Alexander's voice rolled through the forest like thunder, shaking loose the silence, stirring the leaves of a hundred green canopies into a restless whisper. His words lingered, carried on the night air, echoing between the trunks as though the earth itself wished to remember them. He stood tall amid the clearing, his shadow cast long and heavy, his eyes fixed upon Caspian.
Within that gaze lay a storm of contradictions—disappointment etched deep in the furrow of his brow, intrigue flickering like a hidden ember behind the cold steel of his stare. Yet whatever he thought of Caspian no longer mattered. Respect, disdain, curiosity—all of it was ash now. The bond of thought, of speculation, of possibility had been severed.
What stood before him was no potential ally, no enigma to be unraveled, but an enemy. Pure and unyielding. And in Alexander's world, enemies were not debated. They were destroyed.
The dust hung thick, stirred by every movement, swirling with the echoes of fists colliding and steel screaming against bone. Caspian stalked forward again, slow, deliberate, his breath visible in the cooling air. Frost coiled from his boots across the broken ground, creeping outward in jagged veins. Alexander emerged from the crater he had left, shaking rubble from his shoulders, his immense form blotting out what little moonlight pierced the canopy. His chest rose and fell with measured rhythm, his grin carved into his face like it had been hammered in stone.
He came on again, a boulder in motion. Caspian didn't retreat; he stepped into him. The first punch carved the air wide, the second snapped toward Caspian's ribs, but time faltered, broke like glass, and Caspian was no longer there. He slid past, his body angled perfectly, his elbow cracking into Alexander's jaw with surgical precision. Time resumed. The blow echoed, Alexander's head snapping to the side, his grin faltering for the first time.
He recovered instantly, the ground exploding as he stomped, his fist slamming downward. Caspian darted aside, but the shockwave alone knocked him to a knee. Splinters of earth and stone ripped at his clothes. His eyes narrowed, calm, his palm brushing the ground as he rose again.
Each clash was wearing on Alexander more than he showed. Caspian's strikes left no wasted motion, every contact aimed at ligaments, tendons, weak points buried in the mass of muscle. Alexander's strength was monstrous, his body resilient, but even mountains eroded under the right pressure. Caspian worked him like a scalpel, bleeding his stamina with precision.
Across the clearing, sparks lit the night. Rowen and Seymour were locked in vicious rhythm, steel and bone colliding again and again. Seymour's blade whirled, his mastery of steel birthing a hundred shapes from the earth: lances, chains, jagged bursts of shrapnel. Rowen dismantled them one by one, the weight of his touch twisting their forms, dragging them down into the dirt uselessly.
Seymour pressed harder, sweat and blood streaking his face, his eyes burning. He wrenched his arm wide, metal shrieking into a curved wall of blades that rushed toward Rowen like a tide. Rowen did not dodge. He let the tide meet him, and in the instant before impact, the wave collapsed, each blade slamming into the dirt with earth-shaking force. Rowen surged through the storm, his fist finding Seymour's ribs. The crack of breaking bone was swallowed by Seymour's guttural roar as he swung upward, his blade tearing across Rowen's shoulder.
Rowen's laugh echoed, guttural, alive with savage delight even as blood ran hot down his arm.
Caspian darted in again. Alexander's hand swelled to monstrous size, swinging wide, but time fractured and Caspian was already beneath his guard. His fist crashed into Alexander's kidney once, twice, thrice—each strike quick as lightning, precise, merciless. When time resumed, Alexander grunted, his body twisting, his footing staggered. Caspian pressed, hammering into his side, his chest, his throat, retreating just as the giant's arms surged outward in defense.
The frost was thick now, the earth glittering pale beneath the moon. Alexander's breaths came harder, though his grin never faded. His punches still cracked like thunder, but the rhythm was breaking. His swings grew wider, heavier, his stamina bleeding out under Caspian's relentless scalpel.
Rowen ducked low as Seymour's blade carved an arc meant to sever his head. He lunged inside, his forehead slamming into Seymour's chin, snapping it back. Seymour stumbled, but his other hand ripped a strip of steel from the ground, wrapping it around Rowen's throat, yanking tight. Rowen choked, but only laughed, his grin bloodied and wide. He shifted his density again, his body light as air, slipping free of the coil, and drove his knee up into Seymour's chest. Seymour collapsed back, wheezing, blood bubbling in his throat.
Rowen stalked forward like a wolf, his steps slow, savoring the sight of his prey faltering. Seymour raised his blade again, both hands clenched white-knuckled around the hilt, his chest heaving, rage burning through his exhaustion.
Caspian slid beneath another colossal swing, his shoulder brushing Alexander's ribs. Time froze. His eyes, sharp and calculating, locked on Alexander's throat. He struck once, twice, three times, fists hammering upward into soft points where even the giant's flesh could not resist. Time resumed, and Alexander staggered, coughing, his grin cracked, blood streaking his lip.
Still, he came on. His enlarged arm slammed down, gouging another crater into the earth. Caspian blurred aside, his strikes snapping into Alexander's knee again, the tendons screaming under the assault. Alexander buckled slightly, his mass folding, but he held himself upright with sheer will. His chest heaved, his breaths ragged now, his face slick with sweat. Caspian circled him like a predator, cold, patient, tireless.
Seymour roared, swinging his blade in desperate arcs, steel shrieking as he pulled every vein of ore from the ground, fashioning a storm of jagged shrapnel around him. It circled, howled, a tempest of blades. Rowen's grin widened, his teeth bared. He raised his arms, and as the blades screamed in, they faltered, twisted, collapsed into the dirt one by one. Seymour's eyes widened, and Rowen was already upon him.
The first punch shattered ribs. The second cracked his jaw. The third sent him to his knees, coughing blood. Seymour swung upward, his blade clashing against Rowen's shoulder, carving deep, but Rowen didn't even flinch. His fist came down like a hammer, slamming Seymour into the dirt. The older man gasped, struggling to rise, blood bubbling from his lips.
Rowen crouched low, pressing his hand to Seymour's wrist. The density of the limb shifted violently. Seymour screamed as his own arm bent unnaturally under its impossible weight, pinned by gravity itself. His blade slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly against the stone. Rowen laughed, low and terrible, tightening his grip.
Alexander stumbled forward, knees buckling under Caspian's ceaseless assault. Every joint screamed under the repeated strikes, every tendon frayed under the precision of Caspian's scalpel-like blows. His movements slowed, his swings wilder, more desperate. Caspian slid past each one, cold and merciless, his strikes landing with perfect rhythm, bleeding the strength out of him second by second. Frost climbed Alexander's boots now, seizing his footing, weighing him down.
One final strike—Caspian's palm crashed into his chest, the force amplified by a moment of fractured time, all the momentum of a dozen frozen blows unleashed at once. Alexander staggered, dropped to a knee, his chest heaving, his grin finally breaking, his body refusing to rise again.
Rowen stood over Seymour now, his boot grinding the man's chest into the dirt. His eyes gleamed with manic delight. Seymour tried to raise his arm again, bloodied and trembling, but Rowen's blade—torn from the dirt itself—whistled downward. The edge carved clean through flesh and bone. Seymour's scream split the night, blood gouting as his arm severed at the elbow.
He collapsed, pale, gasping, vision swimming. Rowen crouched low, his grin close enough for Seymour to smell his breath. "Sleep," he whispered, almost tender. Seymour's body convulsed once, then blacked out, his chest still heaving but his mind consumed by merciful darkness.
The clearing was silent but for the slow crackle of frost and the drip of blood onto shattered stone. Caspian stood, steady, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Rowen straightened, stretching his shoulders, his grin fixed, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Alexander lay broken on the floorboards, his body trembling with each ragged breath. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, painting dark streaks down his jaw, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The tavern was silent—deathly so. Even the flames in the lanterns seemed to dim, as though the room itself held its breath.
Slowly, painfully, Alexander lifted a hand to his face and pressed his palm against his eyes. Then, against all expectation, he laughed. A dry, rasping laugh that cracked and echoed through the ruined bar. Once, then again, until it spilled out of him in ragged bursts—half-mad, half-defiant.
When at last the sound faded, he lowered his hand, his dimming gaze settling on Caspian. Respect gleamed faintly in those weary eyes, though it was tangled with sorrow, regret, and something Caspian couldn't name.
"Caspian…" he said, voice hoarse, his chest rising like a bellows struggling for air. "You've just killed a man."
The words hung heavy, falling like iron into the silence. No one in the bar stirred. Even Rowen's grin had withered into stillness. Seymour, bleeding and broken, looked on without a word.
Alexander coughed, the sound wet, and forced a bitter smile. "Tell me… how does it feel? To wear the word murderer like a shroud?"
Caspian did not answer. His eyes stayed fixed, cold, but something flickered in his expression—a shadow, a thought, quickly buried.
Alexander's lips curled faintly. "Ah. Silence. Perhaps that is your answer… Perhaps you know there is no answer." His head fell back against the floor, but his voice carried, steady despite its weakness. "I can only assume… I am not the first soul you've dragged from this world. Not the first you've strangled from the breath of the living. And yet…" He laughed again, softer this time, almost wistful. "…perhaps the only one to thank you for it."
He closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, then spoke again, his words slower, more deliberate. "Was it worth it, Caspian? All of it? Every blade you've drawn, every life you've broken? Tell me—do you feel the weight yet? Or does it still sleep… waiting… to wake in your bones when you least expect it?"
Silence answered him. Only the sound of the wind pressing against the battered door.
Alexander's voice grew steadier, as though he were no longer speaking to Caspian alone, but to the room, to the world itself. "Life is like a thread. We are all cut from the same cloth, yet we are woven into a thousand different garments. Some become banners that fly above empires. Some become rags that rot in the mud. And some…" His eyes narrowed faintly. "…are cut before the weaving is done."
His chest shook with another cough. He swallowed the blood, grimacing, but his gaze never left Caspian. "Certainty…" he whispered, "I have always hated certainty. To be told my life rests in unseen hands. That fate, or gods, or some distant judge would decide the measure of me. That… is why I renounced all deities. Why I spat upon their altars. I will not kneel to something that binds me."
He raised his hand with a trembling effort and tugged at his sleeve. The fabric peeled back, revealing a tattoo scrawled in faded black ink, etched deep into the leathery skin of his arm.
The words read: Memento Mori.
Alexander's fingers brushed across the letters with a reverence usually reserved for scripture. His cracked lips curved faintly. "I carved this into my flesh more than half a century ago. My reminder. My curse. My vow. It means…" He drew a breath so shallow it seemed it might be his last. "…remember… you will die."
The phrase lingered like smoke in the air. Alexander's eyes, dim yet sharp, locked once more onto Caspian. "Every day, these words have whispered to me. No one is immortal. No one untouchable. We are all just flesh waiting to be broken. Power is borrowed. Time is borrowed. Even fear…" His lips twitched into a smirk. "…even fear has an end."
He shifted, grimacing with the effort, but his voice carried clear. "And one day, Caspian… some boy not yet born, some youth who has never heard your name, will rise. He will beat you to the floor, just as you have done to me. And in that moment, you will understand the truth of this ink. Your time will come. Your crimes, your choices, your bloodied hands—they will not go unanswered."
The silence stretched long, the weight of his words pressing on everyone who heard them. Even the broken timbers seemed to groan with the burden.
Alexander's chest heaved. His strength was fading. His lips moved again, softer, more intimate now, as if speaking only to Caspian's soul. "So, Caspian… when you draw your blade again, when you look into the eyes of the next man you kill, remember me. Remember this ink. Remember that death walks beside you, every step of your path. Do not delude yourself with righteousness. Do not cloak yourself in false virtue. You are no savior."
His voice cracked, but his gaze sharpened like a blade's edge. "Memento mori."
The words seemed to echo beyond his voice, settling like a curse, like a benediction, like an inevitability. His lips trembled, curved faintly at the edges, and with a final shuddering breath, Alexander closed his eyes. His hand slipped from the tattoo, falling limp against the blood-soaked floor.
The tavern was utterly still.
And Alexander Blackwood was no more.
3 minutes later
Rain began to gather against the warped windows of the tavern, thin beads tracing down the glass before spilling into rivulets that blurred the view of the dirt road outside. It came softly at first, a whisper on the world, then harder, until the sky opened in earnest. The road dissolved beneath it, sediment mixing into black mud, the ground drinking deep. A shudder of thunder rolled through the clouds above, shaking the silence of the bar.
Caspian did not move. He stood there over Alexander's body, still as a statue, his breath slow, his eyes hollow. His face was utterly blank, drained of triumph, drained of rage, drained of everything. Not even relief lingered there. For the first time in his life, a victory tasted like ash on his tongue. A win that felt like loss.
His hand—slick with blood, warm and fresh—rose slowly to his hair. He raked his fingers through it, smearing red into the black strands, painting them with a terrible luster, a shade of crimson that gleamed like ink under the lantern-light. His chest rose, fell. The world outside seemed distant, muffled, as though reality itself had been pushed behind glass.
Caspian tilted his head back, his eyes tracing upward toward the sky through the fractured rafters. His blood-darkened hair spilled down his neck, plastered to his skin by sweat and rain. For a moment, all he saw was the moon, pale and clean in its throne of clouds. But then… it shifted.
Its light dimmed. Its pale face darkened, as though a veil had been drawn across it. Grey sank to black, and black deepened, deepened, until at last it burned red. A deep, terrible crimson—like blood filling a bowl of water, spreading, staining the heavens themselves. The bar glowed faintly with its hue, the red seeping through the cracks of the roof, drenching the ruined floorboards in a color that was neither fire nor flesh, but some dreadful union of both.
Caspian lowered his gaze to Rowen. His lips curved faintly, cruelly, into a smirk. And his eyes—his irises, once so calm—shone with a deep red light that was not of this earth. It radiated with something primeval, something that pulled at the gut, something that whispered of hunger without end.
He indeed was The Blood-soaked Moon
The blood on Caspian's hands dripped in slow beads, falling onto Alexander's chest, each drop like the toll of a bell.
Rowen—Rowen, who had laughed in the face of kings, who had stood unshaken before horrors and men alike—looked at Caspian and, for the first time in years, felt fear. A deep, crawling fear that made his heart tremble and his thoughts race. It was an emotion he had known only five times in his life. Caspian Sinclair was one of those 5 people.
And yet… he did not turn away. He did not recoil. Slowly, as though stepping into the maw of some beast, Rowen walked toward him. His boots left prints in the rain-washed mud that had seeped beneath the tavern's door. His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed it—wide, measuring, tense.
When he reached Caspian, he set a hand upon his shoulder. The contact was firm, grounding, but beneath it was something else—an acknowledgment, a tether to reality. Rowen leaned in close, his lips almost brushing Caspian's ear. His voice was low, deliberate.
What he whispered was meant for Caspian alone.
The words hit like a blade. Caspian's pupils widened, his body stiffened. His smirk withered, his composure shattered. He stumbled back a step, clutching his head with his bloodied hand as though the words themselves had been knives lodged into his mind. The crimson glow of his eyes flickered, strained, then snapped away, leaving behind only the deep, calm blue—beautiful, but human once again.
His breaths were shallow, quick. He stood there, trembling faintly, until the tremor left him and his body steadied.
Rowen stepped back, his expression unreadable, his lips quirking into something that might have been a smile. "Good job today," he said, his tone oddly casual against the weight of the moment.
"I take it you've done what you came to this city to do." He turned then, his coat dragging across the broken floor, his back to Caspian. "So I'll be on my way."
The rain pressed harder against the windows. The bar creaked under its weight. Caspian remained silent, watching him. His bloodied hand curled at his side.
"Hey." Caspian's voice broke the silence, low and steady.
Rowen paused mid-step. He didn't turn, but his head tilted faintly. "Yeah? What is it?"
"Say hello for me." Caspian's eyes narrowed faintly, his voice calm but loaded with meaning. "To Vivienne."
The name cracked through the silence like lightning.
Rowen froze. For a heartbeat, his body was stiff, his jaw tightening. Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough for one eye to look back at Caspian. Shock flickered there—an emotion rare for him, rarer still to be visible.
"…Sure," Rowen said at last, though the word came with hesitation, his voice a shade too thin. He gave a small nod, then turned again, stepping out into the rain-soaked night.
The sound of his boots faded into the storm.
Inside, Caspian remained motionless, his gaze following the place where Rowen had gone.
Rowen's thoughts pressed at him as he walked, his lips pulling into a faint, tight smile. What a strange thing to ask of me, he thought. Those two hate each other. Always have.
And yet, even as he told himself that, he could not shake the unease that had settled into his bones.
A few minutes later
Rain battered the bar with an almost sentient insistence, drumming against the warped wooden walls, leaking in through cracks and pooling on the floor in dark, creeping puddles. The scent of damp wood mixed with iron—the remnants of the previous fight—filled the air, sharp and acrid. The storm outside, with its jagged flashes of lightning and rolling thunder, cast the tavern in brief, violent illuminations, shadows slashing across broken tables and bloodied floorboards.
Caspian remained where he had stood after the last blow was struck. His hands hung limply at his sides, still streaked crimson from Alexander's blood, though he did not feel the warmth. His coat was plastered to his frame from the rain, his hair clinging damp against the sides of his face. He could feel the weight of silence pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating. The world outside seemed far away, drowned out by the raw, tangible grief that was about to enter the room.
The door creaked as it opened, allowing a blast of cold wind to sweep through, rustling papers and sending a few loose shards of glass tinkling to the floor. Layla came first, her cloak clinging wetly to her figure, water dripping from her hair and onto the floorboards. Her eyes were wide, searching, scanning every shadow, every corner, every broken piece of furniture. Andrew followed, his stride measured, shoulders squared, his jaw tight with a growing unease. Camael was last, his presence quiet but commanding, every movement deliberate, his eyes flicking between the doorway and the far corner where Alexander lay.
It took only a heartbeat for her gaze to fall upon him.
Her knees buckled. Her hands trembled as she reached forward, only to stop inches from Alexander's motionless body. The realization hit her all at once, a jagged, crushing wave: the man who had been so infuriating, so terrifying, so infallible… was dead.
"No… no, no, no…" Her voice came as a whisper at first, breaking under the weight of shock. Then it became a sob, raw and uncontrolled, tearing itself from her throat as she fell forward. The tears streamed freely, smearing the dirt and blood already on her hands.
Caspian reacted instantly, though instinct more than thought guided him. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him as she collapsed entirely, her body shuddering with sobs. Her face pressed into his chest, soaking his coat with tears, and he held her with a steadying pressure, though the tension in his own body betrayed how tightly he gripped. He said nothing. Words would have been inadequate.
"What the hell happened here!" Andrew's voice ripped through the tavern like a crack of thunder, his eyes wide with disbelief as they fell on Alexander's still form.
"No fucking way—Alexander got killed?!" Camael cursed, his usual composure fracturing under the sheer impossibility of it. The shock in his tone carried the weight of a man who had never once imagined such a moment could come to pass.
Then there was silence. A silence so thick and unnatural it seemed to press against their ears, broken only by Layla's sobs. Her grief poured out in ragged, helpless cries as she buried her face deeper into Caspian's chest. Her small frame trembled violently against him, and still she clung to him as though he were the last anchor in a world suddenly collapsing.
Caspian closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly before exhaling a heavy sigh. When he opened them again, he lifted his gaze to meet Andrew's, his voice flat and steady, carrying no hesitation.
"Alexander has been murdered," he declared.
Andrew's face twisted, first with disbelief, then outrage. His words burst forth, sharp and ragged. "Who the hell is strong enough to kill him!?"
Caspian's eyes darkened slightly, but his tone remained calm, careful, rehearsed. "I only saw a glimpse of him," he said. "But he was a man with red hair, and he was wearing desert rags."
Silence. The words sank into the air like lead, dragging the atmosphere down into something suffocating. Andrew and Camael exchanged a glance, their minds struggling to reconcile the impossibility of what Caspian claimed.
Layla lifted her tear-stained face, her eyes bloodshot and wild. "T-tell me it isn't true!" she screamed, her voice breaking, raw with desperation. "H-he can't be dead!" Her lips trembled violently as though the very air she breathed betrayed her.
And then, as if the heavens themselves sought to underscore the moment, the skies opened. Rain began to pour in sheets, drenching them in seconds. Andrew and Camael instinctively stepped back, seeking cover beneath the warped overhang of the bar, but Caspian and Layla remained unmoving, standing exposed beneath the relentless downpour.
Without hesitation, Caspian slipped off his soaked coat and draped it over Layla's shoulders. The fabric hung heavily, waterlogged, yet it shielded her from the worst of the storm. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he set his hand gently upon her head, grounding her, steadying her, even as the rain cascaded down his own hair and face, masking the cold weight in his eyes.
He ran his hand through her dark hair, pulling gently at each strand as though the simple act might hold her together. She shook against him, her sobs racking her frame in uneven rhythm with the thunder above. Caspian closed his eyes, letting the rain fall unrelenting across his face, sliding down his eyelids like tears he refused to shed.
Maybe it was a sign from the heavens, he thought—the rain. A cleansing storm, or perhaps a curse. A reminder that what he had done, no matter the necessity, would not go unpunished. Every drop felt like judgment, sharp and cold, a thousand small verdicts passed upon his skin.
Layla's voice cracked again, muffled against his chest. "Why… why him? Why now?" The questions cut at Caspian like blades, not because he lacked an answer, but because he held one too terrible to give. He said nothing. He only pressed her closer, his palm cradling the back of her head.
Andrew stood at the threshold of the bar, his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, lips tight with rage he could not direct. His eyes flicked from Alexander's corpse to Caspian, then back again, as though the scene before him might rearrange itself if only he stared hard enough. Camael leaned against the warped doorframe, arms crossed, though his gaze was sharp, calculating. Suspicion lingered there, buried beneath layers of silence.
But Caspian remained still, a statue beneath the rain, holding a broken girl in his arms. He kept his eyes closed, because when he opened them, he saw the body. And when he saw the body, he remembered his hands upon Alexander's throat, the desperate weight of the man's final resistance, and the way his strength had faltered in the end. He remembered the smirk that had slipped across his own lips, unbidden, when the crimson moon had risen over the sky.
The memory poisoned him, and yet he could not let it go.
"Red hair and desert rags," Andrew muttered to himself, his thoughts racing. His brow furrowed as he searched through memory, cataloging names and faces. "Who could that be? I've never heard of a warrior like that…" His mind flickered to rumors, fragments of tales from the sands, but none fit. Yes, there were strong fighters from the desert regions, brutal and cunning, but none strong enough to defeat Alexander Blackwood. The thought left him unsettled, gnawing at his certainty.
Caspian's gaze, however, had shifted. Past the broken doorway, past the darkened treeline that swayed with the storm. There, at the edge of the forest, stood Zach.
The figure leaned against a tree, unbothered by the storm, his posture one of casual detachment. His pale hair swayed gently with the wind, his eyes fixed on the carnage before him with an expression that was neither surprise nor grief, but something else entirely—something that belonged to an observer, not a participant.
Caspian did not need to call out. He did not need to ask. The knowledge struck him instantly, as certain as the storm pounding the earth: Zach had seen everything.
Zach's lips parted, and though the words carried no sound to the others, they cut cleanly through the rain to reach Caspian's ears alone.
"The murder of the leader of a city," Zach said softly, his voice a low echo woven into the storm itself, "a monumental achievement."
But then his expression shifted, and his tone lowered, more somber, edged with meaning. "But at what cost?"
Caspian's chest tightened, though his face betrayed nothing.
Zach tilted his head, his form half-silhouetted by the lightning that split the sky behind him. His voice carried on the wind like a whisper crawling through the trees.
"Well… I suppose time will tell."
His words hung in the rain for a long, heavy pause before he gave the final epitaph, his voice echoing deep into Caspian's mind, the syllables drawn with deliberate weight.
"Oh great Devourer of Dreams."