The narrow streets lay buried beneath layers of snow, silent and pale, until a lone figure broke the stillness.
A man stood there, his face hidden behind a green toxic halo—a sickly green aura radiating like fire, but instead of burning, it corrupted the air. His face inside the glow looked blurry and untouchable. His eyes—green and unnaturally luminous—glowed with an eerie light. Power radiated from him, twisting the will of the city guards until they turned their blades against one another.
Some of them had already pierced their comrades, blood spilling into the snow and staining it crimson. Others crawled helplessly across the frozen ground, clawing at the ice as though trying to escape their own minds.
One guard pressed his fingers deep into his ears, shrieking in terror, but his screams were swallowed by the cold wind, vanishing as though they never existed. Two others stood rigid, face-to-face. Rays of strange light streamed from their eyes into one another's, transmitting not pain, but some alien stream of knowledge—whispers of another world.
From the slope of a nearby hill, five figures watched the chaos unfold: Haman, Samad, Zahir, Hamail, and two loyal guards. Their breath clouded in the freezing air as they stared in stunned silence. None of them could comprehend what sorcery was at work.
And then, suddenly, Haman's ring pulsed with a violent glow. The light seemed alive, as if carrying a message. Haman froze, caught between awe and fear, but he couldn't grasp what the ring was trying to tell him.
Hamail's voice broke the silence.
"Why… why are the guards tearing each other apart?"
Samad's reply was steady, his tone edged with steel.
"Standing here won't give us answers. We'll only learn the truth if we face it head-on."
Hamail straightened, his eyes hardening.
"Fine. Haman and I will deal with the man whose face is hidden behind that green toxic halo. The rest of you—handle the guards."
Before anyone could move, Zahir stepped forward nervously. His voice trembled.
"Wait! Think for a second. If we don't protect ourselves, we'll end up just like them. We'll kill each other without even knowing why."
Hamail let out a mocking laugh.
"Zahir, you're still a child. When will you finally become a man?"
Samad's voice thundered, silencing them both.
"Enough! We don't have time for bickering. If we don't get close, we'll never know what we're fighting against. Focus!"
The decision was made. Samad, Zahir, and the two guards marched into the bloody chaos, where the bewitched soldiers clashed like rabid beasts. Meanwhile, Haman and Hamail pressed forward, snow crunching beneath their boots, moving toward the figure who waited for them.
---
The snow-covered ground shook under the weight of battle. The bewitched guards fought each other in blind fury, their eyes glowing with that same demonic light.
Zahir slipped through the shadows behind one distracted guard and struck the back of his neck with a precise punch. The man collapsed instantly, sprawled unconscious in the snow.
Zahir turned to one of his allies.
"Take him to safety—now!"
The guard obeyed without hesitation, dragging the unconscious soldier away.
Samad, meanwhile, drew his blade and stormed into the heart of the fight—straight into a circle of eleven guards. His roar echoed through the frozen air:
"All of you against me? Fine—COME!"
The eleven charged him at once. The first two swung wildly, but Samad twisted his sword, locking their blades before hurling them backwards into the snow. He spun, driving a crushing fist into another's chest, sending him flying.
Each strike was merciless, each swing of his sword a storm. Guards fell one after another, until only the last remained. Samad seized him by the collar, lifted him like a ragdoll, and slammed him into the ice. One by one, the eleven guards lay unconscious at his feet.
Zahir and their remaining ally hurried to drag the fallen men to a safe corner, stacking them away from the madness.
But the respite was brief. From beyond the ridge, a mass of thirty-four more bewitched soldiers emerged, eyes blazing, blades raised. Their march shook the snow.
Zahir's eyes widened.
"Samad—thirty-four of them!"
Samad spat into the snow and raised his sword.
"Then thirty-four will fall."
The battle exploded. Samad moved like lightning, his blade cleaving through the air, knocking down four men with a single devastating strike. Another soldier lunged from behind, but Zahir swept his legs and drove a brutal punch into his jaw, dropping him instantly.
Snow whipped into the air. Steel clashed with steel. The night was filled with roars, shouts, and the crash of bodies hitting the ground.
Minutes later, silence returned. All thirty-four soldiers lay defeated, unconscious in the blood-stained snow.
Samad drove his sword into the ground, chest heaving.
"Gather them all. Bind them. Watch them closely. No one moves unless we say so."
The two loyal guards lowered their gaze in obedience.
"Yes, Sir."
Samad glanced at Zahir. Their eyes met, and a faint grin touched Zahir's lips.
"Come on. Haman and Hamail are still out there. They'll need us."
Their boots crunched against the frozen ground as they left the broken battlefield behind, heading toward the true fight.
---
Elsewhere, Haman and Hamail had finally reached him. His green eyes locked on them.
"What sort of creature is this?" Hamail muttered as he stared at his bizarre face.
And then the man's voice came—low, chilling, and sharp as the wind itself.
"Chains of thorns will bind you. Your own thoughts will become your executioner."
Hamail staggered. His body felt heavy, as though invisible barbed chains had wrapped around his limbs, sinking into his skin. He dropped to his knees, gasping.
"This… this voice—it's tearing my mind apart!"
"Hamail, listen to me!" Haman shouted, his voice cutting through the storm.
"The chains aren't real. They're lies. Don't trust what your eyes see. Trust your heart. Fight it!"
Hamail squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe. Slowly, painfully, the phantom chains loosened and vanished. His body shook, but he stood once more.
The glowing figure tilted his head, intrigued.
"Interesting… you are not ordinary men."
Haman's ring flared again. A glow spread around him and Hamail, forming a protective barrier—a shimmering dome that repelled the man's dark power.
Drawing his blade, Haman's gaze sharpened as it fell upon the figure's chest. There, glinting faintly in the snowlight, was an ancient insignia pinned to his robes. A battered, old badge.
Etched upon it was a single word: Bahil.
Haman's heart thundered. Bahil. The very name of the sorcerer whose power resided in his ring. His grip tightened on the weapon, his steps faltering for a moment as if time itself had stilled.
Before he could speak, the man's voice broke the silence, darker than before.
"You will all die… at the hands of your own friends."
______