "Most people would never dare to speak of the lords that way. But you? You're different.

Maybe... maybe our paths crossed for a reason." Modi, though still suspicious, felt something shift in him. He hadn't spoken like this to anyone in a long time. It was strange—he hadn't realized how much he needed someone to understand. Even his own family wouldn't have approved of what he said. Weeks passed.

In the darkness of the pit, Modi and Nel exchanged words that grew from casual to meaningful. They shared more than just their views on the world; they shared their loneliness, their anger, their hopes for something better. For the first time in what felt like years, Modi had someone he could talk to, someone who didn't judge him.

Then, one day, the elites came to retrieve him. His time in the pit was over. Modi stood still as the door to his cell creaked open, feeling a sudden reluctance to leave. For so long, he had wanted nothing more than to escape. Now, he wasn't so sure. One of the guards nudged him forward, but as he stepped into the hallway, Modi glanced back at Nel's cell. To his surprise, Nel looked young—far younger than Modi had imagined.

His face was innocent, almost too innocent for someone trapped in this hellish place. Nel met his gaze with a somber smile. "So long, dear friend," he said softly. "Don't forget me." Modi's heart clenched. He rushed to the bars of Nel's cell, gripping them tightly. "I won't! I'll find a way to help you, Nel! That's a promise! This isn't the end!" Nel's eyes shimmered, touched by Modi's sincerity. "Then I'll wait for my savior," he said with a gentle smile, his voice calm as the wind howled through the pit.

The guards pulled Modi away, but Nel's words stayed with him, echoing long after he was gone.

Chapter 3

As Modi emerged from the depths of the Pit, disbelief weighed heavily on his heart. The prison guards had barred him from ever returning below. "This cannot be real," he muttered, shaken by the haunting visions he had witnessed. To the people, what he saw was no mere vision but a prophecy unfurling before their eyes.

Outside, the world was unlike anything he had ever known. A fire in the sky burned so bright that even the dead of night seemed as day. The air roared with winds so fierce that his clothes never stopped flapping, and he had to squint against the relentless gusts. The sun was wrong—low, eerie, cloaked in a black-red aura, as if it were a portal to some otherworldly place. It filled him with dread.

In the distance, Modi could make out the towering Pillar of Lord Hak'al, rising high into the sky, nearly touching the clouds. These grand monuments, known as The High Sanctums, were scattered across the kingdoms. Each pillar served not only as a place of worship but as the thrones of the Lords, who could survey their dominion from the flat surface at its peak.

Suddenly, a carriage approached. "A carriage?" Modi questioned aloud, the timing too uncanny for coincidence. A voice from within called out. "I've been waiting for you, Modi. No, you don't know me, but I know a great deal about you." The speaker stepped from the carriage, a man clothed like a warrior, marked by a crimson scar beneath his left eye.

"My name is Orik," he said, his smile unsettling. "And I am the reason you were imprisoned, after you robbed me." Modi's silence was cold, his mind racing at the stranger's boldness. "Don't worry," Orik continued, "I forgive those desperate for survival." A smirk crept across Modi's face as he responded, "What if I told you I stole from you simply because I felt like it?" He spoke not out of truth, but to provoke. Orik only laughed.

"Then I suppose you served your time well. Come with me, Modi. There are matters of great importance we must discuss. As you can see," he gestured toward the strange sky, "time is running short." Modi hesitated, sizing up the man before him. He didn't trust Orik, but something about this encounter seemed... larger than either of them. And besides, there were few left who cared for him.

Nel was still a mystery, and Modi's reputation in the city wasn't exactly endearing. The people despised criminals, but they feared the loss of faith in the Lords even more. As long as one repented at the High Sanctum, their sins could be forgiven. But Modi had no such faith, only the hidden loyalty of his mother and sister, who concealed his lack of prayer from the authorities. It was a dangerous game they played.

"Alright," Modi finally said, stepping into the carriage. "But don't waste my time." The carriage rattled down the road, taking them further and further from the city. As they journeyed, Orik spoke of things that weighed heavily on Modi's mind. "You stole something valuable from me once," Orik began. "And in return, I've learned much about you. A tragic backstory, really."

He pulled out a scroll, reading aloud the details of Modi's life. "Your father, put to death by the court for treason—an enemy of Lord Hak'al for renouncing his power." Modi's body tensed. "How did you get that information?" His voice was low but edged with fury. "I may be a criminal, but I can still report you for violating the law."

Orik grinned, unfazed by the threat. "I know you won't, Modi. You see the world for what it truly is. Our world is forsaken, and you—like me—have been forsaken by your own blood. It was your family who reported your father. Your mother and sister, the ones who wept as he was burned at the stake, were the very ones who sealed his fate.

And you were the only one who dared to speak out against it." The painful memory flooded Modi's mind. He remembered the flames, the sound of crackling fire, and the tear-streaked faces of his mother and sister as they mourned the man they had condemned. "How dare they cry for him?" he had thought that day. "They killed him."

Breaking the silence, Orik continued, "I also learned that you were placed next to a boy in the Pit. A boy named Nel." Modi's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about him?" "I have my sources," Orik said, flashing a smile. "That boy—he's more important than you realize. There are no records of him. None. It's as if he doesn't exist. Yet, he's been in the Pit for years, and now he's being summoned to Lord Hak'al." The pieces didn't fit.

"He told me he came from a kingdom that doesn't worship the Lords, which was strange. But he never said much more about his past." Modi spoke of Nel with detachment, realizing that for all their time together, he knew little about the boy. Orik nodded. "That's helpful. But there's more to uncover. We'll discuss it further once we arrive."

The carriage stopped near a dense forest, and the driver left them to walk the rest of the way. As they approached the edge of a cliff, Modi saw what Orik had been leading him toward—a hidden refuge, a secret lair carved into the rockface. "Welcome," Orik said, gesturing toward the entrance. "We have much to discuss, and not much time."

Chapter 4

Beneath the soil of planet Nira lives one of the most superior underground species: ants, Toddler-sized creatures that are not taken lightly, even by the Lords. In great numbers, the ants are nearly unstoppable. The lair of Orik was not built by human hands, but by the ants themselves. As Orik and Modi walked through the vast tunnels the ants had created, Modi spotted a peculiar ant with an oversized head, blocking the entrance—a perfect natural camouflage, easily missed by anyone unfamiliar with it.

"These are ant tunnels? I never imagined they'd be this large," Modi said, fascinated by the ants that crawled beside him in a disciplined formation. "Many underestimate these ants , and for your sake, I hope you don't," Orik replied, his tone a mixture of warning and respect. "They may be small and seem insignificant as individuals, but when united in an army, resistance is almost futile.

They care only for the safety of their queen. And should you threaten that order, they will neutralize you with ruthless efficiency. Even the Lords dare not provoke them. No one knows their true numbers, but we do know they all serve one queen. And once you interrupt their flow, they will hunt you down, no matter where you hide.

Your scent will be etched into their minds, and even the unhatched will know it. The queen will ensure that the mere possibility of you becoming a threat again does not exist." Orik's voice dropped lower as they continued walking. "The Lords are powerful, yes, but they too need rest. As they have said, they cannot die, but they feel pain like any living creature.

Could they defeat the ants? Perhaps. But it wouldn't be over quickly. It might take weeks, maybe months. So, why start a war with them when they don't bother us?" As Orik lectured the attentive Modi, they arrived at a torch-lit expanse. The open space was as vast as a village, and Modi could feel a cool breeze blowing through the various tunnels—reminiscent of the winds on the surface.

"Here we are," Orik said, gesturing to a sturdy base made of soil, beautifully structured, as if the ants had an artistic touch. "Before we proceed with our discussions, you must meet the others." Around fifty men waited for Orik's return, each of them bearing the same crimson scar across their faces as Orik, a symbol of their dedication to the cause.

"This is Modi," Orik introduced, but the atmosphere turned cold. The new faces stared at Modi with disapproval. To them, his sudden arrival could jeopardize everything—one mistake could reveal their location. "Why have you brought him here, Orik?" one of the scarred men demanded, his voice tinged with anxiety.

"This is all we have. We cannot risk the discovery of this place. One wrong move, and everything could be lost." His voice faltered, as if haunted by past tragedies. Another member added, "Orik, I understand. He may indeed be valuable, perhaps the closest thing we've ever had to an answer, but Calen is right. It was reckless to bring him here.

It puts us all in danger. He may have been a prisoner, but like most, they eventually return to the High Sanctum and beg the Lords for forgiveness. And they will be forgiven, as long as they pray and are not branded as doubters. Especially now, when the Lords are awake." Orik stood beside Modi and addressed the group. "Our new friend has met the one called Nel."

Whispers filled the chamber as the mention of Nel instantly drew everyone's attention. Sensing their unease, Orik continued, "Modi was abandoned by his own family. His eyes have been opened to the truth, and he's not here to expose the Lords. In fact, he seems too detached from his surroundings to even care. But..." Orik paused, glancing at Modi thoughtfully.

"Something about meeting the boy, Nel, may have stirred something within him—a purpose. One that perhaps, deep down, he had long forgotten or thought he would never find again. I believe that, in some way, Nel has given him that purpose, though Modi may not realize it yet." "As you all know, of all the prisoners, Nel was the most enigmatic.

He committed no crime, yet he's been held captive for five years. And if we trace the timeline, we see that on the very day of his capture, the creatures in that territory grew restless. Our suspicions were confirmed, thanks to Modi. Nel is not just any prisoner—he's from the Kingdom of Lethra. The kingdom of the devils." The room fell into a tense silence.

Lethra—the kingdom known as the enemy of humanity.

Chapter 5

The kingdom of Lethra, the largest and most dangerous of all kingdoms, is feared even by the Lords. Many have wondered about its power, especially since it lacks a Lord, yet it has never been conquered. The other kingdoms - Raigoh of Luchtig, Sayah of Cyria, Hak'al of Kondor, Li'orah of Ingrid, and Yöma of Tirath - all serve the Almighty.

This mysterious figure, though never seen, commands the unquestioning loyalty of the Lords. It is said that if even a Lord bows, the Almighty must indeed be real, powerful beyond imagination. Through the Lords, the will of the Almighty is spread, a set of rules that dictate the very essence of life for the people: Never take justice into your own hands.

While committing a crime is a sin, punishing a wrongdoer yourself is an even greater one, for you have denied them the chance at redemption. The Lords are forgiving, so long as one prays and seeks their mercy. To act outside their will is to show a lack of trust in their power to deliver justice. Yet, there is one exception: If your actions are for the Lords, then you are absolved, for the Lords must always come first.

And to honor them, one must pray every day: "Thank the Lords for each new day, for your safety, and for the provisions they have granted. Even when the Lords rest for many years, so long that you may never witness their awakening in your lifetime, you must continue to pray. For when the Lords do awaken, it will be your generation that suffers punishment if your devotion falters.

To stop praying is to doubt, and doubt is a disease-a contagious sickness that breeds dangerous ideas and possibilities." The penalty for doubting the Lords is death, not only for the doubter but for anyone who knew of their doubt and failed to report it. To be curious is to doubt. Never venture beyond the lands of the Lords, for nothing lies beyond.

Why leave when you have all you need under their protection? If you do, you question the Lords' teachings and become a doubter. The same fate awaits you if you associate with a doubter or a devil from the Kingdom of Lethra. The people of Lethra are seen as devils, with no Lord to guide them, and their land is a place of dark mystery.

Lady Sayah, the Lord who controls the creatures and nature of Nira, finds her powers useless in Lethra. The creatures within its borders do not answer her. This inability to control Lethra's territory is seen as evidence of the stain the devils have left upon the world. Yet, the people of Lethra remain within their homeland, never daring to leave, for it is known that only death would greet them if they ventured beyond their borders-other kingdoms would see to that.

The people of Lethra are hated and feared; should they leave, they would surely be hunted and killed. The creatures of Nira defend Lethra fiercely. In numerous failed raids, creatures have willingly given their lives to protect its people. This has led many to wonder: Are these creatures controlled by magic? Are they under some devilish spell, forced to defend the very ones who enslave them?

For years, other kingdoms have tried and failed to conquer Lethra, despite its lack of a Lord. What power do these devils hold? And where does it come from? Perhaps the world will learn the answer soon, for the first time ever, a Lethran has been captured - Nel. His fate is certain: execution.

Chapter 6

Modi had never really paid much attention to his mother's teachings. The kingdom of Lethra, though crucial to remember, was a mystery to him. Orik, noticing Modi's lack of understanding, took it upon himself to explain, not just to Modi, but to any of the Bloodbrothers who might be unaware. "Do you understand now?" Orik asked, his tone both instructive and patient.

"I... I'm not sure," Modi replied, uncertainty clouding his mind. Could Nel really be one of those devils they whisper about? "It is said the people of Lethra possess magic that can bend creatures to their will. Speculation, of course—nothing has ever been proven. But we are forced to take the word of the Lords. That being said... what if he used that magic on you?"

The accusation struck Modi like a bolt of lightning. The idea that Nel could have bewitched him felt like an insult to both his bond and his judgment. "No!" Modi's voice was fierce. "Don't make claims based on rumors. I am doing this of my own free will. He is... the only true friend I've ever had. I feel a connection with him, one that goes beyond reason. And I believe he felt it too."

Orik watched Modi closely, his expression softening into a small smile. It was as if he had been testing Modi's loyalty. "Calm yourself," Orik said, gesturing with an open palm. "Whatever the case may be, we have no choice but to intervene." "But why? What is this really all about?" Modi asked, his frustration growing.

Orik's eyes darkened with the weight of a heavy truth. "This group, the Harbingers, was formed to challenge the Lords—an act so grave, it could wipe out our entire bloodline. We'd be condemned, not just us, but our friends, families, everyone we've ever known. Of course, we're nowhere near powerful enough to take them on directly.

Not even a million men could hope to face their might. But the prophecy... ah, the prophecy. To most, it is just a fable, but for us, it is hope incarnate. For over thirty years, we've scoured every piece of forbidden knowledge, every record the Lords sought to destroy. Yet so much of our world's history remains lost in the abyss." Orik unrolled a map before Modi and the others.

His finger traced the borders of Lethra. "We even tried to infiltrate Lethra, but that was a suicide mission. Many died because of my recklessness. We thought it was our last hope. But then, we turned to another possibility—the Pit, where the Lords keep their prisoners. And that's where we found mention of Nel. He is set to be taken to Lord Hak'al when night falls.

But why the secrecy? Why not declare his execution publicly like all the others? It maddens me," Orik said, his voice tightening with frustration. He paused, then continued, "But there's more. Nel being a Lethran confirms that the creatures who once never strayed from their kingdom's borders are now beginning to roam. They are searching for the boy. I'm certain of it.

We want to negotiate with these so-called devils of Lethra. They may possess knowledge that we do not. If we can retrieve Nel and hand him over, perhaps they will listen to us. Do you see, Modi? Our reasons may not be as personal as yours, but we wish no harm to come to Nel, just as much as you do." Modi felt a surge of relief.

He had feared he would be alone in his quest, overwhelmed by the impossible odds. But now, he realized that these strangers—these Harbingers—were willing to risk everything to help save Nel. It gave him hope, a hope that he hadn't felt in a long time. He swallowed his emotions, his voice soft as he said, "Thank you." Orik nodded, satisfied.

"That will be enough for now," he said. "We move tonight. The others are on their way." Meanwhile, the ants, the colony of tunnel-crawlers, scurried in perfect formation beneath the earth. The tunnels spread like veins across all five kingdoms.

Many Harbingers hailed from different realms, but they were united under one cause. "This is where our real test begins," Orik addressed his comrades. "Our loyalty, our will, our very oaths will be put to the sword. You carved the scars on your faces with my blade as a symbol of your commitment. We fight not just for ourselves, but for freedom itself. Whoever dares to strip that freedom away is our enemy. The end is near, and we will see to it that this prophecy is fulfilled."

His voice was thunderous, a rallying cry that stirred the hearts of his men. "I fear that once this operation begins, our existence as a resistance will be exposed. Many of us will die. But it will be a slow, agonizing death if we do nothing—bleeding for the amusement of the Lords while they demand our praise. I refuse to give it to them. I know you stand with me until the end. And if we die, we die as a true family."

The Harbingers roared in unison, their voices filled with conviction. They had chosen their path, and they would walk it together, no matter how dark it became. Bonds had been forged in the fires of loss and rebellion, new families formed among those whose real ones had been destroyed by the Lords. Yet, despite the overwhelming resolve, some were still filled with doubt. Orik saw the uncertainty in their eyes and approached them, not with anger, but with a deep understanding that only a true leader possessed.

"Those of you who have formed bonds within our brotherhood, or have forged new ties outside of it—those with families to protect—you may choose not to fight tonight," Orik said, his voice steady and warm like the embrace of a long-lost friend.

"No one will think less of you. Your place among us is eternal, whether you join us in battle or stay behind. Blood shared in combat is no stronger than the loyalty shared in your heart." He placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of one young man who couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry," the man whispered, ashamed. "Don't be," Orik replied.

"Your choice to stay doesn't make you a coward. You're protecting those you love. I'm sure your beloved would agree, yes?" "Of course," the man said, his voice stronger now. Orik grinned. "Good." As night fell, the Harbingers prepared to move. The storm was coming, and they were ready to meet it head-on.

Chapter 7

What a frightening, yet beautiful view. It was clearly nighttime. The moon could be spotted, and the sky had darkened—but only to a degree. The sun was still present. The night sky of Nira was still consumed by flames, which to some looked like flowing rivers of light, and to others like a growing fire, devouring the heavens.

Some believed the angels in the heavens had created a lake of fire to rain down on the people below, punishing them for the doubters that walked among them—doubters that wore the same faces as their fellow citizens. Who could be trusted? Fear turned the people into monsters. The citizens of the lords became paranoid, distrustful.

Secrets became dangerous things. They rejoiced in the protection of the lords but prayed harder, fearing it was not enough. They tried to prove their worth, to show they were good, but the question lingered: was it truly selflessness if it was done only to earn the lords' favor? That question gnawed at Modi's mind. Modi thought differently from the followers.

While they closed their minds to doubt, Modi's thoughts were plagued by it. He had seen how faith tore families apart. People would disown their own children if they didn't share the same belief, fearing the lords would judge them as well. A child could bring shame upon a family simply by asking the wrong questions. Some went even further, taking the life they had given birth to, in order to protect their standing with the lords.

But who truly had the right to decide a child's fate just because they brought them into the world? Was that the right of the mother alone, simply because she carried the child in her womb? Was the other parent just a tool with no say? This kind of thinking could poison a child's mind, making one feel they were less than the other.

This tradition, this sickness, spread like a virus through their society, unnoticed by all. "Are you with us?" Orik's voice cut through Modi's thoughts. They stood hidden behind the trees, weapons ready, waiting for the prison wagon to come down the road. "Of course," Modi replied, though he was trembling as he gripped his blade.

"I can hear my own heart beating." "You know you can stay behind," Orik offered, his voice calm. "I have a thousand men prepared to give their lives for this mission, and a dozen more on their way. It would be a shame if yours was lost just to save a friend." "I have to do this," Modi insisted, his voice shaking. He wasn't doing this to prove he was brave.

All his life, he had cared about nothing because no one cared about him. Kindness, in his eyes, was nothing but a task people performed to feel good about themselves. Modi was selfish—he had always been selfish. He had stopped caring about his family long ago, even fantasizing about taking their lives. Dark thoughts indeed, but they came naturally after what had happened to his father.

His father had been, in a way, burned alive by the very people among whom he lived. And yet, Modi felt he needed to be grateful to them for not reporting him to the authorities as well. To Modi, this gratitude felt like a punishment. He lived in constant fear—fear of dying like his father. The screams haunted him, the image of his father's eyes melting in his skull as he screamed for his wife.

"Why?!" his father had cried. "Did I mean nothing to you?!" The executioner laughed, savoring his twisted pleasure. It wasn't the first time a family had given up their own, and it wouldn't be the last. It was a common spectacle, a show for the followers. They laughed, clapped, and rejoiced. To them, the death of doubters was the death of corruption.

But for Modi's father, it was nothing but pure sorrow. He had loved his wife, but in his final moments, he realized she would give him up so easily. Was that love? Could there be love in a world where devotion to the lords came first? The memory of his father's execution tore at Modi's heart. The men had stood at their door, waiting to collect the criminal.

His father had turned to his wife as he walked out, but she refused to meet his gaze. Was it shame? Disgust? Pity? Why hadn't she looked back? "I warned you," she had said, her voice trembling. "You still did as you pleased. Look away, children. Your father has aligned himself with the doubters."

"Don't poison their minds, my love!" his father had begged, fighting against the men as he knelt in front of Modi and Milly. "Please, Modi, Milly—you are the most precious things to me. What they'll say about me isn't true. All I wanted was to give you the ability to dream, to be curious. That doesn't make you evil." "Stop it!" Their mother had slapped his hands away from the children as he was dragged outside.

"Listen to me," she had whispered to them harshly. "You must not be like your father. He is evil. He was given many chances to accept the lords, but he refused. He wanted to corrupt you too. Remember—the lords come first. Never be curious." Milly had believed their father had ruined their family. But Modi... Modi had understood his father's intentions.

In a way, his father hadn't failed. His beliefs lived on in Modi. But that understanding had come with a price. Modi felt like an outcast ever since, disconnected from his family and from the world around him.

Chapter 8

The rhythmic clatter of horses' hooves echoed along the road, sharp and unsettling against the backdrop of violent winds whipping through the trees. The prison wagon was approaching. The ceaseless gales rustled the leaves, allowing whispers to carry unnoticed. Yet caution was paramount—only the trees bore witness to the impending assault.

The Harbingers wore their distinct attire: black garments that functioned as both armor and camouflage, rendering them nearly invisible in the shadows. "Here they come," Orik said, his grip tightening on his sword. Oddly, no elites were in sight—a strange oversight for a prisoner as valuable as Nel. There was no time for second thoughts.

The prison wagon was in view. With a subtle nod, Orik signaled his men to action. He stepped into the wagon's path, weapon drawn, his dark garb nearly merging with the night. Their garb possessed a strange, sentient quality—capable of sensing their emotions. When danger was near, their headwear would drip like black liquid over their eyes and faces, hardening into a protective mask.

The horses suddenly halted, catching the scent of the Harbingers' clothing—a smell reminiscent of nightcrawlers, those fearsome, patient hunters. These human-sized lizards could sense when they were being stalked, hardening their scales by releasing a black liquid from their bodies. Known for capturing prey alive before feasting, the nightcrawlers' lingering scent clung to the Harbingers' attire, unsettling the animals.

The rider cursed in frustration, yanking at the reins. "Out of the way! You're spooking the horses!" Orik remained silent, his face now concealed by the mask of darkness. "You're making a grave mistake," the rider warned, growing impatient. "Do you not understand the situation? Our lord Hak'al has no tolerance for failure, and he'll have both our heads if you don't move!"

Orik's voice was cold as he replied, "I offer you a warning as well—you don't understand your situation." He pointed his sword at the rider, signaling to his men to prepare their bows and arrows. The rider heard the unmistakable sound of countless bowstrings being drawn taut from the shadows. "We want what's in that wagon." he declared, making it clear that the rider was not the only one willing to defy the lord.

The rider's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're mad!" "Abandon the wagon, and you'll live. There are many places you can escape to where the lords won't find you... if you try hard enough," Orik said with a low, menacing chuckle. Realizing his peril, the rider leapt from the wagon and fled back toward the kingdom. Orik watched him run, weighing whether to strike him down.

But Lord Hak'al likely already suspected rebellion in his kingdom; he just didn't know the faces or names. Killing the rider would reveal nothing Hak'al didn't already know. Turning his attention back to the wagon, Orik's unease deepened. The horses were calming, but something felt wrong. He motioned for one of his men to open the wagon doors.

As they creaked open, a sword with a thorn-covered hilt shot out like a cannon, piercing through the Harbinger's armor and sending him flying thirty feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. The Harbingers froze, realizing the true challenge had just begun. A hand emerged from the wagon, followed by a figure whose head resembled a white rose.

"Elites," Orik thought furiously. Three of them accompanied Nel. The only relief was that there were fewer than he had anticipated. One elite alone would pose a challenge that could take a hundred men to overcome. Orik had suspected as much. Prisoners seldom required an escort; no one usually dared attempt a rescue—at least, not that Orik knew of.

Clearly, the lord had anticipated that someone might try exactly what they were now attempting. The situation looked grim. How much did Lord Hak'al really know? Everything? No, Orik reassured himself; if that were true, they would be dead before they even reached Nel. He hoped. The elites always exuded a chilling aura just by standing guard, but they become truly terrifying when they set their sights on a target.

The death of their comrade ignited a roar of fury among the Harbingers. With a united cry, 3,000 men charged the elites, arrows flying from all sides. But the arrows had no effect. The elites neither flinched nor made a sound. The barrage of arrows intensified—ten, then twenty, thirty, fifty, a hundred—but nothing worked.

Their only option was to face the elites head-on. As the Harbingers clashed with the elites, their swords trembled under the sheer force of the strikes. It was like trying to stop an avalanche with a twig. One elite, the same who had hurled the sword, moved toward the fallen Harbinger's body with eerie calm.

Some saw an opening and lunged, but the elite moved with terrifying speed, swinging its arm in a wide arc. Thorns flew through the air, striking men down despite their best efforts to deflect them. Without their armor, most of them would already be dead. In mere moments, more than 200 Harbingers had met their end at the hands of the elites in horrific ways.

One mistake, and a body could be cleaved in two with a single swing of their swords. Their mission wasn't to defeat the elites—it was to free Nel. Many attempted to reach the wagon, but the elites anticipated their intentions. Hidden behind the trees, Modi gripped his sword tightly, his hands trembling as a thousand scenarios raced through his mind.

What if he died before he even reached Nel? Would he ever see him again? But then he recalled the look on Nel's face when the promise was made—a look he now desperately wanted to see again. That memory fueled his resolve, and he realized he was willing to risk everything, even his life, for that moment.

Fueled by this memory, Modi ran toward the elite blocking the wagon's entrance, shouting fearlessly. But Orik caught him by the arm. "No!" Orik whistled, signaling the others waiting in the forest. He called out six names: "Lor! Ruz! Vin! Cel! Zoh! Bon!" Giant footsteps thundered through the woods. Modi glanced back, wondering what monstrous force was approaching. Suddenly, six enormous white wolves, each the size of a house, emerged from the trees.

These were Orik's wolves—his children—who had sensed their master's danger. The white wolves growled, their power reverberating through the battlefield. These six wolves were the Harbingers' last hope.

Chapter 9

The white wolves—magnificent beasts, rarely attacked smaller creatures, preferring solitude unless provoked or their family was in danger. Orik had tamed six of these wolves, their fur seeming to glow in the moonlight, and they were as beautiful as they were fierce. Despite his intimidating presence, Orik held a soft heart for animals, envying their freedom from society's judgment, laws, and merciless hierarchies.

Animals lived without concern for power or survival in the way humans did, and he sometimes felt they were more noble. Humans, despite their intelligence, exploited the weak and vulnerable—a trait Orik despised, even as he led men who were bound to such struggles. Yet today, he had no choice but to risk the wolves' lives in a battle that called for every strength they had.

Against the elites, the twisted warriors touched by powers beyond mortal comprehension, they needed every edge. The wolves sensed Orik's distress and instantly knew who the enemy was. "Tear them apart!" he commanded, and it was as though the wolves had been waiting for that signal. They surged forward, their instincts flaring as they leapt into the fray, unafraid of death, driven by their love for Orik and their packmates.

Orik felt his heart tighten as he watched them. Any of them could fall tonight, but this sacrifice would give them the time they needed. Every second counted. He called out to Modi, pushing him forward: "Now, go! We'll hold them here—just get Nel free as fast as you can." Modi ran to the prison wagon, heart pounding, and threw open the door to find Nel, shackled and worn but unmistakably alive.

Their eyes met, and no words were needed—Nel's grateful smile told Modi he understood, that he trusted Modi's promise to get him out. Nel's wrists were bound, so Modi scooped him up, surprising Nel, who hid his face to mask the rush of emotion. It had been years since anyone had touched him, and the sudden embrace rattled his guarded heart.

Now, tears pricked at his eyes, his chest swelling with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. Chains clinked as Modi carried him outside, and together, they beheld the brutal scene. One elite, gripped by the jaws of a wolf, avoided being crushed to death and forced its way deeper inside the wolf's mouth, despite losing a leg caught in the massive teeth.

The wolf thrashed in agony, its sides torn apart as thorns from the elite's armor ripped through its organs. Bones shattered; the wolf's cries were terrible as blood spilled from its jaws, and with a final, brutal crack, Zoh fell. Orik swallowed the pain of the loss, focusing on the mission. "Lor!" Orik shouted, signaling the largest of the wolves.

The wolf understood at once, racing to Modi and Nel. Modi froze, awe-struck by Lor's size and presence, but Orik's urgent shout spurred him back to action. "Get on! Now!" he commanded. Modi helped Nel onto Lor's back, then climbed on himself, and without another second to lose, Lor dashed into the night, carrying them away from the battle.

The call to retreat rang out, and the harbingers shifted into the forest shadows. Behind them, Zoh's lifeless body split open, blood spraying like a fountain as the elite emerged, coated in gore, its once-white rose visage stained red. They would be hunted down without mercy. Orik glanced back at his remaining warriors and the wolves, then at the harbingers retreating.

He thought about ordering everyone onto the wolves' backs to escape, knowing it could give them a chance. But there were too many, and even if the wolves could carry several at a time, many would be forced to flee on foot. If the strongest left first, the weakest would be left to fend for themselves. No—Orik couldn't allow that. He called to his fighters, his voice strong.

"We stay. Every second we buy them is a second closer to safety." Those who remained, moved by Orik's resolve, steeled themselves. They weren't just following a commander; they were standing with the man who had become a father to them all. Orik felt the weight of his duty and love for his people. A leader out of necessity, he still wrestled with when to act as a father and when to command.

Today, he would be both, but as he looked into his fighters' eyes, he understood why he was their leader. They stood united, inspired by Orik, father of the six moons. If they were to fall tonight, they would fall as bravely as he.

Chapter 10

The forest had not known such turmoil in ages. The night writhed under the weight of a restless wind, each gust twisting the leaves into frenzied whispers, like a thousand unseen voices arguing in desperate tones. The Harbingers pressed onward through the forest, the shadows of the ant tunnels still a distant promise of safety.

Many among them bore a singular question: How? How had they survived an encounter with three Elites and lived to recount it—killing one in the process? For some, the thought ignited a fierce pride. They would become legends, their tale of improbable survival passed down like a spark in the dark. Yet others were gripped by dread, their minds spinning a darker thread.

What if their victory was a curse in disguise? They feared they had signed their death warrant, their triumph provoking the wrath of powers far beyond their comprehension. Doubt grew like weeds among the Harbingers. For every warrior who wore their purpose like armor, another saw only the blood-soaked petals of a white rose—beautiful, yet a herald of despair.

To die in battle was one thing; to perish as a pawn, clinging to the illusion of victory, was something else entirely. The strongest among them had stayed behind to buy the others time, their valor unshaken. But the cost was clear: each passing second of retreat was carved from the lives of those still fighting.

Orik, his four wolves, and the other brave Harbingers who stood their ground were written off in whispers as martyrs, their survival deemed impossible. Further ahead, Modi and Nel were carried to relative safety by the speed and endurance of Lor. Each pounding step of Lor's determined gait resonated like a heartbeat, steady but strained.

Modi stole glances at Nel, searching his face for something—a sign, perhaps, that he had done the right thing. But a deeper question gnawed at him: Why did he care so much about earning this boy's approval? Regret lingered like a shadow over Modi's thoughts. He had saved Nel, yes, but the act churned an unexpected bitterness within him.

What kind of past could he be proud to share with someone so pure? Nel must never learn of the darkness that had once consumed him. Nel, sensing Modi's hesitation, broke the silence with a voice as soft as twilight. "Dear Modi, I am truly grateful. I had no doubt in your resolve, but to witness such courage..." He paused, a flicker of warmth softening his gaze.

"It has touched my heart. Thank you." Modi was stunned. A simple "thank you," yet it struck him like lightning. No one had ever thanked him before. He hesitated, then confessed, his voice heavy with unspoken burdens. "I... am not a good person. I've done things—terrible things—to feel alive, to break free from being just another slave to the Lord's will. But now... seeing you smile, I wonder... can I truly be that bad of a person?"

Nel's eyes held a kindness that Modi had never known, and for the first time, Modi felt a new kind of determination: to make Nel proud, to never disappoint him. Why? The answer was unspoken but undeniable: this was love. Nel tilted his head back, gazing at the heavens. "beautiful, isn't it?" Modi's gaze, however, remained on Nel.

His answer was quiet but sincere. "Indeed, it is. Truly beautiful." For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the chaos of the world had been stilled, but reality was quick to intrude. Nel's tone shifted, carrying the weight of unspoken truths. "Dear Modi, who were the others who came to save me? Their garments... I do not recognize them, yet you wear the same." Modi's brow furrowed.

"They believe you know something we don't," he admitted, his voice uncertain. "Something about what's happening—something we cannot yet see." Nel's expression clouded, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting Modi's once more. "Then I must ask: have you ever wondered why the Lord ordered me to be brought before him?"

Modi nodded, his curiosity piqued. Nel continued, his words carrying the gravity of revelation. "The Lord, like everyone else, fears what he cannot understand. They call the prophecy heresy, a story for wayward children. Yet deep down, they fear it. Fear blinds them—it becomes a weapon to control the curious, to silence questions. But fear, left unchecked, only breeds ignorance. And so, here we are, trapped by the very fear humans created." Nel's voice grew softer, almost mournful.

"The Lord's fear of me is not unwarranted. What I know, what I've seen... it is not for mortal ears. Forgive me, dear Modi, but there are truths I cannot share—not even with you." Modi's confusion deepened as Nel continued. "I am Samerian. My people are the keepers of the world's history, recording every ripple in the river of time.

We bear a gift—or a curse. We glimpse the future, but these visions are not ours to claim. They are memories not meant for us, stories of violence that scar the soul. Many of my kind close their eyes to the visions. Only a few of us let the river flow, no matter how dark its waters. I am the only one who has seen the depths." Nel's voice faltered, but his hand rose to caress Modi's face.

"We are tools, Modi. We are not allowed to use our knowledge for ourselves. That is why I cannot speak of what I know. It is not my authority to wield." Modi leaned into the touch, his resolve hardening like steel. If Nel could not speak of the prophecy, what would Lord Hak'al do if he captured him? Modi's voice trembled as he asked.

Nel's answer was a dagger to the heart. "If he captures me, I will die." A cold shiver ran down Modi's spine. No. He would not allow it. Nel had given him purpose—a reason to live. The world might be cloaked in chaos, but for Modi, it had never been clearer: he would risk everything, fight anyone, sacrifice all, to keep Nel safe.

Chapter 11

The Harbingers who had survived the retreat staggered back into the colony, their faces etched with the raw edge of exhaustion and despair. "We're alive," one whispered, his voice trembling as if the weight of their survival was too heavy to carry. They had reached safety through separate tunnels, yet something was undeniably wrong.

There were fewer of them now. The grim realization hit harder than the battle itself. Nel and Modi were already there, wandering through the sprawling cavern of the colony, their gazes taking in the chiseled grandeur of the underground refuge. "Is Orik here yet?" Conin's voice broke the silence like a dull blade scraping stone. "No," Modi replied.

"It's just been me and Nel until now. And your wolf...he returned to his master." Nel remained silent, a shadow behind Modi, his presence muted but palpable. The survivors were a ragged assembly of the living, their expressions a cocktail of relief and rage. Some collapsed, surrendering to exhaustion, while others sat trembling, their hands gripping the dirt as if it might anchor them to reality.

What should have been a sanctuary felt more like the edge of a storm, and the tension was thick enough to cut with a dull knife. "We shouldn't have done this!" one Harbinger erupted, his voice raw with grief. "For what? To save a devil? My family is gone! Was it worth it?" The fragile quiet shattered as heated voices rose like waves crashing against the cliffs, threatening to break into chaos.

"Enough!" Modi's voice, though steady, carried the weight of steel. "I thought you trusted your leader." A bitter laugh escaped from another Harbinger, his body trembling with suppressed rage. "Trust? Who are you to speak of trust?" he spat. "You were useless in that fight. Useless! While my friends—no, my family—died like animals.

Do you even know their names? While you were running with your wolf, we were hunted by demons." Tier broke down mid-sentence, his fists clenched so tightly blood trickled from his palms. Wilton's voice was a haunted whisper, barely audible over the din. "They left us no choice. We had to leave the others behind. Or we'd all be dead. I've never seen anything like it.

And I think he knows." "Who?" Modi asked, his brow furrowed. "What happened?" As if summoned by their words, more survivors stumbled into the colony. Their charred armor bore the signatures of a hellish fire, their eyes hollowed by what they had witnessed. "Were you followed?" Conin demanded, the paranoia in his voice mirrored in the others' expressions.

"No," one of them replied, but his voice cracked under the weight of disbelief. "They'll find us," Zane muttered from a corner, his eyes darting like a caged animal. "We're dead. We're so dead." "What did you see?" Modi pressed, his desperation palpable. "They weren't elites," another survivor began, his voice trembling.

"They looked like people, but they were on fire—riding horses with hooves of flame. They left trails of fire behind them. We thought we were safe in the forest, but then we saw the light, and we heard the laughter. It came from everywhere. They were armies from hell." The room fell silent as the name fell from his lips: Lord Hak'Al.

The silence was heavy, like the weight of an ancient tomb. Lord Hak'Al, the Lord of Embers. His name was a dirge sung in terror across generations. "He blesses his followers," another muttered, his voice barely audible. "A drop of his power, and they become flames themselves. They laugh, but it's not joy. It's their souls screaming as they burn. They forget who they were, consumed by their mission, until there's nothing left but ash."

The colony seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in as the Harbingers realized their leader was not among them. They were a headless serpent, thrashing in its death throes. One Harbinger broke the suffocating silence. "I can't do this anymore," he said, his voice shaking. "They didn't see my face. I might still have a chance—" "To do what?"

Conin's voice was sharp, cutting through the man's panic. "Run? To what freedom? You took an oath." "Damn your oath!" the man roared, shoving Conin away. "This isn't living. This is madness! I stayed, hoping to see what Orik saw, but it's nothing. A false dream." Conin's grip slackened, and the man's words echoed what many were thinking. One by one, others began to speak, their voices trembling with despair. "There were sixty thousand of us," Sakeri said, his voice thick with emotion.

"We marched twelve thousand on this mission, and not even half of us returned. My wife died in front of Orik. And for what? What did she die for?" Sakeri turned to Nel, his eyes burning with desperate rage. "Why does the Lord want you so badly? Why were we worth nothing, and you everything?" Nel stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding their pleading stares.

Modi stepped in front of him protectively, but the Harbingers were relentless. "Answer us!" Sakeri bellowed, his voice cracking. The air grew tense, even the colony's worker ants ceasing their duties to observe the commotion. "Enough," Conin said softly, trying to regain control. "He can't say," Modi interjected. "He doesn't trust us, then?" Sakeri's voice was full of venom.

"We bled for him, and he gives us silence?!" The Harbingers began to break. Injured, grieving, they left one by one, their faces masks of guilt and hate. Conin's voice cracked as he pleaded, "Please, Nel. Give us something." Nel raised his head, his voice low but firm. "I cannot tell you now. But I must return to Lethra. Your safety is guaranteed there.

The Lords cannot breach its walls. Help me get home, and you will find sanctuary, but the world will call you devils." Conin's eyes searched Modi's, looking for answers he didn't have. "You're not giving us much choice, are you?" "No," Modi admitted quietly. With a resigned sigh, Conin nodded. "Fine. I hope you're right. For all our sakes."

Chapter 12

"What?" Sakeri spat, his voice laced with disbelief. "And if you are captured, surely you know they will torture one of us to find everyone else. I will not let you drag more of us down with you. You're mad, just like he is." Conin's gaze was unwavering, the decision clear in his mind. "Outside," he said, his voice heavy with finality.

The circle formed around them, tense with expectation. It was inevitable—a duel to settle the conflict between them. Words could no longer bridge the chasm between their beliefs. The fight would be to the death.

Neither would accept the other's vision. Without armor, only their blades, the two former comrades clashed. Once united in purpose, now reduced to foes driven by fear and ideology. Steel met steel with a resounding clash, each blow charged with years of shared history and the pain of betrayal.

Sakeri's strikes were calculated, vicious. Conin's movements were swift, precise. Cuts were made, bodies bled, and the fight raged on. The watching crowd held their breath, torn between loyalty to two leaders, each embodying a different path.

Both were right in their own way—both had valid beliefs. The choice, it seemed, was not theirs to make. There was no clear answer. No winner in this fight of ideals.

The battle dragged on, both men nearing their limits. And in the end, it was Conin who emerged victorious, his blade landing a decisive blow. Sakeri crumpled to the ground, frustration and defeat clouding his eyes as he lay in the dirt. Conin stood over him, breathless, his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired.

He could not take Sakeri's life—not after everything they had been through. He had won, but not in the way he had hoped. He had believed that, with Sakeri's defeat, the Harbingers would follow him, accept him as their new leader, and embrace a chance at survival. But Sakeri's eyes, filled with something almost alien, betrayed the truth.

Sakeri's gaze flickered, and in that moment, something inside him snapped. "There is only the Lord," he whispered, his voice tinged with madness. "And his followers." With a swift, desperate movement, Sakeri reached for his sword. He raised it, the tip aimed at Conin's heart.

But before the final blow could be struck, the ground trembled beneath them. Everyone froze. From the horizon, they saw him—Orik. Atop his massive wolf, with four others at his side, the surviving Harbingers rode behind him.

He had returned. Against all odds, Orik had survived. Despite the carnage, despite the loss, he had come back. It was impossible, yet undeniable.

The sight of him was a beacon of order in the chaos—but it was too late for everything to go back to how it was. Orik, his form bloodied and battle-worn, dismounted. His exhaustion was palpable, but his stoic posture remained. Conin caught Orik up to speed, though his words were slow, measured.

"I see," Orik said, his voice calm despite the chaos around them. "You would welcome us in your kingdom?" His gaze shifted to Nel, studying him carefully. "I don't know anyone who's met your people, but there's surely a price, isn't there?" Nel's smile was serene, a flicker of something ancient in his eyes.

"Not at all. We are peaceful creatures. We help our own." Orik raised an eyebrow, his voice low, teasing. "For a young boy, you sure have demands." A laugh escaped him, though it was heavy with the weight of his burdens. "Very well," he said, his tone lightening for just a moment.

He turned to the gathered crowd, his voice hardening once again. "Everyone... the decision has been made. Those who wish to leave, leave. Those who see this as an opportunity for true freedom—go home. Rest. In five days' time, we will meet at the Two-Faced Valley. From there, we will journey to the Kingdom of Lethra. Spread the word." He was clearly in pain, his words strained as his injuries caught up with him. The tension in the air was palpable, but no one dared challenge Orik.

He was the leader, and his word was final. As he spoke, many Harbingers shed their headgear, casting aside their titles in silent rebellion. But even as they left, Orik couldn't help but watch, knowing this outcome was always a possibility. The choice had always been theirs.

Turning to Modi, Orik spoke quietly. "Do you remember what you stole from me?" "The sword?" Modi responded with hesitation. "Yes, but I don't have it. I left it at home." Orik's eyes hardened. "I may need it for this war." "Get a new sword, then. You have plenty of those," Modi gestured to the sword rack, nonchalant.

"No," Orik said, his voice serious, the weight of his words pressing down on them both. "The one you took from me is special." Modi hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "You really need it? Right now? What if I said no?" Orik's tone darkened. "I may look like I've used up all my strength, but you're testing my patience, boy." With a reluctant sigh, Modi agreed. "Fine."

The tension between them dissolved as Orik's expression softened into a knowing smile. "Trust me, the sword may shift the tides." Nel, ever the calm presence, placed a hand on Modi's shoulder. "The boy is right. And some of the others prefer to stay behind longer. He'll be fine." Modi, feeling powerless to argue, nodded slowly. They had done so much for him already.

Returning a stolen item seemed like the least he could do. Orik, ever the soldier, was already heading back to his home to rest. Hours passed, and Orik's exhaustion mounted. The weight of everything—so much fighting, so many decisions to make, so much to keep in order—pressed on him.

Yet, despite it all, he never questioned why he continued this war. It was for moments like this. The sight of Walberry, his village, brought a rare smile to his face. The sound of children playing, the familiar streets, and the warmth of his home welcomed him back. His wife and daughter would be waiting, eager to see him after his long absence.

But even in the moment of peace, something felt off. He narrowed his eyes, seeing something in the sky. It was... a bird? No. It was something far more sinister—a creature of fire, a massive, towering figure with flames licking its wings, soaring through the air.

Orik's blood ran cold as it fell, a trail of flames marking its descent. It looked like a falling star as it plunged toward the ground. And then, the unimaginable happened. The creature hit his house with such force that the entire village erupted in flames.

It was a storm of fire, consuming everything in its path. The grass burned, the houses crumbled, and the villagers screamed in terror as they were consumed by the inferno. But it didn't end there. Out of the flames emerged a figure, towering at eight feet, its head crowned with fire.

The dead began to rise, all of them consumed by the flames, turned into mindless creatures of destruction. The figure's voice, a whisper amidst the crackling flames, carried a chilling command: "Seek the child, and let no stone remain unturned." At once, its minions scattered across the land, leaving trails of fire in their wake as they dashed with unnatural speed, moving like feral beasts unleashed. Orik's heart sank as his gaze fell upon the twisted forms of his wife and daughter—once his family, now reduced to mindless tools of destruction, consumed by the flames.

Orik froze. He recognized that figure. There was no mistaking it. It was Lord Hak'al, the Lord of Embers, whose image had been carved into every statue across the Kingdom of Kondor. He had come. And he was done waiting.

Chapter 13

The air was thick with the scent of scorched earth. Silence reigned, save for the crackling of fire dancing upon charred remains. The once-thriving land had been reduced to ruin, its joy incinerated by a single being. Lord Hak'al stood amidst the smoldering wasteland, his very presence a monument to destruction.

His forehead burned endlessly, the eternal blue flame consuming his flesh only to heal it again—a cycle of agony befitting his divinity. Even a lord could suffer. Each step he took trembled the very ground, as though the molten veins of the world beneath his feet recognized his dominance. The slumbering magma deep below stirred, resonating with his command.

Draped in white garments untouched by the filth of mortality, adorned with golden finery that reflected the hellfire surrounding him, he was the very image of an untouchable deity. A crown upon his head would have melted in moments, so instead, his divinity was marked by the necklace that encased his throat—a metal unseen by mortal eyes, a white so pure it seemed woven from light itself. When the flames illuminated it, it gleamed with an intensity rivaling the sun. To his people, he was an undying star, a celestial being too brilliant to be comprehended.

The veins beneath his skin pulsed, rivers of liquid sapphire, all converging upon the six-pointed star etched into his chest. His eyes—if they could be seen through the infernal halo that wreathed him—would surely hold within them the secrets of the lords. He scanned the smoldering wasteland, the ruin he had wrought upon his own land. "Look what thou hast wrought upon this land."

His voice echoed across the ruin, even in its softness carrying the weight of judgment. He exhaled deeply, the breath of a god weary of mercy. "Thou hast sullied my temple with deceit, crawling like vermin beneath my divine gaze. Thou wouldst reach for the stars, when I have bequeathed unto thee a paradise? Ungrateful wretches! Thou shalt taste the flames of Yonder and be unmade, until not even thine ashes remain." With a single motion, he gripped the charred remains of a once-mighty tree and wrenched it from the earth as though it were no more than a brittle weed.

With effortless might, he hurled it toward the distant hills, the impact sending shards of rock tumbling like brittle bones. "come forth!" The command was thunderous, shaking the very land, an unchallengeable decree that demanded obedience. Orik remained frozen, his breath trapped within his lungs.

To fight the Lord of Embers was to challenge inevitability itself. No blade, no mortal strength could best him. Death, cold and certain, whispered in his ear. He felt his heart hammer against his ribs as Hak'al advanced, each step resounding like the drumbeats of a funeral march.

Then, the earth erupted. Another tree was torn from its roots, this time flung in Orik's direction. It crashed into the rocky terrain mere feet from him, the explosion of dirt and splintered bark sending debris flying in all directions. Coughing through the dust, Orik realized the truth—he could not fight, but he could still run.

His gaze darted toward the distance, where the lands beyond lay untouched by Hak'al's wrath. Nel. The boy. If Orik fell here, they would be next.

"I must survive. They must know. After that... I don't know" With a sharp inhale, he pulled himself onto Ruz, the great wolf who had fought by his side through every battle. "Take us to the apple tree," he rasped, barely more than a whisper against the raging wind. The beast did not hesitate; powerful legs carried them forward in an instant, vanishing into the smoke.

The others followed—Lor, Cel, Bon, and Vin, their massive forms cutting through the devastation like shadows in the inferno. Behind them, a roar of fury shook the heavens. Hak'al surged forward, the ground fracturing beneath him with every bound. To run from him was treason, to defy him was blasphemy.

This heathen who dared flee had poisoned minds, threatened the order he had built. His existence was an infection upon the world, and Hak'al would burn it away. "Thou darest flee from me?!" "Run, Ruz!" his fingers tangled in the wolf's thick fur.

The Lord of Embers surged forward, his pace quickening with terrifying ease. The ground split with every step, cracks of molten fire erupting in his wake. Ruz and the others pushed themselves to their limits, weaving through obstacles, but Hak'al did not slow. Trees, boulders—nothing deterred him.

He was relentless. Orik's mind raced. He turned Ruz toward a nearby village, his only hope to gain distance. In the village of Namako, an old man sat on his porch, rocking gently, watching the children play.

His wife sat beside him, humming a tune. Then, a shadow passed overhead. He glanced up, narrowing his eyes at the sky. A massive flock of birds scattered eastward, fleeing in a panic.

His stomach turned. Something was wrong. The ground trembled. At first, a faint vibration.

Then stronger. The wood beneath him creaked. Plates fell from shelves inside the house. Villagers emerged from their homes, alarmed and confused.

"What's happening?" "An earthquake?" A boy pointed. "Look!"

From the west, massive beasts—wolves larger than any they had ever seen—charged toward them. Fear gripped their hearts. "Them—those creatures! They'll devour us!" Some turned to flee, scooping up their children.

Others hesitated. Then, a glimmer of salvation. Behind the wolves, something bright. "The Lord," someone gasped.

Relief washed over them. Their divine ruler had come. He would protect them. Some villagers dropped to their knees, praying, believing themselves blessed to witness his presence.

Others, however, saw the destruction in his wake, the sheer fury in his stride, and their hearts filled with dread. The wolves tore through the village, sending people scattering. "H-He's chasing them," someone stammered. But then, they saw him.

A man...a heretic. Riding one of the wolves. Confusion spread. Who was he?

What was happening? Hak'al stormed through the village, neither he nor Orik sparing a glance at the people caught in their warpath. The destruction was absolute. Homes shattered.

Fires erupted. The earth cracked beneath their feet. Orik's mind raced. They would be caught within moments.

"Cel!" he shouted, signaling with his hand. The second wolf veered sharply. With terrifying precision, Cel lunged at Hak'al. The Lord, running at full speed, had no time to halt.

Massive jaws clamped around him. Cel twisted and flung the deity like a ragdoll, sending him crashing through four houses. Orik urged Ruz forward. Hak'al lay in the rubble.

He stared at the blood dripping from his torn garments, at the wound upon his divine flesh. He touched it in disbelief. "This... this cannot be. Thou hast drawn my blood." His voice trembled, not with fear, but with fury beyond mortal comprehension.

"To end thee now would be mercy unearned." A vow echoed through the heavens, a declaration of divine wrath. "Death will not have you. No, you shall suffer beyond its reach." Villagers rushed toward him, pleading.

"My Lord, do we have disbelievers among us? What can we do to serve you?" Hak'al turned to one of them, placing a hand upon his shoulder. Blue flames poured down like a waterfall, engulfing the man. His screams rang through the air.

Agony unlike any mortal pain. The Lord then grabbed him by the skull and hurled him through the air. The burning body crashed into Cel, latching onto the wolf with a manic, inhuman laughter. "If thou hast forgotten why I am thy Lord," Hak'al murmured, watching as chaos unfurled before him, "then I shall remind thee."

Lord Hak'al, the Lord of Embers, was far from finished.

Chapter 14

Cel's cries from the burning sensation echoed through the village. Orik turned around and saw Cel facing certain death. That is... if he left Cel behind. Cel rolled on the ground in hopes of getting rid of the minion that gripped the wolf's fur tightly.

It laughed as the wolf's attempts continued to fail. Every roll, every desperate crash into walls only fanned the flames higher. The minion didn't need to fight—Hak'al's fire was a patient executioner. Then—footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. The Lord strode forward, His gaze searing into Orik's back. The air itself recoiled from His presence, heat rippling like a mirage.

"Thou wouldst flee?" Hak'al's voice was a landslide, crushing the space between them. "Abandon thy loyal hound to My mercy?" His lips peeled into a smile. "Know this, worm—his screams shall haunt thee longer than thy pitiful life."

I could turn. Fight. Die beside him. But the mission was a chain around his throat.

"I'm sorry... Cel." The words tasted like ash. Ruz snarled, muscles coiled to charge back—until Orik's hand gripped his scruff. "Go. Now."

The pack surged forward, but Cel's brothers heard. Their growls weren't just anger—they were betrayal. Was it Orik they hated? For the order to run?

Or Hak'al? For stealing their brother? Their hackles rose, fangs bared. They would've died for Cel.

Should have. Orik leaned low over Ruz's neck. "I know this pain," he rasped. The wind stole his words, but the wolves' ears flicked back.

"If we fall here, all falls. We will avenge him—but not today." They understood. They were no mere beasts. Yet understanding cut deeper than ignorance.

Family had been the mission. Always. Now? Now they were blades in Orik's grip—and the hilt was splintering.

"Thy master hath forsaken thee," He crooned, gripping the wolf's charred fur. "Thou wert a fool to kneel to a mortal's lies." A flick of His wrist. The minion released Cel, collapsing into embers with a shriek.

Hak'al traced Cel's blistered spine. "I might have flayed thy soul across eternity for this insult..." Cel's breath was ragged, golden eyes dimming. "Yet I am merciful."

The Lord's whisper slithered like smoke. "Thou shalt serve. Thy flesh My vessel, thy last breath My hymn." Cel lunged—jaws gaping— Hak'al caught his maw mid-strike, squeezing. "Defiant to the last!"

His laugh cracked the earth. "Thou shalt feast upon thine own kin—and thank Me for the privilege." A breath. A spark.

Blue fire erupted from Hak'al's palms, flooding Cel's throat, his veins, his soul— —until the wolf was no longer a beast, but a torch. White fur became living flame. Howls became shrieks of something other. The people rejoiced.

"Oh Lord. Your almighty power witnessed by mine own eyes shall forever be remembered. You are truly our Lord. And your presence... I can barely gaze upon your glorious form." Cel twitched as sparks flew. He appeared as a massive, manic wolf unable to relax. The Lord laughed in amusement.

he murmured, stroking the beast's searing muzzle. "Yet it is exquisite. Dost thou hunger now? Dost thou crave the blood of those thou once loved?" With a demonic bark, as steaming blood spilled from its jaws, the answer was clear. With a chuckle, the Lord hopped on the wolf's back. Cel's response was a demonic snarl, steaming drool and embers dripping from his jaws.

Hak'al chuckled, swinging onto the wolf's back. "Then ride, hound. Let us hunt." Cel surged forward, a comet of destruction. Behind him, the soil blackened to glass.

Orik glanced back, his stomach twisting as he saw the distant blaze—Cel, now a monster, closing in. "Dammit, we're almost there!" He gripped Ruz's fur. "Lead them away. Run in circles if you must—just buy me time."

The moment the flames veered too close, Orik leapt from Ruz's back, rolling into the underbrush. The heat was unbearable—a wave of scalding wind that nearly flung him back. He clung to a tree, his skin blistering, as Hak'al and Cel thundered past, oblivious to his escape. Gasping, Orik staggered toward Willow's Lake, each step sending jolts of fire through his battered body.

His lungs burned; his vision swam with black spots. But he couldn't stop—wouldn't stop. Behind him, the howls of flame-twisted Cel and the wolves' defiant snarls echoed across the plains—fading, but not fast enough. Had Ruz succeeded?

Were they leading Hak'al in circles, or had the Lord already seen through the ruse? A gust of wind carried the stench of charred fur. Orik risked a glance back— No infernal glow. No glass-scorched soil in his wake.

Yet. Orik stumbled toward the willow's tangled roots where jagged stones bit into the lakeshore. Beneath their gnarled embrace hid one of the colony's secrets - a fissure in the earth sealed by living sentinel. Orik crashed against the moss-covered stones, his breath ragged.

Before him, the massive door-headed ant stood motionless—its armored body perfectly mimicking the surrounding rocks, its segmented legs blending into the gnarled roots. Only the slow twitch of its antennae betrayed its presence. "Move," Orik choked out. For a heartbeat, the ant didn't react.

Then, with a click of its mandibles clicking in slow recognition. The scent glands along its antennae twitched - testing his sweat, his blood, his fear. A moment stretched - long enough for Cel's distant howl to echo across the water. Then with a hiss of acquiescence, the guardian folded itself sideways, armored plates scraping stone as it granted passage.

Orik didn't wait for invitation, shouldering past the creature's spiked limbs into the dank tunnel beyond. The ant's clicking followed him down - either warning or lament, he couldn't tell. The tunnels stank of damp soil and iron—blood. Orik's boots slipped on slick stone as he careened toward the heart of the colony.

Distant murmurs grew louder, frantic. A crowd had gathered, their shadows writhing against the walls like panicked specters. He burst into the central chamber—and froze. The Harbingers were clustered around a figure slumped against the wall, their postures rigid with disbelief.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and something fouler—infection. "Everyone!" Orik's voice cracked, but it cut through the noise. "I need you—" Then he saw him. A man.

Or what was left of one. Tattered robes clung to a skeletal frame, the left sleeve hanging empty, the stump beneath wrapped in crusted bandages. His face was a nightmare of bruises and dirt, but Orik knew those features— "No..." The word left him like a dying breath.

The survivor lifted his head. His remaining hand trembled as he pointed at Orik, his voice a broken rasp: "You... left us... to die!" The chamber erupted. "Liar!"

A woman lunged forward, her braid whipping like a noose. "Orik would never—" "Then why am I here?!" The survivor coughed, black spittle staining his chin.

"Why am I the only one?!" A man backed away, shaking his head. "This is a trick. Hak'al's work—" "Look at me!"

The survivor lurched upright, his single hand tearing at his bandages. "Does this look like magic?!" Pus-soaked flesh. Rot creeping up his arm.

Real. Too real.

Chapter 15

Orik couldn't believe his eyes. The figure before him was impossible—a walking corpse with Weis's face, but twisted by suffering. The man's remaining arm trembled as he pointed, blackened fingernails digging into his own palm hard enough to draw blood. "Y-You."

Weis's voice wasn't just trembling—it was fractured, like glass shattered underboot. "You left us to burn!" Tears cut through the grime on his face, streaking white tracks across ash-stained skin. "I'll carve out your lying heart!"

"Dammit, restrain him!" Harold's shout cracked like a whip. Three Harbingers tackled Weis, their boots skidding on the stone as he thrashed like a gutted animal. "Let me go" Weis screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "He sacrificed us! Ask him!"

Several members rushed in, wrestling Weis to the ground, trying to calm him. Orik looked down, sighed, then met their eyes. "I'm sorry—" "Don't you dare!" Weis roared, still thrashing.

"How dare you say that to me! Nothing you say will ever fix what you did!" Around them, the ants' clicking swelled into a frenzied chorus. No longer tending to their queen, they shifted into a defensive stance. But no one noticed.

All eyes were on Orik. All trust was gone. "You don't und—" Harold's fist smashed into his jaw before a syllable could form. Orik reeled, vision swimming.

He caught himself against the wall, fingers scraping stone. Harold loomed over him, tears glistening in his beard. "So it's true..." His whisper was raw. "You watched my brother die.

Did you even blink?" Another punch. Teeth sliced Orik's tongue. Copper flooded his mouth. Around them, the crowd erupted.

"Traitor!" A woman hurled a knife—it clattered off the wall an inch from Orik's skull. "Weis was right about you!" A man wrenched free of the crowd, his own blade drawn.

Orik spat blood. They'd never understand. Not yet. He shoved Harold back with the last of his strength.

"Now is not the time!" he barked. "Hak'al is hunting us—he'll find this place. So tell me: Where is the boy?" Silence. Deeper than death.

A woman's voice trembled. "...What have you done?" "Did you lead him here?!" Panic exploded. Harbingers bolted for the tunnels.

Even Weis's captors released him. He stood, swaying, and whispered: "You were with Hak'al all along. That's why you want him." "No, you fool!" Orik snarled.

"I need him far from Hak'al!" Weis narrowed his eyes. "I...don't believe you." He picked up a fallen blade, gripping it tight. "This is for my family... you murderer!"

"Weis, no!" Harold shouted, pushing himself up. The fleeing harbingers slowed as they turned back, watching. Weis lunged with everything he had—but even in his weakened state, Orik dodged and countered, slamming Weis to the ground. And in that moment, it happened.

An accident no ant in the colony could ever forgive. His blade missed Orik—landed instead in soft, chittering flesh. A young ant collapsed. Carapace split with a wet crack.

Black ichor bled onto the stone. Its legs twitched, curling like a dying spider's. The entire chamber froze. The ants stopped moving.

Not in shock. Not in grief. In calculation. Harold stared at the twitching corpse.

"Oh... no..." Everyone froze. The weight of that single death—of what it meant—hung over them like a curse. Then it came.

A screech so loud it shattered the air, vibrated the walls, made their teeth ache and the tunnels rumble. "What was that?!" someone shouted. Without warning, a low clicking echoed from the darker parts of the chamber. It was subtle—barely louder than a whisper—but it silenced everyone.

The harbingers looked around in confusion, trying to find the source. Then came the first scream. One of the harbingers at the edge vanished—yanked backward into the dark tunnel behind him. The sound of tearing flesh followed.

A second scream erupted as something skittered from the shadows—fast and silent. No one saw it coming. No one even knew it was there—until it struck. A harbinger's head was suddenly gone, bitten clean off by an ant's massive mandibles.

The body hit the ground with a sickening thud. Now the darkness came alive. From every unlit corner, ants poured in. No longer calm.

No longer passive. With horrifying coordination, they attacked. Screeches filled the tunnels, their bodies moving like a flood of blades and fury. Harbingers were dragged screaming into the tunnels—claws sinking into their legs as they were pulled away.

Others were torn open where they stood, armor shredded like paper under the ants' crushing jaws. "Help us!" someone shouted—but no one could move fast enough. The exits collapsed. The tunnels sealed.

The ants came as a single living weapon. Not a swarm, but an army. Workers destabilized the exits, triggering tunnel collapses. Scouts funneled panicked Harbingers into narrowing corridors—where soldiers waited.

Each paired set moved as one: the first ant striking with surgical precision to sever tendons, the second following to tear flesh from screaming mouths. This wasn't instinct. This was strategy. "They're herding us!" A man's warning became a wet gurgle as chitinous limbs yanked him backward into darkness, his fingernails leaving twin trails of blood in the stone.

The queen's screech split the air once more, vibrating bone, shaking dust from the ceiling. Their movements gained a terrible fluidity. A swordsman's perfect swing met only air as an ant learned the pattern mid-combat, countering before his blade finished its arc. A fleeing woman found a soldier's barbed leg already waiting where she meant to run.

There was no escape. It was clear now—this had been prepared for. The colony had always been ready for betrayal. One can never trust outsiders.

Especially humans. Especially those who come bearing fire and blades and hungry eyes. The Queen had declared war on every Harbinger. There would be no survivors.

Chapter 16

"Everyone! Grab your blades!" Orik's voice rang sharp above the chaos. He stood at the center of the chamber, blood trickling from a gash across his forehead, eyes wild with fire. "I will not die here today," he roared, "and neither will any of you!" He raised his sword, its edge chipped and slick with black ichor.

"Take up thy steel and fight! Kill them—not because they deserve it, but because we have no choice!" A lie. "Who am I kidding?" The thought slithered through his mind, cold and venomous.

"Everything is spiraling out of control. I can't think. I'm failing." They hated him—many of them did. But in that moment, seeing him stand tall and defiant, something flickered in their hearts. Hope.

It was faint. Fleeting. But enough. They screamed as one and charged toward the swarm, blades raised. The ants came like a wave of moving shadows—clicking, biting, unstoppable.

They fought not for glory, nor for revenge. They fought for answers. For survival. Because the only other option was to fall into the abyss—and burn.

Far above, beyond the crumbling tunnels of the colony, something darker stirred. A divine figure moved with silent, deliberate grace through the pale mist that haunted Willow's Lake. Behind him, he dragged the severed head of a massive wolf, its fur matted with blood, its eyes locked in a final expression of primal rage. The head was far too large for any man to carry easily—yet he dragged it across the earth as though it weighed nothing but ash.

Lord Hak'al. His skin, smooth and pale as carved moonstone, gleamed faintly beneath the mist. Unscarred by carnage. Untouched by the world's filth.

Wherever the wolf's blood touched his flesh, it hissed and burned away, as though the divine essence within him rejected corruption itself. He reached the crest of a jagged hill, the mangled trophy dragging behind him, fur catching on twisted roots and stone. The slope overlooked the quiet, whispering lake—calm on the surface, hiding ancient depths. There, Hak'al paused.

His gaze sharpened. He heard it. Distant echoes riding on the wind: Clashing steel. The cries of dying men.

The skittering of monstrous limbs. Muffled... yet unmistakable. Something below was waking the earth. Without pause, Hak'al gripped the wolf's head with both hands, lifted it high, and hurled it into the lake.

The sound—wet, heavy, final—sent a flock of birds scattering from the trees. Ripples tore through the surface, slow and wide. The head sank, unseen, swallowed whole. He stood silent.

Then he turned. He began to walk. Not rushed. Not cautious.

Just certain. Something below had dared to rise in his absence. And he was going to correct it. Below, the battle worsened.

The harbingers fought fiercely, but their enemy was no mindless horde. The ants were adapting. They dodged, flanked, even sacrificed one another strategically. Every strike against them released a sticky fluid that glued weapons and limbs in place.

Orik watched in disbelief as the tide turned again—and not in their favor. "These things are... clever," he whispered. "We'll be dead before we even find a way out." His knees buckled.

The weight of his armor was too much. He collapsed to the stone floor, gasping. "I need to see him again," he thought desperately. "This wasn't... this wasn't how it was supposed to go..."

He stared ahead as the light of their torches began to fade. Oxygen thinned. His men screamed. The ants dragged bodies into the dark.

The walls dripped with blood and ichor. And then the sound came. THUMP. A distant thud.

The ground vibrated. THUMP. Closer now. The walls trembled.

Dust fell in soft clouds. THUMP. And then—collapse. The ceiling cracked open in a violent roar of earth and stone.

A flood of light poured into the colony. Some harbingers were crushed instantly beneath boulders. Others were buried, struggling beneath the weight of the stone. Orik remained where he was, eyes half-closed.

"It's him..." he muttered. And he was right. When the dust finally settled, fear rooted itself deep in their bones. Everyone's worst nightmare had become reality.

They stood frozen, wide-eyed, unable to look away. Then came the screams. He was there. Lord Hak'al.

He stood atop the ruined stone ledge, towering over them like a judgment cast from the heavens. The light behind him cast his figure into a dark silhouette—terrifying, elegant, and utterly inescapable. Below him, the harbingers had no path left but upward—toward him. The very escape route they'd hoped for... was now a trap.

He exhaled slowly, almost with pleasure, and offered a sinister smile. "Oh, little ones," he said, voice smooth and cruel, "how far thou hast wandered from wisdom. It is far too late for fear now... though I savour its flavour all the same." And then—he jumped.

He landed with a deafening crack, the stone beneath his feet fracturing on impact. Now, up close, his sheer size was overwhelming. Terrifying. Yet some could not deny the truth that twisted in their minds: His form was... beautiful.

Unnatural and flawless. "Thou wouldst bind thyselves to vermin," he murmured, his gaze sliding toward the queen's nest. "How dreadfully poetic." He walked slowly among the corpses.

Harbinger and ant alike. His eyes scanned the aftermath, the battlefield drenched in blood, acid, and ash. He tilted his head slightly—curious. There had been a battle here.

One he had not been invited to. The harbingers stood motionless, paralyzed by his presence. The ants were still, too—but not for long. From deeper below within the hive, the queen screeched.

A piercing, shrill sound—angry, commanding. She had seen enough. The intruder—the destroyer—had to die. Her home was in ruins.

Her kin were slaughtered. And there, standing unscathed, was the cause of it all. Her shriek ignited a frenzy. Dozens of ants charged him at once, their legs skittering over stone, mandibles snapping with lethal intent.

Hak'al did not move. Not at first. He stood with his eyes closed—silent. A breath.

A heartbeat. Then, he spoke—softly, to no one but himself. "I awaken... to rebellion." His lids lifted slowly, revealing those cold, ancient eyes.

"From man. From beast. And from creatures so low, they defy me in silence" His voice darkened. "No fear... no reverence..."

The first ant leapt. And in an instant— He moved. The air split with the sound of ruptured exoskeleton. One ant shattered beneath his palm.

Another was flung into the wall, limbs torn from its body mid-flight. He tore through the ants with bare hands, their bodies crushed effortlessly between his fingers like fragile husks. His garments shredded in the heat of the battle, his skin gleaming, untouched—unyielding. Their fangs scraped against him, but it was as if they were striking stone—knives dull against granite.

The effort to wound him only seemed to intensify, but no blood would flow from him. The harbingers saw their chance. As Hak'al was locked in the frenzy, his immense strength overwhelming the swarming insects, the harbingers scrambled. Desperate hands clawed at the broken ledge above them, reaching for the exit Hak'al had unintentionally created with his descent.

Fingernails cracked against jagged stone, blood mixing with the dust—but they didn't stop. They climbed, ignoring the agony, climbing toward a sliver of freedom. Harold glanced back once, his breath ragged. Weis was gone.

Swallowed whole by the darkness below. But Orik... Orik remained. Still. Silent.

On his knees, head bowed. Unmoving. The weight of his exhaustion was all-consuming, his once-defiant posture now lost in defeat. The sounds of battle and chaos seemed to fade away as he remained in place.

Orik had no fight left to give. He had no strength to rise. He was no longer a warrior, but a monument to despair.

Chapter 17

Harold's breath hitched as he stared down at Orik—crumpled in the dirt like a shattered sword. The man who had once stood unbreakable at the head of the Harbingers now lay motionless, his eyes closed, his chest barely rising. Blood matted his hair, his armor was dented and scorched, and his fingers twitched as if still clutching a weapon that wasn't there. A sickening sight.

"How could you just give up?" Harold hissed, his voice raw. The flames behind him roared louder, and the screeches of insects never stopped. Hak'al was still in battle, tearing through wave after wave of ant swarms that refused to relent. No matter how many he incinerated, crushed, or tore apart, more kept coming—driven by command.

Harold's grip tightened on his sword. This isn't how it ends. He turned and ran—back into the chaos. Back to Orik.

Some ants noticed him and lunged—but Harold's sword met them with wild swings, each blow driven by rage and desperation. The memories cut through him like splinters: Orik teaching him how to fight, laughing after a victory, standing side by side against the followers of the Lord. "We were a family, weren't we? You saved my brother. You saved me.

Why, then...? Why are you the one on the ground?" "Why am I thinking of this now?" he muttered under his breath, slashing through another ant. His blade flashed red with each cut. Because this—this isn't how heroes die.

When Harold reached Orik, he grabbed his limp arm. "Get your ass up! Now! This is our only shot while Hak'al is distracted!" Orik barely opened his eyes.

His voice came as a hoarse whisper. "You fool... Why did you come back for me? I'm the one he wants. I have nothing left.

Just go. You can still make it out." Harold didn't let go. "Spare me the martyr's speech!" He wrenched Orik onto his back, gritting his teeth at the weight.

"You don't get to check out yet. Not until you tell us why!" Harold staggered toward the exit—a jagged tunnel leading to the surface. His muscles burned, his vision blurred, but he kept moving. "I'll carry you, dammit.

You don't get a say in this." Up above, the ceiling trembled—cracks forming, light leaking through like the sky itself was falling. "This place is collapsing!" one of the Harbingers yelled. "Wait!" he shouted at the fleeing figures ahead.

"I need help carrying him!" Sans turned, his face twisted in disgust. "No! Leave him! He's not worth saving!"

Another voice chimed in, venomous and sure. "He's a traitor, Harold. You know what he did!" Harold paused only for a second. "Don't you want to hear it from him?

From his own mouth?" "We know what he did!" another Harbinger snarled. "Now ditch the bastard and climb!" "Fine! Then I'll do it myself!" Harold roared, furious but not at them—at everything.

He began climbing the rough wall, muscles burning, Orik slung over his back like a burden and a promise. "Dammit... if I die, I'm killing you," Sans growled as he grabbed Harold's shoulder and helped him lift. They were close. So close.

Then— A shriek tore through the cavern. Hak'al erupted from below, his body wreathed in flames, ants still clinging to his divine flesh like living armor. He moved faster than thought. Harold and Sans turned—

—just in time to see death. CRACK. Hak'al's fists crushed their skulls against the wall—bone and blood exploding like shattered glass. The noise echoed.

Bodies fell. Orik, barely conscious, felt his weight shift. The fall came slow—silent. Blurred.

He knew what happened. I... warned you... But just before he hit the ground, a hand snatched his wrist. Hak'al.

He dangled for a moment, then was hauled up by the arm—one-handed—as the Lord climbed the rest of the way like a spider scaling stone. Harbingers who made it out scattered into the distance, limping and screaming. "Run, ye faithless," called Hak'al, his voice calm as death and cold as the void. "Rejoice in thy fleeting freedom whilst it yet lingereth.

For lo, I shall not slumber for a thousand years more, nay, not until the stars forget their names. And in every hour of my wakefulness... I shall seek thee out. One by one, shalt thou be found.

And by mine own hand, thy judgment shall be fulfilled." Then he raised his hand and whispered words that had no translation. They weren't meant for mortal tongues. Flames flared atop his head—eyes appeared within them.

From the inferno, a monstrous bird emerged, its wings stretching as if to eclipse the sky itself. It gave a deafening screech. Every beat of its wings released searing steam, scorching the nearby Harbingers. They screamed in agony.

Hak'al chuckled, quietly, and whispered again. The bird lifted into the sky—its shadow stretching far across the land—as it soared toward Kondor. Held by Hak'al's grip, Orik saw the world from above for the first time. The cities, the mountains, the rivers.

The shattered kingdoms. He saw it all like a god would. He coughed, barely able to speak. "You're lying."

Hak'al tilted his head. "Hm?" "You're desperate," Orik said with fading strength. "Running out of time... that's why you came in person.

You've never done that before." "You're desperate," Orik rasped. "Running out of time. That's why you came in person. You've never done that before."

A pause. Hak'al's silence was answer enough. The Lord hadn't left his throne in eons—not since he carved the suns into the sky to hold back the eternal rains. But now, the world was frozen.

Since his reawakening, something had shifted. The world no longer knew natural rain. The sky hadn't moved in weeks. The sun remained still.

Night and day no longer traded places. It was as if time itself had halted. Far below, Modi walked through a lonely field. His clothes were drenched in red—not his blood, but the blood of someone who had stood in his way.

It crusted on his hands, his face, the alien blade he carried—a weapon too sharp, too wrong, to belong to this world. He didn't look up. Didn't blink. His eyes were empty.

The eyes of a man who had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

Chapter 18

It all happened so fast—like a storm inside his skull. Memories crashed over each other, relentless. Shouts echoing, screams tearing through the air—then, suddenly, nothing. Just silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence. After parting ways with Nel, he walked alone—back toward the capital. The capital’s walls rose like a monolith, smooth as obsidian, with veins of searing azure flame pulsing underneath their surface. Climbing them was a death sentence.

Still, many had tried—desperate souls believing they could outrun judgment. They died screaming. Their corpses hung mid-climb, frozen into the black stone like flies in amber—scorched skeletons, arms still reaching for freedom. Their blackened fingers clutched at air, mouths agape in silent agony, forever pleading.

The walls were alive. They remembered. They punished. The stone itself radiated a low hum, as if whispering reminders of betrayal.

Two towering figures stood at the gate—Saint Keldric and Saint Ryxar, as always — motionless figures of steaming armor. Their faces were hidden behind dark visors, but the air around them shimmered with heat. The divine energy coursing through their blessed frames was said to be a gift from the Pontiff himself. No sinner would exit through these gates without judgment.

None. Modi approached. The gatekeepers raised their spears in unison, blocking his path. “Halt,” came the whisper—slow, rasping, otherworldly.

The voice did not echo, and yet it rang in Modi’s bones. Then one of them leaned forward, steam venting from its mask as its gaze fixated on Modi’s brow. The brand on Modi’s forehead caught the light. Recognition flickered.

— a wave-like line etched in fire from birth around the crown of their skulls. Outsiders saw it as barbaric. But to the people of Hak’al, it was sacred. Identity.

Ownership. Proof that they belonged to something greater than themselves. Despite the strange, unnatural weather shifts plaguing the lands, the city buzzed with life. Markets bustled, horns blared, and children laughed.

Why wouldn’t they? The Lord had risen. All would be well now. Or so they believed.

His home stood like a tumor at the end of the crooked street. Same crumbling steps. Same rotting door. Same damned smell.

Modi stared at it with disdain twisting in his gut. He hated this place. Hated the memories soaked into its walls. He hated his family — but what else did he have?

What other place could he even pretend was home? A soft rustle came from the upper window. His sister, Milly, peeked out — her usual place. Her pale face lit up, a mix of relief and anger rushing through her expression.

“You returned…” Her voice cracked slightly. “Do you have any idea how worried we were!? Come inside. Quickly! Mother’s still upset.”

Modi clenched his jaw but obeyed. The moment he stepped inside, time folded in on itself. Everything from before — Nel, the warmth, the strange comfort he’d briefly found — faded like smoke. Reality returned in full force.

He was back in his personal hell. As he closed the door behind him, the scent of bitter herbs and iron filled his nose. The house was darker than he remembered. Somehow colder.

“Where is Mother?” he asked flatly. Milly hesitated. “She’s… waiting downstairs.”

Modi didn’t need more. He already knew what would happen next. The staircase to the basement groaned beneath his feet. Each step a memory.

Each memory a wound. Milly followed silently, her fingers nervously gripping the banister. The basement was dimly lit by a single hanging lantern. Shadows danced across the stone walls.

At the center of the room sat a heavy wooden table — the family’s altar and tribunal. Behind it, in a tall-backed chair, sat Beviline. His mother. Her eyes, sharp as razors, locked onto him.

In front of her — on the table — lay the item that had dragged Modi back to this cursed place. The sword. Stolen from Orik. Beviline raised a single hand and placed it on the sword.

“I found this in your room,” she said, voice cold and unforgiving. Her voice was calm — too calm. That was always more dangerous than shouting. “Have I taught you nothing, Modi?

Again, you disobey me. You bring this—a weapon—into my house? Have you lost your mind? Where did you even get it?

Speak!” “I... I stole it,” Modi whispered, eyes lowered, voice barely rising above a breath. The silence that followed felt suffocating. His mother said nothing. The only sound was the creaking of the old wooden chair as Modi stood.

He dragged his bare feet across the stone floor toward the furnace, the heat already kissing his skin. She walked toward the furnace, its flames casting demonic shadows across the basement walls. She picked up a long iron rod glowing with heat. “I’ve kept this warming in the flames,” she said.

“I knew you’d return. And I knew, when you did, you’d need to be reminded again.” The heat from the furnace kissed Modi’s skin, and memories surged through him, staring at the flames, hypnotized. In them, he heard echoes—his own voice, younger, screaming.

The smell of scorched skin. The sound of his flesh sticking to hot metal. His small hands, clawing at the edge of the furnace as she pushed him in, telling him it was for his own good. He began rubbing his fingers together, a coping habit he couldn’t break.

His breath hitched. His eyes welled with tears he refused to let fall. Behind him, Milly held a spiked whip. She turned her face away.

Guilt or resignation—it no longer mattered. Mother’s word was law. “Come,” Beviline commanded. Modi obeyed.

He removed his shirt and pants, revealing the ruined landscape of his body. Wounds layered upon wounds, burns and cuts that never fully healed. His arms and face—the only untouched places—were the last canvas of innocence he had left. He knelt on the cold floor.

“Ssshhhhkkk—AAAGH!!” he screamed, body contorting as the metal branded a new scar into his side. The smell—burnt skin, iron, sweat—filled the room. Beviline struck again. And again.

“You steal. You lie. You reject the Lord,” she said after each blow. “This is the price, Modi.”

His screams grew hoarse. His fists clenched so tightly his nails drew blood from his palms. Still, he stayed kneeling. Still, he obeyed.

Milly stood frozen. She hated it. Hated the sound. Hated what their family had become.

But deep down, she convinced herself it was necessary. Modi was reckless. He refused to pray. He questioned the Lord.

If the outside world knew, they would all suffer. She couldn’t risk that. Still, she looked away. Sweat beaded on her brow.

Why doesn’t he ever learn? she thought. Beviline paused. Modi had curled into a ball, his back steaming where the metal had touched. His body shivered, but not from the cold.

“I thought you had learned, Modi. But it seems you need a harsher lesson.” She jabbed the rod into his side again. He flinched violently. “Did you try to run from home?

Tell me the truth.” “N-no…” he sobbed, face buried in his arms. “I was with others…someone… a friend. I didn’t run… I swear…”

His voice cracked. The dam broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he cried.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Chapter 19

“Have you lost your mind, Modi?!” Beviline’s voice cracked like thunder through the basement. “You’ve crossed a line that can’t be undone. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Modi didn’t answer fast enough.

The red-hot rod slammed against his ribs. He screamed as his skin sizzled beneath it. “Cut. Them. Off.

You will not see them again. Ever. Do you understand me?” “I—I will!” he gasped.

“I swear—I won’t see them again—please!” But she wasn’t done. The rod came down again. And again. Her fury was relentless.

In agony, Modi lashed out blindly, reaching for the rod, anything to stop it— CRACK. The whip landed across his back. Milly stood behind him, the whip trembling in her grip. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his.

There was no surprise in his expression—just the same quiet heartbreak. The kind that never stopped hurting, no matter how often it came from her. Beviline stepped back as if he’d struck her. “You dare raise a hand to me? To your own mother?”

She shook her head, slow and deliberate. “Fine,” she said coldly. “You want to act like a man? Then you’ll be treated like one.” She lowered the rod for a moment, her voice calm—but lethal.

“You’re not leaving this house. Not again. From now on, you’ll take one hundred and twenty brands a day. Every day.

Until the breath leaves my body.” Modi trembled, not from pain—but from what came next. “And your little heretic friends…” She leaned in, her breath hot with contempt. “Their names will go straight to the Pontiff.

He’ll deal with them. Swiftly. Thoroughly.” Modi’s heart stopped.

“I’ll see to it that they’re erased from this world. Just like every other traitor who dared to spit on the Lord’s light.” She turned from him as if he were filth. “You’ve brought this on them, Modi. Your weakness is contagious.

And I won’t let it spread.” “I gave you everything. I tried to make you strong. But you—” she hissed, “you are a failure.

Why must I carve obedience into your flesh every time?” What felt like hours of torment had finally ended. The searing metal had left his skin blistered and raw, and the basement reeked of old blood, scorched flesh, and damp stone. But the worst of it—the silence afterward—was what truly hollowed him out. Modi lay curled on the floor, his breath ragged, his body trembling.

The pain was familiar by now, almost ritualistic, but it never got easier. He had been left alone for hours, locked away in the dark beneath the house. A part of him had almost forgotten the world above still existed. Through the haze of pain, his eyes landed on the sword—still resting on the table where Beviline had left it.

Even the flickering lantern light seemed afraid to touch it. Forged in a color darker than shadow, it smelled faintly of cold ash. Thin, vein-like cracks pulsed with a faint blue flame—alive, breathing, whispering softly. The fire was subtle but unmistakable, the same color as Hak’al’s sacred blaze—an ancient, forbidden power.

The whispers came again—not from inside his mind, but from the blade itself. The words were unclear, curling around his thoughts like smoke, impossible to grasp fully. He steadied himself against the table, hesitation weighing heavy in his chest. He wasn’t afraid—just uncertain, burdened by what he was about to do.

Despite that, his hand moved toward the hilt. He couldn’t walk away—locked in the basement with the blade in front of him. Other choices might exist, but none were visible now. All he saw was this path.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to see anything else. Then came the familiar sound of footsteps on the floorboards above. Slow, heavy, rehearsed. He didn’t need to see her to know who it was.

He always knew when it was her. The lock clicked. The door creaked open. Beviline’s voice followed.

Softer now, dressed in mock concern. “It’s dinner time,” she called gently. “You may have to eat down here for a while, but I can still make your favorite meals. That much, I can do for you… as your mother.” Her tone was a sharp contrast to the hours before—soothing, deceptive, laced with something far more dangerous than rage.

She began descending the stairs slowly, her eyes scanning the gloom. “As much as I wish to punish you for your misbehavior,” she continued, “you don’t deserve to starve. You can come out now.” Silence.

“Modi?” Her voice trembled ever so slightly, uncertain now. “I’m not angry anymore… you can come out.” But Modi did not move.

And this time, something in the dark was different. Then she heard it—bare feet slapping against the cold stone behind her, fast and sudden. She turned just in time to feel a sharp, burning pain drive into her gut. Beviline gasped, her breath catching as she looked down and saw the sword buried in her stomach.

Her eyes rose to meet Modi’s. He stared back, not with fury, but with something colder—emptier. His hands trembled. His face was wet with tears.

The plate of food she’d brought slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor and shattering—just like everything else in their family. Before she could scream, Modi lunged forward and clamped a hand over her mouth. She collapsed, the blade twisting as she fell. But Modi didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. His mind was roaring. His heart thundered. The sword moved again and again, guided by something deeper than hatred—something buried in years of silence and agony.

With every stab, he felt closer to freedom. With every wound, his tears fell faster. “You’re killing your mother!” she gasped, her voice breaking through as she wrestled his hand from her mouth. Blood spilled from her lips.

He recoiled only for a second—then silenced her again, tighter this time. He couldn’t let himself hesitate. If he stopped, he might try to save her. He might fail.

The blade burned in his grip. From within it came faint sounds—agonized wailing, voices that didn’t belong to this world. “You made me do this!” he shouted, voice cracking as the tears poured. “I never wanted this!” And then—silence.

Her body had stopped moving. Modi hovered over her, panting, shaking, the sword slick with blood. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from something deeper, tangled between guilt and release. The weight was gone.

And yet, it wasn’t. He looked at her face. Still. Pale. No longer twisted by rage.

No longer a monster—just a woman. Just a mother. The one who gave him sweets when he obeyed. The one who held his hand gently—but only when he was quiet.

Only when he was good. She had broken him. And yet… he mourned her. With trembling, bloodied hands, he gently moved her lips into a soft smile.

“You always wore your mask well, Mother,” he murmured. “Even now, it tries to fool me.” A tear slid down his cheek as he stared at her closed eyes, wondering—perhaps, somewhere beneath it all, some part of her had truly loved him. Then it struck—sharp, searing pain in his chest.

Modi cried out and staggered back, clutching the space just above his heart. A sigil was carving itself into his skin, glowing faintly red as blood welled from the lines. The pain was unbearable, but he didn’t scream. Above him, he could hear the floor creak.

Milly. She was still upstairs, walking. Unbothered. Untouched.

Free from pain. Modi wiped the tears from his face, steadied his breath, and stood. Every step was agony. But he climbed the stairs anyway, one hand pressed to the burning mark on his chest.

He knew what came next.

Chapter 20

Milly sat in the quiet, sunlight trickling through the window, her fingers gently tracing the rim of a teacup. She looked peaceful. Content. Smiling.

Of course she smiles... Modi’s grip tightened around the sword. A floorboard creaked beneath his step.

“Mother, I’d like to go pray for Modi today inside the Pillar. Would that be alright?” Milly called without looking, her voice light, almost cheerful. She hadn’t even turned to check—it never occurred to her that the footsteps weren’t Beviline’s.

Only silence answered her. She frowned and finally glanced over her shoulder. Her face drained of color.

“B-Brother?” she whispered. Her eyes locked on the blood smeared across his arms, dripping,the crimson staining his clothes. “Whose blood is that…?” Her voice cracked.

She already knew. But part of her clung to denial. “Don’t tell me you… Modi—where is Mother?” Modi sniffled, wiping at his face, his chest rising and falling with slow, ragged breaths.

He didn’t answer her question. Instead, his voice wavered. “You… want to pray for me?” He held his head, fingers pressing against his temples as if trying to contain the chaos swelling inside.

“Why… did you both play these sick games with me?” His voice trembled. “You brand me… twist my arms until they break… then kiss my forehead and say you love me.”

Milly rose slowly from her seat, edging backward. Modi wasn’t yelling—he didn’t need to. The fury barely contained in his voice was worse than any scream. “How many times,” he continued, eyes wide with betrayal, “did you sit there… reading your little books, while that boy screamed in the basement?

Did you ever hear him crying for help? Did you care?” Milly’s lip quivered, but she said nothing. “And now you want to pray for me?” Modi’s voice trembled, his hands shaking violently.

“Was it easier pretending I didn’t exist? That none of it mattered, as long as you stayed clean?” He took a step forward. “Tell me the truth… did you ever love me, Milly?” Without answering, Milly bolted toward the front door—but Modi was faster.

He cut her off, blocking the path with a desperate, haunted glare. She stumbled back, panic overtaking her. Her breath hitched, tears welling. “I… I do love you, Modi!” she cried, voice cracking.

“Please—this doesn’t have to end like this. It’s not too late!” “Why was it always me?” he shouted through tears. “Why was I the one tied up? Whipped?

Burned? Forgotten?!” Milly trembled. Her words came in a whisper.

“Because… because you were reckless. You know what happens to sinners. We both know what really happened to Father. I was scared… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I see,” Modi said, grinding his teeth, voice low and trembling. “So it’s all my fault, then. I’m such a fool.” His eyes burned with emotion. “I loved both of you—despite the horrors you put me through.

Even now… even now, when I want to kill you…” He blinked through tears. “I still love you. I must be insane.” His voice cracked, and for a moment, he seemed almost lost.

Milly saw it in his eyes—wild, glassy, lost. There was no reaching him. No plea would find its way through that storm. To Modi, it was already too late.

She backed away slowly, breath quickening, fingers twitching as if they could somehow summon an escape. Modi took a step forward, slow… but full of purpose. The sword in his grip gleamed faintly in the lamplight, still wet at the edges. She broke into a sprint.

Her feet pounded the floorboards. The window was close. She didn’t look back—only the wind mattered now, the sky, the open air. Her hands found the sill—

But he was already behind her. A sharp yank—he grabbed a fistful of her hair and tore her backward with a vicious snap. Milly screamed as her body was thrown off balance, her heels scraping against the floor. For one fractured second, her eyes caught the sky—calm, soft clouds above.

So close. Just one second more, and she'd have flown. Then darkness consumed her view as the window slipped away. She twisted, flailed, managed to elbow him in the ribs—Modi snarled, stumbling.

Milly didn’t wait. She scrambled to her feet, sprinting for the front door this time, legs shaky but driven by sheer terror. She almost made it. His hand shot out, grabbing her ankle.

Her body jerked back mid-run and she crashed to the floor with a hollow thud, pain bursting in her ribs. “No!” she cried, kicking furiously—but he was already on her. Modi mounted her chest, knees pinning her arms down, sword clattering beside them. His hands found her throat like instinct.

Thick fingers, calloused and trembling, began to squeeze. “Stop!” Milly gasped, clawing at his wrists, nails digging into skin. “Modi—stop! I’m your sister!

Please! I love you!” Her words broke into coughing, her breath caught in her throat as tears streamed down her face. But his eyes were dead—glassy, distant, somewhere else entirely.

She slapped at him, punched, thrashed. He struck her arms aside with terrifying strength, a violent refusal of mercy. His lips curled into something unreadable—not a smile, not a frown, just raw, shaking fury. Milly gurgled, body weakening.

Her legs stopped kicking. Her hands dropped to the sides. “Modi…” she whimpered, the last fragments of her voice slipping through numb, blue lips. “Please…”

He didn’t hear her. The only sound was his breath, ragged and furious. Then— Snap. The sound froze him.

Something in it broke through the haze. His eyes widened. His hands released her throat like they’d touched fire. He reeled backward, falling away from her motionless body.

Then the horror hit. He vomited. Shaking violently, he crawled to a corner and curled into himself. The sword lay forgotten on the floor.

He stared at Milly, her body still, her skin already paling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry…” He began to strike himself—again and again—his fists slamming into his skull with dull, sickening thuds.

Tears streaked down his face, his voice unraveling into a broken, rising chant. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tight around himself, as if trying to keep from falling apart entirely.

A knock came at the door. That sound—so familiar. Too familiar. He froze.

The sound echoed, not just through the room—but through memory. He had heard that same knock once before… when they came for his father. His gaze dropped to his hands—bloodied, trembling. He rubbed them together slowly, as if the motion might wash away what had just happened.

His breath was even now, disturbingly calm. Maybe this was fate. Maybe he’d end up just like his father. But a part of him—small, buried deep—still hoped.

“I wish I could see him again,” he whispered. But not like this. Not as a coward. Not as a ghost walking toward the noose.

He couldn’t let himself die here—not after what he’d done. Not after the unforgivable. If he gave up now, it would all be for nothing. A voice called from outside, uncertain but edged with concern.

“Hello? Is everything alright in there? I thought I heard… a scream.” Modi hesitated. His breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, he said nothing. “…Everything is alright,” he finally muttered, his voice thick with grief. “We just had an argument…Please don’t make it worse.” “Ah.

At it again, are we?” the man replied, with a small laugh meant to ease tension. “I understand. We all clash with family sometimes. But we’ve got to love them, right?

No matter what. You may not see eye to eye, but at the end of the day… you’re family.” His words meant well. But they were hollow.

Distant. Naive. He had no idea what lay beyond that door. Modi stared at Milly’s corpse—pale, stiff, frozen in that last moment of struggle.

Her eyes still half-open, like she had one more word to say. Family. The word used to mean something. He’d been taught to cherish it, to forgive and endure… but in the end, that very loyalty had cracked him wide open.

He didn’t respond. “Well, I’ll be off now. Take it easy, Modi.” The man's shadow slipped away from the door, vanishing like a memory.

Silence returned, heavier than before. Modi stood still for a while, then slowly pulled his cloak from the hook by the door. He wrapped it around his shoulders, his hands steady now. There was nothing more to say.

Outside, the world had the audacity to look the same. Warm sunlight washed over stone walls. Market stalls bustled. Faces passed by him, smiling without knowing.

Laughing. Talking. Breathing. Why are they so happy?

he thought. How can they live like this? He moved through the streets like a ghost—one step after another, and with each one, the truth weighed more heavily on him. He passed the Saints' Hall without looking.

He didn’t need to. Whatever lay ahead, there was no reason to return to the capital again. His hand brushed the hilt of the blade hidden beneath his cloak. “I was going to sell this thing,” he muttered, “and disappear.”

Instead, he had used it to kill his mother. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like anything. Above, the shadow of a massive bird drifted silently across the road, wings stretching over stone and dust as it soared toward the Capital.

Modi didn’t look up. He just kept walking, the weight of what he’d done trailing behind him like a second shadow.

Chapter 21

It didn’t take long for the whispers to begin. Something was wrong at Modi’s home. A friend of Milly’s had come by, hoping to take a walk with her before the time of prayer. It was something they did often—brief strolls to the market, or just a turn around the gardens to talk.

She knocked gently, expecting Milly’s cheerful voice on the other side. But no one answered. She waited a little while, then knocked again. Still nothing.

Milly never ignored guests. She never vanished without a word. Especially her mother. Worry began to creep in.

The friend left, hesitant at first, then more determined as she reached the small square nearby, where a few others were seated in quiet conversation. She explained the strange silence at the door, the feeling that something wasn’t right. At the same time, the last man who’d spoken with Modi earlier that day was growing restless. He recalled the strange way Modi had responded through the door—how he never opened it, how distant and strained his voice had sounded.

The man hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now, in light of Milly’s sudden silence, it unsettled him. Both accounts fed the same growing dread. It didn’t take much to convince the group.

They gathered together, and without waiting any longer, they went to Modi’s home, calling out. “Milly? Modi?” one of the women called, knocking gently at first. “Is everything alright in there? Beviline?

Can you hear us?” No answer. Another stepped forward and knocked harder. “We just want to talk—please, say something.” Still silence.

They exchanged uneasy glances. Something was wrong. They could feel it. Without waiting further, one of the men backed up and slammed his shoulder into the door.

The frame groaned. A second kick followed. A third. On the fourth, the door burst inward.

And there, within the shadows of that home, they found something they would never forget. Milly lay crumpled on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally, her neck clearly broken. No one spoke at first. ‘Dear lord.

Who could have done this?!” one said as he looked away, unable to look at the sigh one second longer. “There’s someone in the basement!” a man shouted from another room. The air inside grew heavier.

Sacred paintings looked down at them with solemn judgment. The home was ruined now, soaked with memory, with grief. “These were good people…” a younger voice said, his eyes refusing to look too long at Milly. “How could this happen?”

“Modi” another angrily said. “No… No, he couldn’t have,” another protested, shaking his head. “She was his sister.” “His body is the only one that's missing.

And based on what we heard, Modi was the last person we knew to be alive. There's no doubt in my mind. Its Modi.” “We should’ve seen this coming,” someone said quietly, bitterness laced in his voice.

“I always knew he was troubled… but this? Never this.” “Maybe something finally snapped,” another muttered, voice flat and grim. “Whatever pushed him over—he’s dangerous now.

We need to warn the others.” Someone near the door whispered, almost afraid to say it aloud, “Murder… while the Lord is awake. Has that ever happened before?” “No.

Not in a long, long time,” replied one of the older men. “Who would dare spill blood under the gaze of the Pillar?” Another, kneeling beside Milly’s lifeless form, gently caressed her cheek. “She didn’t deserve this…” A man stepped forward, his eyes cold and sharp.

“This boy—Modi—he’s turned away from the Lord’s light. Whatever darkness took hold of him, we cannot let it spread. We do not need a killer roaming the kingdom. Not now.

Not when the world trembles as it does. You’ve all felt it, haven’t you? I fear a dark force is coming for our Lord. We cannot let human corruption blind us to what’s coming.” The older man straightened, voice heavy with finality.

“Inform Pontiff Azeren. Tell him what we found.” He cast a heavy gaze around the room, the weight of what lay before them pressing down like a shadow over their souls. “We have a sinner.”

They approached the pillar. To stand before it was to feel insignificant—less than a speck. The Pillar towered beyond the clouds, a monolith of divine power so immense its summit vanished into an endless mist, its foundations plunging deeper than any chasm known to man. No one remembered when it had appeared, nor who had built it.

It simply had always been. The massive doors to the Sanctum of Worship stood forever open. Inside, the stone corridors glowed with a warm amber light. Shadows flickered and danced across intricately carved walls, while the air hummed with the soft murmur of a thousand whispered prayers.

Kneeling figures—villagers, pilgrims, penitents—lined the path, heads bowed low, their voices trembling with sorrow and devotion. Pontiff Azeren moved among them, his red-and-black robes trailing like mist along the cold stone floor. His face was uncovered—silent and pale—marked by thin, jagged cracks that snaked beneath his skin like ancient fault lines. His eyes were unnatural: the whites stained with a creeping blackness, as if ink had melted and smeared across them, his pupils distorted, no longer round but warped and unsettling.

His hands, charred and blackened, bore the scars of ancient penance. The cracked skin flaked away with each movement, shedding delicate black ash like snow drifting in the quiet air. Yet, with a reverent solemnity, he reached out, placing a gentle hand on each bowed shoulder in turn. None flinched at the touch.

Some wept more deeply. To be touched by Azeren was to be truly seen by the Lord. Those dark flakes that fell from his flesh were considered sacred. His charred ashes were believed to cleanse sin, to heal sickness, and to sanctify the soul.

The faithful leaned forward eagerly, longing for even a single ember of his suffering to rest upon them—a tangible token of pain transformed into divine grace.

Chapter 22

“He hears your prayers,” Azeren intoned, his voice low and brittle, like wind whispering over dying embers. “He hears every one of you—your joy, your sorrow, your doubt.” His words rolled through the chamber like a sacred hymn, settling over the faithful. “Pray,” he commanded, pausing before the altar, “and you shall be praised.”

Tears spilled freely from bowed heads. “Thank you… oh Lord,” a voice whispered, trembling with reverence. They wept with joy. They wept with fear.

Suddenly, a cautious voice broke the sacred silence. “Pontiff Azeren,” a man called softly from the hall of prayers, approaching with a small group. Azeren raised a cracked finger to his lips, silencing them with a hushed, “Shhhh… This is a place of worship, brothers. Come—we’ll speak beyond these walls?”

The men followed him out, their footsteps hushed against the stone floor as they stepped beyond the Pillar’s hallowed shade. Once outside, Azeren turned to face them, the wind stirring the red-and-black folds of his robe. “Now,” he said, voice like smoldering coal, “what matter draws you from prayer?” “There’s been a murder,” one of the men answered grimly.

“A mother and her daughter—Beviline and Milly. Brutally slain. I’ve never seen such cruelty… We believe it was the son. Modi.

But he’s fled. Long gone from the Capital.” Azeren was silent for a moment. Then he murmured, almost to himself, “...Milly. She was one of my favored.

A soul with such light. A pity. I had already arranged for her to be paired with one of the Devoted, to strengthen their line. Such a loss… a future stolen before it could bear fruit.”

His gaze sharpened. “To spill the blood of your own kin... that is no mere sin. It is a wound against the very order of the Lord’s design. Unforgivable.”

He looked over the group. “Which of you can describe him? I want his likeness etched in every ward, posted in every part of the city. No gate, no border is to be crossed without scrutiny.

He will not escape. The kingdoms beyond our borders may scorn our faith—but they will not shelter our enemies. The Lord’s reach does not end at stone or soil.” As he finished, a vast shadow passed overhead.

The men turned their eyes skyward in awe as the Lord descended—an immense, winged being settling upon its infernal perch high within the Pillar’s sacred floors. "Every sinner shall feel the wrath of Hak’al," he said, voice low and heavy. "And every faithful soul... will witness His glory anew." A crooked smile broke slowly across his lips.

The people rejoiced. The Lord had returned. Whenever He appeared—even from a distance—cheers erupted. Some collapsed to their knees in reverence; others bowed low, applauding through tears.

A few stood motionless, overwhelmed, their skin damp with sweat beneath the crushing awe of being seen by Him. The mere thought of His gaze was enough to unravel many, torn between joy and fear. Pontiff Azeren quietly parted from the men and made his way to the inner sanctum—to the place where the Lord now dwelled. Though many floors of the great Pillar were sealed to the ordinary citizens of Avenger, the Devoted—the Lord’s most trusted and sacred followers—were permitted to walk freely. Azeren moved in silence, ascending the worn stone steps.

With each level, the light dimmed, the silence deepened, and the air grew heavy with centuries of prayer. The Hall of Offerings came first. Here, Hak’al’s faithful left gifts: tokens of repentance, symbols of love, prayers carved into wood or stone, or incense meant to carry their voices to His ears. Some offerings pleaded for the forgiveness of sins, whispered in the dark by trembling hands.

Others begged for mercy in death—for the Lord to guide their souls to the Promised Paradise. Higher still was the Chamber of the Faithful. From this floor on, only the Devoted were allowed to pass. Here, they lived, prayed, and slept—raised in silence and scripture, shaped by the will of the Lord.

These were the family bloodlines who had served Him across countless generations, their bloodlines bound to Hak’al since the world first trembled beneath His shadow. They were not just loyal. They were His. Beyond that, sealed with sacred locks and carved with warnings in forgotten tongues, lay the Sacred Vault—a room only Azeren could enter.

It was said to house knowledge from the Quiet Era, scrolls never read aloud, secrets that would unmake the minds of those unworthy. The penalty for crossing its threshold unbidden was death, not by man’s law, but by divine will. And then, the final ascent—the Chamber of Ascension.

Only one among the Devoted would ever be summoned here in their lifetime. It was within these walls that a Pontiff was chosen. The higher one climbed, the hotter the stone became, as if the air itself burned with judgment. The chosen did not scream.

The worthy would endure. And from fire, a voice would speak. Azeren’s pace did not falter. He had walked this path many times before.

But today, something in the walls felt different. “My Lord,” Azeren whispered to himself, his voice reverent, almost tender. “Your warmth is always comforting.” As he ascended the spiral stair, his charred fingertips traced the smooth stone of the inner wall.

Wherever he touched, black trails of ash followed—smudges of sacred decay, the remnants of penance worn like a second skin. “What a time to be alive,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “Great wonders will unfold within our lifetimes. I have waited so very long.”

His hand paused as he reached a higher step. “Your return can o nly mean one thing…” His smile widened. “You’ve captured Orik—the great betrayer. The devotee who denied his calling, who turned his back on You.”

A quiet chuckle escaped his cracked lips. “What a glorious day.” At last, the stair opened into a wide, elevated platform suspended between the upper floors of the Pillar—a hollowed chamber of stone and silence. And there stood the Lord, radiant and wrathful, His presence overwhelming.

Beside Him, sprawled and bruised, lay Orik—fallen, defeated, and awaiting judgment. Azeren knelt at once. “Welcome, my Lord,” he said, head bowed low. “I had no doubt You would not fail. We have hunted this sinner for years, yet he always eluded us.

He knew our ways too well… and taught his followers to vanish like ghosts.” The Lord turned toward the broken man on the floor and, with a flick of His will, cast Orik’s body against the far wall. The stone cracked where he struck it. “Spare me your justifications,” the Lord thundered.

His voice shook the very air. “I rise, and I expect order. I command obedience. Yet behold, there is chaos and rebellion.

The wicked spread like weeds in My garden, speaking lies even beneath Mine eyes. Think ye that your deeds are hidden from Me? Nay, I see all.” His eyes, deep and cold, flicked toward Azeren.

“For every thousand years that I reign, I must sleep two thousand more. Such is the balance. Such is the covenant. And each time I awaken, the corruption must be purged anew.”

His voice dropped—quieter, but more dangerous. “Never hath it been thus. Never before hath a Devotee turned against Me. Never before hath one of the sacred bloodlines defied the flame.” He stepped forward, gaze piercing.

“If Orik, one among the trusted, could betray Me—how then shall I place My faith in the others? Tell Me, Pontiff Azeren, how may I be certain that all the devoted bloodlines remain loyal?”

Chapter 23

Azeren stepped forward, his voice unwavering, carved from faith as old as the Pillar itself. The chamber, heavy with divine silence, seemed to lean closer to listen.

“My Lord,” he began, his tone a solemn hymn, “since the days of my youth, I have yearned for nothing but to serve You—to help shape the kingdom that mirrors Your will. I am no more than a vessel, a blade forged for Your purpose. While You rest, I cleanse. While You dream, I act. That is my oath. That is my blood.”

He raised a trembling hand, and with the gesture, flakes of black ash broke loose from his seared skin, spiraling downward like smoldering petals from a burnt offering. “The notion that a Devoted could betray You… it does not shake me—it binds me tighter to the flame. My faith does not fracture; it hardens. I would sweep this land clean of sin, burn its corruption to cinders, so Your reign may endure—untouched, eternal, as the fire that crowns You.”

A pause lingered, heavy as prophecy. Azeren’s gaze did not falter. “And if my words carry not enough weight, then let my deeds speak. It was I who uncovered the serpent within these walls—the one who betrayed You from within. That revelation, I believe, marked the beginning of why I was deemed worthy to wear the mantle of Pontiff.”

For a time, Hak’al did not speak. Silence reigned in the chamber like a held breath, broken only by the faint crackle of divine fire.

Then, without command, Azeren fell to his knees.

The Pontiff bowed low, forehead nearly touching the stone, his charred hands pressed flat in submission. Ash drifted from his fingers like dark snow, a quiet offering to the flame.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he said, his voice hushed, nearly trembling. “Under my watch, there has been unrest—more than during the reign of those who bore this mantle before me. If I have failed in my charge… if I am no longer worthy to serve You… then speak but a word, and I shall unmake myself without delay. My life is Yours to claim.”

Hak’al’s flames stirred—slowly, thoughtfully—writhing like living serpents in the air. One tendril of fire curled toward Azeren’s shoulder, not with fury, but with something almost…measured.

“Rise, Azeren,” came the Lord’s voice, deep and commanding as a faultline splitting the bones of the world. “I see now: there is strength in thee… potential yet unshaped. And know this—thy failings are not born of thy own hands alone.”

He turned slowly, the heat of His presence thickening, pressing down like the weight of an unseen sun.

“The world hath shifted beneath Us. I felt it the moment I stirred from slumber. Something ancient has begun to move again—something that once was bound... now awakens.”

Hak’al’s eyes narrowed, twin furnaces of seething contempt as He cast His gaze upon Orik—who, even in chains and blood, dared meet His stare without flinching.

“Sayah’s Elites,” the Lord murmured darkly, “some of her finest—slain. Slaughtered by heretics… within My very borders.”

His voice coiled with restrained fury, the kind that promised ruin.

He stepped forward, each footfall ringing like the toll of a great bell—the sentence of a god made manifest in sound.

“I was made a spectacle,” Hak’al hissed, low and cutting. “Laughed at in hidden places. Mocked in silence by cowards and blasphemers who dare whisper My name with disdain. And all of it… because of thee.”

Without further word, He reached down and gripped Orik’s arm. There was no effort in what followed—only divine wrath given form. The flesh peeled away beneath His hand like brittle bark torn from a dead tree, exposing raw sinew and bone in a single, fluid motion.

Orik’s body jerked. Pain surged through him like fire through marrow. Blood poured in rivulets, his breaths short and shuddered. He bit down on his lip until it split, clinging to the last shreds of control.

“Thou wouldst gamble My order for a boy,” the Lord thundered. “A boy! A mere spark in time’s vast fire. For what? For reasons buried in foolishness—reasons so far beneath My understanding they rot like roots in poisoned soil. Thou hast meddled with forces not even I lay full claim to.”

Hak’al studied him in silence—almost impressed.

Even with skin flayed, Orik’s scream had broken through only once. No pleading followed. No cries for mercy. Just silence, defiance carved into flesh and breath.

“Now I see,” the Lord murmured, His voice laced with cold reverence and regret, “why they once deemed thee worthy to wear the mantle of Pontiff. There was greatness in thee… had it not been soured by betrayal.”

He descended slowly, the weight of His divinity pressing into the stone as He knelt beside Orik. The heat radiating from His form scorched the air, leaving hairline fractures in the floor beneath His knees.

“Do not bleed out yet,” Hak’al whispered, almost with a mock tenderness—then drove His palm down hard upon the mutilated flesh.

Flames burst from the point of contact with a furious hiss. The wound sizzled, crackled—skin blackening in an instant.

Orik writhed, his back arching, muscles convulsing beneath the Lord’s grip. The stench of seared meat filled the chamber, thick and choking.

Hak’al leaned closer, His voice now a serpent’s coil of menace. “Thou knowest what I seek. Speak it—now—or I shall peel the skin from thy other arm, strip by strip, until the truth is laid bare.”

Azeren lingered in the shadows like a serpent curled beside its flame, a crooked smile pulling at the edges of his cracked lips. To witness the Lord Himself dispense judgment—true, divine retribution—was a rare and almost intoxicating sight. This was no rumor passed down in sacred halls; this was wrath incarnate, born of flame and fury.

“I don’t know where he’s gone…” Orik rasped, blood bubbling in his throat.

Hak’al wasted no breath. He reached once more, and with effortless precision, seized Orik’s other arm. The skin parted beneath His grip like wet parchment torn from a book left too long in the rain. A spray of crimson dashed the stone, hissing where it touched the Lord’s searing aura.

Still, Orik endured. His face contorted, his body shuddering beneath the waves of pain—but his will held firm. His voice, hoarse but unbroken, tore through the silence.

“I told you—I know nothing! He gave us nothing! You’ve bled me for air. You’ve gained nothing by capturing me!”

Hak’al’s expression did not twist in anger. Instead, He stood still—regal, terrible—gaze fixed upon Orik with a depth colder than steel pulled from snow. His flames did not flicker with rage; they dimmed slightly, as though thinking.

Chapter 24

“Nothing?” the Lord’s voice fell like a shadow, low and deliberate. “Thou thinkest I have gained nothing? Nay. I know well the boy’s cunning, his serpent’s craft. But thou… thou hast only just begun to serve thy true purpose.”

“Azeren,” Hak’al commanded, his voice rolling like distant thunder, “summon the people. An announcement must be made—there is no time to waste.”

His gaze lifted, the flame swaying in hushed stillness—its light casting long, trembling shadows, as though the stone itself feared what was to come.

“The hour grows short,” He declared.

At once, the bells rang out—a deep, solemn call that echoed through the streets of the Capital. Word spread like wildfire, carried on whispered breath and hurried footsteps:

“The Lord commands your presence. Gather swiftly at the Pillar.”

No soul dared hesitate. Doors burst open on creaking hinges, meals were left uneaten, tools dropped from trembling hands. The city moved as one—like a tide drawn to shore—flowing through narrow alleys and wide avenues, all converging beneath the towering shadow of the Pillar. The great courtyard swelled with bodies and breath, thick with reverence and silent dread. Eyes turned skyward. Hands clutched close to chests. None dared speak above a whisper. Those who had once heard the Lord's voice with their own ears had long since turned to dust—and now, history stirred again.

Some clutched their hands in trembling reverence. Others whispered prayers beneath their breath, not knowing what judgment might fall. A few kept their eyes low, hearts pounding—fear gnawing at them. Secrets, sins… they feared today might expose them all.

“They are assembled, my Lord,” Azeren said from behind, bowing his head low.

Hak’al gave no reply.

But Orik, A dark pool of blood spread quietly beneath him, soaking into the cold stone. Orik’s breaths came shallow and faint, his silence heavier than any chain..

Hak’al advanced with deliberate steps, each footfall a solemn drumbeat reverberating through the vaulted chamber and seeping into the hearts of all who gathered below. The very stones seemed to pulse with the weight of His approach, as if the Pillar itself recognized the return of its sovereign.

Then, at the platform’s edge, He stood—an imposing silhouette carved against the muted light. The Lord’s presence was a tempest restrained: radiant as a dying star, yet vast and cold as the void. His gaze swept over the crowd, binding them with silent command.

The assembly below erupted, a tidal roar of voices crashing against the stone walls. From the farthest corners of the courtyard, even the distant could feel the gravity of His arrival—an overwhelming force that shattered doubt and stirred reverence in equal measure.

Slowly, Hak’al raised His arms, spreading them wide like the wings of a celestial conqueror. Not a word was spoken, yet the gesture thundered louder than any proclamation, igniting a fresh wave of cheers that rolled across the masses like a storm breaking over the horizon.

To stand in His radiant light was to feel one’s soul laid bare, stripped of pretense and shield. To behold Him was to grasp the crushing weight of divine perfection—unyielding, eternal, and absolute.

And now, He had come to speak.

“Long hast thou dwelt under My sovereign hand,” Hak’al’s voice rolled forth, vast and resonant, carried deep within the bones of the Pillar and into the hearts of all who listened. “I have seen the faces of thy forebears—names lost to memory, voices swallowed by time’s endless tide. They stood where thou dost stand this day, and with Me forged this kingdom in the fires of destiny.”

The crowd below fell utterly silent, as if the very breath of the world had been stilled.

“With each age, I awaken; and with each awakening, I purge that which festers in shadow. I cleanse Mine kingdom of sinners—those who would dare to snuff out My flame.”

His voice darkened, thick with warning.

“But this day... this day is unlike all those before. I rise to find a rot so deep, so widespread, it threatens to unravel all that we have forged. Too many sinners walk these lands—enough to choke the very streets of a city. And worse still...” He gestured toward the assembly, eyes burning, “they hide among you—cowards draped in the robes of righteousness, liars cloaked in the guise of tradition.”

A shudder rippled through the crowd. Whispers ceased as eyes darted nervously. Some clung tightly to trembling loved ones, while others bowed their heads, hoping their guilt would not be betrayed by trembling hands or quivering breath.

“Therefore, I shall cleanse this land once more,” His voice rang with iron resolve. “I will sever the rot that festers at its core. And if it be necessary that half this kingdom be consumed by flame, so that the other half might rise purified—” His eyes ignited like twin black suns, burning with merciless judgment, “—then so shall it be.”

With deliberate strength, He lifted a towering cross aloft.

Gasps shattered the silence.

Nailed to the unforgiving iron was a shattered figure—Orik, or what little remained of him. His body, stripped bare of flesh, lay exposed and raw, twitching faintly as though caught between life and oblivion. The skin was gone; scorched muscle glistened darkly, blood dripping slow and steady onto the cold stone beneath. Yet his eyes remained open—vacant, glassy, harboring a stillness that transcended suffering. The man was already dead.

Hak’al’s voice rose like thunder:

“This… is the price of treason. Look well upon him—Orik, the Great Betrayer. Once chosen to wear the mantle of Pontiff. Once anointed by flame, entrusted with the sacred charge of My will. And yet, he turned away. He twisted My gifts to forge rebellion, to raise an army beneath banners of defiance. Behold now the fate of those who lift their hand against their Lord.”

Chapter 25

The crowd stood as stone—mouths parted, backs rigid with awe and dread. Murmurs surged like wind through tall grass—hushed names, half-remembered warnings. Orik, the shadow in the stories. The heretic who recruited by the dozens. The unseen fire that had smoldered through the Lord’s lands for years. Now, at last, he had been found. Brought low. Judged.

“He was one of Mine most trusted,” Hak’al thundered again, his voice cracking through the reverent stillness. “And he hath betrayed Me. Ask yourselves—if one born of the sacred bloodlines could fall… what shield remaineth for the rest?”

The murmurs died.

Silence held dominion. Eyes clung to the spectacle—wide, unblinking. Horror etched itself into the faces of the faithful, their hearts clutched by the cold hand of revelation.

“But be not deceived,” Hak’al thundered, His voice vast as the sky’s own wrath. “A greater threat yet stirreth. A serpent slithers in our midst—clever, coiled in shadow, cloaked in the innocence of a child. Soft of voice. Frail in frame. Humble in manner. Yet beneath that mask lies ruin.”

He stepped forward, the echo of His words thundering from the Pillar, carried by wind and flame alike. “Behold, I say unto you: he is among us. The false prophet!”

The very air seemed to recoil. His voice did not simply reach the far corners of the land—it carved through it. Across the rivers of Kodor, through the high canyons of Myrr, over the silent plains—His fury trembled in the marrow of all who heard. The Harbingers heard. Modi heard. Even the farthest outposts shivered beneath its weight.

“This false prophet,” Hak’al growled, each syllable molten, “hath spun his web of heresies with a serpent’s tongue. With honeyed words and sacred perversions, he hath turned even one of the Devoted to his cause. Whatever he promised—whatever dark gospel he preached—it was enough to lead hearts astray… enough to crack the foundation of a kingdom.”

“He speaketh not for the living,” Hak’al intoned, voice like a storm caught in stone. “He is no savior—he is a herald of death. His cause is not unity, nor peace, but resurrection. Not of hope, but of darkness—a darkness we buried at great and terrible cost.”

His eyes narrowed, fire reflecting in their obsidian depths.

“A blight so vast, so unnatural, that the Lords of this world did nearly rend existence itself to tear it from the roots of reality. And when the dust settled, when silence returned to a blood-soaked sky—we forged a pact. A sacred covenant. That none should speak of that age again.”

Below, the crowd was silent—breath held, hearts still.

“We call it the Quiet Era not out of forgetfulness, but of necessity. That time is locked away in silence for a reason. A single whisper—one careless rumor—can awaken it again. Knowledge of that era is death. Even suspicion... is enough to warrant execution.”

Slowly, he lifted his arms—twin columns of divine command—and flame shimmered faintly behind him like a prophecy not yet spoken.

“But I say unto thee, My people,” Hak’al roared. “This kingdom shall not fall whilst I draw breath! And thus, I declare holy war upon the legion of sinners that crawls like rot beneath our feet. They multiply like vermin, fattened upon lies. No longer shall their disease be tolerated. No longer shall mercy stay My hand.”

“Arise! Arise, My people! Gird yourselves in flame and fervor. Take up your blades—ready your sons and daughters. Search every dwelling. Turn over every stone. Knock upon every door, from the highest spire to the lowest hovel. Drag the shadows into light. Slay every sinner… every whisper of sin. Leave no veil unlifted, no treachery unpunished.”

His eyes swept across the multitude, a silent judgment passing over each soul.

“Let it be written in the scrolls of eternity that you stood while the world trembled. Let your

descendants sing of your resolve—your sacred fury—your unshakable faith.”

He paused. The air hung taut.

“But mark Me well…” he said, voice dipped in fire. “The False Prophet is Mine. He is not to be slain. He shall be delivered to Me.”

His gaze lifted skyward for but a breath—fleeting, yet heavy with divine intent.

“And unto the Harbingers,” he declared, voice low but vast, “ye who veil disbelief in defiance… I extend one final mercy. One chance alone. Bring unto Me the False Prophet, and ye shall be spared. This is My covenant—etched not in parchment, but in flame.”

Then, he turned—slowly, deliberately—back to the crucified ruin that was once Orik. The body hung limp, a silhouette of agony, soaked in blood and silence.

“As for the vow I made to thy leader…” Hak’al said, his voice dipped in grim finality, “it is fulfilled.”

He raised a hand. Fire curled from his palm—not in rage, but in purpose. The flame twisted like a serpent loosed from divine leash, slithering down his arm in a hiss of heat and light. It struck the iron cross with a hiss that split the silence.

Orik’s broken form ignited at once—his bloodless flesh curling like paper in a furnace, bones charring to ash as the fire devoured what little remained.

Nothing screamed. Nothing moved.

Only the fire bore witness.

Hak’al let the burning cross fall.

It struck the earth like the hammer of a vengeful deity, driving itself upright into the stone with a final, searing hiss. Smoke curled from its charred frame, rising in thin, bitter tendrils—a blackened monument to treason, unmoving and absolute.

“Harbingers…” Hak’al growled, his voice drawn taut and low, like steel sliding from a scabbard. “If ye return not that which was never thine to keep—then look well upon this sign. This is thy warning. For when My wrath descendeth, it shall not stop at thee… but shall strip the flesh from thy offspring, and cast their ashes unto the pyres of My judgment.”

“People of Kodor—tarry no longer! By strength shall we reclaim peace. By fire shall we restore purity!”

The response came like a dam broken. The courtyard exploded into a storm of praise and trembling devotion. Some fell to their knees. Others raised trembling hands to the skies, their voices cracking with fervor. Cries of worship mingled with sobs of relief and terror.

“We are with You, my Lord!” a woman cried, her voice splintering under the weight of her joy. Tears streaked her cheeks as she clutched her chest, trembling in reverence—as if His name alone could wash away the sin that stained the world.

He returned to his throne. There, he sat in silence. His brow furrowed. His jaw clenched tight. Fingers curled slowly into the armrests, digging into the ancient rock until cracks spidered beneath his grip.

“What dost thou scheme?” he whispered, the words scraping past his throat like embers dragged across dry bark. “After all the ages spent chasing thy shadow… why now? Why reveal thyself now?”

His voice grew quieter. “Thou knowest thou canst not win. Thou knowest he cannot be brought back. And I…”

His eyes dimmed, flame flickering low. “I shall not grant thee the chance to try.”

A whisper of a boy scraped against his ear, cold and unwelcome.

“Dost thou hold love for me?”

Fragile, yet venomous, the question sank deep like a poisoned dagger twisting inside him—an echo that clawed and writhed within the recesses of his mind. Fear and fury coiled in a deadly embrace within his chest.

Hak’al’s fingers tightened into stone-hard fists.

The chamber lay silent and void—yet the voice lingered, unrelenting, a shadow that stretched and deepened, casting darkness over the very core of his soul.

Chapter 26

The news did not travel—it festered.

It seeped through city gates like black water under a swollen door, pooled in gutters, and clung to alley walls like the soot of plague-fires long since quenched but never forgotten. It slithered between lips, uninvited, infecting the marrow of men with something colder than dread—certainty. It coiled around reason, constricted hope until it cracked like brittle bone.

For those who had never bent the knee to the Lords, the message was no longer a whisper. It was commandment. A truth carved into the stone of existence, etched into the skeleton of every village it passed through: kneel, or burn.

This was no war.

It was a sanctified purge—cleansed in scripture, baptized in ash.

Men and women—once bakers, shepherds, kin—now marched beneath Hak’al’s banner with vacant eyes and fervor stitched into their tongues. They bore scripture like armor, reciting holy verses through lips crusted with other people’s blood. Entire bloodlines were erased like ink smudged from a ledger. Families dragged from doorways as their homes were nailed shut and turned into pyres—with infants still coughing in the smoke.

Sometimes, they knocked before they killed. Gently.

A mockery of politeness, a quiet prelude to slaughter. The knock was not a warning—it was a ritual, a civility poisoned into cruelty. Mercy had been branded as heresy. Restraint was now a sin.

The lively region, Amberfell—once stubborn and untamed—was rotting from the inside out, its soil salted not by war, but by worship.

Even in corners not yet claimed by Hak’al’s flame, smoke painted the sky in veins of black and sickly orange. It drifted like a warning, slow and deliberate, as if the air itself were mourning. Villagers fled barefoot across cracked Ydren, clutching satchels, children, heirlooms—whatever pieces of a life they could carry. They chased after hope through valleys choked with dust and silence, where even birds dared not sing

The wind moved behind them, cruel and knowing, and it carried the smell of charred flesh—thick, clinging. Not just a memory, but a promise. From a jagged ridge, Modi watched a village die.

Flames crawled over rooftops like starving insects, relentless and twitching. Screams broke through the stillness—not sharp, but frayed, guttural, stripped of shape. There was no rhythm to them. Just sound—grief made raw and loud and real.

It was a dirge without harmony. The end of something holy.

And Modi’s hands trembled.

Not from fear. That had left him long ago.

But from a rising certainty, slow as frost but far more permanent: The Harbingers might kneel.

The unthinkable no longer felt distant. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

So he ran.

Faster than breath. Faster than thought. His limbs ached, lungs peeled with every gasp, but still he ran— as though time itself had found his scent and would not let him go.

Each footfall struck Ydren like a funeral drum—low, final, echoing through marrow. Every stride a breathless, voiceless plea: Please... not yet. Let me not be too late.

But fate has hands carved from stone. And stone does not yield.

The tunnel—his only way in—was gone. Collapsed. Swallowed whole by Ydren, buried beneath silence thick as death. Stone and soil had devoured the entrance like a mouth snapping shut.

Modi dropped to his knees.

He clawed at the rubble with frantic desperation, uncaring of the jagged edges slicing into his skin. Blood bloomed beneath his fingernails, tracing the rock in trembling lines. He dug until flesh gave way, until nerves screamed, until he could no longer tell the difference between dirt and himself.

“No, no, no… it was supposed to be here!” His voice cracked, raw and ragged, folding under the weight of failure.

Tears carved paths through the dust on his face as he struck the ground with both fists.

“How could this happen?!”

The silence that answered him was not empty. It was whole. Smothering. The kind of silence that feels intentional.

Then—hoofbeats.

Distant at first. Measured and slow.

Modi turned, the sound vibrating through his spine, his heart clawing its way into his throat.

Four riders crested the ridge behind him. They moved with the quiet discipline of those who had killed before—horses slick with sweat and streaked in Ydren’s ash-colored mud. Their cloaks flapped low behind them, dust gathering at the hems, and their faces—what little could be seen—were masked in grime beneath battered helms.

To Modi, they didn’t look like men. They looked like consequences.

They said nothing at first. Their silence wasn’t a performance—it was exhaustion etched deep into their bones. The kind of quiet that settles over men who have seen too much and learned to trust too little.

Ash drifted lazily around them, clinging to sweat-slick skin and the crust of old blood dried into their gear.

One leaned forward in the saddle, his helm tipped low as if hiding from the world—or himself.

His voice came out rough, dry, like the rasp of someone who hadn’t spoken in hours, maybe days. Like someone who no longer cared if words meant anything.

“Well,” he said, voice gravel and smoke, “look who crawled back through the ash.” He let the words hang a moment, then added flatly, “Lucky you, boy. Not many get to choose their next breath these days.”

Modi swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the ruined entrance behind him. Smoke still curled thick and choking, silence pressing down heavier than before.

“What happened here?” His voice was low, barely more than a whisper.

The rider who’d spoken—Daren, now clearer through the haze of ash and soot—snorted bitterly. No trace of humor, just hard-edged resentment.

“What’s it look like?” he said, voice sharp as flint. “The outpost was compromised.”

Daren shifted in the saddle, the worn leather groaning beneath him like an old wound reopening. His voice carried the weight of bitter news—heavy, flat, and stripped of hope.

“From what the survivors told us… the Lord Himself decided to pay a visit. Not with words—just wrath.” He paused, jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone. “But He wasn’t the one who sealed the tunnels. That was something else.”

Modi’s brow knit into a frown. “Something else?”

Daren gave a slow, deliberate nod, his gaze drifting for a moment, lost in grim memory, then snapping back with sharp frustration. “The story was murky, but we pieced together the shape of it. One of ours killed one of theirs—a colony-born.” He spat the words like poison. “The Queen didn’t take it kindly. She brought the tunnels down. Not clean, either. Just enough left standing to tempt the rats like us back in.”

His eyes locked onto Modi’s, narrowing to steel.

“We were sent back here to wait. In case you showed up.”

Something in the air prickled against Modi’s skin—a sharp, biting heat that wasn’t welcome. It wasn’t just the weight of their gazes. It was a slow, deliberate measuring, like cold scales tipping a fate he wasn’t ready to meet.

Their eyes were hollow, stripped of any warmth or recognition, glinting with the hard certainty of men who had long stopped hoping. They didn’t see Modi as a man. They saw him as the answer to a question they’d whispered in shadows, cold and unyielding as iron.

“Well then?” one of the Harbingers rasped, voice like dry leaves scraping across cracked stone. “You brought the sword, didn’t you?” Modi’s hand dropped instinctively to the hilt at his side, fingers closing tight around worn leather and cold steel. The man’s grin split his face—a jagged slash of teeth, sharp and merciless.

“So you do have it. Good. We’ll be taking it off your hands. After all... you stole it from us.”

Confusion tightened like a fist around Modi’s chest. He blinked, voice taut. “I thought it belonged to Orik.”

The Harbinger’s eyes darkened, shadows pooling beneath his brow. His voice dropped low, heavy—like a stone settling into a fresh grave.

“The sword belonged to the Harbingers. Orik was merely tasked with its safekeeping.” He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, then his tone sharpened like a blade edge. “He was entrusted with the sword—nothing more. Custodian, not owner. And considering how that ended...”

A cruel sneer curled at the corner of his mouth, predatory and cold as a winter frost.

“I’d say he failed. Now hand it over—before one of Hak’al’s loyal dogs catches wind of us.”

Modi didn’t move. A tight coil of dread twisted in his chest, squeezing breath from his lungs.

“…What are you going to do with Nel?” he asked, voice low and cautious, the words feeling heavier than stone.

The silence that followed was immediate—thick and uneasy.

Eyes flickered away, not in guilt but in careful avoidance, like shadows slipping from light.

“We don’t know yet,” one of the riders muttered, his face half-swallowed by the shadow of his hood. “He’ll be questioned, dragged through every damn truth and lie he’s got locked inside. But we’re done playing these riddles—no more games. If he keeps his mouth shut…” He shrugged, voice rough and tired, as if the weight of what might come was already crushing him. “I’d wager we hand him over. Let the Lords decide if he’s poison or cure. Honestly, at this point, he’s more danger to us than any of those bastards.”

“We promised we’d try to reason wi—” another rider started, hesitant, the edge of doubt creeping into his voice. “Shut up.” Daren’s command sliced through the air—clean and sharp as a taut wire snapping.

He pivoted, eyes flashing with contempt, a storm held just beneath the surface.

“This isn’t about you. We’re not your soldiers. And we don’t answer to your bleeding conscience.”

Daren swung down from his mount in one fluid motion, boots crunching against the dirt.

“First,” Daren said, his voice cold and flat, like steel scraping against stone, “you hand over the sword. Then... maybe we talk. But don’t expect a friendly conversation. The kind of talk we bring cuts deeper than wounds.”

Modi’s grip tightened around the hilt. The sword suddenly felt like a burden—a weight heavy with resentment, as if it fought to be free from his grasp. His chest rose and fell in sharp, measured breaths, each one a battle to steady his nerves.

“Then… if I give it to you,” Modi said carefully, his voice low and cautious, “will you take me to him? Let me see Nel?”

Daren’s mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer, a predator’s leer hiding beneath a mask of indifference. “First, answer this.” He stepped forward, his words slicing through the thick, choking air between them. His voice was dry and sour—like scorched leather left to rot on a breeze heavy with dust. “If we chose to hand the boy over to the Lord,” he said, voice dropping to a low growl, “so He might spare us... would you try to stop us?”

Chapter 27

Modi hesitated. His lips parted—then stopped short. Whatever words had stirred in his throat crumbled before they could take form. And that silence… it spoke louder than any answer. Daren’s eyes narrowed, sharp and cold as drawn steel.

“Then I have my answer,” he said. One hand rose—measured and unyielding, like the drop of a guillotine blade “Take the sword from him.” The words came low and final, carrying the weight of something already decided.

The Harbingers moved in sync. Boots struck gravel—crisp, echoing like the tick of a countdown. Not rushed. Not hesitant. The sound of inevitability drawing closer with every step. Blades had yet to be drawn, but hands hovered near their hilts—fingers tense, twitching with the restraint of men who already knew violence was coming.

One of the Harbingers stepped forward, his approach careful, precise. Palms held outward, a gesture not of peace but of control—like one might use to steady a frenzied beast before the knife slipped in.

“There’s no need to make this difficult, Modi,” he said. His voice came low, a calm veneer stretched thin over something sharper. “You’re outnumbered. Spare yourself the fight. Hand over the sword.”

Modi’s eyes held a quiet blaze—not wild, not shaken, but steady and damning. It wasn’t fear that lit him from within, nor desperation. It was something older. A betrayal he hadn’t yet forgiven. And maybe wouldn’t.

They had made their choice, these men—aligned themselves with a cause that still wore its former name but no longer its soul. This was no reunion—only a gathering of strangers, drawn together by suspicion, bound by circumstance.

Their gazes held no welcome, no shared past—just the cold gleam of calculation, and the weight of unspoken threats. As Modi stared at the four who now stood between him and what he sought, he saw no brothers, no rivals. Just barriers. Temporary. Replaceable. Insignificant.

A breath escaped him. His shoulders eased—barely—and the sword dipped in his grasp, as if reconsidering its purpose.

Daren gave a bitter chuckle, dry as old parchment. “You’re clever, Modi.” His eyes narrowed, all warmth gone. “But the truth is… we don’t need you anymore. Your usefulness has run its course.” The finality in his tone landed like a gravestone being lowered.

“So this is goodbye.”

Modi stood motionless, but it was a lie. The stillness was a thin veneer, stretched over the storm he barely contained.

As the Harbinger reached for the sword, Modi struck.

In a single, fluid motion, he stepped forward and slashed the man’s throat—clean and deep. The blade carved through skin and muscle with sickening ease. Blood sprayed in a high arc, warm and fast, painting the ground in crimson.

The Harbinger staggered back, clutching his neck as a choking gasp escaped him. His eyes went wide with disbelief as he gurgled on his own lifeblood. Then his knees buckled. He collapsed, twitching once before going still in a spreading pool of red.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then came the sharp chorus of steel—the rasp of blades being drawn.

“You filthy cur!” a voice bellowed, shaking with rage. “You’ll pay for that!”

Daren stepped forward, slow and measured, his tone like a blade drawn over frost. “You’ve just opened your own grave, boy. You won’t live long enough to regret it.”

The sword in Modi’s hand weighed heavier than its steel alone could explain—burdened by something far older, something alive in its silence. It was no mere weapon; it was a presence, a gathering storm pressing down on the air between them.

Each clash against the Harbingers’ blades did more than clang—it sang. A sharp, ringing note cut through the tension, vibrating deep into their bones like the toll of a distant bell.

Beneath that piercing sound rose a rhythm—slow, relentless—the hammering of molten metal, slam, slam, slam—an unseen forge shaping something ancient and terrible.

Beneath the hammering, a whisper slid through the charged air—a tongue none of them knew, neither language nor song. Foreign and chilling, it carried the weight of forgotten secrets, sacred warnings lost to time.

The sound seeped into their minds—cold and jagged—biting deep until it felt like ice crystallizing in their marrow. Fear struck swifter than any blade.

Modi gritted his teeth, the surge roaring inside him—raw, sacred, nearly alive. It pulsed beyond his control, a living force that moved with his blade, cleaving through two Harbingers in a single, devastating strike. Their steel—common, mortal—shattered like brittle glass beneath its weight.

Even the horses sensed it. They reared and screamed, eyes wild with terror, panic-stricken and frantic. One by one, they bolted—hooves pounding against the soil of Ydren as they fled into the shadowed trees, vanishing like phantoms into the night.

Daren watched, wide-eyed and unsettled, as his comrades fell one by one under Modi’s relentless assault. The young man moved with a ruthless purpose—each strike precise, unflinching, a predator stalking its prey. It unsettled Daren more than the blades; this was nothing like the quiet, reluctant figure he’d been told Modi was. No hesitation, no mercy. Just cold, unwavering intent.

When the last of Daren’s allies collapsed, Modi surged forward, closing the distance like a shadow lunging from the dark. Caught off guard, Daren stumbled backward, crashing onto his back. Before he could gather himself, Modi was looming above him.

The blade hovered inches from Daren’s eye—slick with blood, glinting like a dark promise. Modi’s breath came heavy, measured, his eyes pools of unshakable conviction rather than blind fury.

“You will take me to Nel,” Modi said, voice low and cutting, sharper than the steel at his throat. “I don’t care what cause you serve, or what twisted justice you chase. If you hurt him, I will hunt every last one of you down—noble ideals be damned.”

Now on foot, Daren stripped of all his weapons and armor. he led them toward the Harbingers’ camp site. The sword never left Modi’s grip.

“If you try anything,” Modi warned, “I won’t hesitate.”

Daren raised his hands in mock surrender, tone dry. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.” A smirk ghosted across his face. “But I don’t think you understand what you’ve walked into. You think our new leader’s anything like Orik? You’ll see soon enough.”

Daren glanced sideways at Modi, his voice dropping to a low murmur—roughened by too many battles and bitter truths.

“His name’s Sakeri. He’s the one who saw what Nel really is and acted on it.”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the distant road, heavy with memory. “Right after you left, he organized a coup—quiet, brutal. But then a soldier we thought dead returned, and what we learned about Orik during that fight with the Elites shattered what little trust remained. It tipped the scales in Sakeri’s favor.”

Daren’s jaw clenched, voice thick with quiet rage. “Most of us followed Sakeri, taking Nel with us. The others… they stayed behind—clinging to old loyalties, blind to the rot. Denial’s a poison, and those bastards drank deep.”

He met Modi’s gaze, fierce and certain. “Whatever choices Sakeri makes next, I believe he’ll be the only way we survive.”

Subjects of Hak’al moved like wolves across the road ahead—the same path Modi and Daren needed to cross. Their armor flashed with cold gleam, their formation tight and ruthless.

Daren crouched low behind a jut of stone, eyes locked on the enemy. “They’re sweeping everything. Relentless bastards.” He turned to Modi, voice tense. “You’ve got to give me something. A blade. A shard. Anything. Because if you’re planning to cut through all that alone, I won’t make it five steps behind you.”

“Quiet,” Modi snapped, eyes narrowing as they swept the treeline, his mind grinding like cold steel. After a tense moment, he pointed ahead. “There. The forest. We’ll circle through there.”

Daren followed his gaze and paled. The trees stood like ancient sentinels—immovable, towering. Their roots cracked through Ydren like jagged bones thrusting up through rotting flesh.

“You can’t be serious,” he hissed. “I’d rather face Hak’al’s dogs than go near that place. Do you even know what that forest is?”

Modi’s expression didn’t waver. “The Umbral Garden. They say giants live there.”

Daren’s laugh was bitter, a dry rasp escaping between clenched teeth. “Sounds like you’ve been feeding on old campfire tales.” He stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his hands, a grim shake of the head following. “It’s the largest forest in Ydren. And the most dangerous. The trees grow so tall they blot out the sky—sunlight barely touches the ground, and the soil is always damp, never dry. They say every massive creature that roams this world—every towering beast, every oversized predator—can trace its bloodline back to that place. We've seen their kind across the lands, and that forest is the reason why.”

He glanced toward the looming wall of trees. “Giant humans, though? That’s rubbish. We’ve never seen one. “But it’s not the beasts that keep me up at night.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a hush. “It’s the witches.”

The word hung in the air like smoke.

“No one knows how many. Just whispers and sightings. They say they look like corpses left too long in the river—bloated, rotted things with eyes that never blink. Some pass through the forest and find only peace, say it’s the quietest place in Ydren. But for others, the stories turn. Men losing time. Hearing voices that mimic their own. Some make it out—but barely.”

He paused, eyes flicking toward the blackened canopy. “That place has always felt wrong to me. Too many questions, too few answers.”

Modi snorted, unimpressed. “I don’t care who’s in that forest. Witches, giants, ghosts—I’m not here to play pilgrim. And we’re not going deep,” he added, voice laced with dry mockery. “We’d just end up lost. I’m sure you can manage walking twenty feet in without crying, can’t you?”

Chapter 28

“If you get me killed, I swear I’ll claw my way up from the depths just to kill you myself.”

The moment they stepped into the Umbral Garden, the world shifted.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a waterfall whispered low, like breath caught in stone. The forest unfolded around them in still grandeur—untamed, untouched by time. Towering trees stretched so high they bent the light, their trunks thick as towers, their roots twisted and ancient. It felt as if they’d entered the very heart of Ydren, the source from which all wild things sprang.

Clear streams curled between mossy banks, their waters cold and slow. Birds flashed like embers overhead, their calls echoing through the dense canopy. Shafts of golden light pierced the leaves, falling in columns that caught the drifting spores and dust. The floor beneath their feet pulsed with life—moss soft as velvet, branches heavy with fruit, and ferns tall as men.

Insects thrived in quiet industry— dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, beetles the size of fists clicking through fallen bark. Even the birds moved like they knew their place in a world meant for things far older, far larger.

Could this really be the forest people whispered about? The one that made hardened men turn pale?

As they crossed into a sun-dappled clearing, Daren’s gaze flicked to the edges of the forest. Figures moved there—rough, restless shadows—some lingering like predators circling their prey, others vanishing silently between the ancient trunks. The forest’s chorus—water trickling, birds calling, wind sighing—masked their footsteps, swallowing any sound that might betray them.

Modi’s pace slowed, every instinct sharpening. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next, scanning for threats unseen. A quiet unease settled in the air, thickening with every heartbeat.

Daren noticed it immediately—the tension tightening Modi’s jaw, the subtle shift of his hand inching closer to the grip of his blade.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Daren murmured, voice low as a creeping fog. “Like something’s watching us. Waiting.”

Modi said nothing.

“I thought I heard whispering—just now,” Daren added, barely more than a breath. “Could be the forest playing tricks. Or maybe it’s something else.”

Modi said nothing in response, but he could not deny the truth lingering in Daren’s words. Unease settled over him like the long shadow of twilight creeping across barren land. Then, from somewhere nearby, a whisper stirred—a soft voice carried on the breath of the forest, as if the trees themselves murmured their doubts.

“It could have gone so smoothly,” Daren said, voice low but sharp as a whetted blade scraping stone. “If you had just handed over the sword, we’d be on our way. You’d be free to slip back into whatever life you call home. Maybe even find a scrap of peace.”

Modi’s eyes darkened, flickering with something raw and exposed. “I don’t have a home,” he said, voice cracking with the weight of unspoken wounds. “Never did.”

A bitter sneer twisted Daren’s mouth. “So your life’s been nothing but ashes and dust. Does that give you the right to burn down everything else? To clutch that sword like it’s the last scrap of meaning—while dragging the rest of us into your selfish nightmare?”

“Selfish…” Modi’s voice broke, bitter and raw, a wound laid bare. ““All my life, I tried to obey every demand—to keep their smiles bright, their worlds unshaken. I swallowed my own hunger for peace, traded my joy for their safety. But it was never enough. Never. I was never enough. I watched them dance in sunlight, living lives untouched by the shadows I carried—the heavy chains forged by my mother’s love, binding me tighter with every sacrifice of my happiness. I suffered in silence, whispering desperate promises to whatever might be listening. The Lords—they say they hear prayers even in their sleep. But I heard nothing. Not a single whisper. It gave me no comfort.”

His grip clenched around the sword’s hilt, knuckles paling like cracked ivory under crushing weight. “When I first found this blade, I planned to sell it—buy my freedom from the prison I was trapped in. That never came to be. But… I’m not entirely disappointed. It led me to Nel.”

His eyes darkened, haunted by memories. “At the end of my journey, all I could see was a solitary tree—still, waiting, like it understood the burden I carried, ready to offer silent refuge. But with him… just for a fleeting moment, I glimpsed something new. A path that never ends. He gave me the courage to break these chains and be free.”

A silence fell like a shroud, thick and suffocating, as tears welled behind his eyes, trembling on the edge of escape. His voice dropped to a fierce, almost feral whisper. “And if anyone dares steal that fragile flicker of light from me—if they try to snuff it out—I swear… I will burn this world to ash.”

The words hung heavy between them, as if the air itself feared their weight.

Daren’s voice followed—low, harsh, filled with bitter conviction. “Endure the flame, and your soul shall rise. Bow through pain, and the Halls will open wide. But curse your Lords, let defiance gnaw—And you’ll fall, forgotten, swallowed by the Pale Maw.”

He leaned closer, eyes cold steel. “That’s the lesson they hammered into us. Obedience… or eternal damnation. We defied the Lords, believing we stood a chance. Or so it seemed. It was easier to assume most of the stories about the Lords were just... stories. Our numbers were large—too many to fail. Yet, even with half of humanity united, it feels as if we would still lose against them.

We underestimated them, Modi. Nel is the keystone holding us—and our families—back from the Depths. We were all fools.”

A whisper was heard. Soft—almost like Daren’s voice—but distant, echoing from somewhere else. “Fools.”

They both turned sharply toward the sound, eyes scanning. Perched high on a tree branch sat an owl, still as stone, staring down at them. Modi’s voice was cautious. “Just an owl.”

The bird’s eyes were wide and unblinking. “I hate owls,” Daren muttered. “Can we please get out of this forest as fast as possible?”

They pressed on. Shadows stretched long beneath the trees, and the harsh echo of angry voices stirred nearby—close, growing louder.

Modi kept his voice low. “If Nel is all you care about, then why claim the sword too?”

Daren smiled faintly, a shadow passing over his face. “The sword? That’s just the sweetener. What you carry is a blade most believe to be myth—so rare even the Lords question if it ever truly existed. None have seen it with their own eyes.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping, thick with old weight. “It was forged before the rise of the Lords—back in the Quiet Era. A time ruled by a man without a name. He crowned himself Emperor of Mankind. Not to be mistaken for the one who claims the title now.”

Daren’s tone sharpened, hard as flint. “He chose a title instead of a name. God. A word he made meant one thing: absolute rule. No questions, no freedom. Only obedience stamped deep into flesh, law, and memory.”

He gestured toward the blade. “The Lords ended him, eventually. But whispers remain—of a rebel, erased from history, who forged a weapon not to conquer, but to resist. That sword you carry? It wasn’t forged for war. It was made for defiance.”

He traced an invisible line through the air, fingers barely brushing an unseen edge. “Its blade is sharper than any forged by mortal hands—unlike steel or obsidian, it’s crafted from something older, something beyond comprehension. The material flows like liquid light, a milky-white river swirling endlessly around its core—perfect, pure, almost unnatural.”

His eyes flickered to the sword, voice dropping to a low, almost reverent whisper. “There’s a small carving etched along its spine—ancient, indecipherable. No one has yet unraveled its meaning. But every mark fits the legends to a cruel, unforgiving T.”

He shook his head with a bitter chuckle, dark amusement curling his lips. “And to see it in your hands—carried like a simple tool, blind to the burden it bears or the fate it commands… tsk.”

Chapter 29

Both crossed what appeared to be a massive log sprawled across the path, its surface rough and mottled with moss and lichen. But Daren’s sharp eyes caught a subtle, unnatural curve—something that no ordinary fallen tree would bear. His gaze swept the dense forest around them, muscles coiled like steel springs, every sense razor sharp. Modi gripped the sword tightly before him, fingers white against the hilt, poised like a predator ready to strike at the slightest misstep.

Daren’s breath hitched as realization dawned: this “log” was no mere dead wood. It was a living nightmare—a colossal serpent, its thick body coiled with terrifying patience, scales glinting faintly like shards of fractured glass in the dim filtered light. Its skin pulsed faintly, veins like rivers beneath translucent skin, the ancient predator camouflaged perfectly against bark and shadow. The serpent’s massive head rested mere inches from them, lips curled back in a cold, motionless snarl, eyes black pits swallowing the light, waiting, watching.

Modi’s focus was elsewhere—scanning the darkened paths behind them, eyes flickering to Daren’s every twitch—but blind to the danger pressing so close.

Seizing the moment, Daren let his footing falter deliberately, catching himself with a rough breath. “Hey! Get up!” Modi snapped, already turning toward him, his voice sharp and impatient.

As Modi moved, Daren’s arm swung back, launching a jagged stone with desperate force at the serpent’s poised head.

The illusion shattered in a flash. The serpent’s jaws erupted open with a bone-chilling hiss—a cavernous, jagged maw lined with teeth like broken glass—lunging forward with a speed that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the forest’s stillness.

Modi froze, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief at the serpent’s monstrous scale—an ancient horror that seemed to drink the very light around it. Without a second thought, Daren vanished into the tangled forest, sprinting toward the camp like a shadow fleeing dawn.

The serpent’s gaze locked onto Modi—the trespasser who dared defile its domain—with cold, predatory focus. It moved with terrifying silence, coiling like a living noose around the thick trunk of a nearby tree. Modi’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm as he sought shelter behind the rough bark, but the serpent’s cunning was absolute. It slid with liquid grace, encircling him inch by inch, tightening its crushing embrace.

Pain flared sharp as ribs groaned and cracked beneath the relentless squeeze. Above him, the serpent’s eyes burned with merciless hunger, jaws parting slowly, an agonizing, measured warning. Modi’s arms were pinned fast, the sword at his side now nothing more than a useless weight in his grasp.

"No… not like this. Not like this,” Modi gasped, each breath shallow, his thoughts desperately clinging to Nel’s name. “If no one will fight for him… then it must be me.”

Darkness crept at the edges of his vision, swallowing the last flicker of consciousness.

The serpent’s slick muscles convulsed, dragging him deeper into its cavernous belly—a cold, suffocating tomb where corrosive acids hissed like whispered curses, dissolving flesh and bone with relentless cruelty.

His clothes began to melt away, consumed by the merciless digestive flood, leaving only the sword by his side—untouched, impervious to the acid that devoured everything else into nothingness.

Around him, shattered shields and broken weapons corroded into oblivion, swallowed by an ancient, merciless hunger.

And still, the darkness closed in—a slow, suffocating end.

As unconsciousness pulled him under, a distant rumble stirred—a grinding wave of sand shifting slowly, like a mountain inching forward. A strange phenomenon whispered about in legends, a sign that someone is about to slip into true slumber.

His eyes snapped open within the dreamscape.

He found himself wandering a labyrinth of streets paved with jagged shards of glass and crystal, cold and merciless beneath heavy boots that never paused for him. His body was broken, carved with cuts and burns; pain throbbed like a relentless drumbeat against his fading will.

Behind him, a towering figure emerged—his mother, whip coiled in hand. Each lash ripped at his flesh, cruel spikes biting deep, tearing skin like paper. He collapsed onto the jagged ground, shards piercing his body from every angle.

Her face was a mask of pure disgust, eyes cold and unyielding. Each strike was driven by a dark hope to see him perish, yet a flicker of bitter disappointment haunted her whenever he survived.

Ahead, beyond the jagged spires of the shattered city, rose the solitary tree he had seen countless times in his dreams—tall and proud, perched on a distant hill by the restless ocean. It breathed a whisper of freedom, fragile and elusive, just out of reach.

Desperation burned in Modi’s tear-streaked eyes as he reached toward it, fingers trembling with longing. But the tree pulled away, receding into the misty distance with every desperate grasp, slipping farther into the shadows of his subconscious.

Around him, the world twisted and stretched, pulled by some unseen, merciless force, then snapped back with a grinding vibration—a deep, hollow tremor that shook the very fabric of his dream. The shattered landscape dissolved into a suffocating abyss of darkness, swallowing all hope whole.

Then, from the silence, a voice emerged—soft as a fading breeze, ethereal, whispering prayers in a language both alien and hauntingly familiar. Modi struggled to rise, but an unseen weight pressed down like a cold shroud, holding him captive in the void.

Summoning the last threads of his will, he crawled forward through the endless darkness. His fingers grazed something solid—rough, unyielding.

“This... a leg?” he murmured, disbelief trembling in his voice. The prayers snapped off, as if the presence before him recoiled at his touch.

“Modi?... Is that you?” The voice, fragile and familiar, sparked something buried deep within his hollow chest. Nel.

“Yes…” The word barely formed, swelling in his chest. It’s him.

Nel’s voice emerged from the dark—soft, deliberate. “How did you come to be here, Modi?”

Modi swallowed hard. “I heard you. Your prayers… they pulled me through.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “That is not possible.”

He hesitated—then reached forward. Fingers, careful and hesitant, brushed Modi’s face. There was warmth in that touch—tender, almost sacred.

“Open your eyes, Modi.” He hadn’t realized they were closed. His lashes lifted slowly.

There knelt Nel.

Alive.

Yet changed.

His eyes carried weight—an unspoken grief held behind steady restraint. And still, Modi felt the world steady just by looking at him.

The land stretched before them—a fractured beauty etched with ruin. The Great Halls, where worthy souls once ascended beyond the clouds, now cascaded downward in slow collapse, crumbling toward Ydren like a dying empire. Time itself seemed to falter in their descent.

The ocean bled red. Corpses drifted upon its surface—men, women, and children alike. Homes lay shattered around Modi, remnants of lives torn asunder, memories reduced to dust. Debris scattered like broken dreams across the dying land.

Only one structure stood intact, poised beside a still, bloodied lake—a fragile shape, as if rebuilt from pieces that still bore their fractures.

“What is this place?” Modi whispered.

“What you see,” Nel replied, his voice quiet and composed, “is a dream. Of what has happened… and what shall yet come to pass.”

He turned his gaze to the crumbling world. “As dreadful as it appears, it brings me a strange peace. Curious, is it not?”

Modi said nothing. His eyes never left Nel. The ruined world around him could have burned away into nothing—he would not have noticed. Nel was all he saw.

He struggled to rise. His limbs refused. With a cry of frustration, he struck the ground with his fist.

Breathing hard, he looked up again—at Nel. Words trembled on his tongue, but none survived the edge of breath. So much needed to be said. But where could he begin?

“I… uh…” Modi faltered. Nel’s expression darkened—an almost imperceptible flicker of disappointment passing over his features, as though Modi’s presence disturbed the balance of something delicate.

“This should not be,” Nel murmured. “Or perhaps… it is, and that is the greater concern.” He lowered his gaze, voice quiet but firm. “You ought not to be here, Modi.”

Chapter 30

Nel’s gaze fell upon the sword resting quietly beside Modi. At first, his brow furrowed—an unspoken memory stirred, buried deep and unsettled. He studied the intricate curves and faint carvings etched into its surface, as if trying to place the blade within a forgotten past.

Then, slowly, recognition softened his features. He stepped forward with measured steps, each one heavy with unspoken meaning. A slow, reverent smile touched his lips as his trembling fingertips traced the blade’s edge—gentle and deliberate, like a scholar reading an ancient text or a mourner honoring a lost relic.

“The Sword of Promise,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, heavy with awe and sorrow.

Modi followed his gaze and stared at the sword, unease flickering within him. How did it come to be here? he wondered silently.

Turning back, Nel’s voice dropped to a cautious murmur, heavy with ancient warning. “Be wary of what you believe this sword to be, Modi. It is no ordinary blade—but a weapon without destiny or purpose of its own. Its meaning comes only from those who wield it.”

Modi’s eyes sharpened. “You know it, then.”

Nel nodded, shadows flickering across his face. “I do. It was forged by someone I once knew—a figure long gone, but whose legacy still lingers in that steel.”

Modi’s mind raced—this sword was forged in an age nearly wiped clean from history. How, then, could Nel possibly know its maker? The question slipped out before he could stop it. “If you knew this person, then you must be far older than you appear.”

Nel’s gaze deepened, carrying the weight of countless years. “I am as old as the Lords themselves. I was born in the Quiet Era.”

Modi’s voice lowered, edged with suspicion. “Is it true… what they say about you? Have you been deceiving everyone all this time? Are you truly as dangerous as the whispers claim?”

Nel’s eyes darkened, shadows deepening within their depths. “I have deceived. For my own purpose—an arduous path I chose to walk. One that will bring ruin upon all of Ydren. Yet, I hold no empathy for what must be sacrificed. I am but a boy, yet even a single action can alter the fates of every soul—including yours, Modi. I would say, yes... I am quite dangerous.”

Modi’s breath caught, trembling with disbelief. The boy he had trusted—how could he be this? Not the one who gave him the courage to seek freedom. Not someone who could wear such innocence. He looked away, voice barely a whisper. “Does that mean… you deceived me as well?”

A long silence stretched between them. Nel slowly turned his back to Modi. “Yes.”

The words struck Modi like a knife.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice trembling with raw desperation. “There was something between us—something real. Every time I stood beside you, it felt as if our souls spoke without words. They want to cast you aside—everyone does. But I cannot let that happen. I’ve sacrificed everything just to find you again. Now, you are all I have left. Please… don’t leave me as well.”

His hands clenched tightly over his heart, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, Nel."

Nel stood motionless, unmoving—as if carved from stone.

“Well?” Modi pleaded. “Say something. Please.”

But Nel remained silent, his back still turned. After a long, heavy pause, his voice came cold and distant. “I’m sorry, Modi… but I cannot walk this path with you. What you saw—that was a lie I let you believe. What you see now is the truth.”

He hesitated, then continued, his words sharp as ice. “Death is all I see ahead. Everything must end. And I cannot let you stand in my way. I… do not love you. But I do pity you.”

A bitter sigh escaped him. “My path was set long ago. When the world falls apart, you must find someone else to share your pain. Nothing—not even you—will pull me from my purpose.”

Nel turned slowly. His eyes—once familiar—had changed. Golden crescents circled his pupils now, cold and unyielding, as if something ancient had awakened behind them. Modi’s breath faltered. The truth weighed heavy, too sharp to swallow. His hands trembled, his thoughts spiraling—until something else seized his attention.

Behind Nel, a vast throne emerged from the gloom. Upon it sat a towering figure. The air itself seemed to still around it. The air grew still. Around the base of the throne, the dead had gathered—withered husks and broken skeletons, reaching with brittle fingers toward the stone, their jaws frozen mid-plea. Their bones were curled against its base, as if even in death they could not let go.

Modi's gaze rose instinctively—only to drop again. He couldn’t look into its face. His very soul recoiled, as if some primal part of him knew that to see it would unmake him.

Terror gripped him. The figure radiated hatred—not merely toward the world, but specifically toward him. It knew he was there. It despised that he was there. And it wasn’t its size that made Modi feel so small. It was its presence—immense, cold, and ageless. Something ancient beyond reckoning.

His eyes fell to the floor.

He couldn’t lift them again.

Yet Nel stood before it—proud, unshaken—as he laid a hand upon the throne. “It is time for you to go now, Modi,” he said, his voice soft, as if carried by wind from another world. “I cherished our talks… in the quiet moments. But even I cannot delay what must be.”

Modi’s vision blurred. Nel grew distant with every desperate reach, every trembling breath.

“Nel! Please—wait! Just a little more time!”

His voice cracked, trembling with raw resolve. “I still… don’t understand. I won’t accept this—not until I see you again—in flesh. I won’t let them drag you to your death.”

Darkness swallowed him whole. Cold, suffocating, relentless. The weight pressed deep against his chest, each breath a battle against the crushing void. He was trapped within the serpent’s stomach, where air was scarce and thick with acid’s cruel bite.

Panic clawed at his mind, but he forced it down, summoning every shred of will. He had to survive.

“It’s so dark… I can’t see,” he whispered, crawling blindly through the hellish abyss. His skin burned where the acid licked at him, muscles convulsing around his body—twisting, dragging, pulling.

He slipped again and again, but refused to surrender. His hands scrambled blindly, desperate to find the sword—its solid weight, its quiet power. Agony seared his skin, relentless and raw, but he pressed onward.

Outside, the serpent’s gaze locked onto new prey—subjects of Hak’al, relentless hunters stalking heretics through the forest’s twisted shadows. With terrifying speed, the beast lunged forward, its massive jaws opening wide to engulf them.

Branches snapped and leaves scattered as the serpent surged through the underbrush, a living nightmare chasing down its quarry. The men ran—shouts echoing, footsteps pounding—but the serpent closed the distance with dreadful inevitability.

Then, without warning, the serpent froze mid-pursuit.

A violent shudder tore through its colossal frame. Its body convulsed wildly, smashing trees like brittle twigs, snapping ancient giants to the ground. Pain and fury tangled in every thrash, as something unseen battled fiercely from within.

A sharp, glinting edge tore through the serpent’s thick flesh—its back cleaved open, dark, venomous blood spilling like a river, pooling and flowing in wide, sluggish streams across the forest floor.

From the shattered wound emerged a figure, drenched in the crimson flood yet unyielding, gripping the sword like a lifeline forged in fire and blood.

It was Modi.

His clothes hung in tatters, acid burns mottling his skin, but his eyes burned with fierce determination, unbroken and relentless.

The men chasing through the forest froze, horror rooting them to the spot. They had heard countless warnings about the deadly shadows of the Umbral Garden—but never tales of men so fierce, so indomitable, that even the monstrous beasts lurking there could not consume them.

Modi turned slowly toward them, a fierce, smoldering fire burning in his eyes—silent but unmistakable in its warning. His hand closed tightly around the sword’s hilt, a clear message etched in every movement: dare to challenge me, and you shall fall.

The men faltered, their courage swiftly crumbling. Wide-eyed and trembling, they recoiled, desperate to flee the presence of the bloodied warrior. Fear rippled through their ranks like a dark tide, voices rising in frantic discord.

“I warned you—this wood is cursed!” one cried, his voice sharp and trembling, slicing through the chaos.

Others muttered hurried prayers and desperate curses as they scattered, feet pounding the forest floor in hurried retreat.

But Modi’s gaze lingered not on their flight. With grim resolve, he dropped from the serpent’s corpse, every movement laced with agony, yet driven by purpose unwavering.

His eyes fixed on the tangled forest ahead, seeking any path that might lead him to the camp of the Harbingers. Survival was no longer enough; his resolve demanded he press forward, whatever the cost.