Seeker stood in the training yard, his eyes fixed on the churned earth beneath his boots. The morning mist coiled around the edges of the fortress walls like a living thing, dampening the sound of clinking armor and the dull shuffle of uneasy feet. It should have been quiet, but for Seeker, the silence was suffocating. Beneath it lay the hollow roar that had become a constant presence in his mind—like the echo of a storm long past, refusing to let him go.
His body ached, though he couldn't say if it was from the wounds that crisscrossed his skin or the weight of exhaustion that had settled in his bones. He felt older than his years, worn thin by the ceaseless grind of the arena. Every lash of the whip, every brutal blow, every drop of blood spilled—it all lingered like ghosts, clawing at the edges of his awareness.
His memories were fractured, a shattered mirror reflecting fragments of a man he could barely recognize. The arena consumed his thoughts: the roaring crowd, the sickening crunch of bone beneath his strikes, the sharp tang of blood in the air. Faces blurred into one another, their features indistinct and their names forgotten. Kill or die. That was the only rule that mattered, and he had followed it without hesitation, without mercy.
And before the farm? There was nothing. A vast, aching void stretched across his past, devouring anything that might have given him purpose or identity. The farm had been his only anchor, a fleeting glimpse of peace before it was torn away. He could remember the sun warming the fields, the feel of soil between his fingers, and the girl's laughter as she worked beside him. Ellie. Her name lingered like an open wound, raw and bleeding. She had found him, given him a life to cling to, and then the Duke's magus had taken it all away in a single, careless moment.
His grip tightened on the papers in his hands, the edges crumpling under his fingers. He imagined the magus standing before him, the smug face that had barely registered Ellie's life as worth a second thought. The thought of facing him again on the frontlines sent a dark thrill through him. Let him come. Let him follow. I'll make him remember her.
The wax seal of the Archduke's crest pressed into his palm, its intricate design a cruel reminder of his new reality. Freedom. The word felt hollow, a mockery of the chains he had only just shed. The pit may no longer claim him, but the battlefield would. He was still a tool, sharpened and repurposed for another kind of killing.
"Orders," Orlin's gravelly voice cut through the fog in his mind, pulling him back to the present. The grizzled veteran gestured toward the stack of parchment. "You've been assigned to the frontlines. Torvald's Crossing. Three weeks east. You'll be commanding this lot."
Commanding. The word felt foreign, wrong. Seeker's stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising as he tried to reconcile the idea with the broken man he had become. A leader was supposed to be whole, steady, a figure others could trust to guide them through the chaos. But Seeker wasn't whole. He wasn't steady. He was a splintered fragment, barely holding together under the weight of his past.
"Commanding is generous," a sharp, polished voice interjected. Edran Faltir, the Archduke's emissary, strode into the training yard, his boots crunching against the frosted ground. His black and gold uniform gleamed in the faint morning light, its pristine condition a stark contrast to the patchwork armor of the conscripts. His expression was impassive, his tone clipped as he continued, "Let's call it a trial."
Seeker turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. He still wasn't used to the way the emissary looked at him—like a man appraising a new weapon. Faltir stopped a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke.
"The Archduke believes in potential, even raw potential," Faltir said, his gaze sweeping over Seeker's battered form. "You've survived the arena, shown a… knack for endurance, if nothing else. That makes you valuable. For now."
"And if I fail?" Seeker asked, his voice low but steady.
Faltir's lips twitched into a cold semblance of a smile. "Then you die, and the Archduke moves on to his next gamble. Make no mistake, you're here to be useful. Prove that you are, and you might live long enough to earn more than scraps. Fail, and no one will miss you."
Orlin snorted softly from the sidelines. "Always the charmer, Faltir."
The emissary ignored him, his piercing gaze fixed on Seeker. "You'll lead this unit to Torvald's Crossing. You'll plug the gaps in our defenses, hold the line where it's weakest, and if you're very, very lucky, you'll survive long enough to make a difference."
Seeker stared at him, his grip tightening on the parchment until his knuckles turned white. "Lead them where? To the slaughter?"
Faltir raised an eyebrow. "It's war. Slaughter is inevitable. Your job is to make sure it's the enemy bleeding out first."
The words hit Seeker like a physical blow, and he clenched his jaw to keep from responding. He stared at the ground, his thoughts swirling like the mist around him. This wasn't the pit anymore, but it didn't feel much different. The crowd had been replaced with soldiers, the sand with soil, but the rules remained the same. Kill or die.
Orlin motioned behind him, and one by one, Seeker's unit stepped forward. They shuffled more than walked, their movements hesitant and heavy. These were not warriors marching into battle with pride or purpose—they were survivors, like Seeker. People who had been dragged through the mud of life and spat out on the other side, cracked and uneven but still standing. The air around them was thick with unease, and Seeker felt the weight of their silent expectations pressing down on him.
The first to step forward was a massive, scarred man who had an air of worn-out defiance about him. His armor was mismatched, dented in places where it had borne the brunt of blows meant to kill. Harken's steps were deliberate, as though every movement carried the memory of pain. When he spoke, his voice was deep and gruff, with an edge of forced cheerfulness.
"Harken," he said simply, meeting Seeker's gaze with tired eyes. "I've seen plenty of battle up north. Don't care much for speeches, but I'll get the job done if it means I walk away from it."
His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it faltered. There was a shadow in his expression, a heaviness that Seeker recognized all too well. Harken wasn't hiding it so much as carrying it like an old wound that never quite healed.
"You point," he added quietly, "I'll swing."
Next was a wiry man with restless hands that never seemed to stop moving. Gale's sharp eyes darted from Seeker to the others, then back again, as if he was constantly searching for a threat. His movements were quick and cautious, his body language that of someone who had spent too much time looking over his shoulder.
"Gale," he said curtly, his voice clipped. "Been scouting for years. Knives, quick steps, and… well, getting out when I need to."
He didn't meet Seeker's eyes as he spoke, and the words carried an edge of guilt. It wasn't hard to see that Gale had learned to survive by leaving others behind. He was a man who had been taught by life that trust was a weakness, and that escape was the only way forward.
"You'll have my back?" Seeker asked, his tone softer than he expected.
Gale's lips pressed into a thin line before he replied. "If it's worth it," he said, glancing away.
Marlen stepped forward with an exaggerated flourish, his patched armor jangling with every movement. He gave a theatrical bow, his grin an awkward attempt to mask his nerves.
"Marlen, my good man," he said, straightening with a flair that felt out of place. "Former noble, current… well, let's call me adaptable. No land, no fortune, but plenty of charm and a knack for survival."
His words were light, but Seeker caught the undercurrent of desperation in his voice. Marlen's charm wasn't just a defense—it was a weapon, honed to keep people from looking too closely at the cracks beneath. His grin faltered slightly as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder, and for a moment, he seemed smaller, less sure of himself.
"I'm not much for fighting," Marlen admitted, his tone softening. "But I've got a good head for getting out of tight spots. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
Sarra stepped forward next, her movements slow and deliberate. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and scarred—her jawline marred by a jagged wound that spoke of a fight long past. Her dark eyes locked onto Seeker's, and for a moment, he felt pinned by their intensity.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked, her voice steady but hollow.
Seeker frowned, the familiarity of her face tugging at something buried in his mind.
"The arena," she said flatly. "You spared me. Should've killed me. But here we are."
Her tone carried no gratitude, only the weight of shared survival. Sarra didn't look angry, but there was no warmth in her words, either. She was a woman who had been broken and pieced herself back together with whatever scraps she could find, but the seams were still visible.
"I remember," Seeker said quietly.
Sarra's jaw tightened, and she nodded once before stepping back into line.
Jara was wiry, with blonde hair braided tightly against her scalp and calloused hands that looked like they'd done a lifetime of work. Her leather armor was well-maintained but old, like everything else about her. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had spent years managing chaos and coming out on top.
"Quartermaster," she said simply. "Before this, anyway. I keep things running—supplies, food, whatever we need. If you keep me alive, I'll make sure you don't starve. Seems like a fair trade."
Her voice had a warmth to it, but there was an edge beneath it, the kind of toughness that came from someone who'd seen more than her share of hardship.
"And if I don't keep you alive?" Seeker asked.
"Then we'll all starve," she replied, her tone as dry as the air.
Taren was broad-shouldered, his movements deliberate and heavy. Burns covered one arm, the scars stretching across his dark skin like a map of pain. He carried a large hammer slung across his back, its handle worn smooth from years of use.
"Blacksmith," he said simply, his deep voice steady. "Made weapons, repaired armor. Now I use 'em."
He didn't say anything else, and Seeker didn't press him. There was a quiet strength in the man, a solidness that felt like an anchor in the chaos around them.
Elara was petite and fiery-haired, her sharp green eyes darting around the group as if she were cataloging every detail. Her smirk was faint but constant, as if she were in on a joke no one else could hear.
"Thief," she said bluntly, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Good at getting into places I'm not supposed to be, better at getting out of them. If you're smart, you'll make use of it."
There was no pride in her tone, just a simple statement of fact. Elara didn't seem to care what anyone thought of her, and that alone made her stand out.
Finally, Liora stepped forward, her red-brown hair falling messily over her face. She clutched a dagger with both hands, the blade too large for her small frame, and her oversized armor hung awkwardly on her shoulders.
"You know her," Orlin said gruffly. "She's here because the Archduke conscripts everyone over sixteen. Lucky her, huh?"
Seeker's throat tightened as he looked at her. He remembered the fear in her eyes when she'd tended to his wounds in the holding cells, the quiet determination that had kept her alive despite everything.
"You don't belong here," he said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"Neither do you," Liora replied, her voice quiet but steady. "But we're here anyway."
Seeker let his gaze linger on each of them, their faces etched with exhaustion and guarded hope. They weren't heroes. They were broken, like him, stitched together by survival and desperation. This is your unit, he thought. And they're all you have.
"Three weeks to Torvald's Crossing," Orlin said, his tone softening as he stepped forward. "That's how long you've got to figure this out. Three weeks of marching through frozen woods, muddy roads, and gods know what else. I've seen worse men than you rise to the occasion. Just… don't play the hero. Heroes don't last long on the front."
Seeker nodded stiffly, the movement mechanical. The words barely registered, drowned out by the roar in his mind. His gaze drifted toward the group waiting behind Orlin—his unit, his responsibility. The weight of it pressed down on him like chains, heavier than anything he'd borne in the pit. This time, it wasn't just his survival at stake. It was theirs. And they were looking to him, expecting something he wasn't sure he could give.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight anchoring him in the moment. Three weeks. That's all I need to hold them together. To prove I'm not as broken as I feel. And if the magus is there…
The thought burned in his mind, a smoldering ember that refused to be extinguished. Ellie. Her name lingered like an open wound, raw and bleeding. She had believed in him, even when he hadn't believed in himself. She'd given him a chance to live, to feel something other than the void. And the magus had taken her from him with a single, careless spell.
If Seeker could endure long enough, if he could lead long enough, maybe he could finally make someone pay for what was taken from him. The thought gave him purpose, fragile but burning with intensity.
Seeker exhaled slowly, the icy air stinging his lungs. His legs felt heavy, his body screaming for rest, but there was no time for weakness. Let's move, he thought, though his voice failed to rise above the cacophony in his mind.
"Seeker."
The voice was soft, almost hesitant, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. He turned to see Liora, her small frame dwarfed by her ill-fitting armor. She stood a few steps behind him, clutching her dagger with both hands as if it were a lifeline. Her wide eyes were steady, though, and there was something in her expression that stopped him in his tracks.
"You can do this," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "You've already done harder things."
Seeker blinked, her words catching him off guard. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The weight in his chest felt a little lighter, though he couldn't explain why.
"I saw you in the arena," she continued, stepping closer. "You fought because you had to. This isn't any different." Her gaze flickered to the unit standing behind Orlin. "They're looking at you because they need someone to believe in. And I… I believe in you."
Her voice faltered slightly at the last words, but her resolve didn't waver. Seeker stared at her, his jaw tightening as he tried to process her words. Believe in me? The thought was foreign, almost absurd. But Liora wasn't lying. She was terrified, out of her depth, and barely old enough to wield a weapon. Yet here she stood, trying to give him something he didn't think he deserved.
"Liora," he said, his voice low. "I'm not—"
"Don't say it," she interrupted, her grip tightening on her dagger. "Don't say you're not ready or that you can't do this. If you say it, they'll hear it, and then we're all lost." Her eyes searched his face, desperate but determined. "Just… take it one step at a time.
Seeker inhaled sharply, his hand falling to his side. He didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded. Liora's lips quirked into a faint, nervous smile, and she stepped back to join the rest of the unit.
Orlin clapped a hand on Seeker's shoulder, his grip firm. "She's right, you know. They're not asking for a savior, just someone who won't break when things get rough. You've already made it this far, which is more than most can say."
Seeker glanced at him, his dark eyes shadowed but steady. "Three weeks to the Crossing. What's waiting for us there?"
Orlin sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "The usual. Elves. Maybe Zoomorphs, depending on how far south their raiding parties have pushed. The Archduke's pulling everyone he can to hold the line, which means it'll be chaos by the time we arrive. Don't expect much in the way of reinforcements. Your unit's job will be to keep the gaps plugged, no matter what."
"And if we don't?"
"Then the Crossing falls, and the eastern duchies follow. Simple as that."
The words settled over Seeker like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. He looked at the faces of his unit—hardened veterans, former slaves, thieves, and a quirky noble who seemed out of place but strangely unshaken. They weren't warriors, not really, but they were all he had.
The gates of the fortress creaked open, the frozen air biting at Seeker's face as the road stretched out before them. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the mist, illuminating the ragged column of conscripts as they began to move. Seeker stood at the head of the group, his sword at his side, the papers tucked into his belt. His legs still felt heavy, his chest tight, but he forced himself forward.
Behind him, Liora fell into step, her presence a quiet reminder that someone believed in him, even if he couldn't believe in himself. The road was long, the destination uncertain, but for now, it would have to be enough.
One step at a time.
The sound of boots squelching against damp earth filled the air as Seeker and his company trudged along the winding road. The forest around them was sparse, its trees bare from winter's grip but beginning to stir with the faint promise of spring. Branches stretched skyward like skeletal fingers, their tips budding with hints of green. The ground was soft from the lingering wetness of early spring, patches of stubborn frost clinging to the shadows while thin streams of melted snow trickled across the path.
Here and there, the remnants of old magic lingered, subtle but unmistakable. Flickers of light danced along the edges of the path, faintly glowing mushrooms that pulsed with a soft blue light, their caps speckled with golden flecks. Occasionally, the company passed ancient, crumbling stones half-buried in the earth, their surfaces etched with runes so old their meaning had been lost to time.
Seeker's gaze lingered on one such stone as they passed, its faint hum resonating in his chest like a distant drumbeat. What is this place? he thought, his senses overwhelmed by the strange beauty around him. The world outside the arena felt vast and untamed, every sight and sound a reminder of how little he knew.
The air was cool and damp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of thawing soil mixed with the sharp tang of decaying leaves. Overhead, gray clouds hung low, heavy with the promise of rain. Thin beams of sunlight pierced through the canopy, illuminating pockets of vibrant moss and glistening puddles. Birds called from the distance, their songs tentative, as if testing the season's arrival.
The group walked in near silence. Gale muttered curses at the mud under his breath, his movements quick and agitated. Behind him, Taren and Jara exchanged soft words about rations and the pace of the march. Harken trudged along steadily, occasionally muttering to himself or offering a comment about the "good Northern weather." Marlen, ever the performer, whistled a tune that grated on Gale's nerves, though no one had the energy to stop him.
Liora stayed close to Seeker, her small frame barely filling her armor. She glanced around nervously, her hand gripping the hilt of her dagger as if the trees themselves might spring to life. The sight of her brought a strange comfort to Seeker. She didn't speak, but her presence was steady—a quiet reassurance that someone believed in him, even when he couldn't make sense of himself.
The deeper they walked into the forest, the stranger the landscape became. A faint mist began to rise, curling around their legs and drifting through the trees. It wasn't the ordinary mist of damp mornings but something thicker, tinged faintly with silver. Within it, faint shapes moved—illusions, Seeker told himself, though his grip on his sword tightened all the same.
"Don't mind that," Orlin said, his voice gruff as he noticed Seeker's unease. "The old woods here have a touch of wild magic left. It plays tricks on your eyes, nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Gale muttered, glancing warily at the shifting fog. "Looks like it could pull us into the ground if it wanted."
"It could," Orlin replied with a smirk, clearly enjoying Gale's discomfort. "But it won't. Not unless we wander off the path."
Seeker's gaze wandered to the faint shapes flickering at the edges of his vision. They seemed almost human at times, though their movements were unnatural, their forms shifting and dissolving like smoke. Stay on the path, he reminded himself, forcing his focus back to the road ahead.
Hours passed, and the forest began to thin, giving way to open fields dotted with patches of trees and muddy streams. The road widened slightly, and with it came the signs of a larger force. The company crested a low hill, and Seeker stopped, taking in the sight before him.
Ahead and behind, the road was clogged with soldiers, their uneven columns stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was heavy with the sounds of boots sloshing through mud, the clattering of weapons, and the occasional barked orders. Smoke from dozens of campfires curled into the sky, mingling with the gray clouds.
The soldiers themselves were a mix of seasoned veterans and conscripts like Seeker's company. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons worn but functional. Faces were grim, etched with fatigue and a quiet determination. Here and there, groups of mages moved among the ranks, their robes a sharp contrast to the mud-streaked uniforms of the common soldiers. Their staffs glimmered faintly, their hands occasionally weaving small spells to warm themselves or repair damaged equipment.
Further down the road, a contingent of knights passed, their polished armor gleaming even under the dull light of the overcast sky. Banners bearing the Archduke's sigil fluttered in the wind. The knights' horses were restless, their hooves splashing through puddles as they moved ahead of the main force.
Orlin fell into step beside Seeker, his eyes scanning the sprawling caravan. "Six, seven thousand here, maybe more," he said, his voice low. "All headed for Torvald's Crossing. By the time we join the garrison, there'll be over ten thousand men waiting to hold the line."
Seeker frowned, his gaze distant. "And the Elves?"
"More," Orlin replied grimly. "They don't march like we do—scattered and slow. When they come, it's like a tide. Quick, relentless, and impossible to stop once it's moving."
Seeker didn't respond, the weight of Orlin's words settling heavily on him. Another slaughter, just like the arena. But this time, I'm not the only one fighting.
The sun dipped low on the horizon as the caravan came to a halt, the shout of officers calling for the men to set up camp cutting through the evening air. Soldiers spread out across a broad, sloping field bordered by woods, their movements hurried but efficient. Wagons were unloaded, tents were pitched, and fires sprang to life, their orange glow flickering against the growing darkness.
Seeker's company was directed toward the edge of the camp, near a shallow creek that wound its way through the trees. A quartermaster arrived shortly after, his tired expression betraying the endless demands placed on him. He handed over their allotment with little fanfare: two small tents, a bundle of firewood, and just enough rations to keep them going for a few days.
"This'll have to do," the quartermaster muttered before moving on, his cart creaking as he disappeared into the camp.
Jara quickly took charge, organizing the group with sharp efficiency. "Taren, help me with the firewood. Gale, get those tents up—and do it right. I'm not waking up soaked because you can't tie a proper knot. Sarra, you're on rations. Count everything."
Harken dropped his pack with a grunt, driving stakes into the ground with his bare hands. "Not bad," he muttered, glancing around the camp. "Could be worse. At least we've got firewood."
Seeker worked in silence, his hands moving automatically as he helped raise one of the tents. His mind drifted to the mages he had seen earlier, their confident strides and faint auras of power. Will I ever be like them? Or will I always feel lost?
As the camp settled, Seeker stepped away from the fire his company had built, the weight in his chest growing heavier with the stillness of the night. He walked toward the creek, the damp chill of the air biting through his armor. The sounds of the camp faded behind him, replaced by the soft murmur of the stream and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
He knelt by the water, his reflection rippling faintly in the current. For a moment, he let himself breathe, the cold air sharp in his lungs. But then it came—a prickling at the back of his neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Seeker turned sharply, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. The trees swayed gently in the wind, their branches creaking softly. Shadows danced in the moonlight, but nothing moved.
"Who's there?" he said quietly, his voice steady despite the unease creeping through him.
There was no reply, only the faint gurgle of the creek and the rustle of leaves. He lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning the darkness. The feeling didn't fade, the weight of the unseen gaze pressing against his awareness.
And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
Seeker exhaled slowly, his grip on his sword loosening as he stood. He glanced once more at the trees before turning back toward the camp, his shoulders tense. But even as he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—had been there, watching him from the shadows.