Aethon's breaths came ragged, shallow, each one scraping at his throat like broken glass. His body screamed. Every muscle twitched on the edge of collapse. He tried to lift his head, failed and the world swam with blurred edges and flickering shadows.
Someone stood in front of him. Broad, unyielding. Draped in a wolf's-fur cape that hung from one shoulder, the gray strands rippling in the ash-thick wind. The figure's presence anchored him, kept him tethered against the pull of darkness.
Relief washed through him like water poured over fire. Vaerion.
His lungs released a shudder he hadn't realized he was holding. His chest loosened. His trembling eased just a fraction. He was alive because Vaerion was here.
Then Vaerion turned.
His blonde hair caught what little light bled through the battlefield's smoke, strands glowing faintly amidst the ruin. Aethon's vision struggled to focus, details dissolving into haze. He didn't see the blood staining Vaerion's face. He couldn't read his expression. But he recognized him, and for a fleeting second, it was enough.
Steel whispered into the air as Vaerion drew his sword. The blade exhaled heat, an oppressive, suffocating wave that pushed against Aethon's skin. His stomach lurched. His ears filled with sound: Vaerion speaking, the two enemy voices answering. But their words reached him only as muffled fragments, swallowed by the blood roaring in his skull.
He swayed where he stood, his body fraying piece by piece.
The battle with the cloaked men had devoured him whole. His mana had been squandered, thrown recklessly into crude, unshaped spells. His body had burned through every reserve of energy without rhythm, without conservation. And when the knife had pierced his side, he had frozen the wound in a desperate reflex. Ice over flesh, blood sealed by sheer willpower. It had bought him moments, nothing more. His control was shattered. His core drained.
Now, every heartbeat was a war. Every inhale a struggle.
His eyelids turned heavier with each blink, stone dragging him down. He fought it. He clung to the sight of Vaerion's back. But the abyss clawed closer.
A sudden rush of hot air slammed against him. A shockwave of heat. It burst from Vaerion like fire escaping a furnace, searing across his face.
Then a roar.
Vaerion's voice, deep, raw, tearing through the world.
Aethon fell backward, swallowed by black.
Steel rang in another place. A dream. A memory. A vision. He couldn't tell.
A blade clashed once, twice, thrice, echoing like thunder through a hollowed world. Sparks scattered, each one a fleeting star against the void.
Two men faced each other.
The first: tall, silver-haired, clad in a black tunic with a blood-red scarf. His eyes burned blue, cold fire within storm clouds. His hands gripped a long kitana, its edge dripping black flames that writhed like serpents hungry for flesh.
The second: taller still, with hair like night spilling down his back, dressed in white, twin scarves snapping in the wind. In his hands he held two long swords, their edges radiating blue fire that hissed and crackled, tearing heat from the air.
The ground between them was already scarred, craters burned into stone.
The man in white snarled, spittle flying with his rage. "How dare you! How DARE YOU!" His voice was thunder breaking mountains. He swung, twin swords slashing down in a frenzy. Sparks lit the air as black steel caught the blows.
"I welcomed you!" the white-clad man roared, his strikes ringing like war drums. "I opened our fractured world to you! Treated you as a brother! And this... this betrayal is what you offer in return?!"
The man in black said nothing. His silence was louder than rage. His stare unbroken, his face a mask.
"Speak, demon!" the other bellowed, voice cracking. "Answer me! ANSWER ME!"
The black flames spiraled. They shot from the kitana in two burning streams, intertwining into a double helix that twisted skyward. The fire collapsed inward, folding into itself, refining, condensing. In a breath, the flames were gone.
What remained was no longer fire, but steel. A blade blacker than the void, smooth, seamless, forged from shadow itself.
The man in black raised it slowly, his gaze lifting to meet his enemy's eyes. Then he grinned.
The man in white faltered mid-step, fear flashing in his eyes.
With a scream, he launched skyward, twin blades crashing down like judgment.
The clash split the air. Black and white, dark flame and blue fire, steel and fury colliding again and again.
Then it happened.
The white-haired man froze. In the obsidian blade's sheen, he saw not his enemy's reflection, but his own face, distorted, broken, drowned in shadow.
His rage erupted anew.
"Either in this lifetime or the next," he howled, veins bulging at his temples, "I WILL KILL You, AETHON!"
The name detonated in the void.
Aethon's heart lurched. His eyes snapped open.
He woke up screaming.
The sound ripped from his throat, wild and raw. He bolted upright, hands clawing at the air, searching for the black-haired warrior. Searching for those eyes, for that grin. But the battlefield was empty.
Only ruin answered him.
Then came the pain.
It slammed into his skull with the force of a hammer, white-hot agony that dropped him to his knees. His scream broke into a gasp. His vision blurred again, his ears ringing. He clutched at his head, breath ragged, heart pounding until it threatened to tear itself free.
Slowly, the pain dulled. Slowly, silence returned.
He blinked. And there, standing over him, was Vaerion.
Cold blue eyes met his.
"I… I passed out?" Aethon whispered, voice brittle.
His gaze wandered. The battlefield stretched around him, a scarred wasteland. Houses shattered into rubble. The ground cratered, earth torn apart by raw power. Fire still clung to a tree, devouring it inch by inch. The air stank of smoke, blood, and ash.
He forced his gaze back to Vaerion, his voice shaking. "Did you… win?"
Vaerion's sigh was heavy, drawn from the depths of his chest. "I would have. But they were clever. Too quick. Too synchronized." His words were calm, but there was something buried in them. Something unsettled.
Aethon caught it. That flicker in his eyes. "Are you… are you all right, Lord Vaerion?"
Vaerion stared at him in silence. Then his question cut sharp: "When you fought them, did you see anything? Tattoos? A clock, a sigil, an hourglass? Anything at all?"
Aethon shook his head, no hesitation. "They were covered. Only their heads were bare. Nothing else."
Vaerion's silence stretched like a blade unsheathed. His gaze lowered, shadows deepening in his expression. Then he stood, turning away.
Aethon rose slowly, his legs trembling. His eyes swept over the battlefield again, lingering on the deepest craters, the places where heat still radiated from the stone.
One word slipped from his lips. "…Intense."
Vaerion turned to him, voice steady. "How's your side?"
Aethon blinked. He had nearly forgotten. He pulled his tunic aside, and froze.
The wound was gone. Only a scar remained, pale against his skin.
Vaerion reached into his coat, pulling free a small pouch marked with a green clover. Aethon's eyes widened.
A vital tablet.
He knew what they were. Heard stories. Two days to craft. Pure healing magic sealed into stone, activated by one's own mana. It mended the body from within, sealing torn flesh and knitting bones. But it left scars, always scars. A reminder. A price.
The throbbing in his skull made sense now. The tablet had saved his life, but drained him to the bone.
He chuckled, the sound hollow, almost bitter. His gaze fell to the ground. "I'm sorry. For not being able to do more."
Vaerion's footsteps crunched closer. A shadow loomed. His hand settled atop Aethon's bowed head.
"You fought two strong men," Vaerion said, voice low, roughened by scars of his own. "And you lived. That matters more than you know. Weakness". He tightened his grip, forcing Aethon to look up, "isn't shame. It's the start of strength."
Aethon's lips parted, but no words came.
"Do you know how many men I've seen break?" Vaerion continued. His eyes burned with memory. "Warriors, killers, veterans. Men who boasted they feared nothing, only to piss themselves when death finally stared them down. And you, an untested boy, shaking, bleeding, terrified, stood and fought. That was your first real battle. Don't disgrace it by calling yourself a burden."
His voice hardened, striking like a hammer.
"When I was a child, my master told me: Remain the same, and you will rot. Grow, and you will suffer, but survive. Do you understand? Growth is pain. The strongest men aren't born that way. They're forged, scar by scar, failure by failure, rising again when the world spits in their face."
He removed his hand. Aethon's chin rose slowly, trembling but defiant.
"The greatest danger," Vaerion said, "isn't defeat. It's letting that voice in your head, telling you you're worthless, win. That voice isn't truth. It's a wound. Don't give it control.
You're alive. That means your fire still burns. And fire, no matter how small, can grow."
Aethon's eyes blurred. He tried to hide the tears, pressing his arm across his face. But Vaerion caught his wrist, lowered it.
"There's no shame in crying," Vaerion said softly. "It means my words reached you. It means you've accepted the truth: you are weak. But weakness isn't an end. It's the beginning."
Aethon's tears spilled silently. For the first time since the fight began, the weight pressed on him broke, and his chest loosened.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. His voice was hoarse, but steadier. "…What do we do now?"
Vaerion's grin was sharp, wolfish, alive.
"Now?" He sheathed his sword, his cloak swaying behind him. "Now we head for the capital."