YEAR 985...
The afternoon rain drizzled steadily over the outskirts of the Kingdom of Averford, cloaking the landscape in a thin, silvery mist. At the edge of the great forest of Threnafell, a group of young riders prepared their horses beneath the shadow of ancient trees, the downpour doing little to deter their resolve.
"I wonder how the others are doing," Claire murmured, her voice nearly lost in the rhythm of raindrops. Worry creased her face, betraying the unease that tightened in her chest.
"I hope everything's going smoothly for them... though, I admit, I'm worried about Marth too," her companion replied, trying to offer comfort with a faint smile. But deep within, her own fears stirred restlessly.
The tension between the two girls was palpable, and rightly so. They stood at the brink of one of the most grueling trials required to become a Legionnaire of the Kingdom of Averford—a title reserved for the brave and the relentless.
From the shroud of rain, a man approached. He appeared to be in his forties, yet time had not claimed him fully. His presence commanded silence. Shoulder-length hair clung damply to his face, framing a beard neatly trimmed and eyes that burned with an intense, discerning light. There was something in his gaze that stripped away pretense—something that demanded truth, strength, and purpose.
"Are you ready?" asked the man, his voice steady and firm. His name was Joel Reind-Montecristo, and his presence alone was enough to silence the rain.
"Yes, sir," Claire replied, her posture straight yet her voice carrying a slight tremble. "But… may I ask something?"
Montecristo gave a slight nod. "Go ahead."
"I've heard that Threnafell is an extremely dangerous place. Is that true?" she asked, her words quick, like someone bracing for the answer.
Montecristo studied her closely. The storm may have soaked her cloak, but it was her eyes that betrayed the true weight she carried—anxious, uncertain, torn.
"You fear for your brother," the General said calmly.
Claire dropped her gaze and grasped her left arm with her right hand, visibly flustered.
"Yes, sir," she admitted in a quieter voice. "He's my younger brother, after all. Since before our training began, I've always watched over him. This is the first time we've been apart."
Her words hung in the air like mist, fragile and fleeting, yet heavy with meaning.
"Threnafell is a dangerous place," the General admitted, his voice firm but reassuring. "But you need not worry. These trials take place within a controlled area, constantly overseen by our most experienced hunters."
His words, spoken with unwavering confidence, seemed to anchor Claire. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and some of the tension that gripped her chest began to ease.
"Thank you for your words, General," she said, her voice steadier now.
Montecristo stepped closer, placing a firm yet gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Steady yourself… and finish preparing your horse," he said with quiet command.
At that moment, Claire realized she had yet to saddle her mount. With a faint gasp of embarrassment, she hurried over to join her friend Sakura. Together, they moved with renewed focus, knowing that they—and a handful of other recruits—would be the next to ride out into the mist-veiled moor that marked the edge of the vast and perilous forest of Threnafell.
"Claire, we need to calm down a little," said Sakura, her voice gentle yet steady. "The general is right. Besides, they're with the hunters. Those men are strong—experienced in dealing with beasts."
"I know," Claire replied, her hands fumbling with the saddle straps. "It's just… the stories I've heard about that place—they terrify me."
"I've heard some creepy things too," Sakura added as she fastened her horse's girth. "Especially the rumor that the Necromancer hides somewhere in there…"
"That's not helping," Claire shot back, narrowing her eyes at her friend.
"Sorry," Sakura said quickly, flashing an apologetic smile.
Before either could say more, a third figure approached—Margott, the final member of their assigned team. Poised and striking, she moved with the quiet confidence of someone used to shadows and secrets. Her presence shifted the air between them, as if the true beginning of their trial had just arrived.
"Girls, what's going on? Are your mounts ready yet?" Margott asked, arching a brow with a hint of amusement.
It was only then that Claire and Sakura realized—they were the last ones left unprepared. While they had been wrapped in conversation and worries, the rest of the recruits had already mounted up, waiting in silence beneath the rain-dappled canopy.
"What? How did that happen?" Claire exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and embarrassment.
"Let's hurry, Claire!" urged Sakura, grabbing the reins of her horse in a rush.
Before they could fully recover from their mistake, General Montecristo approached once more, his steps deliberate, his expression far from amused.
With arms crossed and a sharp edge to his voice, he offered no sympathy—only a brief, stern lecture that pierced sharper than the cold rain. His disappointment didn't need to be shouted. It lingered in the air, heavier than the clouds above.
"Recruits," General Montecristo barked, his voice cutting through the patter of rain like a blade. "There's something I want to make absolutely clear—and I will not repeat myself. So listen closely."
The two other groups of young recruits, already mounted and prepared, drew nearer. Their gazes fixed on the general, alert and silent.
"You all know why you've been chosen for this task," Montecristo continued, his tone heavy with purpose. "You are being trained to survive in this world—and that alone is no easy feat.
"Just five years ago, every kingdom on this continent was at war with the others. We tore each other apart like starving wolves. But now… something else has returned. Something older. Something that crawled back from the darkness beneath the earth."
A chill rippled through the gathered youths. Despite the heat of their breath in the cold air, a tension froze their limbs. The general's words struck like distant thunder, stirring fear—real, primal fear.
And Montecristo, fueled by grim determination, pressed on.
"The beasts you face out there," Montecristo continued, his voice low but commanding, "are nothing compared to our true executioners. But that's precisely why we bring you here—so you learn to fight monsters. Because our real enemy... are the Scarlets."
A murmur passed through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
One of the recruits, a young woman with sharp eyes and the surname Alfgen, couldn't hold back.
"I've heard of them," she said, her voice wavering just slightly. "They're… monstrous. Horrible and deadly."
Montecristo nodded once, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment.
"A weak description," he said, "but accurate enough."
A shadow seemed to fall across his face as he spoke—less from the rainclouds above and more from memory. The silence that followed was heavier than before, as if even the trees of Threnafell leaned in to listen.
"Indeed," Montecristo declared, his voice rising like thunder across the clearing. "They are so lethal that a hundred of them nearly wiped out my entire Legion—and King Thud Bright himself—just a few years ago."
Then, without hesitation, he turned and pointed directly at Sakura and Claire.
"And if any of you behave as carelessly as these two young ladies," he said coldly, "then you can be certain—those dragons will devour you without mercy."
The words struck like a blade of ice. Claire and Sakura paled instantly, their bodies stiffening as if the mere thought of such a fate had rooted them in place. The general's rebuke was sharp, undeniable—and it cut deeper because it was true.
Claire straightened her spine and stepped forward. "Permission to finish preparing my horse, General," she said, voice steady despite the storm within her.
"Do it. Quickly," Montecristo ordered.
Without a second of hesitation, Claire and Sakura bolted toward their mounts, their movements urgent, precise. Margott, already composed and ready, watched them in silence—eyes keen, as if measuring not just their speed, but their will to survive.
"You shouldn't have let fear distract you—or wasted time talking," Margott said sharply, her tone as crisp as the rain-soaked air. "This mission matters."
Claire clenched her jaw, irritation flashing in her eyes.
"And what about you? You talk like you don't feel fear at all," she snapped, fixing her gaze on Margott with quiet defiance.
"She's right—you do seem awfully calm," added Sakura, her voice more curious than confrontational.
Margott met their eyes without hesitation.
"I trust the General," she said firmly, "and even more so the Hunters. They know Threnafell better than anyone—this forest is their domain. We'll be fine."
Her voice carried no arrogance, only certainty—rooted not in pride, but in faith in those who led them. Her calm wasn't the absence of fear, but a flame of conviction burning steady against the coming storm.
The hunters called the young recruits over to a small, makeshift armory set up on the back of a cart. Inside, nestled beneath canvas and straw, lay an assortment of blades, bows, and crossbows—hunting weapons belonging to the guild's most seasoned warriors.
The final group preparing to enter Threnafell was the one under the command of Master Hunter Kristoff. A man of few words and many scars, he offered the recruits the chance to select a weapon to complement their spell craft.
Sakura reached first, her hand falling on a slender, well-balanced sword.
Margott, with a glint of purpose in her eyes, chose a longbow edged with sharp, steel-trimmed limbs—crafted for both precision and lethality.
Claire, however, shook her head and stepped back from the pile. "I'll pass," she said quietly. Her hand rested on the hilt of the blade she already carried her mother'ssword, worn but noble, and pulsing with silent history.
"Why a bow?" Claire asked, tilting her head curiously as she watched Margott run her fingers along the polished wood.
Margott beamed with unexpected excitement.
"I've been practicing my spellwork through the bow," she said. "And I think I've finally mastered it—at least enough for this mission."
"That's really brave of you," Sakura added with a soft smile, impressed by Margott's confidence.
And for a moment, despite the looming threat of Threnafell, the bond between them felt a little stronger.
"It's just a matter of practice," Margott said, her voice calm as she examined the craftsmanship of the bow—a sleek, obsidian-colored weapon with sharp, honed edges that shimmered faintly in the damp light.
But before she could string it, a dense, pale mist began to roll in from between the trees, creeping low and slow like a predator stalking its prey.
The lesser-ranked hunters noticed it first. Their hands instinctively reached for their weapons, eyes narrowing as they scanned the treeline. Then one of them bolted toward the Legionnaires.
"General!" cried Zen—a young, wide-eyed Legionnaire—his armor clattering as he sprinted across the clearing, panic pushing him faster than fear.
"What is it? What's with the shouting?" Montecristo demanded, emerging from the command tent, his tone sharp with authority and annoyance.
Zen skidded to a halt before the group, breathless and pale. The tension in the camp twisted tighter with each heartbeat, the mist now coiling around their feet like a warning unspoken.
"General… I think something's happening in the forest," Zen said, his voice laced with fear, his eyes wide and searching.
Montecristo's expression shifted at once. He stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice lower now, more cautious—more human.
"There's a strange dark mist… it's seeping out from between the trees," Zen replied, barely catching his breath.
Without another word, Montecristo turned on his heel and broke into a run toward the entrance of Threnafell. The Legionnaires followed close behind, weapons drawn, instincts flaring. Recruits scrambled after them, adrenaline replacing hesitation.
Claire's pulse quickened.
"What's going on?" she whispered, already moving. Beside her, Sakura and Margott exchanged tense glances.
Whatever peace remained in the camp was now shattered—replaced by the heavy, creeping dread of the unknown.
"God Throme… no, not again," Montecristo whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, carried off by the wind like a prayer too late.
The Legionnaires stood still, their eyes fixed on the treeline as the dark mist crept forward, slow and deliberate. Confusion furrowed their brows—but Montecristo… he remembered.
He stared into the fog as if it were a ghost rising from the grave—one he had tried for years to forget.
That color… that thickness… that silence that swallowed every sound…
He had seen this mist before.
And he knew all too well what came with it.
―FLASHBACK―
The roar of battle thundered across the plain like an approaching storm. Steel clashed with steel, and the ground itself quaked beneath the weight of war.
Montecristo fought side by side with Thud Bright, father of the current Queen of Averford, their blades cutting through the chaos as spells lit the sky in bursts of color and fury.
Across from them, the formidable King Reese Colden of Eircloft led his forces with ruthless precision, his aura radiating cold defiance. The clash between armies was relentless—each swing of a sword, each unleashed incantation, sent shockwaves rippling across the blood-stained earth.
It was a battle so fierce, it felt as though the world itself held its breath.
Then… the mist began to spread.
Thick and unnatural, it slithered across the battlefield like a living curse. And from its depths—they came. A horde of Scarlet Dragons erupted from the shadows like crimson lightning, tearing through both armies without mercy.
What had been a clash between nations became a massacre.
Screams were drowned by the roar of wings and fire. The Legionnaires, once proud and resolute, were devastated—forced to retreat, their formation shattered, their numbers falling with every breath.
The forces of Eircloft were being obliterated, their banners consumed by flame and blood. Seeing this, King Thud Bright believed the gods had handed him a moment of opportunity.
He rallied what remained of his army and charged, convinced he could strike down two enemies at once—the Scarlets and the fleeing Colden.
But he miscalculated.
His assault drew the attention of the dragons. The Scarlet horde turned their wrath upon his men, and in an instant, Thud's offensive became his doom. His army was caught in a storm of fire and talons, while King Reese Colden vanished into the mist, escaping as Thud and his legions were left to perish
"Fall back! Fall back!!" roared King Thud of Averford, his voice raw with desperation as he rallied what little remained of his forces. The Legionnaires obeyed, retreating step by step, dragging wounded comrades and clinging to the fading hope of survival, refusing to surrender to the nightmare closing in.
"We're finished, Thud! This is the end!" shouted Montecristo, his face smeared with blood, his eyes wild with grief and fury.
But Thud didn't answer.
Instead, he raised his lance, and the weapon's blade began to glow—deep crimson, pulsing with unstable magic. The very air around it crackled with ancient power.
"Thud, what are you doing?" Montecristo demanded, his voice laced with dread.
Still, no reply.
The king took his stance, preparing to unleash a mystic assault. But before the spell could ignite fully, the mist thickened—choking, suffocating, swallowing light and sound.
The battlefield dimmed under its oppressive veil until even the dragons disappeared into the fog—leaving behind only the haunting shimmer of their eyes, glowing like coals in the dark.
"What's happening?" Thud asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. But around him, no one answered.
His soldiers stood frozen, their breaths caught in their throats, eyes wide with dread.
"Thud—look!" Montecristo shouted, pointing toward a distant patch of the mist, his hand trembling.
Thud turned, following the line of his general's finger.
"What… what is that?" he asked, the fear now unmistakable on his face.
Amidst the countless glowing eyes of the Scarlets, two shone brighter—and purple. Unnatural. Unblinking.
Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged.
A man.
Clad in a corrupted version of Averford's Legion armor, twisted and blackened, he strode forward with deliberate steps. In his hands, he wielded a colossal black sword—its edge jagged, its surface writhing like it fed on the very air around it.
Purple energy pulsed from him in waves, flickering like black fire, distorting the mist. His presence was suffocating, unnatural—wrong in every possible way.
And as he came into full view, the air grew still. Even the Scarlets paused, as if they, too, recognized the terror that had joined the field.
"Lyle-Hude!" Montecristo cried out, the name tearing from his throat like a curse remembered too late.
Throme… where are you? King Thud wondered in silence, his heart hollowing with dread.
―End of the flashback―
Montecristo jolted back to the present with a sharp breath, his eyes locking onto the mist that now crept at the edge of the trees. He knew it—recognized its weight, its scent, its silence. And he knew what followed.
Without wasting a heartbeat, he barked his orders, his voice hard and commanding.
"Legionnaires—form a defensive perimeter, now!"
The soldiers of Averford sprang into action, responding with trained precision. Steel hissed from its sheaths, and the glint of their blades caught what little light remained.
Their swords—Moonlight-forged steel, crafted in the sacred forges of Averford—shone with a pale silver brilliance, as if resisting the darkness itself. The clearing rang with purpose, as warriors took their stances, waiting for whatever would emerge from the mist… or return from the past.
"Form a Crescent Line—facing the forest!" Montecristo shouted, his voice echoing like thunder through the clearing.
At once, the Legionnaires moved with disciplined urgency, falling into position with their blades gleaming and their eyes fixed on the mist-choked tree line. Their formation took shape like a silver crescent, ready to shield those behind it.
Montecristo then turned sharply.
"Get the recruits to safety. Now."
Chaos stirred behind the line as officers began moving the younger soldiers away from the frontline. Amid the tension, Claire stood frozen, her eyes wide, heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"What's happening? What's going on?" she asked, voice cracking.
"Trouble!" answered Margott, her composure starting to slip as fear crept into her tone.
"Where?" Sakura asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"In the forest!" Margott replied, eyes locked on the advancing fog.
Panic seized Claire. Her mind spun with images of her brother. Without thinking, she turned and bolted toward the forest—but before she could take more than a few strides, a strong hand gripped her shoulder.
"Not another step," said Kristoff, voice low and unyielding, his eyes never leaving the mist as it continued to spill into their world like a slow, inevitable tide.
Claire, desperate and trembling, struggled against Kristoff's grip. Her eyes were wide with panic, her voice breaking as she shouted, "Where are the others?! Where's my brother?!"
Kristoff held firm, his expression grim. "Get back with the others. The other groups… they haven't returned yet."
But before Claire could protest again, movement flickered between the trees. A rustling. A shift in the mist.
"Something's coming, sir!" Zen called out, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade.
Everyone tensed—the hunters, the recruits, the Legionnaires. All eyes locked onto the treeline, breaths held as the mist thickened.
"Stand ready!" Montecristo commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like steel.
Then—thunder. Hooves pounded the forest floor.
From the mist emerged the battered group of Alistar and Esgard, riding at full gallop, their horses wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth. The warriors were bloodied, their armor dented, their blades dripping with a thick, dark-blue liquid that steamed in the cool air.
Gasps rippled through the clearing.
Everyone rushed to meet them—Montecristo, Kristoff, and several hunters breaking rank to intercept them, dread tightening in their chests. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And they could see it etched into the faces of those who had just escaped the forest's grasp.
"Alistar, what's happening in there?" Montecristo demanded, urgency sharp in his voice as he stepped forward.
Alistar, barely able to breathe, clutched his side and tried to steady himself. His eyes were wild—haunted.
"We were ambushed…" he gasped. "There were too many. We couldn't hold them off!"
"Scarlets?" Montecristo asked, his jaw tightening.
Alistar nodded, his expression grim. "Yes. The attack was… precise. Almost flawless. It was like they knew exactly where we'd be."
His voice cracked as he looked back at his comrades. Among them, three recruits laygravely wounded, barely clinging to consciousness. Blood soaked their clothes, and their breathing was ragged.
"Many of my men are dead," Alistar continued, his voice low with grief. "And more recruits… gone."
The silence that followed was like a blade through the heart.
Claire, who had been listening, stepped forward, her chest rising with shallow breaths.
"My brother?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
Alistar turned to her, his gaze distant—vacant, as if searching for words he didn't want to say. And in that silence, Claire's knees trembled, the edges of her vision closing in.
She was seconds away from collapsing. The fear that had gnawed at her heart was now a storm—raging, merciless.
"I lost sight of them... along with Elle," Alistar said, his voice tight with guilt. "The last thing I saw—four Scarlets descending on them. We had no time to react. We barely escaped with our lives."
Montecristo clenched his fists, his knuckles white with fury. He tilted his head back and cursed the heavens, rage and helplessness twisting inside him like a storm.
"We need to retreat—now!" he barked, voice thunderous, final.
But Alistar stepped forward, closing the space between them until their faces were inches apart. Defiance burned in his eyes.
"NO!" Alistar roared, his voice cutting like a blade.
Montecristo's expression darkened with fury—but before he could speak, Alistar pressed on.
"We must go back—with all our Legionnaires. We have to search for survivors!"
His voice cracked with urgency, with desperation. Not just as a soldier, but as someone who had looked death in the eyes—and seen those he couldn't save vanish into the mist.
"There's no way I'm sending more people to die," Montecristo replied, his voice ironclad.
Alistar's jaw tightened in frustration, fists clenched at his sides—but before he could protest further, a desperate scream pierced the air.
A girl's voice—frantic, trembling with fear.
It was Sakura, her hands outstretched as she tried to stop Claire, who had mounted her horse in a rush of panic and was now galloping straight toward the mist-veiled trees of Threnafell.
"Claire, wait! Don't do this—don't go!" Sakura cried out, her voice breaking as she ran after her.
Alistar and Montecristo turned just in time to see the blur of hooves vanish into the rising fog. Neither of them could reach her. They could only watch in helpless silence as Claire disappeared into the shrouded forest.
"DAMN IT!" Montecristo roared, seizing a stone from the ground and hurling it into the trees with all his fury. The rock vanished into the mist without a sound.
"What do we do now?" Alistar asked, breathless, his voice low with dread.
Montecristo stood motionless for a moment, his mind racing, his face carved with anguish. Then, slowly, he raised his head—his eyes cold and resolved.
"Legionnaires—prepare for incursion!" he commanded, voice like thunder.
The order fell heavy across the camp. There would be no turning back now.
"WITH HONOR, WE MARCH TOWARD THE SUN!" the soldiers cried in unison, their voices echoing through the mist like a war hymn. With blades drawn and hearts steeled, they prepared to enter the haunted veil of Threnafell.
"Search and rescue mission," Montecristo commanded. "The rest of you—escort the recruits back to Averford and report to High Command immediately!"
There was no hesitation. The remaining troops moved swiftly, guiding the shaken recruits away as Montecristo, Alistar, and their chosen warriors turned toward the fog-drenched forest and vanished into its shadows.
―Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Averford―
A door creaked open in a chamber dimly lit and cluttered with scrolls and maps. Into the room stepped a regal figure, grace in every movement despite the tension in her brow.
Scroll in hand and purpose in her stride, it was none other than the Queen of Averford herself.
TO BE CONTINUED...