Twenty Years Ago
Voryn's eyes snapped open, lungs filling with air laced with burnt wood. His nostrils flared as the acrid scent clawed at his senses, pulling him from the grip of restless sleep. His head lifted, and his gaze locked on the faint tendrils of smoke curling beneath the door, dancing like dark omens.
Instinct propelled him from the bed. He crossed the small room and flung the door open. Heat and haze greeted him, the kitchen choked with thick smoke that swirled in chaotic spirals.
In the center of the chaos stood his grandmother, wielding a worn cloth as if it were a weapon. She swatted uselessly at the thick air, her movements jerky and labored. Each breath hitched in her chest, turning into a rasping cough that scraped against Voryn's ears.
Phila barreled through the side door, a wooden bucket sloshing in her hands. The sturdy attendant waddled toward the small fire, her face pinched with effort. She tipped the bucket, and water crashed over the embers with a violent hiss. Steam billowed upward, mingling with the smoke in ghostly plumes.
Voryn turned his sharp gaze to his grandmother, his voice edged with frustration. "The entire reason Phila is here is to handle what you should not."
"I tried telling her that," Phila grumbled, kicking at a charred log that had rolled onto the floor.
But the old woman straightened as much as her brittle frame allowed, her chin lifting in defiance. Her sharp tongue was undulled, even if her body was feeble.
"I've been taking care of this household and your grandfather since long before you were a thought in your father's mind," she said, her voice rough but stubborn. "You think I can't manage to butcher up a breakfast?"
Her words were cut off by another fit of coughing, deeper this time, rattling in her chest. Voryn's jaw tightened as he stepped closer, the sharp lines of his face betraying concern.
"I only wanted you to wake to a full belly," she rasped, her breaths shallow. "It's been two full winters since I last saw you—two winters the Sundering has taken from me." Her voice softened as the weight of time settled into her words. "The Warmaster deserved a fitting welcome."
A reluctant smile touched Voryn's lips. "I serve the Warmaster," he corrected.
"As his Blademarshal," she added with quiet pride, her eyes gleaming with a stubborn fire that sickness hadn't yet stolen. "One day, you'll stand just beneath the king himself."
Voryn's smile widened at her faith in him that was an anchor, but also a weight he could never truly lay down.
Across the room, Phila gestured at the charred remains of the breakfast, her lips twisting into a wry smirk. "Nytheris didn't even need weapon forges to fight the Bloodtide," she quipped, prodding a blackened lump with her foot. "We could've just hurled this at them."
The remark drew a throaty laugh from Ummi, one that quickly dissolved into a coughing fit that wracked her small frame. Voryn's faint smile vanished. He crossed to her side and eased her into a worn chair, his hands gentle despite their calloused strength.
"You should rest," he said firmly. "Phila will handle the cleaning."
"I need to—" she began, but he cut her off.
"No," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "You need only to rest. We'll prepare the meal."
"We?" she echoed, one brow arching. "You're as useful as your grandfather in the kitchen, boy."
"In truth, I'm better at wielding swords than spoons," he admitted, his voice lightening.
Phila snorted, her hands already busy gathering the scattered remnants of the meal. Voryn moved to help, ignoring her half-hearted protests.
As they worked, unmoved by the stolen glances that he pretended not to notice—still undressed. Her gaze skimmed over his half-bared chest, lingering on the hardened lines of muscle carved by wars. She looked away quickly each time their eyes met, but the faint flush on her cheeks betrayed her wandering thoughts.
A bang on the door made Voryn erect. He streaked across the room and when his grandmother stood; he steadied her, crossing a protective arm against her.
"Blademarshal Voryn!"
Alarm evaporated and duty took hold as he marched over to the door to open the door to see it was a messenger from one of the command posts. His eyes dart past him to see two horses, one he rode and other he led for him to soon occupy.
"Apologies for intruding on your leave of absence. But you are needed in the eastern region. There has been an attack," he informed with unguarded grief. "A massacre."
His thoughts snagged on speculations as he delivered a grudging but firm nod. "Wait out here whilst I make myself ready."
He snapped an obedient nod.
Voryn closed the door behind him, met with the mournful look of his Ummi. He ducked into his bedchamber and began to dress before he donned his armour, then strapped his sheathed sword to his breastplate. He moved to leave, but Ummi blocked his path, opposing his augmented silhouette that towered over her.
"You have only just returned," she lamented.
The despair in her voice cut him deeper than any blade.
"The duty of king and kingdom is one that cannot go unheeded."
She nodded, with tears shimmering in her eyes as she lifted her trembling hand to place it on his breastplate. "I know," she whispered brokenly. "And I will have a meal ready for you when you return."
"One fit for mortal consumption, I hope," he whispered back.
Her laughter faltered, a soft sound choking into silence as she pressed her lips tightly together to stifle her suffering. Tears welled in her eyes, and when Voryn reached to peel away her unsteady hand, he brought her knuckles to his lips, planting a gentle kiss. The tears spilled over, running freely down her blemished cheeks.
Voryn's gaze flicked to Phila, who stood by the kitchen's edge, watching.
"Take care of her," he said, his voice firm yet tinged with something softer.
"As if she were my own blood," Phila vowed, her expression earnest.
"See to it she takes her herbs," Voryn pressed.
But Ummi slipped her hand from his grip. "I am not cattle to be corralled and force-fed," she muttered. "Besides, those tonics work little."
"They manage your symptoms and ease your pain," Voryn countered, his tone sharpening. "Trust me, Ummi." His voice a quiet kindling, but the fire in his words remained. "One day, I'll hold a seat on the High Tribunal, with title and wealth enough to see you properly treated."
"The only salve for my soul is your safe return."
His resolve swept aside the sentiment. Voryn had already lost one grandparent to the cruel hands of sickness. He had sworn never to endure such a loss again.
He stepped away, his resolve hardening, as he departed. Outside, the bridled horse awaited, with the messenger settled readily. Voryn mounted swiftly, the leather reins firm in his hands, and with a sharp command, he rode hard across the plains. The wind lashed at his face, carrying the scents of the wild fields.
By twilight, the command post loomed ahead, its towering walls a silhouette against the deepening purple sky. The clatter of hooves on stone heralded their arrival, and soldiers hurried to meet him. He dismounted alongside the messenger, their boots striking the earth in unison.
As they passed through the gates, heads bowed in deference, soldiers saluting with crisp precision. Voryn strode forward, his presence commanding attention even among the hardened warriors.
In due course, he entered the war room, its dim interior lit by flickering lanterns and the low hum of tense conversation. The air was scented with the tinge of parchment and ink.
"Blademarshal Voryn," a strategist greeted, inclining his head.
Voryn returned a sharp nod before approaching the central table where the Warmaster stood, a figure of stoic authority amidst the gathered leaders. Their eyes met, and in one swift motion, they clasped forearms in a brief but resonant gesture.
"What's this I hear of a massacre?" Voryn asked. "Am I to believe this is a resurgence of the Bloodrite?"
The Warmaster's expression darkened. "Precisely that," he replied, gesturing to the sprawling map of the realm laid out before them. The table was surrounded by generals and strategists, their faces shadowed by grim determination.
The Arch General leaned forward, his finger tracing a path to a marked point on the map. "The Bloodrite attacked a grain town—one of the most vital to our supply lines that sustains a bulk of our soldiery. Casken and his rebels likely plundered to feed his own rebel forces."
Voryn's eyes narrowed as he studied the map, the implications sinking in. "And so we must respond in kind," he said, his voice steady but lethal.
The Arch General nodded at the statement that supported his view.
The Bloodrite Uprising was not the first civil war to scar Nytheris, but it was undeniably the most brutal. A conflict of bloodlines and birthrights, it tore through the kingdom with a savagery unmatched in its history. At the heart of the rebellion was Casken, the king's eldest brother—bastard born, yet with a claim he believed was divinely ordained. He rallied the disillusioned common folk and even lured noblemen to his cause.
But his deeds painted him not as a displaced king but a power-hungry warlord. Casken wielded brutality like a blade, his ambition knowing no bounds, no costs too great. Even during the Sundering, he was even willing to sacrifice or shed the blood of the very innocents he claimed he sought to preside over peacefully.
"Scouts have tracked the bastard traitors to a borderland village," the strategist announced, his finger stabbing down onto the map spread before them. "A modest settlement, infamous for its sympathies with the Bloodrite. They harbor our enemies, and in doing so, have made enemies of themselves."
Voryn peered over to where the strategist indicated.
"A savage place," the strategist continued, "ripe for a strike. If we attack like shadow wraiths in the night, we can weaken Casken's forces, slay his warband, and eradicate this haven for traitors."
"And re-ignite another war?" another woman questions.
"We cannot overturn what their blades have decreed," the Arch General said. "They slaughtered innocents in that grain town—no survivors. If we show mercy now, we invite further fracturing—and no kingdom survives division. Casken's rebellion eclipses even the Dominium in its threat. Any opportunity to fell his forces must be seized."
The room fell into a tense silence, the gravity of his words settling over the gathered commanders like a suffocating shroud.
The Warmaster broke the quiet, his piercing gaze sweeping across the table before landing on Voryn. There was an unspoken understanding in his look, an appeal for counsel. After a moment's pause, Voryn straightened, his expression hard as steel. He gave a rigid nod.
"Then let us proceed," the Warmaster said. "For the good of Nytheris, we show no mercy."
***
The borderland village pulsed with life and the raucous laughter of men drunk on stolen spoils. Casken's warband celebrated not just the theft of provisions but their triumph over a town whose blood now soaked its soil. They clinked tankards, toasting their victories with coin taken from cold, lifeless hands.
In the shadow of the hills, the Warmaster's battalion advanced under the veil of night. Silent and spectral, they fanned out at his signal, their dark forms blending into the forest's edge. Voryn broke away with his unit, his movements fluid and predatory.
He struck first. A watchman, oblivious until the cold press of a blade kissed his throat, gave only a wet, rasping gurgle as his life drained away. Voryn eased the body to the ground, but a horn shattered the silence, the alarming blast rolling across the village like a death knell.
A whistle of air warned him. Another watchman perched high on a rooftop as an archer behind Voryn loosed an arrow. The shaft struck the man, an iron-tipped bolt buried deep in his chest. The watchman staggered, his body teetering over the edge, before plummeting to the ground below with a sickening thud.
Then the chaos began.
Merriment distorted into the macabre as the rebels scrambled for weapons, unsheathing swords, grabbing whatever they could to fight back. The night filled with the shriek of clashing steel and the cries of the dying. Voryn cut through the fray, a phantom among the living. Most of the villagers—a desperate mix of farmers and laborers armed with reaping hooks and rusted pitchforks—were no match for the battalion. The slaughter was swift as said, merciless.
A scream cut through the chaos, raw and desperate, pulling at Voryn like a hooked chain. His pulse quickened, instincts overtaking thought as his body pushed him through the fray, his sword cutting down any who blocked his path as blood sprayed in arcs.
He emerged into a narrow vennel. The sight before him froze him in place—a man, gaunt and untrained, swung a battered sword with frantic, trembling hands. His strikes were wild, more plea than attack, and his face was twisted with despair.
Voryn didn't need to see the outcome to know what would happen.
The man's blade clanged uselessly off his opponent's armor before the soldier's sword drove deep into his chest. The man gasped, blood bubbling on his lips as he staggered, his body crumpling to the ground. His fellow brother-in-arms yanked his blade free with a sickening squelch, stepping over the body without a glance.
Voryn's eyes fell to the corpses behind the fallen man—his children, an adolescent girl and boy. The man must have tried to shield them, mad with grief and futile rage, only to meet the same fate. His trembling fingers had reached out as though even in death he could protect what remained of his kin.
For a moment, the battle seemed to fade around Voryn. The clamor of swords, the shouts of the living, the groans of the undead—all dulled.
Voryn was pulled back into the fight. He faced a true combatant with considerable skill and yet not enough to escape Voryn's blade that slashed through his neck. Blood sprayed hot and fast as the man's headless body collapsed.
Voryn stepped past him as a pulse of nausea swelled in his stomach that the heat of battle easily consumed.
These so-called 'Bloodrite sympathizers' as they were called. Rebels. Enemies. But all Voryn could see were broken people caught in the merciless gears of war.
The warm glow of the village's hearths became a theater of horrors. Voryn moved through the carnage, his boots sinking into the blood-slick ground. The supposed savagery of this place faded with each step, replaced by the bitter realization that this was no rebel stronghold, but a home.
The corpses littering the streets weren't all fighters. Women lay dead as well as boys barely old enough to hold a blade lay sprawled in pools of crimson. His stomach churned as his gaze fell on a cluster of still, similar faces—brothers, perhaps, lying side by side, bound even in death.
"You pity the Bloodrite and their sympathizers?" The Warmaster's voice cut through the haze. His face flecked with blood.
Voryn wiped a smear of blood from his jaw, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. He gestured with its bloodied tip, pointing at the bodies around them. "We were told this village was filled with traitors and savage men alike who fought for Casken. Look at them. These weren't fighters. They were families."
"They were Bloodrite sympathizers," the Warmaster said with chilling finality. "Your compassion should be reserved for the innocents slaughtered in the east, not for those who harbored the murderers."
Voryn's jaw clenched as he glanced back at the boys, their lifeless eyes staring into the void.