The overcast sky hung low over the vast field of tall grass, casting a gray shadow that enveloped the world in a stifling silence. The wind stirred gently, rustling the wild stalks and carrying the scent of damp earth, remnants of rain from days past. In the distance, The Wall loomed, its towering form appearing even more desolate under the fading twilight.
Along the worn and nearly forgotten path, two cloaked figures moved steadily, their tattered mantles fluttering lightly in the breeze.
Alcard pulled at his reins, bringing his horse to a slow halt. His sharp eyes immediately recognized the approaching figures—fellow Outcasts. Beneath the shadows of their hoods, faint crimson glows flickered, an unmistakable mark of their kind. Their cautious demeanor wasn't a threat, but rather a silent recognition—a reflection of the life they all led.
The two Outcasts moved closer, their footsteps blending with the whispering wind and the soft brush of grass. The taller of the two, broad-shouldered and imposing, was the first to speak. His voice was rough, laden with exhaustion.
"How's the road treating you, Alcard?" His tone carried a familiarity hidden beneath its cold edge. "Back from a mission?"
Alcard patted his horse's neck as the beast stirred restlessly, calming it before he answered.
"Yeah. Cyclops hunt." His words were brief, measured. His gaze swept over his two comrades, assessing their state. "And you?"
The shorter figure let out a small, knowing grin, though most of his face remained hidden beneath his hood.
"We just wrapped up some 'dirty work' for a Lord," he said flatly, devoid of emotion. "Eliminating one of his political rivals. A bastard who, ironically, wasn't much different from the one who hired us."
Alcard's eyes flicked toward their weapons—a sword and a dagger, both still stained with dried blood. Not much, but enough to speak volumes. His gaze narrowed, his expression turning sharp.
"We're not supposed to get involved with the Lords' affairs," he murmured, his tone turning colder.
The tall Outcast merely shrugged, his movement carrying the weight of someone too accustomed to harsh realities.
"Sometimes, we don't have a choice, Alcard," he replied, voice calm yet unwavering. "The pay was good, and the job didn't break our code."
"We don't touch the innocent," the short one added, his voice edged with conviction. "Our target was a corrupt noble who would've bled his own people dry. There's no real difference between him and the monsters from the south."
Alcard remained silent, letting the words linger in the air. He understood the dilemma, though part of him still refused to accept it. Outcasts were often tools of convenience, used by rulers to handle their dirtiest work—mercenaries summoned for tasks too shameful for nobility to stain their hands with. Yet, even though they lived in the shadows, they still had rules.
They did not betray their own.
They did not execute the innocent.
"At least we still have our principles," Alcard finally said, his voice steady but his eyes sharp.
He couldn't ignore the irony—in a world full of corruption and deceit, Outcasts sometimes carried more honor than the rulers who sat on golden thrones.
The tall Outcast gave a slight nod.
"Yeah… principles," he muttered, though there was skepticism laced within his words. "But in the end, it's not principles that keep the world turning. It's gold."
No one responded immediately. A moment of silence settled between them, broken only by the steady howl of the wind sweeping through the grasslands.
Alcard knew—his fellow Outcasts were a mirror of the world they lived in. They weren't heroes. They weren't villains. They were soldiers with no country, guardians with no recognition, executioners deemed unclean by those who secretly relied on them.
There was no place for them in a world that refused to acknowledge their existence.
"Stay sharp, Alcard," the short one suddenly spoke, his voice carrying the grim humor typical of their kind. "Wouldn't want a Lord putting your head on his dinner plate."
Alcard gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. He knew it was meant as a joke, but in their reality, it wasn't far from possibility.
"Save your humor," he retorted coolly. "You too—don't get careless."
Without another word, the two Outcasts continued on their path westward, heading deeper into the chaos of Middle Earth. Alcard nudged his horse forward, heading in the opposite direction—toward The Wall, toward his next destination: The Central Headquarters.
As their figures faded into the distance, the wind picked up, rustling the grasslands with a soft, eerie murmur. The sound of nature—calming to some, but to Alcard, just another reminder of the destruction and deception that loomed over their world.
"This is my world now," he whispered to himself, eyes locked onto the blood-red sky. "A world drowning in blood and decay."
He pulled at his reins, urging his horse forward.
Faster.
Across the endless plains.
His shadow disappeared into the swaying fields, swallowed by the horizon.
A journey without end, carrying with it the eternal dilemma of the Outcasts—to be a protector or an executioner…
…in a world where the lines between good and evil no longer existed.
****