The sun rises over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. The castle walls shrink behind us, into the distance, as we ride — a slow, steady march of knights and soldiers and warhorses. The dirt road looms ahead, the borderlands before us — the way toward conflict.
I tighten the reins, shifting my spear on my back. This isn't just a patrol. This is a test.
A test for me. For all of us.
"You feel it, don't you?"
Watanabe returns with a hush, the Demon Spirit rising, coiling at the edges of my mind like smoke.
"Blood will be spilled soon."
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, centering myself and focusing on the road ahead. I won't acknowledge it. Not now.
Instead, I turn my eyes over the rest of the vanguard.
….
Knights charge in tight formations, their armor shining in the morning sun. But most aren't fighters.
Amidst the voices near the center of the convoy, a small group of figures stand out.
They do not wear armor. Instead, they're draped in robes of deep indigo, the sigil of the Arcane Order stitched across their chests.
Mages.
Their presence is subtle yet undeniable.
Just by distance, I can already sense the change in the air around them — an uncanny, unexplainable heaviness that feels like it warps reality.
Magic. Real magic.
And of course, I've seen it before. There are plenty of mages in the royal court. But this is different.
These aren't scholars. They aren't priests.
These are battle mages.
Weapons.
I see one of them raise a hand, muttering something to himself. The air surrounding him shimmers faintly — an unseen force warped beneath his command.
A simple spell. A meaningless display. And yet, I feel it.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
This voice belongs to someone else, not the Demon Spirit's.
I turn my head to the left as a rider falls in step next to me — a man wearing dark robes and a smile that has edges sharp enough to cut.
One of the mages.
"You're looking at us like some kind of mythical creatures," he says.
I smirk slightly. "Aren't you?"
The man chuckles.
"Only to those who know better."
His eyes drift to my spear.
"You're Raiden Kaelith, right?"
I nod.
"A bloodline of warriors," he reflects. "I've heard the stories. You fight like men demented."
I don't respond to that.
Because he's not completely off base.
"I am Lorian," the mage adds, bowing his head very slightly. "I suspect we'll be spending a lot of time together on this mission."
"That depends," I say. "Do you plan on surviving?"
He grins. "That's the idea."
I look him over for a moment longer, then return my eyes to the road. The liches are an unknown variable.
And in war, unknowns can be lethal.
….
As I travel, I can sense his stare.
Seraphis rides a few lengths ahead but he's watching. Always watching.
Since then, he hasn't said much at all. But he doesn't need to.
I know what he's thinking.
"You're not the same person that I was talking to before.
He won't forget what he saw.
And one day, he will expect answers.
I'll have to be ready.
….
By midday, the air shifts.
The mood turns somber as scouts come back from ahead with grim looks.
A knight rides up to the front and calls the convoy to a stop.
"Smoke ahead!" he reports. "A village—burning."
The chatter dies instantly.
I straighten up, tightening my grip on the reins.
"Already?" Lorian mutters, a far cry from his usual delight.
A low thrum of tension runs through the vanguard. The reality of war sets in.
"What are your orders?" a knight asks.
I glance toward the front.
Seraphis twists his head just enough, and our eyes connect.
This is it.
The first real step.
And I know — and this is just the tip.
The smoke arrives before the sight. Thick. Suffocating.
It scuttles up our throats before we've stepped foot into the village, making the morning sky a curtain of night. The horses underneath us begin to fidget, their hooves shuffling. Even the air feels wrong.
Seraphis raises a hand, and the vanguard slows. We're close.
I scan the treeline. No movement. Not a sound except for a crackly fire.
But it is the silence that most unsettles me.
Such a village must not burn and remain silent.
"Raiden. Scout ahead."
I nod, already dismounting. My boots hit the dirt. It's soft—too soft. I kneel and lay a hand on the ground. The earth is wet, dark, and all wrong.
Not from rain.
From blood.
"You feel it, don't you?"
The Demon Spirit's whispers crawl inside my skull like a snake wrapping around my mind in a vice.
"This is where you belong."
I grit my teeth, ignore it, and step forward.
The others hold back as I forge on—a lone figure slinking into the center of the devastated settlement.
….
The village is a graveyard.
The structures are mere husks — charred wood, crumbled mortar. The smoulder slowly floats in the air, blown by the wind.
And then, I see him.
A man kneels in the dirt. Still breathing. Still alive.
Barely.
His robes are torn and stained with blood. He shakes convulsively, planting his fingers deep in the mud.
"H… help…" His voice is hoarse, coming out in a whisper.
I take a step forward.
And that's when I noticed the symbol carved into his chest.
A circle, a perfect circle, surrounded by twisting patterns of curved lines, intricate, deliberate.
Not a wound.
A mark.
My pulse spikes. I know this is more than a raid.
"Who did this?" I ask, stepping closer.
His bloodied lips part. He tries to speak.
Then, his body begins to convulse violently.
For a split second, I think he's seizing. Then I noticed the dagger gripped in his hand.
His own hand.
He drives it into his own throat.
I reach out, but it's too late.
A strangled gurgle. A choked gasp.
Blood pours over his chest, curling over the odd symbol carved in his flesh.
His eyes go wide and empty.
I reach down and cradle him as he dies at my feet.
…
A loud whistle blasts through the air.
Then—chaos.
Figures burst from the ruins. Rebels. Armed, fast, ruthless.
The first comes for me, his sword sweeping wide.
I react on instinct.
I twist, and my spear lances out—hitting his wrist with brutal accuracy. The bone snaps. He screams.
Another lunges. I duck down, stuffing the shaft of my spear into his gut. Hard.
He crumples.
A third charge. No hesitation. No fear.
They don't care if they die.
I go — quick, slithery, practical.
"Yes. Just like that."
The whisper of the Demon Spirit is getting louder. The air around me thrums.
I move faster than I should.
I sense a few ripples before the blow falls.
"This is your bloodline. This is what you were built for."
I retaliate, my spear cutting through the final rebel's defenses. A sharp, merciless blow to the throat.
He falls.
The skirmish ends as abruptly as it started.
Gasping, I lean away, my heart pounding under my ribs.
The vanguard pushes in behind me — Seraphis barrel front.
But the battle is already won.
"Well done," the Demon Spirit says in a whisper.
I close my eyes, consciously slowing my breath.
"It's getting clearer to you."
…
Seraphis halts next to me, sword ever drawn.
He looks at the dead rebels, then at the man who killed himself before I had the chance to speak.
His gaze narrows on the symbol carved into the man's chest.
"This wasn't simply a raid," he says. "There is something else going on here."
I nod, dabbing blood from my spear. I already knew that.
They weren't just fighting the enemy. They were dying without a second thought. Without fear.
Like they were listening to something more than defiance.
"This is just the beginning of something bigger," says Seraphis under their breath.
For once, I agree.
I drop to my knees beside her body and touch my fingertips to the odd marks on his flesh.
The blood is still warm.
The symbol is still fresh.
And there's something off about it.
"What does it mean?" I murmur.
"A warning," Seraphis says.
"No," I say, gripping my spear tighter. "A message."
A message for what? For who?
I don't know. Not yet.
But I daresay this is just the start.