Kushan Outpost, Narn
Year - 6999 NY
The wind scoured the frozen plains like a thing alive, howling through the skeletal remains of once-proud trees and gnawing at fur and hide with merciless teeth. Kon and Kopa moved wordlessly through the vast silence, their figures stark against the snow-washed horizon. The Stone Table now lay behind them, fading into myth as all sacred places do the moment one turns away from them.
Yet the weight of what had transpired did not lift. It clung to Kon's shoulders like a cloak of ash, heavy and coarse. Each step forward stirred memories—The Shadow's voice slithering through the air like a cold knife, the sight of his white fur blending with the dark, his eyes full of old, cruel knowing. Kon had seen many terrifying things in his life, but that presence… it had cut deeper. Not with brute power, but with something more invasive. Intimate. It had felt like being read from the inside out.
And yet, even as that memory burned in his chest, something else tugged at the edge of his mind—something he hadn't quite understood at the time, but which had been gnawing at him ever since they turned away from the Table.
He couldn't keep it in anymore.
"Back at the pillar…" Kon's voice came low, more gravel than speech, as though even the act of voicing it disturbed the snow. He didn't look at Kopa at first—just watched the horizon. "I noticed something strange. The Shadow never spoke directly to Asalan. Not once. He didn't even look at him."
His striped tail flicked behind him, unease creeping into the movement. "There was something in his posture, in the way his voice curled around the edges of every sentence. He was hiding it… but I could smell it. Fear. Real fear. As powerful as he is…"—he glanced sideways—"he's afraid of Asalan."
For a moment, Kopa didn't answer. His long, graceful legs moved with steady purpose, hooves silent in the snow. But his breath curled thoughtfully from his nostrils, and when he did speak, it was with the slow weight of someone used to saying little, and meaning much.
"It makes sense," Kopa said quietly, the breeze catching on the tip of his antlers like threads of silver fire. "Asalan isn't just a name in a hymn or a banner on the wind. He is the wind. The breath in every living thing. He was the first voice, the first light. A creature like The Shadow may command armies and swallow kingdoms, but even darkness remembers the first time it met light—and how it shrank."
Kon said nothing. But something stirred inside him—a warmth, faint and flickering like a candle struggling in a draught, yet there. Hope. Not the loud kind shouted from rooftops, but the quieter kind that lives in silence, in footfalls over snow, in the unspoken knowledge that evil, no matter how monstrous, still trembles at the memory of good.
And that perhaps, just perhaps, The Shadow wasn't as invincible as he claimed to be.
They walked in silence for some time after that, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of snow underfoot and the distant sighing of the wind through frost-covered trees. But eventually, Kon's curiosity stirred again, pushing through the lingering tension like a blade through ice.
"What's the Air Lord like?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant—as if the question itself held too much weight to be spoken aloud.
Kopa glanced at him, a knowing smile touching his lips. "He's not so different from you," he said after a thoughtful pause. "Serious, focused… fiercely independent."
Kon raised an eyebrow. "So… stubborn?"
A light chuckle escaped Kopa. "That too," he admitted. "But he's more precise than you. Calculated. You act with your heart—he acts with his mind. You'll see soon enough. Meeting him is… an experience."
Kon swallowed the lump in his throat, unsure whether the anticipation rising within him was excitement or apprehension. Maybe both. He had met kings, monsters, even the Great Lion himself—but something about meeting the Air Lord, a figure tied so closely to his late father, felt different. Personal, somehow.
"So he's intense," Kon said.
"That's putting it mildly," Kopa replied, the chuckle in his voice fading.
And then—sound.
Faint, at first, like the echo of a distant storm, but unmistakable: the clang of steel, the sharp screech of war cries, and the haunting resonance of Tracients locked in battle. The wind, which had once howled like a spirit through the mountains, now carried with it the stench of blood and fire.
Kon's ears twitched instinctively. His steps slowed. Every part of him sharpened like a drawn blade.
Kopa's expression darkened as he came to a halt and gestured for Kon to follow him low along the ridge. They moved silently, with the careful grace of hunters, until they crested the rise.
Below them, the snowy plains had been shattered by war.
The battle unfolded like a painting come to violent life. A pack of monstrous Hyena Tracients—Razik's soldiers—roared as they crashed through the defensive line of winged warriors. These were the Aerial Tracients, guardians of the sky, their feathers slicked with sweat and streaked with crimson, their weapons gleaming even as their formation faltered.
The air throbbed with chaos. Flapping wings stirred up snow in wild eddies, steel clanged against bone, and war cries echoed like thunder across the battlefield. The Hyenas fought with a brutality that shook the earth—cleavers and maces swung wide, their laughter grotesque, mocking. They relished the violence.
Kon's breath caught in his throat.
At the center of the fray stood a massive Hyena Commander, armored in jagged iron and crimson hides. His mane was braided with bone charms, and his eyes glowed with sick delight. He laughed—a sound so vicious it sent chills up Kon's spine—as he cleaved through two bird warriors with one savage motion. The Aerial Tracients, though swift and courageous, were being driven back. Their elegant formations broke under the weight of sheer force.
Kon's fists clenched at his sides.
They need help.
His body tensed, the spark of mana flaring to life beneath his skin. Rage pulsed in his veins—not just from the sight of slaughter, but from helplessness. He wanted to leap into the fray, to turn the tide, to stand between the skyborn warriors and the bloodied claws of their foes.
But Kopa's hand snapped to his shoulder like iron.
"Wait," he whispered, voice like stone.
Kon turned sharply, confused and seething. "We have to help them—"
"There's something coming," Kopa said, eyes locked on the sky with eerie stillness. "Just observe."
His tone gave Kon pause. The urgency was gone, replaced by something colder—measured. Intentional. The deer's stance had changed. He wasn't afraid.
He was waiting.
Kon gritted his teeth, the storm in his chest demanding action. But still… he trusted Kopa. So he stood, heart hammering, breath shallow, and stared out across the battlefield with narrowed eyes, waiting to see what the wind would bring.
Then, it happened.
The world seemed to draw in a breath—not a gentle breath, but a sharp, sudden inhale, as though nature itself sensed something dreadful awakening. The still air twisted violently, forming a great whirlwind high above the battlefield. Snow rose in columns, dust spiraled upward like smoke from an unseen fire, and the sound of the wind turned shrill, almost intelligent.
The Hyenas faltered. First in confusion. Then in fear. Weapons half-raised, growls caught mid-throat, their eyes darted toward the storm overhead. Dust and snow whipped across their faces, stinging their eyes. A few tried to regroup, but chaos had already taken hold.
Kon stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "The air… it's changing," he murmured, more to himself than to Kopa.
And it was. The very air felt alive, as if it no longer obeyed the world's natural laws.
Something was moving within the sky—something fast. Too fast. He squinted, his eyes trying desperately to track the blur darting among the clouds. But he saw nothing. Not really. Only the aftermath.
One by one, the Hyenas fell.
No warning. No clash. No cry of defiance.
Just the thud of bodies hitting the frozen earth.
Each soldier had been felled by a single strike. Long, narrow feathers jutted from their backs and chests—each one placed with perfect precision. There was no wasted motion, no excess. Only clean, cold death.
Kon's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. He had seen death before—but this was different. This was artful. Controlled. Merciless.
The Hyena Commander—larger and more brutal than the rest—crouched beside one of the fallen, yanking the embedded feather free. His fingers trembled slightly. Blood dripped down the quill, hot and thick. The realization struck his face like a hammer.
He looked skyward.
And so did Kon.
What he saw would remain burned into his memory forever.
Suspended high above the battlefield, just beyond the reach of mere mortals, floated a figure cloaked in a cape of enormous feathers. They rustled in the wind like the wings of some ancient avian god. His face was unreadable—sharp, hollowed by purpose, and marked with a deep, jagged scar that ran from brow to cheek like a sword's verdict.
And those eyes…
Kon had never seen eyes like that. They were not angry. Not wrathful. But calculated. Cold as the skies above Narn and sharp as frostbite.
Is that what fate looks like… when it has no pity?
The figure's presence was not merely commanding—it shifted the battlefield. The very wind obeyed him, curling around his form like loyal hounds.
Then, with a single movement, the figure raised his arm.
Kon's breath caught in his throat.
The weapon in his hand—a long, gleaming sword—began to shift. Plates of metal folded and clicked into place, transforming into a bow of elegant design. It shimmered with mana, a silent radiance pulsing from its limbs. The transformation was effortless. Natural. As though it had always been both.
His cape lifted behind him, fanned out like wings in full display. And still, he had not spoken.
Kon took an unconscious step back. "What is that?" he asked, though his voice barely rose above the wind.
Kopa, who had yet to look away, finally spoke.
"That," he said, his voice almost reverent, "is one of the most terrifying weapons among the Narn Lords. It's feared across the land."
Kon believed him.
He couldn't tear his eyes away.
The Lord extended his other hand. From the wind itself—or perhaps from within the folds of his being—he drew a single glowing feather. It shimmered with golden mana, almost blinding in its brilliance.
Kon could feel the pressure of it. Even from afar.
It wasn't just a weapon—it was judgment.
The figure calmly notched the glowing feather to the bowstring. The air tensed. The clouds seemed to pause, holding their place. Even the snowflakes froze mid-fall, suspended in that final moment before calamity.
The Hyena Commander shouted something—perhaps a retreat. A warning. A prayer.
But his voice was drowned beneath the wind's roar.
Then, the Lord spoke.
"Disappear from the face of the world."
The words rang out clear. Icy. Final.
And then—release.
The feather shot upward into the sky, so fast it vanished in a blink. For one quiet second, all fell still.
Then—light.
A blinding flash split the heavens.
The single arrow split, like a star exploding, into thousands—no, tens of thousands—of shining feathers, each one a perfect echo of the first. They rained down from the heavens in a cascade of light and destruction, a divine storm of judgment.
Every arrow found its mark.
Not one missed.
Razik's forces were ripped apart in moments. Steel was no shield. Flesh was no protection. Armor, muscle, bone—none of it mattered. The feathers tore through them all like silk. And still, the Lord did not move. He simply hovered, impassive, as his will was executed across the battlefield below.
Kon stood frozen, the icy wind forgotten, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. The battlefield—mere moments ago a cacophony of war cries, clashing steel, and snarling Hyenas—had fallen into a hush so profound that even the wind dared not disturb it.
Below, Razik's once-mighty vanguard lay scattered like discarded husks across the snow, each body marked by the same cruel precision: a single feather, buried where it counted. It was not just a victory; it was a message. Power that did not scream—but whispered, and in its whisper, silenced all things.
It's not possible, Kon's mind protested. Nothing should be able to move like that. No being should be able to destroy an entire company… not alone.
His fists clenched slowly at his sides, his claws biting into his palms. His pride, so carefully honed, flickered beneath the surface. He had trained every day since childhood. He was the Grand Lord of the Arya of Destruction. And yet, this… this had been on another plane entirely.
"Who is that man?" Kon whispered, his voice smaller than he expected it to be, barely more than breath. His golden eyes didn't blink. He couldn't look away from the figure still suspended above the field—silent, steady, untouched. A creature of storm and shadow, regal in bearing and deadly beyond reason.
Beside him, Kopa's expression had shifted—not to fear, but to a calm reverence that spoke volumes. His antlers, so often standing proud in alertness, seemed to bow slightly, as if to the gravity of the name he was about to speak.
"That," he said slowly, "is the Lord of the Kushan Clan."
Kon felt a chill deeper than the cold touch his spine.
The Kushan Clan.
He had heard the names. Tales passed around campfires by the younger warriors when he was a rogue ronin. A Clan of aerial Tracients known for their aloofness, their discipline, and most of all—for their ruthless precision in warfare. But those had been whispers. Myths wrapped in rumor. He had never believed them.
Until now.
Still hovering above the battlefield, the figure began to descend—graceful as a falcon in calm descent. His wings, hidden beneath his feathered cloak, opened slightly to catch the wind, not for need, but for ceremony. Even gravity seemed to yield to him in silence. As he neared the bloodied earth, his feet touched down without a sound, his expression unchanged—ice carved into flesh.
Kopa took a slow step forward, his voice dropping into something that bordered on reverence. "Lord Talonir Kushan."
The name dropped like a weight into Kon's chest.
Kon turned it over in his mind—Talonir. A name he'd never heard spoken aloud, and yet, now it rang like a war drum in his thoughts. The memory of the falling feathers burned behind his eyes, refusing to fade. A thousand strikes in a single instant. Not wild chaos. Not rage. Surgical judgment.
He looked at Kopa, his voice quieter now, his bravado muted by what he had witnessed. "He's one of the Hazël, isn't he?"
Kopa nodded once. "And one of the few who's embraced it fully. Talonir Kushan does not fight battles, Kon. He ends them."
Kon's eyes drifted back to the silent figure, now walking calmly through the field of his fallen enemies—his cloak dragging across the snow like a brush dipped in red ink. Every step measured. Every breath deliberate.
And in that moment, Kon understood something he hadn't before. Power was not only in the force of one's strength—but in the absence of struggle. Talonir Kushan hadn't needed a battle.
He had delivered a verdict.