——Laughter in Moonlight, Shadows in Woods——
They moved through the forest in uneasy rhythm—boots whispering against damp loam, armor sighing with every measured step. The earth was soft from the morning's rain, and the hills rolled like sleeping beasts, their slopes slick with moss and half-shadows. Only Aethon broke the silence, his voice weaving careless words between the trees, as though sound alone could make the air less heavy.
By dusk, the sun had begun its slow retreat behind the high boughs, staining the canopy in shades of gold and violet. The sky looked bruised. The trees grew thinner, and soon the forest gave way to the hamlet of Glinmere—a place that seemed to cling to the edge of the woods as though afraid of being swallowed again.
The cottages leaned toward one another like conspirators, their crooked chimneys exhaling thin trails of smoke that curled and vanished before reaching the stars. Fences sagged not from decay, but from resignation, as if they'd long since learned that nothing in Glinmere stayed standing forever. Lanterns glowed dimly behind warped windowpanes, their light trembling as though aware it was being watched.
The air smelled of sap and damp timber, but beneath it lingered something faintly metallic—like rust, or blood left too long in the rain. Even the wind moved strangely there, threading through the branches with purpose, carrying whispers that never quite became words.
It was there, on the forest's outer ring, that they made camp—their first night together.
The decree had been given at dawn and carried like a weight through the day's march:
They would travel to Fort Dawnrise together.
No chains.
No bloodshed.
Only the uneasy accord between a goddess-sworn paladin and a man who smiled too easily—too knowingly—for someone wearing the shape of a traveler.
Aethon—dark-haired, smiling like sin made charming—had been the one to suggest the act of chains.
He plucked a pair of manacles from a Crusader's pack, weighing them idly in his palms as though judging jewelry rather than bondage.
"Well," he said, his tone all theatre and mischief, "if we're to play prisoner and escort, I insist on the proper décor. Silver, perhaps—something tasteful. Gold, if the Order can spare a touch of extravagance. Iron, I fear, clashes with my complexion."
Arkeia gave him nothing—not a word, not a glance. Her silence was the wall his jest struck against.
So Aethon leaned closer, grin curling like a secret he enjoyed too much.
"Or," he murmured, low enough to draw the air between them tight, "will you tie me with something more personal? A rope from your own tent, perhaps?"
The golden man beside him had only smiled—
The sort of smile that fit any occasion, and yet belonged to none…
——Mothers, Children, and the Man with the Smile——
The villagers of Glinmere were simple folk—weathered as the timbers of their homes, with hands like worn leather and eyes bleached pale by years of watching the same horizons. Their lives moved by the rhythm of familiar things: the whisper of scythes through tall grain, the slow tolling of the chapel bell, the soft murmur of prayers that never strayed too far from the soil.
Life in Glinmere was slow, deliberate, and stubbornly small. Yet that night, something unfamiliar passed through its stillness—a tremor beneath the skin of the ordinary. Dogs went quiet. Lamps flickered, their flames bowing as though in greeting. And when the travelers entered the hamlet, it was not the armored crusaders that drew the villagers' gaze.
He did not announce himself. He didn't need to.
Heads turned before his boots touched the cobbles; eyes followed without knowing why. The man moved as if space itself had made room for him—robes brushing the air in a rhythm that was not quite human, not quite divine.
When he spoke, it was not loud. Yet each villager felt the words as though whispered privately into their own ear, the syllables curving to fit their fears, their longings, their secret shames.
The paladin's men—Mar'aya's warriors, disciplined and wary—watched the effect with unease. They had ridden into villages before, greeted by reverence or suspicion, but never this kind of hush. This was something else.
And in that silence, something small broke free.
From behind the leaning fence of a garden overgrown with late-autumn herbs, a young boy crept forward. Barefoot, dirt streaked across his shins, he moved with the quiet boldness of those who have not yet learned that wonder can wound. His small fingers brushed the splintered wood for courage before he stepped out onto the road.
The boy's wide eyes fixed on the stranger's golden hair, gleaming in the last light like a sun that had forgotten to set. In that moment, even the paladin's banner—Mar'aya's sigil of balance—seemed to dim beside him.
The Crusaders did not see him go. The boy slipped past their notice like a shadow between heartbeats, small and fearless in a moment too vast for him to understand.
He stopped just shy of the stranger, his hand hovering before it found courage enough to tug at the hem of the golden man's sleeve. The fabric was softer than anything he'd ever touched—warm, almost alive.
When the stranger looked down, the air between them stilled. Sound fled. Even the wind, bold and ever-present in Glinmere's hills, seemed to retreat to watch.
"Are you a prince, mister?" the boy asked, his voice round with innocence—the kind of voice that could make even monsters hesitate. Wonder shone in his eyes, pure enough to rewrite what it looked upon.
The golden man knelt, lowering himself to meet the boy's gaze, his smile unfolding like something remembered rather than newly given—soft at first, then deepening, as though he were borrowing warmth from a time when it had once belonged to him. The motion itself carried an impossible grace; his robe pooled like liquid night around him, yet not a grain of dust dared cling to it.
Up close, his eyes held a color that could not decide what it was—gold at the edge, but dark within, like a sun glimpsed beneath water.
"No, little one," he said, his tone soft enough to warm the chill between stars. "But once, long ago, I dreamed I was."
The boy laughed—a quick, bright sound that scattered like glass beads on stone.
And upon the gnarled branches of Glinmere's trees, the crows shifted as one. Their feathers rustled but no cry escaped them.
They only watched—
—they knew not to interrupt.
"Where are you from? Where are you goin'?—" the boy's words tumbled out like stones freed from a sling, his excitement tripping over itself, "—oh! oh! Have you seen a wizard? Or a fairy? Or—or both?"
The golden man chuckled, a low sound that seemed to settle the air. He leaned forward, patient, letting the boy's wonder bloom unchecked.
Arkeia was the first to notice him—small and barefoot, barely reaching the stranger's knee. Her pulse caught. She started forward, hand half-raised, her command sharp with instinct.
"Move, boy—"
Before she could reach them, Galeel stepped in her path, Elissa still slumbering against his shoulder. His great frame blocked her with quiet certainty. He said nothing—only watched, his eyes unreadable, as if measuring the space between man and child.
"All is well," said the golden man, voice calm as river glass. "The boy merely questions. And I don't see anything wrong with that… do you?"
The Crusaders froze where they stood, blades still sheathed but hands tensed on hilts. The air thickened with hesitation, a fragile balance between duty and disbelief. Eyes flickered between the radiant stranger and the winged sentinel who barred their way.
Aethon broke the tension with a grin sharp enough to cut through silence. "Calm your nerves, my lady. Do you truly mean to frighten the poor lad? What would Mar'aya think?"
Arkeia's jaw tightened, her gaze fixed on the child. The boy looked back at her with the untroubled courage of youth, and for a fleeting instant, memory struck—another boy, another road, another time she could not bear to recall.
"At ease," she said at last, her voice firm but quieter than before. The words hung in the air like a command that soothed rather than demanded.
The golden man smiled and reached out, ruffling the boy's hair. "You asked where I come from, my young friend," he said with easy warmth. "That depends. Home can change as easily as the wind turns its course… but I'll tell you where I was born."
He turned his head slightly toward Arkeia, the firelight catching the curve of his grin. "A city you've likely heard of—the capital of the Silmane Empire. Brailford."
Arkeia's teeth pressed together until the sound was nearly audible.
The boy's eyes went wide, his grin brighter than the flame between them. "Woah! You're from I'shal? What're you doin' in Mar'vane, mister?"
"Ah, well," the golden man said, gesturing toward the Crusaders with an elegant wave, "these fine people are escorting my companion and me to speak with their goddess."
The boy gasped, his whole body alight with awe. "You get to talk to Mar'aya!?"
"Absolutely, my young friend," he replied, his tone full of playful pride, like an older brother letting a sibling in on a secret.
The boy's smile could have outshone the setting sun itself.
"And as for fairies," the golden man went on, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I haven't met many, but I do know a few sprites. Tricksy little things, always stealing moonlight when no one's watching."
"So cool!" the boy said, nearly bouncing. "What about wizards? What about wizards, mister?"
"I've known a few," he said with a grin. "Beards, tempers, and all. Though I prefer their company in moderation—too many and they start arguing about reality again."
The boy's laughter bubbled up bright and whole, the kind that made the world feel briefly innocent.
"Edwin!"
A woman's voice cut through the air, sharp with panic. "Edwin! Where are you, butterfly?"
The boy turned, waving frantically. "Momma! Come look! Look—it's a prince from I'shal!"
The Crusaders exchanged uneasy glances.
The woman came down the road, skirts gathered in her fists, breath quick from worry. When she saw her son standing beside the stranger, her steps faltered. The golden man rose slowly to his full height, his expression gentle, unthreatening.
"Edwin, there you are," she said, her voice soft but tight around the edges. "Come now, let's not trouble the kind gentleman."
"No, it's no trouble at all, madam," the man assured, his voice smooth as poured honey drawn thin across steel. "Kindness is a rare coin these days—best to spend it freely when we find it."
"He's so nice, mama," Edwin said, clutching at the hem of her dress, half hiding behind its folds though his eyes never left the gilded stranger. "Like in the stories."
The man's smile deepened, his gaze warming with quiet amusement—as if the boy's words had been a title, not a compliment. "Ah, but in stories, my young friend, it's the listener who makes the hero, not the teller. You've already made me better than I deserve to be."
The mother gave a gentle, almost embarrassed laugh, her eyes bright with quiet amusement. "My little butterfly insists you're a foreign prince," she said, brushing a stray curl from her son's brow. "Tell me—what's that like?"
"I wouldn't have the slightest idea, to tell you the truth," the golden man replied with a lilt of humor.
He bent at the waist, a bow too graceful to belong to a mere traveler. "I am but a humble noble upon foreign soil," he said, the cadence almost lyrical. "And I tread the same roads any soul would, one step after another—though perhaps I pay more attention to where they lead."
A few steps away, Arkeia watched, her expression caught between admiration and unease. The warmth in his voice was disarming, the charm effortless, and yet every syllable felt measured—like a melody too perfect to be wholly sincere.
"Can I still call you Mister Prince?" Edwin asked, his eyes alight with mischief and delight.
"Oh, my boy is just dead set, I'm afraid," the mother said, laughing softly, her tone bright with easy affection.
"No, that's quite alright," the man said, resting a hand lightly over his heart. "He's far too kind—and kindness, I find, is the mark of a young gentleman in the making." His gaze drifted upward, settling upon the mother for a beat longer than politeness required. "A reflection, no doubt, of fine guidance."
"Oh, you're too kind," she murmured, a faint color blooming in her cheeks. "Are you sure you're not a prince?"
Nearby, Aethon lounged against the trunk of a willow, arms crossed, his smirk curling like smoke from a brazier left too long unattended. "Much too kind indeed, brother," he drawled, his voice rolling smooth and mocking all at once. "You flatter like a bard on madman's mead—put it away before someone starts swooning."
The golden man glanced back over his shoulder, offering Aethon a look equal parts fondness and jest. "Pay him no mind," he said to the woman, tone light as wine in glass. "He's merely… a touch sour when I'm getting all the attention."
Aethon scoffed, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a grin. "Sour? I'm sweet as truth, brother."
"Yes," the golden man murmured, turning back to the mother, "and just as rare."
His gaze softened again, gold catching in the light like warm dusk. "Perhaps lost nobility, then?" he mused aloud, his words low, almost conspiratorial—an invitation, not a question. "You carry yourself with such grace. That sort of poise is not learned; it's remembered."
The woman laughed softly, her eyes dropping in flustered disbelief. "My grace pales beside yours, sir. You speak far too finely for my sort."
"Ah," he replied with a grin that managed to sound both gallant and amused, "but a candle is no less lovely for standing beside the sun."
Her cheeks colored, a quick, shy smile flickering before she looked away. The boy, sensing only charm where others might sense danger, giggled.
From where she stood, Arkeia watched the exchange with a tightening in her chest she could not name—part irritation, part fascination. Aethon caught her stare from across the fire and lifted a brow, smirking as if to say, and yet, you're still watching him.
Before the golden man could charm another breath from the air, Arkeia stepped forward. Her voice was brisk, disciplined—steel wrapped in courtesy. "Excuse me, madam. Night falls fast, and the stars will soon be upon us. Might we have your leave to make camp here?"
The woman blinked as if surfacing from a dream, her composure fluttering back like a startled bird. "Of course," she said, though her eyes lingered on the golden man longer than they should have. "There's a clearing just beyond my property—past the fence, along the forest's edge." She gestured vaguely toward the trees. "Take what timber you need. There's plenty."
For a heartbeat, the air seemed to hold still. The woman hesitated mid-step, as if some half-forgotten thought had caught her tongue. When she spoke again, her tone had changed—warmer, uncertainly so.
"Would you… and your companions… care to join us for dinner?"
The words fell from her mouth with the ease of something already decided, as if they'd been waiting on her lips long before she'd chosen them.
Arkeia's eyes narrowed—not in suspicion of kindness, but in the way the offer felt, too natural, too inevitable. The air between the woman and the gilded man pulsed faintly, like the pause between two lines of a spell.
"Mister Prince shouldn't sleep outside!" Edwin blurted, his face lighting like a lantern newly lit. "We've got room—lots of room!" He tugged at his mother's sleeve with all the determination of a child petitioning heaven.
"Of course, of course," she echoed, her voice catching a new brightness that startled even her. "The guest cottage—yes, it's been waiting for visitors."
Arkeia's jaw tightened. The breath she let out through her nose was slow and quiet, but it carried enough weight to make the Crusaders glance toward her, unsure whether she was angry or merely resigned.
"I wouldn't wish to impose," the golden man said at last, his tone soft, careful, the practiced gentility of someone who always said precisely what he meant to. "What would the man of the house say?"
"He's away on trade," she answered quickly, the words too ready, too smooth. A small smile followed, tinged with pride. "But he'd agree with Edwin. My husband's a generous soul—he'd be out here with a drink in hand if he could."
From the edge of the group, Aethon tilted his head toward Vharn, smirking. "She twists his arm. What can one do."
The golden man pressed a hand to his chest in playful surrender, bowing just enough to make the gesture sincere without ever losing its grace. "Then I yield, my fair lady," he said warmly, "and humbly accept your offer. It would be a crime to refuse such hospitality."
"Yes!" Edwin clapped so hard it startled a nearby chicken into flapping indignantly across the yard. "Will you tell us a story, Mister Prince?"
Galeel groaned low under his breath, the sound half warning, half resignation. "Please, don't."
"But of course, lad!" the golden man declared, spreading his arms wide with mock grandeur. His voice rolled rich and warm, like a hearthsong sung in jest. He cast a sidelong glance toward Galeel, whose look of weary knowing said enough. "One from my younger—and far more reckless—years."
Aethon's smirk deepened, his tone teasing. "Ah, splendid. Another of your heroic misadventures, no doubt. Pray, brother, indulge us once more—before modesty devours you whole."
The golden man's eyes caught the last of the dying light, turning molten, gleaming with mischief. "Picture it, if you can: a sea gone mad beneath a sky scorned—clouds black as a widow's heart and just as cruel. We were three men against the tide…"
He paused just long enough to look toward Galeel, who had buried his face in his hand. "Although our dear Galeel may not remember it clearly. He spent most of the ordeal embracing the deck like a lover, praying to any god that would take his call."
A ripple of laughter moved through the Crusaders. Even the boy laughed, clapping again, eyes wide with delight.
"The waves roared like beasts," the golden man continued, his tone slipping into the rhythm of a seasoned raconteur. "The storm tore the sails from their bones. Our helmsman—a fisherman half-taken by the moon—steered us through the chaos as though the stars whispered secrets only he could hear. And I…"
He raised one finger in mock solemnity. "I climbed to the crow's nest. There, above the world's fury, I screamed my defiance at the heavens. I could smell the salt's rage, feel the sea's mane lashing my face, hear her song—her monstrous lullaby."
His voice lowered to a whisper. "Then came the wave. A mountain of water, black and endless, swallowing the sky. It rose starboard, ready to unmake us."
Edwin gasped, eyes wide as moons. "Did you die?"
The golden man leaned close, his grin conspiratorial, sharp at the edges. "Nearly," he said, his voice soft but thrumming with hidden mirth. "And just when I thought I might live… that was when the real danger began."
As he gestured, the air seemed to waver. The light from the lanterns bent, and for a fleeting instant the scent of salt and storm rolled through the village, as though his words had dragged a memory of the sea into being. The crows lining the fence shifted uneasily, feathers ruffling, their eyes catching too much of the firelight.
The mother, caught between laughter and unease, touched her son's shoulder. "Come now, Edwin, let the gentleman rest. It's time for supper."
Edwin clung to the gilded man's arm as the mother ushered them toward her home. "But I want to know what happened next!"
"Oh, stories never end, my boy," the stranger said with a wink. "They only wait for the right moment to begin again."
He glanced toward Arkeia as he past, the faintest smile tugging at his lips—a smile that knew it had already overstayed its welcome, yet lingered all the same.
While her Crusaders busied themselves with the rhythm of camp—armor settling, canvas drawn taut, the muted clatter of spears laid to rest—Arkeia's eyes did not follow their motions. Her gaze was caught, instead, on the small cottage at the end of the road. The stranger's silhouette filled its doorway for an instant, gilded by the amber glow of the hearth within, before he stepped through and vanished into the dark.
The door closed softly behind him, yet the sound seemed to echo far longer than it should have—through her thoughts, through the still air of the hamlet, through something unseen.
It was as if the house itself had been waiting for him. The old timbers creaked once, a sound too deliberate for mere age, and the faint smell of sap and soot turned sweet—honeyed, faintly metallic, unsettlingly alive.
Arkeia felt the prickle of unease crawl along her neck, but she did not move. Her gauntlet tightened briefly on the hilt of her sword before she released it again.
In the branches above, a murder of crows stirred in unison, feathers whispering like black silk dragged across stone. They did not caw, did not scatter. They only turned their heads—every beady eye fixed not on the Crusaders, nor on Arkeia, they stayed fixed on the house.
And for the first time in many years, found herself whispering a prayer not for protection—but for understanding.
——Hearth in Hamlets, Whispers amongst the Leaves——
The village breathed shallowly. The stars above seemed to hesitate.
As the hour deepened and the night settled heavy upon the camp, Arkeia sat with her Crusaders around a fire that refused to feel like home. They were fed, their limbs rested, yet no laughter rose among them. The trees seemed to lean inward, their silhouettes crowding the edges of the clearing. The fire burned too clean, its flames almost deliberate in their shape. Above, the stars turned in a rhythm that felt wrong to the soul, and the forest itself creaked with unspoken things, the groans of age carrying no wind to excuse them. Time seemed stretched thin, like a skin drawn too tight, and the flames—though bright—gave no smoke. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick and breathing with memory.
The Rex name still smoldered in her chest—an ember lodged too deep to dislodge, searing with each breath. Rex… the house that had cursed her bloodline, poisoned her family's fortunes, and turned prayer into ash.
I loathe them all…
The thought burned through her like molten iron, too fierce to smother, too deep to voice.
It coiled behind her ribs, a quiet inferno she could never quite extinguish—only feed.
Her grandmother's voice came back to her as it always did—
not memory, but manifestation.
Thin and trembling, like wine poured from a cracked chalice,
still potent enough to burn on the tongue.
"The birth of the Thirteenth Heir… that was when the suffering began, child.
He was touched—not by the gods, no… but by something the temples dare not name."
The words seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere,
a story worn smooth by centuries of fear, polished by the tongue of every woman who survived to tell it.
"It's said the boy had a twin."
A pause—
the sound of old bones creaking, as though even the chair recoiled from what came next.
"The brother died in mystery… no body, no pyre, no prayer.
And after that…"
Here the old woman's voice had always faltered, her breath catching not with age, but with the frost that memory brings.
"Brailford went silent for weeks.
The air itself refused to speak his name.
My mother… never spoke of it again."
Now, as Arkeia stared across the encampment, she felt that story breathing again—
alive, coiled in that man's poisoned smile.
She had not known what she expected to find in Mar'aya's crusade,
but it was not this.
He smiled like a man.
But what looked back from behind that smile was not.
Monsters… both of them,
the thought whispered through her like a blade drawn from the sheath of her soul.
That house—
that cursed, gilded, festering house.
The blood of the Rexes breeds monsters that wear humanity like perfume,
creatures not divided from demons by nature—
only by mortality.
Behind her, the fire cracked and hissed like a restless spirit. Shadows twisted upon the tents—too long, too sharp, never quite matching the men who cast them.
Thalos sat nearest the hearth, his hand coiled so tightly around his sword that the leather groaned in protest. His jaw worked behind his beard, grinding prayers into his teeth.
Edmun paced the perimeter of the firelight, glancing toward the trees with eyes that refused to rest. Each time the wind passed, his lips moved in whispers that sounded like scripture—but not one recognized.
Another Crusader stirred the pot of stew in slow, mechanical rhythm, as if afraid the silence itself might spill over should he stop. The broth's surface quivered—just once—and not from the ladle.
"My lady," Thalos began, voice roughened by suspicion and smoke, "you saw it too, didn't you? That man's charm with the villagers. It's not natural. It reeks of Hol'faln's touch."
Edmun halted his pacing. "You think them devils, then?" His tone was half jest, half plea. "If they were, our lady would have cast them back to the pit from which they crawled… right, my lady?"
The men turned toward her as if her answer might cleanse the air.
Arkeia didn't immediately speak. She stared into the fire—past it—into memory.
"They aren't devils," she said at last, her voice low, almost reluctant. "If they were, my sight would have revealed it."
"Then what are they?" Edmun pressed, stepping closer.
She frowned. "Something interferes with my vision. Mar'aya's sight cannot pierce them. That is how I know—they are not of the Seven."
Thalos jolted upright. "By the Twelve…" he muttered, making the sign of warding over his chest.
Edmun looked shaken. "Your eyes bear clarity's grace, my lady—how can that be? What could cloud divine sight?"
Arkeia's patience frayed. "That, Edmun, is exactly my concern. They are not what they seem. And yet…"
She caught herself, the rest of her thought swallowed by doubt.
"Well, they're certainly heathens," Thalos grumbled, forcing laughter that did not fit his throat. "No mortal of the Twelve reeks so strongly of blasphemy. I smelled it when I passed them—the air flinched."
"Well, they're certainly heathens," Thalos muttered, his tone too harsh to mask unease. He gave a forced chuckle that clanged hollow in the night air. "No mortal of the Twelve reeks so strongly of blasphemy. I smelled it when I passed them—the air flinched."
Edmun's eyes were grim in the firelight. "We received word from the Erdmoore outpost weeks ago—of a winged man bearing a woman across his shoulder, pale as death. They said he moved east toward our checkpoint." He paused, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I would've called it tavern talk… until I saw him with my own eyes."
Thalos snorted, shifting his weight, the firelight gleaming off his breastplate. "A 'wing-man' walking freely in Mar'vane's borders? I though it jest as well. No foreign blood carries that right. Not even the royal houses could slip the Pillar's decree."
Arkeia exhaled, her breath sharp and quiet. "Mar'aya sealed our borders for a reason. No elves, no dwarves, no beasts of other kind—only humans walk this soil." Her voice lowered to a murmur. "And yet, there he is with… him… walking unhindered."
Edmun's brow furrowed as his memory caught on something half-forgotten. "The name… Rex, wasn't it? I've heard whispers of their noble line. One of the Five Bloods favored by I'shala herself."
Arkeia's gaze lifted from the flames, her eyes cutting toward him like drawn steel. "Respectable," she said, tasting the word and finding it bitter. "The people of I'shamane call them the political jewel of the kingdom—but jewels can hide filth beneath their polish." She leaned forward, the firelight catching the edge of her armor. "Trust not the Rex name, Edmun."
The flames danced against her armor, painting it in shifting shades of gold and blood.
"Pardon, Edmun… I don't know what clouds my judgment," she said finally, half to herself. "But I know those twins keep something—something foul—hidden behind their smiles."
Her lip curled. "How 'noble' of them."
A few Crusaders dared a nervous chuckle, but it died in their throats. Silence followed—thick, waiting, watchful.
The fire popped. The forest breathed.
Arkeia stared into the coals, seeing there not flame, but faces—golden and grinning, the echo of an old house's curse.
Is it hatred that blinds me? she wondered. Or are they truly abominations wearing civility like a mask?
She could not tell.
Not yet.
But something deep within her bones whispered that she soon would.
——Gather round, Campfire's song——
From the skeletal branches above, a clutch of crows shifted, their black forms little more than serrated silhouettes against the dim stars. Their eyes caught the fire's glow in brief, ember-red glints, each turn of their heads too precise, too in unison. They watched without sound, as though awaiting a signal only they would recognize.
Further off, where the cottage's shadow bled into the curling treeline, Galeel stood apart—silent, motionless, and facing west. In his arms, Elissa lay cradled, her breath a faint, steady rhythm against the quiet. He was less sentinel than statue, a figure carved from shadow and waiting dusk.
His wings, folded tightly against his back, gave a single, shivering tremor. From somewhere beyond the veil, a scent drifted—iron, ash, and the memory of storms. Something ancient had shifted. Not a presence… but a memory, roused from the deep. And though he could not yet grasp its shape, he remembered forgetting it.
A moth descended from the dark—too large, too silent, its wings moving like slow thoughts through ink. It circled once, twice, before alighting on Elissa's shoulder without stirring her from her strange, tranquil sleep.
Its wings bore markings that should not be—lines that curved in ways the mind refused to hold, sigils that bent sight itself, teasing the edges of sanity. The symbols shimmered, faint and phosphorescent, like constellations glimpsed beneath deep water.
Galeel did not move to brush it away. He only watched, his gaze fixed—on the moth, on Elissa, on the wavering fire beyond. His eyes were distant, reflecting flame and memory both. He was waiting for something, though he could not have said what.
The night stilled its blood.
Then, without warning—
"Salutations."
The word rolled through the clearing like silk drawn across steel, soft and mocking all at once.
The Crusaders jolted as one, their armor clattering in a discordant hymn. Swords rasped free, firelight flashing across their blades.
And then—he was there.
Not emerging from the trees.
Not stepping out of the mist.
Not crossing the ground at all.
He had not walked—he had arrived.
"Now, now," he said, voice gentle, amused. "Is this any way to greet a guest?"
No one had heard a step, no rustle of leaves, no breath of wind to carry him. One heartbeat he was absent, the next he occupied the space, as though the night had decided to remember him all at once.
"Forgive the intrusion," the golden man said, his voice warm enough to almost hide the impossibility of his entrance. "I find silence… terribly lonesome."
Arkeia was the first to see him—just before the firelight reached his face. He stood at its edge like a thought made visible, the dark reluctant to release him into sight.
She rose smoothly, her sword still sheathed but angled toward the light, her posture more warning than welcome. Her men glanced to her for command, the tension humming between them.
She lifted one hand in a sharp, commanding motion—
"Peace," she said, her tone firm enough to still steel mid-draw. The Crusaders hesitated, half-bent in aggression, uncertain whether her word was reprieve or warning.
Arkeia rose slowly, every inch of her movement deliberate, her posture as measured as a drawn bow.
Across the firelight, the golden man inclined his head—not as one yielding, but as though acknowledging the rules of a game.
"I've brought no weapon," he said, his voice a calm ripple through the tension. "Only questions."
"You were not invited," she replied, each word clipped, balanced carefully between hostility and restraint.
"True," he admitted easily, the word rolling off his tongue like confession and jest in equal measure.
"But it was either this," he gestured lazily to the campfire, "or suffer another of Aethon's grand romances. He's convinced he once seduced a river nymph on a ferry."
A few Crusaders glanced up, unsure if they were meant to laugh.
Edmun, whose face could have been carved from the same stone as his sword, allowed the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Did he?"
"Only halfway," the gilded man replied with a grave nod, lowering his voice as though confessing a tragedy. "The nymph agreed to dinner, but…"—he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with wicked delight—"apparently she had reservations."
The silence cracked. A few men laughed, one nearly choking on his stew.
Even Edmun exhaled through his nose—a laugh disguised as a sigh. "And the ferry?"
"Ah, yes, the ferry." The man's tone shifted into mock lament, his expression suddenly solemn. "Aethon lost us that, too. The poor boatman refused to row another stroke after my brother announced he was in a complicated relationship with the current."
He paused for dramatic effect, eyes sweeping across the firelit faces.
"Something about crossed signals… and mixed tides."
The Crusaders broke again, laughter echoing through the encampment like blasphemy disguised as relief. Arkeia did not join them. Her gaze remained steady on the smiling man, weighing each word as if measuring the space between humor and manipulation.
Behind the laughter and clatter of bowls, Thalos kept his vigil. His eyes swept the treeline, steady and unblinking, like a hound scenting a trail the others couldn't see.
The forest was wrong.
Not a leaf stirred. Not a whisper of wind passed through the boughs. Even the insects had gone silent, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
Thalos's brow knit into a hard line.
Forests were meant to move, to breathe.
This one watched.
"I hope I haven't interrupted anything important ," said the golden man, his smirk balanced perfectly between arrogance and amusement—as if the answer, whatever it might be, was already beneath his concern.
He stepped forward, the hem of his robe sighing against the earth—soft as silk, yet heavy with something ancient, the sound of memory woven into fabric.
"Balfazar Rex the Thirteenth," he announced, bowing with a flourish too graceful for mere formality and too deliberate for sincerity. "At your pleasure."
The firelight caught his smile—half mirth, half mischief, and all theatre. He spoke not as a man introducing himself, but as though he were reminding the world who he was.
Arkeia stiffened. "You startled us."
"Only because I wanted to," Balfazar replied easily, his tone as warm as it was infuriating.
He dipped into another bow—shallower this time, the precise depth of mockery. "Might I sit? I promise to keep my heresies to a low murmur."
Arkeia's eyes narrowed. She gestured toward the fire, her motion slow, measured. "You're already here," she said.
Balfazar lowered himself into the circle with the ease of one settling before an old, familiar hearth—yet the air bent strangely around him. No warmth followed. The flames themselves seemed to lean his way, their tongues curling upward, inquisitive, as though they recognized in him a kinship not meant for mortal fire.
"You came to talk," Arkeia said at last, her voice taut as drawn steel, her gaze locked to his. "Then speak."
"Ah," Balfazar breathed, his tone warm but threaded with something just a touch too smooth, too rehearsed—like silk stretched over thorns. "Straight to the point. How refreshing."
He leaned forward slightly, the fire painting shifting patterns across his face, catching in the gold of his hair like dusk recalling sunlight. "You see, I couldn't help but notice your silence," he went on, his words measured, as though testing the weight of each one before letting it fall. "I had expected interrogation—endless questions, accusations, perhaps a touch of righteous fury." His smile flickered wider, more genuine—or more dangerous. "But instead, you've given us only quiet. I find that curious. Tell me, my lady crusader… why?"
The crackle of the fire filled the pause that followed, a sound far too loud in the space between them.
Arkeia did not immediately answer. She watched him through the heat haze, through the warping shimmer of light that seemed to bend differently around him—subtly, unnaturally. He was beautiful in the way polished blades are beautiful: reflective, dangerous, designed to invite the hand and then cut it.
"You don't strike me as someone who merely notices," she said at last, her voice steady but cold, every word placed like the tip of a spear.
Balfazar pressed a hand to his chest in a theatrical gesture of wounded pride, eyes widening in mock offense. "Ah—straight through the ribs and into the heart. Cruelty in full bloom." His lips curved into that easy, dangerous smile. "I'll have you know, I'm often praised for my powers of observation—particularly when the one observed is gracious enough not to look away."
A ripple of laughter passed through the Crusaders, low and uneasy, like the first crack in a long-frozen river. Even Thalos, stoic as stone, allowed himself the shadow of a smirk.
But the mirth never reached Arkeia. Her expression remained carved from discipline and distrust; her shoulders held their soldier's poise, her spine drawn taut as a string ready to sing the note of violence.
The fire between them hissed as if aware of the tension—one spark leapt upward, dying before it reached the night.
Across the circle, one Crusader absently scratched at his wrist—where the faint trace of a scar, the ghost of a burned sigil, lingered like a secret that refused to fade. The mark caught the light for a moment, glimmering with the memory of old vows better left unspoken.
Another, seated closest to the fire, watched the shadows dance across the ground—only to realize they did not move in unison. Three silhouettes bowed in three different directions, each tracing a separate benediction. None belonged to the rites of Mar'aya.
He blinked, heart quickening. The gestures ceased as suddenly as they had begun. Yet for a breath too long, the darkness seemed to whisper its own amen.
In the distance, Elissa stirred faintly in Galeel's arms, her lips parting with the fragile tremor of dream-speech, a whisper fragile as candlelight.
"Ancients sleep on time-woven dreams… and the stars fear what they once refused to remember."
Galeel's gaze dropped to her face, his expression carved from silence—neither pity nor peace, only the slow erosion of both. He turned toward the cottage, his steps deliberate, the tread of one who had weathered a storm too long to mistake its calm for safety.
As he crossed the threshold, his voice carried after him, quiet but edged with weary knowing:
"There he goes again… with his 'fun.'"
High above, the heavens seemed to hesitate—the stars shifted in their courses, a subtle falter of light, as though caught mid-twinkle … mid-dance… uncertain whether to shine or to hide.
Balfazar sat before the fire, its glow painting gold across his features, every flicker etching shadows that seemed almost alive. His gaze lingered on the embers—not as one lost in thought, but as though deciphering a language only he could read, the dying sparks spelling truths too fleeting for mortal eyes.
At last, he stirred, the faintest tilt of his head breaking the stillness. His eyes lifted to meet hers—slowly, deliberately—like dawn acknowledging the night it was about to unmake.
"Say," he began, his voice warm but threaded with a glint of amusement, "we never did answer your question 'plainly', did we? You hurled your assumptions like spears before I'd even formed a proper reply." His smile curved, equal parts mischief and invitation. "Tell me—do you truly believe one of us to be in league with that vile fiend, or…"—he leaned forward, just enough to catch her reflection in his gaze—"dare I say, under suspicion of being the Promised One?"
Her eyes narrowed—sharp, deliberate, the motion of a hunter drawing aim but not yet loosing. The firelight caught in her irises like molten gold, reflecting the question back at him with equal precision. She searched his face for the direction of the blade he'd just drawn with his tongue, trying to discern whether it was curiosity… or bait.
"Your brother," she said at last, voice steady but edged in tempered steel, "he's the one I watch—mostly."
A hint of something unreadable crossed his face—a fleck of amusement, or perhaps warning. The fire cracked between them, its glow catching in his eyes like laughter behind glass.
Balfazar tilted his head in mock surprise. "Aethon? Oh, he's mostly harmless. Playful. Insufferably theatrical. The kind of man who can turn an afternoon stroll into a three-act tragedy, complete with monologue."
Unseen, Aethon lounged in the cottage window, the flame of a solitary candle casting his silhouette in molten gold. He lifted a silver cup in a silent toast, lips shaping the words, "Well played, brother," before taking a long, unhurried sip, satisfaction curling at the edges of his smile.
"He's hiding something," Arkeia pressed, her words cutting through the low crackle of the fire. "A gaze like his doesn't come from innocence."
"My sweet brother?" Balfazar's voice curved with warmth that sounded viciously close to affection. "He hides nothing but smirks and sarcasm—oh, and a chronic inability to take anything seriously."
"He reeks of manipulation," Arkeia countered, her tone like steel dragged across stone. "And moral filth."
"True," Balfazar conceded with disarming ease, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. "But really, if he were the Promised One, would he flirt so poorly?"
From the cottage window, unseen by either of them, Aethon sputtered into his drink, coughing once before muttering, "Oh, you piece of—" He cut himself short, glaring at the firelight as though it had personally insulted him.
Arkeia's laugh came once—quick, sharp, and clean as a blade leaving its sheath.
"And what about you?" she said, voice low, eyes unflinching. "You flirt like a man with a knife behind his back."
Balfazar tilted his head, that infuriating smile flickering like a trick of the flame. "Or perhaps," he mused softly, "just a rose."
"No." Her reply came as swift as thought, laced with certainty. "A rose doesn't warp the air around it. It doesn't make insects veer from its shadow as though they'd brushed against poison."
The fire between them hissed, a log shifting under its own slow collapse. Its sparks rose and died in silence—each one like a breath the world forgot to take.
Balfazar's smile didn't fade, but something in his eyes changed—a gleam of admiration, or warning, or both.
"Oh, my my, my," he said at last, the words curling in amusement. "Does your gaze linger on me often, Lady Arkeia. Should I be flattered?"
She regarded him coolly, her gaze sharp enough to shave the quiet between them. "I still suspect your brother," she said, the words measured, bait dangled with intent.
"And why is that?" Balfazar asked, his tone light—almost careless—but beneath it ran a subtle current, a flicker of genuine curiosity veiled in play.
"He speaks like a man who wants to be caught," Arkeia replied. "His nobility fits too well—it's a costume tailored by habit. He lies with the ease of someone who's done it all his life."
"That doesn't sound like my brother, Lady Paladin," Balfazar murmured, his eyes narrowing just enough for the fire to catch in them—half amusement, half something more dangerous.
"Yes," she said, her voice steady but her stare unrelenting, "I do wonder why."
For a heartbeat, he was still. And then—he laughed. A haunting, beautiful sound that rolled through the forest like the echo of a hymn sung in madness. It wasn't mockery. It was joy—raw, unrestrained, and chilling in its sincerity.
When the laughter faded, Balfazar leaned forward, the firelight gilding his face in gold and shadow. His voice softened, intimate as a secret.
"And I?" he asked, a smile curving slow across his lips. "What do I seem to you, princess."
The fire flickered, leaning closer, hungry for her answer.
Her brow knit faintly at his use of that title, but her composure never wavered. "Strange," she said, voice even. "Unsettling. Charming—poisonously so. Your brother is transparent, honest in his corruption… but you—" her gaze sharpened, "you hide, and you do it well."
Balfazar smiled at that, slow and deliberate, the expression of a man flattered by a knife.
"Don't we all?" he murmured, the softness in his tone too careful to be comfort. "You carry grief. I carry riddles. Galeel carries Elissa… and Aethon carries wine—badly."
That earned him a ripple of laughter from the Crusaders, breaking the taut air like glass underfoot.
Edmun all but doubled over, his laughter loud and wheezing, tears catching the firelight. And Thalos—grim Thalos, whose humor was rarer than mercy in a war zone—turned aside to laugh quietly into his gauntlet, a single huff escaping like a secret betrayed.
But Arkeia did not join in the humor. Her silence was iron; her gaze, a blade left in the forge too long. She studied him across the fire, measuring every angle of that easy smile, every flicker of gold in his eyes that refused to belong wholly to man or god.
Balfazar met her stare without flinching, his amusement softening—not mocking, but intimate, disturbing in its familiarity.
The firelight danced between them, its glow dimming under the weight of their silence. The laughter faded around the flame—Crusaders sensing something they could not name, a tension that hummed like a plucked string stretched between two fates waiting to snap.
"I've seen the shadows curl around you," she broke the silence, her voice low, steady. "The birds go silent. The trees bend ever so slightly toward your path. Ever since we met, Neva'mor itself has felt… wrong."
Arkeia jabbed the burning logs, scattering embers like molten stars. The sparks rose, only to spiral toward him—as if drawn by some invisible gravity. The fire bent not to the wind, but to his presence, its flicker matching a rhythm older than breath.
"You wear that form too well," she said at last, her tone measured, the weight of suspicion disguised as observation.
He turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate, the gesture feline in its patience. "What form would that be?"
"That act of yours," she replied, gaze unwavering. "You play at being a man."
Her voice sharpened—not in anger, but conviction. "But I see through it."
He studied her for a long moment, eyes glinting with something both ancient and amused. Then his smile bloomed, bright as dawn—beautiful, terrible, and wrong.
"Do you?" he murmured, the words soft, yet carrying the weight of something that had heard too many truths before. His smile flickered—neither cruel nor kind, only knowing.
"That's what they all say," he continued, voice dipping to a near whisper. "Before they open their eyes."
A moment stretched, weightless and fragile. Arkeia felt her breath hitch—not in fear, but in some deeper recognition her mind clawed to name. The world seemed to lean closer, the air tightening around them, silently witnessing the acts unfolding under the moons gloom hues.
"No one heard your approach."
"I walk lightly," he said with a soft chuckle, the sound threaded with something uncomfortably human. "An old habit… and one I've found useful in the company of armed strangers."
Her eyes narrowed. "You watched us from the shadows."
"I'm curious," he replied, as though confessing to some mild indulgence. "Another old habit. Though I admit, that one's much harder to break."
"You speak as if you've never known fear."
"Fear?" His head tilted slightly, the smile that followed both too calm and too honest. "Ah, that one. I've heard it's quite the teacher—but I've yet to make its acquaintance. Perhaps you'd be willing to tutor me?"
Her expression stayed cool, though her fingers tightened slightly against her gauntlet. "You're patient," she said after a pause. "Too patient."
Balfazar's gaze glimmered in the firelight—liquid gold shot through with something deeper, like sunlight reflecting off oil. "Ah… so you think patience is dangerous?"
"I think," she said, her tone firm but quiet, "it's the weapon of choice for gods and monsters."
Balfazar finally held his tongue, letting that damned, knowing smile do the talking in his stead. It said more than words ever could—mockery, amusement, and something perilously close to affection.
In the near distance, Caelinda lingered in the doorway of the cottage, her shape half-swallowed by veil and shadow. The dim light caught the faint shimmer of ichor at her throat, where devotion and hunger met. She spoke no word, yet her silence carried weight, heavy as the breath before a hymn.
Her head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk curving her lips—part worship, part warning. She watched the pair through the doorway like a priestess at a forbidden ritual, patient and reverent… but in her gaze smoldered the unmistakable heat of possession.
Her voice drifted through the dark, soft as a benediction, heavy as a curse:
"My prince made of honey… a rusted sword forged in grief.
The fire will not burn what already dreams."
The words slid into the clearing and lingered, clinging to the air like smoke that refused to fade. Whether any of the Crusaders heard them was uncertain—no one stirred, no one turned.
Balfazar turned his head slightly, as though he alone had understood the meaning—or worse, expected it. His eyes caught the edge of the dark where Caelinda stood, a flicker of recognition passing between them like a secret traded in silence.
And with a timing too deliberate to be coincidence, he said, softly—almost cheerfully,
"Would you like to hear a joke?"
Arkeia's brow twitched, a small betrayal of irritation—or unease. She said nothing.
A low, velvety chuckle that rippled through the firelight, curling at the edges like smoke. The smile that followed was deliberate, knowing, and far too patient. It carried the quiet gravity of someone who might tell the joke… or might be it.
"A prophet walks into a bar," Balfazar began, leaning back slightly, his voice slipping into the smooth cadence of a man who knows his audience will either laugh or dream about it later. "He sits down, looks the barkeep dead in the eye, and says, 'I'll have what I'm going to have tomorrow.'"
A pause—just long enough for the Crusaders to exchange puzzled glances.
"The barkeep stares at him for a moment," Balfazar continued, "then slowly disappears into the back. When he returns, he sets down nothing but an empty glass. 'We stopped serving futures,' he says, 'after the last one exploded.'"
A faint curl of amusement played at the edge of Balfazar's mouth as he went on. "Apparently, the stains never came out. And you wouldn't believe the paperwork. Try explaining to the magistrate how a patron's destiny caught fire halfway through happy hour."
He let the silence stretch, the fire popping once between them. "The prophet didn't tip," he added finally, with a shrug. "Said he'd already done it in a past life."
The Crusaders burst into laughter, half from relief, half from actual amusement. One clapped Balfazar on the back. Another offered him a wineskin. A third muttered, "I'll remember that one."
Arkeia's gaze lingered on him like a scholar to tome. "You're too still. Too… welcoming."
"Is that such a crime?" he asked, his tone as smooth as the grin that followed.
"It's unnatural."
He grinned, leaning forward just enough for the shadows to shift across his face. "If you think my charm is unnatural, you should meet Aethon when he's flirting. That's a true act of divine punishment."
From the cottage window, unseen, Aethon flung his chalice against the sill with a muted clink, muttering something deeply unfit for polite company.
A ripple of laughter passed among a few of the Crusaders, their unease eased for a heartbeat.
Balfazar leaned back into the shadows again, the smile never leaving his lips. "But perhaps you're right," he said, his voice softening without losing its edge. "Perhaps we are not what we seem. Perhaps…"—his gaze swept the circle—"…none of us are."
The fire lurched, flaring in a sudden violent arc though no wind stirred. Sparks danced upward, scattered like fleeing stars.
Arkeia's gaze snapped to him, sharp and deliberate—no longer curiosity, but accusation.
"Flames obey you," she said, voice low and edged. "Just as everyone around you bends to your charm. Even the stars shift behind your head—for saints' sake, you make the sky nervous."
Balfazar's grin unfurled, slow and unbothered, like a man savoring the taste of her suspicion.
"And you notice," he said softly, as if confessing something intimate. "That's what makes you special."
His words carried through the camp like warm wine, loosening the air itself. One of the Crusaders exhaled without meaning to; another forgot the prayer halfway on his lips.
Thalos muttered under his breath, hand still on his sword but slackened, "He's not even sweating…"
Arkeia didn't flinch. "You move without sound," she said, each word a test, each breath a blade.
He tilted his head, eyes bright as molten dusk.
"Sound moves," he replied, "when I permit it."
"Your presence warps all reason," she pressed, her tone like a blade testing armor. "You wear the world like a mask."
"And yet you still speak with me," he said, leaning just slightly forward. "Brave girl."
Her patience began to fray, the edge in her gaze sharpening.
"You smile too easily," she muttered.
"Because I like the game," he answered, the corners of his mouth curving further—as if to prove her right.
She raised her voice, each word carrying the weight of a verdict. "You pompous ass—I see past your veil of fog. Your cloak isn't illusion—it's warped perception. Whenever you're near, nothing feelsto be right—The world missteps."
"How perceptive of you, princess," he said, his smile brightening—not in warmth, but precision, as though the gesture were honed rather than felt. "That's why I like you."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, restraining the retort that burned at the back of her throat. "What are you, truly?"
He seemed to consider the question with almost childlike patience, turning it over in his mind as though it amused him. "A man," he said at last, voice smooth as rippling glass. "A memory. A promise."
"I can feel what you are," she countered, the words low, threaded with both defiance and doubt.
For a moment, the firelight caught in his eyes—bright, fathomless, impossible.
"And yet you resist," he murmured, stepping just close enough for the air to grow thin between them. The faintest curve returned to his lips—measured, deliberate, predatory.
"I find that… intoxicating, Lady Silmane."
Her breath caught—sharp, involuntary. The name hung between them like a drawn sword, gleaming in the firelight. None here knew that name. None should have.
Her composure fractured, just for a moment—enough for her eyes to widen before she mastered them again. "You will not speak that name," she said, her voice low, dangerous, trembling with something that wasn't entirely anger.
A final grin etched itself across his face—one that felt carved, not worn.
"I should be off," Balfazar said at last, rising with a movement too fluid to be mortal grace. The firelight caught the edges of his form as though reluctant to release him. "I have—let's say—other matters to attend to."
The words came lightly, playfully, yet every syllable carried weight, like stones dropped into deep water. That smile lingered a heartbeat too long, curving at the edge of mystery—an unspoken jest he alone understood.
He brushed invisible dust from his sleeve, glanced toward the horizon, and added with a glint of mock civility, "Try not to miss me too soon. I'd hate to think absence might improve your opinion of me."
Arkeia held his gaze, unblinking, unflinching—steel meeting gold. The air between them stretched thin, trembling like a drawn bow. Around the fire, the Crusaders forgot to breathe. No one dared move. The night itself seemed to balance on the edge of that silence.
Balfazar turned first. Not in defeat, but in decision. His steps were unhurried, deliberate—each one leaving the faint impression that the earth moved to meet him. The flames bent subtly toward his retreating form, drawn to his wake like moths chasing something they could not survive.
At the cottage threshold, Caelinda waited. She stood half in shadow, half in something darker in hue—her stillness was not absence, but presence. The air around her shimmered faintly, as if light itself hesitated to settle on her skin.
He did not look surprised to see her. He never did.
When he reached her, Caelinda drifted forward—not walking, but gliding, her motion a silent ripple that disturbed neither dust nor dew. She passed him with the grace of a veil slipping over flame. Her gaze swept over the Crusaders, cool and unreadable, her eyes pale as moonlit glass.
The door closed behind them of its own accord, the latch clicking with eerie precision—a punctuation mark on something unspoken.
And then came the sound.
From the branches above, crows burst into sudden flight, black wings tearing through the stillness in a storm of feathers and cries. Their ragged caws filled the clearing, wild and discordant—until one, swooping low through the firelight, broke from the chaos and croaked a word that froze Arkeia's blood.
"Rose."
The name—if it was one—hung in the air long after the birds had gone.
Arkeia's breath caught in her chest. The flames shuddered once, then stilled, reflecting a shape in her mind she could not unsee—his smile. Not an expression, but a promise. The kind that did not fade with distance, only deepened with waiting.
And somewhere beyond the cottage walls, she thought she heard laughter—soft, fond, and terribly patient.