(Chapter 7)
The forest around the Purge Knights seemed to fold in on itself. Every tree twisted unnaturally, every leaf a darkened silhouette, as if the shadows themselves had begun to breathe. The knights moved cautiously through the thick underbrush, but despite their alertness, they were already lost. Lost to Holon's cruel design, their minds trapped in illusions that drew upon every wound, every regret, every sorrow that had ever burdened them.
Aven fell to his knees, the world shifting around him. Smoke curled through the ruins of his home, thick and choking, curling into his lungs. Blood soaked his hands as he stared down at the lifeless forms of his wife and child. Their faces were pale, twisted in silent accusation. Rage, grief, and guilt collided inside him, forming a storm that threatened to tear his mind apart. He swung blindly at nothing, his arms flailing, trying to strike vengeance into the air, but only the echoes of their sorrow met him. He heard the cruel laughter of the bandits who had taken his family, saw their knives flash in the dying light as they descended upon him again and again. Aven's stomach knotted, and his chest ached as he relived the helplessness that had defined that day.
Nilda appeared in a sunless courtyard, the sky a dim gray canvas that pressed down upon her shoulders. Broken training dummies littered the stone ground, their splintered wood jutting upward like accusatory fingers. Shadows of her father and noble kin surrounded her, their faces twisted with scorn. Every step she took brought echoes of ridicule, every swing of a rapier met with mockery. You are weak, they whispered, you will never rise. Nilda's hands trembled as she gripped her blade, the weight of isolation pressing down harder than any steel. Memories of her mentor, executed unjustly while she had celebrated a gift, flooded her. She saw his bloodied body, felt the injustice, and whispered that it was her fault. Every fiber of her being burned with shame. Tears welled in her eyes as she struck phantom opponents that did not exist, the air thick with the scent of iron and dust. Her chest heaved. Her legs wobbled. Her sorrow was a cage.
Eldhar's vision was a battlefield set ablaze. Smoke and fire roared, flames licking the corpses of soldiers who had trusted him. Young men, soldiers who had laughed, argued, and lived beside him, lay dead at his feet. Their eyes were hollow, accusing him of weakness, of failure. He saw the soldier who had disobeyed his orders, whose folly had led to a massacre. He remembered the cries of the fallen, the chaos that had consumed their formation, the blood that pooled beneath him, and he remembered the suffocating weight of survival at the cost of so many. His fingers dug into the soil as guilt threatened to collapse him entirely. The scent of charred flesh and iron burned his nostrils. Each breath felt like inhaling regret itself.
Azre was trapped in a cold chamber that stretched impossibly beyond its walls. Her mother lay frail beneath a thin sheet, the life ebbing slowly, and Azre's father was absent, conscripted to war, powerless to intervene. The walls shifted with a life of their own, shadows crawling along the ceiling. Her younger self wept helplessly beside her, unable to halt the disease that would consume her mother. Holon's dark influence twisted these memories, stretching them into a nightmare, showing her a world in which her mother's death might never have occurred, yet she remained trapped in guilt and despair. Every heartbeat hammered in her chest. Every breath was a struggle. Chains of agony wrapped around her mind, binding her to the torment, forcing her to relive her failure endlessly.
Holon watched, seated upon a throne carved from bone and blackened iron. Crimson eyes burned with sadistic delight as he observed the Purge Knights, trapped by their own pasts. The dark energy surrounding him thrummed with the echoes of pain and regret. His lips curled into a smile as he issued the command. Darkan, finish them. Start with the one at the front.
Darkan's cruel grin stretched across his face as he stepped forward. He did not know their names, but he knew one would feel most pain first. He turned his gaze to Aven, who was kneeling amidst the ruins of his family's house, and decided to strike. His massive axe arced through the air, aimed to crush Aven before he could resist. Each step Darkan took echoed with a promise of violence, a delight in suffering, and the air seemed to shiver around his aura of malice.
Suddenly, a bolt of golden light streaked through the illusion. Darkan's reflexes were fast, yet the arrow cut through the air, grazing his ear and drawing blood. A hiss of wrath escaped his lips. He spun, fury burning in his eyes. From a tree above, Thalia had leapt, bowstring taut, eyes glinting with determination. The arrow had been precise, unyielding. She had come to protect the knights, their lives intertwined with her unwavering courage.
Rowan moved with deadly intent, weaving behind fallen comrades, unconscious yet symbolically shielding their collective honor. Every muscle burned, yet every thought was singular, protect the knights with his life. Sweat and grime streaked his face as he pressed forward, his swords ready. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the air tense with impending violence.
Aven froze in his illusion as the arrow grazed Darkan. Rage and confusion twisted his mind as he sensed a real force intruding upon the nightmare, an intrusion that felt impossibly alive. The scream of the phantom bandits around him became muted as his focus wavered. The weight of the illusion trembled with the arrow's impact. He felt the shadow of hope, distant yet tangible, piercing the heart of his torment.
Nilda's eyes flickered, sensing disturbance in the shadows that surrounded her. The mockery and isolation remained, yet the distant sound of movement, the rhythm of a bowstring, and the scent of forest air outside her mind prickled at the edges of the illusion. Her body tightened as instinct screamed survival. The memory of her mentor's lessons, the rapier strikes, the footwork, the elegance, surfaced amid the nightmare, urging her toward clarity even if faint.
Eldhar, locked in the battlefield of fire and corpses, felt the tremor of reality. The weight of command, the memory of fallen soldiers, and the roar of flame still pressed upon him. Yet the scratch of arrow against Darkan's ear, the shift of wind, and the soft whisper of leaves beyond the illusion stirred his tactical mind. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his greatsword, unbroken, ready to act when the spell of torment cracked.
Azre's illusions continued to coil around her, holding her in a prison of grief and what-ifs. The chains tightened as she relived every pang of guilt, yet the distant golden light streaking through the dark forest, the sounds of determined footsteps, and the faint scent of ozone ignited a spark deep within her. Her mother's voice, her father's absence, the disease, the loss, all remained potent, but something fought against Holon's manipulation. Her mind shivered with the awareness that help was coming, yet she could not break free. She remained bound, golden eyes wide, chest heaving, teetering between despair and the first flickers of defiance.
Darkan's gaze returned to the trapped knights. Aven was nearest, vulnerable, a prime target to strike first. The thrill of dominance pulsed through him. He raised his axe, muscles coiled, ready to obliterate the kneeling knight. Bloodlust filled his senses. The forest seemed to darken around him, shadows thickening, twisting as if the world itself wished to participate in the carnage.
And then the second arrow came, sharp and true, striking close enough to send a shiver through Darkan. The pain, though minor, caused him to falter, just enough. Thalia leapt from the branches above, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear, fury, and resolve. Her presence was a promise of retaliation, of hope, of life.
Rowan followed, running across the forest floor, weaving behind fallen knights, using their unconscious forms as shields, his every step a commitment to survival and protection. His breaths were ragged, his heart pounding, each beat a vow to defend his companions. Sweat stung his eyes, muscles screamed, yet his spirit surged forward unbroken. He swore silently that no one would fall while he drew breath. Every scar, every memory, every loss, every lesson was a weapon in his defense.
The forest around them seemed to hum with tension, every leaf, every branch, every shadow aware of the confrontation. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, ozone, and iron, mingling with the latent energy of Holon's dark illusions. The battlefield of their minds and the real forest had begun to overlap, and every heartbeat counted, every movement carried weight, every strike and evasion a fragile thread between life and death.
The knights remained trapped in their personal hells, yet now a surge of reality, a golden promise of light, pierced the edges of Holon's illusions. The storm had begun, and the threads of fate were pulling tighter with every breath. Rowan and Thalia were not just arriving, they were the shift, the wedge, the first strike against the nightmare. The tension built to a breaking point as Aven's blood raced, Nilda's breaths shortened, Eldhar's knuckles whitened on his sword, and Azre's heart pounded, caught between torment and awakening.
The forest held its breath. The illusions quivered. Holon's crimson eyes widened in disbelief, anger, and delight simultaneously. He had woven nightmares from their pasts, sought to break them with guilt, sorrow, and rage. Yet even here, where despair should have reigned absolute, the first threads of defiance stirred. Rowan's footsteps, Thalia's arrows, the faint golden glimmer on the horizon of Azre's awareness, they were harbingers. Holon's perfect plan was cracking.
And then, with the forest trembling in anticipation, Rowan surged forward, blades at the ready. Thalia knocked another arrow. Darkan braced. The first strike in this battle of past, present, and future was about to land.