⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Night draped itself over the road. The caravan moved slowly along a forgotten shortcut at the edges of the Elven Kingdom. The clink of chains mingled with the dry thud of hooves. The air reeked of sweat, dried blood, and fear.
Inside the makeshift cages, elves of all ages were pressed together. Some bore whip scars across their backs; others had eyes dulled by despair. The guards overseeing the cargo were brutish men, faces marred with scars, laughter hollow and harsh. One raised a torch and jabbed at the bars, laughing at the way the prisoners shrank back like animals.
"Complain, and I'll cut out your tongue," spat the captain, chewing a piece of jerky. "By morning, we'll be across the border. These bastards are worth gold."
The others laughed, shouting curses. To them, there was no difference between hauling sacks of grain or chains of living bodies.
But the road was unnervingly silent. No crickets, no wolves, not even the whisper of the trees. Only the creak of wheels and the clatter of iron.
The first to notice was a driver. He tugged the reins, frowning. "Wait… did you hear that?"
Before anyone could answer, a white figure sliced through the darkness. The horse reared in panic, the driver screamed, and the blade that gleamed in the moonlight cut his throat in one clean motion. He collapsed, lifeless, eyes wide.
Shouts of alarm shattered the night.
"Ambush!"
Then they appeared.
Four hooded figures, cloaked in white that gleamed like bone in the torchlight. Their movements were calm, deliberate, chillingly serene, as if the outcome was already written.
The first strike came like lightning. A guard tried to raise his bow, but Lorian's curved blade had already pierced his chest. Blood spurted like a dark offering, splattering the white cloaks scarlet.
Across the road, Erebos advanced. Moonlight glinted off his blond hair, and the great sword in his hands moved like a final verdict. He swung with precision, splitting a skull in two. The dry crack echoed, mingling with the sickening crunch of shattered bone.
Meanwhile, Xanthir moved like a dancer. Only that word fit his movements: a theater of death. Wide, exaggerated gestures, yet every flourish ended with a blade sunk deep in flesh. Blood stained his pale face, but he smiled, as if bowing to an audience only he could see.
And then there was Niyx.
She did not rush. She did not run. She walked slowly to a guard too terrified to draw his sword. Her light-blue hair swayed in the breeze; her pink eyes sparkled like warped gems. She touched his face gently, almost tenderly, then clenched her hand, crushing the front of his head. Blood gushed hot, splattering her pale skin. Niyx licked her fingers clean, like a cat savoring milk.
"Hm," she murmured, tongue gliding slowly over her lips. "Not bad."
It was a massacre. Within minutes, the caravan became a graveyard of torn flesh and shattered bones. Horses neighed in terror, torchlight cast grotesque shadows across the trees. Soon, the screams faded, leaving only the clink of chains as the elves, still shackled, trembled in silence.
The four figures stopped before the cages. Their cloaks were now streaked with red, yet none flinched.
Xanthir spoke first, spreading his arms as though addressing an audience.
"Fear not. The stage of pain has ended… and now begins the play of salvation."
His voice was melodic, yet false, rehearsed, every word meticulously measured.
Erebos, serious, planted his bloodied sword in the ground. "We are the Pillars. We fight for the birth of a new world."
Lorian wiped his blade on his sleeve, a cold smile twisting his lips. "A world without chains."
Niyx stepped closer to the cages, her gaze sweeping over the elves like one selecting fruit. Then she smiled—sweet, crooked, poisonous.
"I am Forgiveness," she whispered, dragging the word like a venomous lullaby. "And I forgive you for being so weak… so fragile."
Xanthir bowed theatrically. "I am Acceptance. Bring the pain inside yourselves… embrace it, and it will cease to burn."
Erebos's voice was solemn, ceremonial, like a priest reciting a rite. "I am Understanding. For without knowing darkness, there can be no path to the light."
Finally, Lorian raised his still-dripping blade. "And I am Resurrection. The one who gives you the right to rise again."
Their words echoed across the blood-stained clearing. For the slaves, a strange comfort arose—they were alive, freed, saved. Yet beneath the relief lingered a heavy knot, a subtle unease.
They did not look like heroes. Something was off in the way they smiled, in the way they watched, in the way they spoke.
Niyx tugged at the chains, freeing the first elves. Iron rang against the earth, but the prisoners hesitated, disbelief rooting them in place.
"Run," she said, licking the blood from her fingers. "Run to your homes, your children, your trees. Run… but remember."
Her pink eyes glimmered in the gloom.
"You were saved by the Pillars of Salvation."
Xanthir spread his arms, taking invisible applause. "Remember us as you remember the gods. For we are proof that death… can be a spectacle."
Lorian laughed softly, sheathing his blade. "And that freedom is always born from blood."
Erebos simply lowered his sword, his expression masked in gravity. "Go. The night is still long."
The elves, hesitant, stumbled into the forest, some crying, others silent, all running.
Behind them, the four remained motionless, white silhouettes stained crimson, watching.
When the last slave vanished into the trees, Niyx clicked her tongue and sighed.
"Hm. Seriously, that ending was over the top. Did it really need all that?"
"I think I agree with you, creature," Erebos said.
"The more dramatic, the better, in my opinion," Xanthir replied.
"Right… Well! That's our good deed for the day, then," Niyx said, hands on her hips.
Xanthir bowed in an exaggerated flourish, like an actor before the final curtain.
"The performance has only just begun, miss. We can do better next time."
And as the moon lit the corpse-strewn clearing, the Pillars of Salvation vanished into the darkness, leaving only silence… and blood.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅