The forest reeked of iron and burning flesh.
Perched on the thick limb of a gnarled oak, Aeren Valewyn watched the slaughter unfold below. His twin short katanas—Shade and Whisper—rested across his thighs, their steel whispering for blood. Beneath him, a band of mercenaries laughed as they looted the corpses of slain elves. Their tabards bore the emblem of Valenstahl's third battalion, but there was nothing knightly about what they did.
Six of them. Two archers. Three swordsmen. One mage.
Aeren's fingers tightened around his hilts. And all of them drunk on blood.
He was too late to save the village. Again.
He exhaled slowly, allowing qi to flow through his veins like cold fire. His eyes dropped to the spiraling tattoo on his left wrist—a mark of the wandering clans. The church called it a blessing. The knights whispered it was a curse. To Aeren, it was a reminder burned into flesh: You don't belong here.
"Oi! Another elf!" one of the mercenaries barked, pointing toward the tree line.
Aeren didn't hesitate.
He dropped like a shadow, blades drawn. The first mercenary died before his sword even cleared its sheath—throat slit in a single motion. The second turned just in time to scream before Shade plunged into his ribs.
"Ambush! Form up—"
The mage raised his hands, fire dancing between his palms. Aeren moved—qi surged through his body, propelling him forward. He leapt over a fallen body, long katana Dusk flashing from its sheath in a silver arc. The mage's hands hit the ground before he did. Aeren ended him before the man could scream.
Three remained.
They came fast, blades drawn. Aeren parried one strike, ducked beneath another, and allowed the third to graze his shoulder—close enough to bait them forward. He twisted, drove his elbow into a jaw, and Whisper followed through soft flesh.
Two left. They hesitated.
Their mistake.
Aeren's vision shifted—colors deepened, and the world slowed. A crimson haze licked at the corners of his mind. The darkness inside him stirred, uncoiling like a beast. He moved differently now—faster, crueler. There was no technique. No elegance. Only kill.
When it was over, the clearing was quiet again. Blood dripped from the leaves like rain.
He stood still, breathing evenly. The tattoo on his wrist burned hotter than before.
"Aeren."
The voice came from the trees behind him.
Lady Sylria of House Valthera stepped into the clearing, silver armor gleaming under the moonlight. Her golden hair was bound in a braid, and her eyes—clear and sharp—surveyed the scene without flinching. Behind her, a squad of knights emerged, faces pale with awe or disgust.
"You were ordered to observe. Not engage." Her tone was calm. Controlled.
Aeren sheathed his blades. "They were killing children."
Something flickered in her gaze—pain, or maybe memory. "Valenstahl will call this an act of war."
"Let them." He met her eyes without hesitation. "I'll kill their envoys too."
For a long moment, Sylria said nothing. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"Good. Because we ride at dawn."
As she turned away, Aeren looked back at the burning village. The corpses stared with empty eyes. He felt no sorrow.
Only fire.
And purpose.