Terra was a world teeming with mystical creatures and untold tales, where everything with life held sway over its destiny. Since immemorial, an essence known as The Twine has pulsed within Terra. This mysterious force amplified life itself, and to manipulate one's life force was to intertwine. Creatures like elves and dwarves, born with a radiant life force, wielded this gift easily; yet, at the bottom of the chain, humanity struggled, lacking the vital energy to intertwine effectively. For ages, humans were vulnerable, oppressed by demons hidden in plain sight, and persecuted in silence.

Few humans had risen through history brave enough to leave their mark upon Terra. Some sought power through pacts with demons, sacrificing their life force—and their souls. But this cycle was shattered when, soon after the disappearance of Terra's most excellent human weaver, human children began to emerge with unprecedented magical potential. The True Bronze Age dawned, and humanity, no longer helpless, turned to defend itself and to rid Terra of its demonic scourge. In response, the Demon King rose again, vowing to obliterate humankind. Alliances broke and formed anew; once vibrant and accessible, Terra was scarred by war, its future hanging by a thread.

Nine years into the True Bronze Age, life in Terra was anything but peaceful. And yet, a moment of simplicity bloomed in a tiny countryside village nestled by a vast wheat field.

A boy sat alone on the front porch of a weathered cottage, the wood creaking beneath his small, shifting frame. His blonde hair was wild and windswept, flecked with stray wheat seeds from the morning's chores. Brown eyes, wide and curious, glanced down the path, waiting. Though his hands bore calluses from labor, his expression was soft, almost dreamy, as he watched the day begin.

As he lingered in thought, a butterfly floated by, alighting delicately on his button nose. It was no ordinary creature; its wings shimmered with an iridescent violet underlay, vivid green accents, and a pattern that seemed otherworldly like a fragment of Terra's magic had come to life. The boy's face lit up as he reached out to capture it, laughing when it evaded him and soared higher.

Behind him, the cottage door creaked open, and a young woman with warm brown hair stepped out, her gentle smile as radiant as the apple in her hand.

"I'm sorry I took so long, sweetheart. I had to make sure I picked the sweetest apple for the sweetest boy," she said, pulling him into a hug and peppering his forehead with kisses.

The boy laughed, wriggling away but with a grin. "It's okay, Mama! I can run fast so I won't be late for school." With a determined nod, he stretched his arms and legs in readiness, making his mother laugh softly.

"Well then, you'd better get to it, Mr. Speedster. I wouldn't want you to miss your lessons," she replied, handing him the apple and giving him a playful nudge toward the road. Her eyes followed him as he started, his small brown bag bouncing with each step.

"Bye-bye, Mama!" he called, waving back at her with all the strength his little arm could muster.

"Goodbye, my sweet Arthur," she whispered as he ran, her voice tender, lingering like a promise.

Arthur's feet hit the dirt road with the confidence of a boy who thought he was as swift as the wind. But despite his best effort, he was greeted by the tolling of the sizeable yellow bell just as he neared the small schoolhouse. Pausing to catch his breath, he sighed but squared his shoulders before pushing open the door.

Inside, an oval table dominated the room, where a few children older than Arthur were already seated. At the head stood an elderly woman, her gaze stern but softened by years of patience. Her eyes flicked to Arthur as he entered.

"Late again, are we, Arthur?" she said, her voice steady but weary.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I had a few extra chores to finish with my dad," Arthur murmured, scratching the back of his head, eyes downcast. His words hung, but his teacher gestured toward an empty seat. Arthur walked to the back, where he could sit alone, away from the other students. As he passed, he caught a glimpse of the trio of older boys—just enough to see the glint of irritation in their eyes. His choice of seat did not go unnoticed.

Class ended, and everyone had left. Arthur could not gather all his things before he felt himself shoved roughly against the wall. The impact stole his breath, and he dropped to his knees. Standing before him was the leader of the three older boys. He wore finely woven garments—a display of wealth that made him appear even more menacing, especially to a farmer's son.

"Didn't I tell you to sit by me, Arthur? How else am I supposed to make it through these boring lessons?" the leader sneered, his head tilted back to hide a thinning patch in his hair.

"I'm sorry, I—" Arthur's apology was cut short by a sharp kick to his side, sending him sprawling. Pain throbbed in his brow, where a welt was already forming, clouding his vision. A small wooden figure slipped from his bag as he struggled to sit up, clattering softly onto the ground.

One of the boys snatched it up before Arthur could reach for it, holding it up with a mocking grin. "This? You still play with toys, Arthur? What are you—some baby, still drinking your mama's milk?" The trio burst into laughter, their taunts echoing in the empty hall.

Arthur clenched his fists, pushing himself up with trembling hands. "That's Alexander, the Great Hero! He united our people for a final stand against those who hated us. He's not a toy!" His voice was defiant, though his lower lip quivered slightly.

The leader's expression twisted with contempt. He backed up, eyes narrowing as he concentrated. "The Great Hero, huh?" He held the small figure out, and, with a dark, focused gaze, sparks ignited around the wooden figure. The wooden figure suddenly ignited, flames curling around it as it started to burn.

"NO!" Arthur shouted, lunging forward, but the leader sent him tumbling to the ground with a punch. Arthur could only watch, his heart pounding as the flames consumed the figure. The crackling of the wood felt deafening as it crumbled to ashes, a symbol of his hero reduced to dust in seconds.

"How could your 'hero' be so great if he couldn't even handle a little fire?" The leader sneered, letting the ashes fall to the ground. The boys laughed as they turned and strode away, leaving Arthur alone.

For a moment, Arthur stared his head low, fighting to keep his tears at bay. Slowly, he gathered the remaining ashes, carefully scooping them into his bag. With the sun dipping below the horizon, he knew he should hurry, yet he strolled, each step heavier than the last.

When Arthur finally reached his cottage, he opened the door to find his father seated at the wooden kitchen table, studying a kingdom map with furrowed brows. His mother swept the floor behind him, but her face softened with concern at the sight of Arthur.

"Arthur!" She dropped the broom and rushed to him, pulling him into her arms, her hands patting him gently as she felt his bruises.

Arthur's father rose, his face hardening as he crouched beside them. "Was it those boys again?" he asked, his voice tight with poorly veiled anger.

Arthur only buried his head deeper into his mother's shoulder, silent. His father clenched his fists, his jaw set as he stood, grabbing his straw hat and coat from the peg by the door.

"I've had enough of those bullies, always picking on someone half their size. It's about time someone stops it," he muttered, his voice firm. Without another word, he walked out, his steps echoing in the silence.

Arthur's mother held him tighter, soothingly rubbing his back. "Don't worry, sweetheart; your father will care for things. Everything will be all right." She pulled back, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Her eyes were warm yet troubled as she looked at her son's bruised face.

Arthur closed his eyes in the dimly lit room, leaning into his mother's embrace. The ashes of his fallen hero were tucked safely in his bag, and an ember of defiance flickered faintly in his heart.

Not far away, on the rugged slopes of a distant mountain, a black stagecoach hurtled up a narrow path. Its dark, ornate frame gleamed in the moonlight; the carriage was embellished with golden inlays along the door edges and thick candles on either side that flickered with eerie black flames. Behind the stagecoach rode five knights clad in bronze armor, their silver shoulder guards glinting as they pursued with relentless determination. They formed a tight formation: two in the front, three in the rear. The lead knight, bearing a helmet crowned with silver wings, rode beside a knight with a striking white horsehair crest atop his helm. Behind them, three others followed, the middle rider holding a dark flag emblazoned with a symbol of writhing ants, his helmet adorned with peacock feathers.

The knights urged their horses faster, eyes fixed on the swerving stagecoach.

"I have a shot, Captain. I'm taking it!" shouted the knight with the horsehair crest, brandishing a heavy crossbow.

"Not yet! We need the child alive—unharmed, if possible!" The captain's voice boomed over the thundering hooves, his eyes narrowing in resolve. Just as he spoke, a chilling howl echoed across the mountainside, and a pack of goblin-ridden wolves surged out of the dark, charging down toward the two lead knights.

With grim precision, the knight bearing a polearm lunged forward, skewering two goblins swiftly, his polearm dripping dark ichor. The last goblin, snarling and clutching a jagged sword, leaped toward the captain, its wolf steed baring fangs mid-air. The captain met the assault with a single fluid motion, his broadsword cleaving both goblin and wolf in two, leaving no trace of their attack but a blood spatter.

The other knight released his crossbow bolt, aiming for the stagecoach's wheels. The bolt struck, sending the coach lurching and wobbling, but it remained on the road, only slightly slowed.

"Damn it, I'm reloading!" The knight fumbled with the heavy weapon, his hands slick with sweat as he prepared for another shot.

Meanwhile, inside the darkened stagecoach, three figures sat amidst the jostling. In the shadows, a small child with a dark cloak clung silently to the seat, their face hidden, while beside them sat a ghoul mage, his skeletal form shrouded in dark, tattered robes. Across from them, a priest clutched his hands, beads of sweat running down his face as he glanced from the child to the mage, his fear palpable.

"Are you serious?! If we don't reach the mountain's peak and perform this ritual on time, your master will slaughter everyone in my village!" The priest's voice trembled, his gaze flickering between anger and terror as he looked at the ghoul mage. "Why don't you do something?!"

The ghoul mage, silent until now, slowly rose, his hollow eyes glinting with a sickly light as he moved to the back of the stagecoach. With a single bony hand, he gripped the handle and swung open the back doors, casting his gaze into the night where the knights pursued relentlessly, their forms visible in the moonlight as they closed in.

The ghoul mage began chanting, hollow eye sockets glowing an eerie green as the knights closed in. Just as the captain, leaning forward in his saddle, was within striking distance of the stagecoach, the ghoul mage crouched low, tapping a bony finger to the ground. But before he could complete the spell, a crossbow bolt struck him squarely in the forehead. The mage's body lurched, tumbling from the coach as his lifeless form hit the ground. Still, his final spell took root: the earth rumbled, and bony hands clawed up from the dirt, dragging themselves into the path of the knights.

One knight's horse shrieked as a skeletal hand clamped around its leg, sending the rider and steed crashing. The captain veered, nearly tripped by another skeletal hand that clawed out, grasping at his horse's hooves. Despite the chaos, he pressed on, spurring his mount to catch up to the stagecoach.

But as the stagecoach rounded a narrow bend, the ground gave way in a shower of soil and rocks as a giant skeleton burst from beneath. Its hollow eyes glared down, tracking the knights with deadly intent, yet it allowed the stagecoach to pass unimpeded.

"What the hell is that?!" shouted the knight with the horsehair crest, glancing back in horror as the enormous skeleton approached him. "Captain, do something!"

The captain exhaled slowly, feeling each breath, each particle of air, slow as if time itself obeyed his will. Eyes narrowing, he crouched on his horse's back and leaped into the air, soaring above the skeleton's reach. The creature's massive hand clawed toward him, fingers splayed to crush him mid-flight, but the captain spun, summoning a whirlwind of force around himself. His blade gleamed, and with one mighty strike, he slashed down into the air, the wind spiraling like a razor around his sword.

The force of his strike shattered the skeleton, splitting it cleanly in two. Bones splintered and scattered, and a gust of wind exploded outward, sending the stagecoach careening off the mountain path. The captain landed gracefully back onto his horse, which slowed to a steady gallop, the powerful momentum easing beneath him. The knight with the horsehair crest stared in admiration.

"That was impressive, Captain! It would help if you pulled that off more often. Might earn yourself a few wives—or maybe just one or two, though they'll never beat my count." His tone was teasing, a smile evident in his voice as he adjusted his reins.

The captain gave him a dry look but allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. They rode up to the cliffside, stopping to survey the crash site far below, where broken wood and dust marked where the stagecoach had plummeted. Bearing the peacock feathers, the knight turned his horse and scanned the scene.

"Let's move. They may have survived the fall," he ordered, leading the others down the mountain path.

At the crash site, the cloaked child slowly emerged from a pile of rubble, coughing, brushing dirt and blood from their face. The cloak was torn, the child's small frame shaking as they took in their injuries. A low, rhythmic pounding echoed up the path—the knights were coming. The child turned to flee but stopped at the sound of a desperate voice.

"Wait… please!" The human priest lay beneath a slab of splintered wood, his face bruised and caked in dirt. He reached out weakly. "I know you can understand me, demon… please, help me. I swear, I'll see the ritual through, just as your father wished…"

The child's face remained impassive, looking down at the priest with unreadable eyes.

"Please," the priest choked, desperation seeping into his voice. "I… I have a daughter. I have to see her again." But the child turned away, fleeing without hesitation as the clopping of hooves drew nearer, the priest's pleas trailing.

Moments later, the knights arrived. The horsehair knight dismounted, stepping up to the rubble where the priest lay, his face split between fear and hope.

"Thank the very gods themselves! You have to help me! The demons—they captured me, forced me into their ritual!" His words tumbled in a frantic babble, but the horsehair knight remained silent.

The captain, still on horseback, scanned the area, his voice steely. "Where is the child?"

The priest stammered, "It… it ran away, left me—" but his words were cut short as the horsehair knight drew his dagger and sliced the priest's throat in a swift, merciless motion. Blood spattered onto the rocks as the priest slumped forward, lifeless.

The captain swung down from his horse, gripping the horsehair knight by the wrist, his voice tight with fury. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The horsehair knight met his glare with a calm, unflinching stare. "That man was a traitor—not only to his people but to his god. His death was his redemption."

"That's not the point!" The captain's grip tightened. "We could have extracted information from him and tracked the child without wasting time. This makes you no better than them!"

The horsehair knight narrowed his eyes. "And would you have had us delay for a week over his pitiful intel? Are you telling me you believe killing him was wrong?"

"Yes, killing him without trial was wrong. We hold to justice or are no different from the demons we hunt."

The horsehair knight snorted, turning to the knight bearing the peacock feathers, whom they called "the Observer."

"What do you say, Observer?" he asked, his voice smooth but tinged with sarcasm.

The Observer's eyes remained cold as he replied, "It is as the heavens intend, trial or naught."

The horsehair knight glared at the captain as he wrenched his hand free, rubbing his wrist. "Then let's move. The longer we linger, the farther that child gets."

As he led the way, the Observer leaned close to the captain, voice low and urgent. "Ezra, let it go. Pushing him will only bring you grief. You know who he is—whose son he is. Even if it goes against your honor… best leave it."

The captain's gaze hardened, but he nodded, his jaw clenched as he followed the others into the wreckage.

Meanwhile, far from the crash site, the child stumbled down the rugged path, eyes scanning the distance. In the shadows, they spotted an abandoned horse pen near a small cottage, moonlight illuminating the humble structure like a beacon. Steeling themselves, the child headed for it, seeking shelter from the night and the unknown fate behind them.