The Concordia banner fluttered weakly in the cold wind, its once-vibrant colors faded to muted shades of gold and white. Eryndor adjusted the strap on his cloak as he stood at the edge of his estate, the gates behind him closed and silent. The proud manor loomed in the distance, its stone walls weathered by centuries of history. What was once a symbol of hope and leadership for humanity now stood as a shadow of its former self empty, desolate, and forgotten by the very people it once protected.
Eryndor turned, his gaze lingering on the home that had shaped him. He had grown up within those walls, had walked its halls as a boy, and had read countless stories about his family's legacy tales of how the Concordia family had defended the estate against those who sought to desecrate it. Every stone, every creaking floorboard, carried the weight of his ancestors' sacrifices.
Now, he was forced to leave it behind.
His throat tightened as he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow
"I will return, should fate allow it."
Eryndor tried to force a smile onto his face, but the sadness in his eyes betrayed him. No amount of resolve could mask the ache in his heart. This was his home. His sanctuary. And yet, he had to abandon it place it in the hands of fate all to honor his family's sacred duty to protect humanity.
The cold wind bit at his skin as he turned away, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted earth. With every step, the estate grew smaller in the distance, until it was nothing more than a silhouette on the horizon.
Eryndor pressed onward, his cloak billowing behind him as the wind carried whispers of decay. His destination loomed ahead Emberfall, the heart of this nightmare. He walked with purpose, his thoughts heavy with the weight of his mission. He sought any remaining refugees, any semblance of humanity left amid the chaos, and allies who might rally to the cause. The road stretched endlessly before him, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The further he traveled, the more the world seemed to wither around him. Abandoned carts lay tipped over on the side of the road, their contents spilling out like the remnants of a shattered life. Broken barrels, scattered tools, even a doll with its painted face cracked and weathered by the elements. And then, the corpses.
Ravens circled overhead, their caws echoing through the barren landscape. Their blackened feathers glinted in the pale light as they descended upon the dead. Eryndor paused, his gaze falling on the lifeless bodies strewn across the dirt road. Farmers, merchants, children cut down indiscriminately. Their expressions were frozen in fear and agony, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles.
"Poor souls... trying to flee, only to be hunted like livestock. This is not the end they deserved."
He clenched his fists, his voice low and mournful
A raven perched on a nearby branch, its beady eyes fixed on him as if waiting for him to join the fallen. Eryndor tore his gaze away, forcing himself to move forward. There was no time to grieve, not yet.
The road widened as he crested a hill, and there it was Emberfall. The city rose like a shadow against the horizon, its towering walls once a symbol of strength and prosperity. Now, the gates stood ajar, splintered and battered. Smoke curled lazily from within, its dark tendrils clawing at the sky.
Eryndor's steps slowed as he took in the eerie silence. This was Emberfall, the City of Gold, the pride of the Empire. A city that had once thrived as a hub of commerce and culture, its streets bustling with merchants and travelers from every corner of the land. But now, it was lifeless. The gilded towers that once gleamed in the sunlight were dulled by soot and ash, their grandeur reduced to a faint echo of what they once were.
"The City of Gold..."
"What gold is left in a place so stripped of life?"
His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of Dawn Breaker as he approached the gates. Each step felt heavier, as if the shadows of the city reached out to drag him down. The air was thick, laden with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of burning flesh.
Eryndor hesitated for a moment at the threshold. He could feel the presence of the darkness lingering within the walls, an oppressive force that gnawed at his resolve. But he could not turn back. Not now.
He paused at the threshold, his heart pounding in his chest. The presence of the darkness was unmistakable, an oppressive force that gnawed at his resolve. For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of the task before him. Was he walking into a graveyard? Could he truly make a difference?
Eryndor's hand rested on the hilt of Dawn Breaker, the sword's cool steel grounding him. He tightened his grip, drawing strength from the legacy it carried.
"If I turn back now,"
"what hope will be left for them?"
He tightened his grip on the sword and stepped into the city. As Eryndor stepped closer, the silence pressed against his ears, heavy and unnatural. Even his own footsteps felt like intrusions, echoing off the cracked stone. A faint glow seeped from the fissures in the city walls pulsing, alive, and wrong.
For a moment he thought he saw something shift in the gloom beyond the gates a fleeting shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Then came the sound low, guttural, almost imperceptible, like the growl of a distant storm. It set his teeth on edge, but he forced himself to move forward.
For a brief moment, doubt crept in his mind. Was he walking towards his grave? Does he posess the required skill to stand against the horrors that lay beyond? He gripped the hilt of Dawn Breaker tighter, feeling its weight a reminder of his ancestors' strength. If he faltered now, if he turned back, what hope would humanity have?
He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and stepped into the shadows. The abandoned city looked so eerie, the air was filled with the stench of iron courtesy of the blood that was drained from the victims of the demons. Bodies lay everywhere, rotten corpses that some looked fresh and others are in the process of decay, or being eaten by ravens like the other unfortunate souls outside of the city gates.
His grip on Dawn Breaker more firm than ever, his fury tempered in a scarlet ocean barely contained within his calm demeanor after seeing the countless lives lost.
"I swear to every soul that perished here, I will avenge you, in the name of Concordia, I swear it."
Eryndor kept searching the nearby buildings for any signs of life that may still be here. As he approached the collapsed building cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of Dawn Breaker. Then a frightened pair of eyes from a refugees peeked at him through cracks in the rubble, but no one spoke. A man in tattered armor stepped out, his rusted sword raised defensively.
Man: "I told you, nobleman—we don't need your kind here!"
Eryndor opened his mouth to respond, his tone calm despite the tension in the air.
Eryndor: "I am not your enemy. I—"
The words caught in his throat as he felt cold steel press against his neck.
Voice from Behind: "Then explain why you're stalking defenseless refugees with a sword at your hip."
The voice was low and steady, with a hint of mockery. Whoever it was, they moved like a shadow—Eryndor hadn't even heard them approach.
Eryndor: "If you're going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."
The pressure of the blade eased slightly, but the voice remained sharp.
Voice: "Kill you? Now why would I do that? You've always been too pretty to die, Eryndor."
Eryndor's eyes widened. He knew that voice. Slowly, he turned his head, catching a glimpse of the man behind him.
Eryndor: "Malum?"
The blade withdrew, and the figure stepped into the light. Malum Caedo stood as tall as Eryndor, his dark hair tousled and streaked with ash. His rugged features were framed by a light stubble, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. A long scar ran along his right arm, a testament to countless battles fought in the shadows. He wore leather armor reinforced with patches of demon-hide, his weapons bristling at his sides knives, crossbows, and vials of unknown liquids.
Malum: "Took you long enough to recognize me. Thought I'd have to carve my name into your neck."
Eryndor lowered his sword but kept his expression guarded.
Eryndor: "What are you doing here, Malum?"
Malum: "Oh, you know. The usual. Hunting things that go bump in the night, saving hapless fools, and stopping the world from ending. Same as you, I suppose."
Malum's gaze swept over Eryndor, taking in the emblem on his chest and the way he carried himself.
Malum: "Still playing the noble savior, I see. Tell me, does it hurt to carry that much self-righteousness?"
Eryndor sighed, shaking his head.
Eryndor: "You haven't changed."
Malum: "And you're still the same idealistic idiot I grew up with."
Despite the sharpness in his words, there was a warmth in Malum's tone—a familiarity that only years of friendship could bring.
The man with the rusted sword glanced nervously between Eryndor and Malum.
Man: "You two know each other?"
Malum: "Know each other? He's practically my brother. Though I'd argue I got all the looks and brains."
Malum winked at one of the children hiding behind the rubble, who promptly ducked out of sight.
Eryndor crossed his arms, his tone growing serious.
Eryndor: "Enough games, Malum. These people need help."
Malum's smirk faded as his eyes shifted to the refugees. He studied them for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Malum: "Help, huh? That's a tall order these days. Demons don't exactly leave much room for happy endings."
The woman holding the crying child stepped forward hesitantly.
Woman: "You're a hunter, aren't you?"
Malum's eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, the weight of his family's legacy seemed to settle on his shoulders.
Malum: "I am. And you're lucky I am. Most hunters wouldn't bother with a group like this."
Eryndor turned to Malum, his tone firm.
Eryndor: "We can take them to safety. Together."
Malum: "Safety? Where, exactly? The darkness is spreading faster than you realize. There's no 'safe' left, Eryndor."
Eryndor's jaw tightened.
Eryndor: "That doesn't mean we stop trying."
Malum sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Malum: "You're still so damn noble. Fine. I'll help. But don't come crying to me when this all goes to hell."
He turned to the refugees, gesturing with his knife.
Malum: "Alright, you lot. If you're coming with us, keep your heads down and do exactly as I say. I'm not babysitting anyone who decides to get clever."