I walked without a clear destination, each step dragging me further away from the smoking ruins of the North. The silence weighed heavily on my shoulders, far more than the biting cold that numbed my skin.
Behind me, there was nothing left but corpses, ashes, and shattered memories. But ahead… was complete uncertainty. A vast white expanse where every direction seemed to lead to another kind of death.
I had no set destination. Not yet.
But one thing was certain: I couldn't stay here.
Every ruin, every snow-covered street I passed only dragged me back to the screams, the flames, the blood soaked into the stone. The North had fallen, and I was the last of the Valenhardts.
If anyone found out I was still alive, they would come to finish the job.
A movement caught my attention.
I froze, my muscles tensing instinctively. Quietly, I crouched behind a pile of broken stones, holding my breath.
On the old trade route, a group of men moved steadily. Six, maybe seven. Their strides were confident, measured. They weren't fleeing refugees. Not desperate survivors searching for shelter.
They knew exactly where they were going.
I narrowed my eyes, observing them closely. They wore reinforced leather armor, thick cloaks to combat the cold. But what drew my attention was the insignia sewn onto their shoulders.
A black flame, encircled by chains.
My stomach tightened.
I knew all the banners of the North.
The Empire's, the great noble houses', even the mercenaries who occasionally traded in these lands…
But I had never seen this one before.
Why did they walk with such confidence in a land that should have been hostile to them?
Why did they not seem like intruders?
I began to move back, ready to slip away unseen.
Then I heard their voices.
— His father and he are confirmed dead.
My breath caught in my throat.
I pressed myself further against the stone, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
— Then why are we still ordered to search the area?
A silence followed.
Then, a sentence I would never forget.
— The Valenhardt family had to fall. If one of them survived…
Another pause.
— We'll finish the job.
A void opened beneath my feet.
Every muscle in my body tensed, the dagger in my grip trembling slightly.
This wasn't war.
This wasn't an invasion.
This was an execution.
Someone wanted us dead.
Someone wanted me dead.
My fists clenched.
Adrenaline drowned out fatigue and pain.
I wanted to rip the answers from them. To snap their necks. To kill them.
But I was alone. Weak. Without resources.
And they were organized.
Slowly, I backed away, blending into the debris. They believed I was dead.
I had to make sure they kept believing it.
For now.
I moved cautiously between the ruins, my senses on high alert. My breath came out in short, controlled exhales, blending seamlessly with the icy wind that howled through the shattered streets. The revelation still echoed in my mind.
The North wasn't just attacked. It was executed.
Someone had orchestrated this massacre. The demons, the monsters—they weren't acting alone. There was a mind, a hand guiding them. And if those men were still here, searching, it meant one thing.
The job wasn't finished.
A chilling realization settled over me. If I had been just another casualty, why would they keep looking? Unless…
Unless I was more than just a loose end.
As I navigated through the ruins, I spotted another figure hiding nearby.
At first, I thought it was a survivor, someone who had managed to escape the carnage. But as I watched, I noticed the way he moved—cautious, calculating. He wasn't running. He was observing.
And he wasn't watching the ruins.
He was watching the men below.
The man was crouched behind a collapsed stone wall, an arbalest in his hands. His finger rested near the trigger, but he hadn't fired. He was waiting.
A hunter, not prey.
I weighed my options. He hadn't seen me yet, and I could just keep moving. Avoid unnecessary risks.
But something about him unsettled me. If he was truly an enemy, why was he aiming at those men?
Either he was a threat… or he knew something I didn't.
That meant I needed answers.
I crept closer, silent as the wind, then spoke just loud enough for him to hear.
— Are you an idiot, or just suicidal?
The man spun around, his arbalest snapping up in an instant.
His gaze locked onto mine, and for a brief moment, his face contorted in pure shock.
Not anger. Not panic.
Recognition.
His grip on the weapon trembled slightly, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find words. Then, almost instinctively, his eyes flicked toward the soldiers below.
A reflex.
A subtle, unconscious movement.
And in that moment, I understood.
He was one of them.
The man remained frozen, his arbalest still halfway raised.
His face was a storm of conflicting emotions—recognition, fear, calculation. He was trying to decide whether to pull the trigger or run.
I gave him no time to choose.
With a single step forward, I pressed my dagger against his throat.
— Talk.
His breath hitched, but he didn't immediately resist. Smart.
— What are you doing here? I hissed, my grip tightening on the handle.
He exhaled sharply, his eyes darting between me and the soldiers in the distance.
— You're supposed to be dead.
— And yet here I am.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He hesitated, as if weighing his options, then let out a slow, resigned breath.
— No one thought the North would fall this quickly. Not even those who planned it.
A chill ran down my spine, and this time, it wasn't from the cold.
— Who planned it?
He shook his head.
— I can't say. Not here.
The dagger pressed harder against his skin.
— Try again.
His jaw clenched, but he relented.
— The Black Inquisitor.
The name settled in the air like a curse.
It meant nothing to me. But judging by the way he said it—by the way his voice lowered instinctively, as if afraid of being overheard—it was something I needed to remember.
The Black Inquisitor.
Whoever it was, they were at the heart of the massacre of the North.
Before I could press for more, a sound reached us—boots crunching against the snow.
The man's eyes widened.
— Shit.
Three soldiers were approaching.
His hands twitched, instinctively reaching for something—a weapon, or maybe an escape route. I didn't know, and I wasn't willing to gamble on it.
— Stay quiet and walk away, I warned. Don't make me regret letting you live.
To my surprise, he hesitated only for a second. Then, as if reaching a decision, he leaned closer.
— Farhall.
I narrowed my eyes.
— What?
— If you want answers, meet me in Farhall in three days. That's all I can say.
Farhall.
A trade city, far enough from the North that a man could disappear there. A perfect place for someone like him to lay low.
Before I could question him further, he stepped away from the cover and started walking toward the soldiers.
— Hey! one of them shouted, spotting him.
The three men immediately gave chase.
I stayed in the shadows, watching as my would-be informant fled.
The Black Inquisitor.
A name to remember.
And now, I had a destination.