The moon hung low, a pale coin in a starless sky, casting its cold light over a field soaked in crimson. Bodies lay everywhere—twisted shapes, broken armor, shattered weapons. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the fading heat of battle.
At the center of the carnage stood a man.
Varyan Duskveil.
Black hair clung to his forehead, wet with sweat and blood—some his, most not. His eyes, glowing amethyst in the moonlight, burned with a quiet intensity that made even the dying enemies tremble. His clothes were torn, his skin scarred, yet his stance remained unbroken.
Around him, the surviving soldiers formed a ring—shields raised, spears trembling despite their attempt to look confident.
Captain Rovan Hale stepped forward, trying to mask the fear in his voice.
"Give up, monster," he shouted, though his voice cracked.
"We'll grant you a painless death if you kneel now."
A dozen blades pointed at him.
A dozen shadows waited to strike.
But Varyan merely exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Unmoved.
His purple eyes shifted from one terrified face to another.
"A painless death…" he murmured, almost to himself. "If only someone had offered me that years ago."
The soldiers hesitated. His voice wasn't angry. It wasn't desperate.
It was hollow.
Varyan straightened his back, letting his blood-smeared hand fall to his side.
"You want me to surrender?"
He gave a faint, humorless smile.
"Then let me tell you a story."
The wind stirred, carrying the stench of death across the field.
"My past wasn't written on battlefields like this," he began. "It started in a place much smaller… but far crueler."
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to attack or listen.
But something in those glowing purple eyes rooted them in place—fear, curiosity, or perhaps the feeling that these were the last words they would ever hear.
"I wasn't always this," he said softly. "I was once a child who wanted nothing more than to live quietly. But the world…" His voice tightened, cracks appearing beneath the calm. "The world carved that innocence out of me."
He took a step forward.
Not an attack.
Just a step.
Yet half the soldiers flinched.
"You ask me to give up. To accept mercy."
His expression hardened.
"Where was mercy when my family burned? Where was mercy when I was hunted like an animal? When they chained me, tortured me, named me a weapon?"
The purple glow in his eyes deepened—something ancient, something unbroken.
"No," Varyan whispered. "You don't get to decide the manner of my death."
Another step.
The soldiers tightened their formation in panic.
"And if fate wants me to die tonight…"
He raised his blood‑drenched hand, fingers curling like a promise.
"Then it will have to try harder."
The battlefield froze.
The moon dimmed behind drifting clouds.
And Varyan's past—his pain, his rage, his unending will to survive—rose with him like a shadow ready to swallow the night.
The fight wasn't over.
It had only just begun.