The war had been creeping closer for weeks. Smoke on the horizon, villages razed, and soldiers dying for causes they barely understood. Aden Noctis, lean and unassuming, adjusted the straps on his armor for the third time, cursed under his breath at the ill-fitting metal plates. He was barely five-foot-nine, black hair falling into his eyes, Eastern features standing out among the foreign soldiers of this battalion.
"Oi, foot soldier!"
A booming voice broke his concentration. Aden looked up to see a man towering over most of the soldiers around him—a six-foot-six colossus of muscle and armor, braided red hair and beard glinting in the fading sun. Frost-blue eyes scanned the camp, resting finally on Aden.
"You're Aden, right? Noctis?"
Aden blinked, giving the smallest nod he could manage. "Yes… Stormborne?" He hesitated. "Durik?"
Durik chuckled, a sound that rolled like distant thunder. "Durik Stormborne. And you are tiny even for an Eastern soldier. Don't worry, you'll grow into it—or die trying."
Aden didn't reply. That was his way. He had always been quiet, observant, keeping his thoughts like a blade sheathed. Durik, as loud and brash as a hurricane, seemed determined to fill the silence.
"I brought ale," Durik continued, hoisting a flask with a grin. "Thought you might need it. First day on the field, eh? Don't tell me you're scared, boy."
"I… I'm not," Aden said, his voice low, careful. He accepted the flask anyway, testing the liquid, grimacing slightly at the strong taste. "This is… potent."
"Good! Keeps the nerves steady. You'll need that." Durik laughed again, clapping Aden on the shoulder. "I'm telling you, kid, the world is about to eat us alive. Might as well start on a full stomach."
Aden drained a cautious sip, then set the flask down. "I just want to do my duty."
"Ha!" Durik roared, slapping his warhammer-axe against the ground. "Duty's good. But survive, boy. Survive first, and we'll see about glory later."
They walked together toward the shattered gates of the Temple of the Maelstrom, where their battalion had been assigned to hold the line. The wind carried the scent of smoke and scorched stone, twisting leaves around their boots. Aden's black hair brushed his eyes again, and he paused, glancing at the battlefield ahead.
The temple itself was in partial ruin, yet statues of angels and fallen heroes still loomed along the crumbling walls. Sunlight caught the fractured stained glass, scattering red and gold shards across the stone floor.
Durik's voice cut through Aden's concentration. "Not bad for a first assignment, eh? Not many get to stand at the gates of an old sanctum while the world burns."
Aden didn't answer, scanning the perimeter. Something in the air prickled against his senses—a faint pulse, a whisper of danger that made the hairs on his neck rise.
"That's the thing about war," Durik said, following his gaze. "You never know what's waiting behind the gates. Could be demons, could be mages… could be worse."
Aden tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Mages?"
Durik's grin widened. "Oh, you'll learn. Some of them don't even need weapons. Magic's in their veins, and they'll kill faster than a blade through silk. Keep your wits about you."
A faint rustle came from the gates. Aden's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. He froze.
Through the cracked and broken wood, age in crimson robes emerged, staff raised high. Kneeling before him was a girl, delicate, elegant, her crimson hair cascading around her shoulders. Her hands were clasped in terror, her wide eyes reflecting the fading sun and the mage's cruel intent.
"Stop," Aden whispered, his body already moving before thought could catch up.
Durik's eyes widened. "What in—"
Aden sprinted forward, boots skidding on loose stones. The pull of something—something he couldn't name—pressed against his chest. His sword felt heavier than it should have, as if drawn by the girl's fear, by the pulse of power he did not yet understand.
The mage struck, arcane energy surging toward the girl. Aden dove, catching the attack with his sword, sparks flying. The impact jarred his arms and sent pain up his spine, but he gritted his teeth, holding firm.
Aden's arms trembled under the mage's force, steel shrieking against raw magic. The ground beneath his boots cracked, dust curling up in the heat of their clash.
The mage's lips twisted into a sneer.
"Step aside, boy. That girl is a curse. Wrath festers in her veins—she'll tear this world apart before she learns to contain it."
Aden's grip tightened on his sword. "Then teach her to control it! Killing her won't change a damn thing!"
"Control?" The mage barked a bitter laugh, eyes gleaming with fanatic light. "Fool. Wrath cannot be tamed—it must be transferred. We'll carve the mark from her soul and brand it onto a new vessel… one fit to bear the Sin."
Behind them, Yvaine staggered to her knees, clutching her chest as crimson sparks flared from her skin. "No… please… I don't want this," she whispered, voice breaking.
The mage raised his staff, magic coiling like a serpent ready to strike.
"Then you'll die, priestess. Your death will spare the world the chaos Wrath demands."
Aden stepped forward, placing himself fully between Yvaine and the mage. His chest tightened—not from courage, but from something deeper. Something answering the crimson glow bleeding from her.
"Over my dead body."
The mage's staff flared again—only to falter. His eyes widened, snapping down to Aden's chest.
Aden felt it then. Heat. A burning that was not fire but a living hunger. His scar—the four-point star carved into his flesh since childhood—shivered. Black lines spiderwebbed across his chest, and from within them, a faint violet shimmer pulsed like a heartbeat.
The mark throbbed with Yvaine's fear. With Wrath itself.
Aden's vision swam, violet light bleeding at the edges. The air distorted, pressure sinking like a storm about to break. He clenched his sword tighter, knuckles white.
"What… is this?" he muttered, voice rough, almost afraid.
The mage staggered back, staff trembling in his hands. His face drained of all color.
"No…" His voice cracked, rising to a shriek. "No! That seal—those lines—!" He fell to his knees, clawing the dirt as though it might swallow him whole.
"The Mark of the Damned… it cannot be real!"
"Aden!" Durik shouted, charging forward. His massive warhammer-axe smashed into the mage, sending him sprawling, but others emerged from the shadows—more mages, their eyes glowing with malevolence.
Aden found himself surrounded, cornered. The weight of his sword pressed into his palms, the pull of the girl's energy tugging insistently. His mind raced: I don't even know what this is. I don't even know who she is. But I can't let them touch her.
Durik roared, swinging his warhammer-axe like a falling mountain. "You're mine if you try anything! Stay alive, boy!"
Then it happened. The girl's eyes flared crimson, a sudden eruption of power that ripped through the temple. Stone splintered, roofs collapsed, and a horn sounded from some unseen bell, low and ominous. Mages were thrown back, shrieking, as walls crumbled and debris rained down.
Aden's sword rang as it bit into the falling rubble, sparks scattering. His body shielded the girl, his breath ragged. He didn't even know why he'd done it—only that the sight of the mage raising his staff over her had forced his legs to move.
The girl's soft voice quivered beneath the storm.
"I… I can't stop it…"
Aden clenched his jaw. Dust clung to his black hair, blood seeping from a cut at his temple. His voice came low, steady, almost surprising himself.
"You don't need to."
Durik crashed down beside him, warhammer-axe in hand, eyes wide as he scanned the ruined temple. "By the gods, lad… do you even realize what you just stepped into? That—" he gestured toward the shattered altar, the still-humming air— "was Wrath itself."
Aden's black eyes flicked toward the girl. Crimson hair spilled over her torn veil. She trembled, her slender fingers gripping his sleeve—not in recognition, but desperation.
Her lips parted. "…Why… why did you stop them?"
Aden hesitated. He didn't even have an answer. "…Because someone had to."
Durik barked out a disbelieving laugh, though there was no joy in it. He clapped Aden's shoulder roughly. "Impulsive fool! You don't even know her name, do you? Yet you threw yourself into the jaws of death."
Aden looked away, silent.
The girl's eyes lowered. She released his sleeve slowly, whispering, "…I… I am Yvaine."
The name hung in the air, fragile as glass.
Aden's grip on his sword tightened. He didn't offer his own. Somehow, it didn't matter.
Durik exhaled, warhammer-axe resting against the ground. "Well, Aden—or whatever fool's name you carry—you've done it now. The Sin of Wrath has chosen its vessel. And you—" he jabbed a finger at him "—you just made yourself a fugitive by standing in her way."
Yvaine shivered, curling into herself. "They'll… come for me. For us…"
Aden looked at her again, unreadable. "…Then we run."
Durik gave a slow, grim smile, though his eyes betrayed the weight settling on him. "Hah. That's the spirit, boy. No turning back now."
The horns of the battlefield still howled in the distance. Fire ate at the sky. Shadows shifted in the smoke.
Durik spat to the side, tightening his grip on the warhammer-axe. "Damn it, lad! By the Stormfather's spit, what have I gotten into?… you've dragged me into this mess too."
Aden blinked, still holding Yvaine protectively. "What?"
"You heard me." Durik leaned close, his grin crooked, but his voice was grim. "By helping you—by shielding her—I'm branded the same as you. A deserter. A traitor. Fugitive, from this day forth."
Aden's jaw tightened. "You didn't have to help."
"Aye," Durik growled, "and I'd be drinking ale right now if I hadn't. But you—on your first bloody day in the field—had to throw yourself at a mage's staff like a green fool. And me? I wasn't about to let some whelp die without at least making a stand."
Yvaine stirred weakly, her fragile voice cutting between them. "…Then… both of you… are hunted… because of me."
Durik looked at her, then at Aden, then barked a laugh that held no joy. "By the forge, this is rich. A fresh recruit, a stormborn veteran, and a girl carrying Wrath itself. Fine company we make."
Aden lowered his head slightly, black hair falling into his eyes. His voice was quiet, but steady. "…Then we run. Together."
Durik sighed through his teeth, then nodded. "Aye, boy. Together. But know this—once the horns sound for deserters, there'll be no ale, no campfires, no rest. Only steel at our backs."
The air shifted. From somewhere deep in the smoke, unseen eyes marked them—the boy who shielded Wrath, the dwarf who chose to follow, and the crimson-haired girl who carried the Sin.
On his first day in uniform, Aden Noctis was already a fugitive.