A cold wind howled through the trees, rustling the dying leaves that clung desperately to their branches. The village was quiet, as it always was at this hour, but Salvatore could feel something shifting in the air. A disturbance. A presence lurking beyond the familiar, something creeping ever closer.
He had seen it before—felt it in the years past. It was the weight of fate pressing against him, reminding him that no matter how far he ran, how deeply he buried himself in solitude, the past would always find him.
And now, it was here again.
He turned his gaze toward the darkened horizon, where the unseen threat waited beyond the veil of night.
Then, his mind drifted back—back to a time when war was all he knew.
—
The battlefield was drenched in blood, the cries of the dying fading into the roar of victory. Smoke curled into the sky, the remnants of burning siege engines and shattered strongholds painting the air with the stench of war. Amongst the wreckage, one warrior stood tall, his armor streaked with crimson, his blade dripping with the life of those who dared to challenge him.
Leonhardt Vale.
He had led the charge, broken the enemy lines, and crushed their defenses with ruthless efficiency. His presence alone had turned the tide of battle, a force of destruction that even the bravest warriors feared. Now, as he stood amidst the bodies of the fallen, his piercing gaze lifted toward the distant banners of his kingdom. The war was over.
And he had won.
—
That night, within the grand halls of the King of the North, the air was thick with celebration. Goblets clashed, laughter echoed, and the scent of roasted meat filled the chamber. The king, a towering man draped in heavy furs, sat upon his throne, watching his victorious champion with eyes filled with both pride and calculation.
"You have done well, Leonhardt," the king declared, his voice deep and commanding. "This land is ours, thanks to you."
Leonhardt remained silent, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. He had never fought for glory, never sought praise. He was a weapon, forged in war, honed by battle.
The king's lips curled into a knowing smile. "And so, I have a reward for you."
At his signal, a servant stepped forward, presenting a rolled parchment sealed with the sigil of the North. Leonhardt took it, breaking the seal with a single motion. His eyes scanned the words, his brows furrowing slightly as he read.
A mission.
A name.
Salvatore Vernoux.
"West of here, past the mountains, there is a man who has built a legend upon the bones of the fallen," the king said, his voice darkening. "A warlord. A conqueror. A man who does not bow, who does not kneel. A man who stands in defiance of kings."
Leonhardt said nothing, his grip on the parchment tightening.
"I want him dead," the king continued, leaning forward. "And I want you to be the one to do it."
A slow, deliberate exhale left Leonhardt's lips. He had heard whispers of this name before—Salvatore Vernoux. A warrior who had carved his own path through war, leaving destruction in his wake. A man who did not serve kings, who did not follow orders.
Leonhardt had no personal quarrel with him.
But as he delved deeper into the records, as he read of Salvatore's campaigns, the villages burned, the countless lives lost in his pursuit of power—hatred began to take root in his chest.
This was not just a mission.
This was justice.
He would find Salvatore Vernoux.
And he would make him suffer.