It started with a scream.
Not the kind that came from a child playing too roughly or a drunk stumbling home too late. No, this was different. This was raw, high-pitched—the kind of sound that turned blood to ice and set instincts ablaze.
Vorian had been outside, splitting firewood, his muscles aching from the repetitive motion, when it hit him. A sharp, twisting sensation in his gut—like something wrong had seeped into the air, thick and suffocating. He dropped the axe before his mind had even caught up, feet already moving toward the sound.
By the time he reached the village square, Redhaven was already drowning in chaos.
Flames leapt from rooftop to rooftop, devouring thatched homes and wooden carts, turning the air thick with black smoke. The scent of burning timber was sharp, but beneath it, the acrid stench of charred flesh clawed at his nostrils. People ran—some screaming, some fighting, but most simply trying to flee.
And cutting through the madness, moving with the slow, methodical ease of men who knew they had already won, were the soldiers.
The Crimson Sun.
They came like a tide of red and gold, their cloaks billowing behind them, their silver masks gleaming in the firelight. Holy warriors, blessed by the Church. Killers dressed as saints.
A raid.
And it was because of him.
Myrin was the first person he searched for. He found her near the well, arms wrapped tightly around Elira, shielding the girl's body with her own. Ilyen stood only a few feet away, blade clutched tightly in his hand, eyes burning with the reckless defiance of a man who had already decided to die fighting.
"Run!" Myrin's voice cut through the chaos, hoarse and desperate. "Take her and run!"
But Vorian's feet wouldn't move.
Not because of fear—he had known worse than this. Not because of hesitation—he knew exactly what he had to do. But because, standing at the heart of the carnage, framed by the hellish glow of the burning village, was a man.
Tall. Cloaked in crimson. A silver mask concealing his features.
And at the sight of him, the Mark on Vorian's chest seared like white-hot iron.
The High Commander of the Crimson Sun.
"Vorian Caervale." His voice rang clear over the chaos, smooth as oil, sharp as a blade. "We've been looking for you."
Elira whimpered. Vorian barely noticed. His pulse pounded, breath ragged, mind screaming at him to move, to run—but he couldn't. Not when that voice was the same one that haunted his dreams. The same one that had whispered to him when he slit the High Priest's throat.
The same one that had promised him he would become something more.
The Mark pulsed, and a familiar darkness curled at the edges of his vision, hungry and waiting.
Let go.
He gritted his teeth. No.
The High Commander took a step forward, slow and deliberate, as if he already knew Vorian had nowhere to go. "Your fate was decided long ago," he said. "Surrender. And no more blood needs to be spilled."
Liar.
Vorian didn't have to look to know what was happening behind him. The villagers—the only people who had ever taken him in—were dying. Cut down like wheat beneath the scythe. Myrin, Ilyen, Elira—they would die too, unless—
Unless he fought.
And so, for the first time in his life, he made the choice that would ruin everything.
He fought back.
—
The first soldier lunged. Vorian caught the man's wrist, twisting sharply. A snap. A scream. The blade clattered to the ground. He seized it, barely bringing it up in time to block another strike. His body moved on instinct, years of battle-forged reflexes guiding him.
But this wasn't like before.
This was fury.
This was power.
The Mark throbbed beneath his skin, whispering, More. Give me more.
No. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
And yet—the flames around them surged, the air thickened, something unseen pressing against the world like a held breath. The Crimson Sun hesitated. They had come prepared to capture a man. Not to fight whatever it was that now clawed at the edges of Vorian's soul.
A shout. A blur of motion.
Ilyen.
The fool had rushed forward, wild and desperate, swinging his blade toward the High Commander. A mistake.
Vorian turned—too late.
The High Commander barely moved. A flick of his wrist. A blade drawn, too fast to follow. Ilyen staggered, his sword slipping from limp fingers. The wound in his chest gaped, dark and wet.
He crumpled.
Myrin screamed.
Vorian roared, a sound that was more beast than man. The Mark burned, veins blackening, something deep rising within him—
Chains snapped around his wrists, magic burning through his skin like fire.
He gasped, the force of it driving him to his knees.
The Mark—his power—was smothered, crushed beneath the weight of holy metal.
No. No, not now.
Elira sobbed. Myrin clutched at her, whispering something, words lost beneath the crackling fire.
The High Commander stepped forward, kneeling before him, his mask inches from Vorian's face.
"You should have run," he said.
Vorian's breath came ragged. "You… didn't have to kill them."
The High Commander tilted his head, considering. Then, almost absently, he flicked his fingers.
A soldier stepped forward.
Steel flashed.
Elira's cry was cut short.
Vorian screamed.
Something inside him broke.
The chains held.
The chains held.
And then—
A shadow fell over him.
He hadn't noticed him before. Hadn't felt his presence in the midst of the slaughter. But now, as the firelight cast its dying glow over the battlefield, he saw him.
A man stood before him, tall and clad in blackened armor, the metal slick with blood. His silvered hair gleamed beneath the firelight, a crown of thorns resting atop his brow.
Vorian had seen that face before.
In old paintings. In whispered prayers.
The Usurper King. The Tyrant of the West. The man who had razed entire cities and ground their bones into dust.
The sword pressed against his back was warm. He did not know if it was from the sun or the blood still wet upon its edge.
"Kneel."
The voice was like iron, heavy with command.
Vorian did not move. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into flesh.
A hand seized his shoulder, forcing him down until his knees struck the scorched earth. He tasted smoke, the acrid sting of it clawing at his throat.
The Usurper loomed over him, a shadow against the burning sky. His gaze was sharp as the blade resting against Vorian's throat.
His fate was already sealed.
And yet—
He did not bow.