The carriage rattled along the dirt road, each jolt sending a faint shiver through the wooden frame. Opposite Noah, the Imperial Knight sat like a statue, armour gleaming in the dim light that filtered through the curtains. Even seated, the man seemed to fill the space, every slight clink of steel reminding Noah that this was no ordinary escort.
'I bet this guy eats with his armour on too.'
Beside him, Elira sat comfortably, as if the suffocating presence of the Knight didn't exist. Her posture was relaxed, her gaze fixed on the streaks of forest rushing past the window. The contrast made Noah itch. He tugged at his tunic, suddenly aware of the faint musk of sweat clinging to him.
'Of course I'd get dragged before the Emperor dressed like this. Perfect.'
"Don't worry about your clothing," Elira said, her voice smooth, carrying the kind of maturity that caught Noah off guard. "It surely won't be on the agenda today."
For a heartbeat, he thought his thoughts had slipped free of his mouth. His head snapped toward her. She can't actually—
"No, I can't read minds," she interrupted, her lips tugging into a faint smile. "Would've been fun if I could, though."
Noah forced a smirk. "Don't remember mind-reading being a primary element for a mage."
"It's not. Just simple wordplay." She tilted her head, eyes flicking over him. "Also, don't think too much about it. Thinking will only make you worry."
That made his smirk falter, if only for a moment. Because she was right. His mind kept circling the same question, chasing itself in knots: What in the world does the Emperor want with me? He clenched his jaw, willing the thought away.
"Thanks for the advice," he muttered.
"Don't mention it." Elira turned back to the window, her expression unreadable, though Noah caught a glimmer of amusement before she hid it away.
The carriage swayed, the wheels crunching over gravel. Outside, the forest pressed close, dense and shadowed, the occasional shaft of light breaking through the canopy. Inside, silence stretched—broken only by the steady clink of the Knight adjusting his gauntlets. Each sound was small, but heavy, like a reminder that he was trapped in here with a mountain of steel that hadn't moved a muscle otherwise.
Noah's knee bounced once before he stilled it. He leaned back against the seat, forcing a casual breath. 'This is going to be one long ride.'
*****
Far to the south, on the blood-soaked plains where the war against the Artemis Alliance had ended only days ago, the Imperial military base writhed in chaos.
The war was over—but no one felt victorious.
The camp was alive with broken voices. Men screamed as healers stitched wounds too deep for magic to mend. Others sobbed over the shrouded shapes of their comrades. The stink of blood, sweat, and burnt aether clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Relief, rage, grief, numbness—every emotion bled together, choking the camp.
Inside one of the infirmary tents, a young soldier slammed his fist into the wooden frame of a cot, his body trembling. His torso was swathed in bandages, his right sleeve hanging empty where an arm had once been.
"Goddammit!" His voice cracked under the strain. "Can that bastard not even tell friend from foe anymore?!"
"Morrison, stop—" another soldier muttered from his cot, though he lacked the strength to rise. His leg ended in a stump just above the knee. His face was pale, slick with sweat.
"Stop?" Morrison staggered across the tent, pointing at the others with his remaining hand. "I lost my arm. You lost your leg. Keiran lost his eye. And him—" He gestured to a boy bandaged from crown to jaw, still as stone on his cot. "He can't even hear us anymore!"
His voice climbed higher, edged with hysteria. "All this… all this just because that madman wanted to end the war faster?! This wasn't even our war! So why are we the ones paying the price!?"
Silence pressed heavy. The only answer was the crackle of the lantern overhead and the muted wailing outside.
Then, from the shadows of his cot, another soldier rasped a laugh that ended in a cough. His throat sounded raw, as though smoke had burnt it hollow. "They're calling him 'Herald of Death', you know. Fitting, isn't it?"
Morrison's face twisted. His voice dropped to a growl. "If this is living, I'd rather be dead." He took a half-step toward the tent's exit, his eyes burning with desperation.
"Don't be a damned fool!" the crippled soldier barked, slamming a fist against his cot. "You think throwing yourself away will fix anything?"
The tent flap stirred. A man entered, bandages wound tight around his abdomen, his uniform stained dark with dried blood. His limp was slight, but his presence was enough to freeze the room.
"Captain…" someone breathed.
The man's eyes swept the tent—taking in missing limbs, the empty gazes, Morrison's shaking frame. His jaw clenched, but when he spoke, his voice was steady and quiet, carrying weight without raising in volume.
"I know," he said. "I know you're angry, Morrison. You have every right to be. But throwing your life away now won't bring your arm back. It won't bring them back either."
"But Captain—" Morrison's voice cracked, fury and grief colliding. "You saw what he did! Hundreds cut down in an instant. Ally, enemy—it didn't matter! He's a monster in a knight's skin. Why do we have to bear the cost of that madness?!"
For a moment, the captain's mask slipped. His shoulders sagged, and sorrow flickered in his eyes. He had no answer to that question—not one that would ease their pain.
At last, he exhaled. "Because we're still breathing. That's all that matters now." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "The war is over. You still have homes to return to. Families waiting. Don't let him take that from you too."
The words settled heavy over the tent. No defiance rose to meet them this time. Morrison's throat bobbed as tears welled in his eyes. His rage drained out of him, leaving only emptiness. He sank back onto the cot, shaking, silent.
Around him, no one spoke. Some stared at the lantern until its light blurred in their tears. Others simply closed their eyes, retreating into silence.
The captain stood among them, silent too, carrying the weight of their grief like a man who knew it would never leave him.
Inside one of the largest command tents, five figures sat around a wide circular table. A sprawling map of the plains was spread across it, marked with ink, knives, and hastily scribbled notes from days of bloodshed.
At the head of the table sat a man whose very stillness seemed louder than the furious debate echoing around him. His blond hair was matted with blood, streaked across his temple, though his face bore no wound. His gauntlets rested against his cheek as he leaned on one hand, eyes fixed on the map as though the shouting in the room was nothing more than buzzing flies.
Count Walberg was the loudest of them, his face red with rage, his voice cutting above the others. "Sir Leon! What in the Emperor's name was that stunt back there?! You charged into the enemy lines without a word! Do you even grasp the number of men we lost because of your—your recklessness?!"
How bothersome. Leon's emerald eyes lifted lazily, cold as steel dragged across stone.
"Count Walberg," his voice carried like a blade sliding from its sheath, "why do you think I was sent here?"
The question landed like a hammer. Conversation died. All eyes turned toward Leon, though the Count, still boiling, puffed up his chest. "To subjugate the Artemis Alliance, of course! To crush their forces so the Empire can finally claim these lands. Isn't that what the Emperor wants?"
Leon finally looked at him. For the Count, it was like being pulled beneath an endless black sea. His lungs tightened, his throat closed. The weight of it stole the very air from his body.
"Subjugation," Leon said, each syllable heavy, "is the Grand Marshal's task. I was sent here for one purpose." His voice dropped lower, colder. "To end the war."
The pressure broke. The Count collapsed back into his chair, clutching his chest, gulping in ragged breaths. The others bowed their heads, as if to acknowledge the obvious.
Silence lingered until the tent's flap shifted. A knight entered swiftly, his armor marked by the crest of House Valcrest. Without a word, he stepped to Leon's side and handed over a sealed envelope.
Leon cracked the seal with one thumb, unfolded the letter, and began to read. His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes halted on one sentence.
Iriel has been taken.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the tent itself seemed to tremble. The quill rolled off the table, the ink jar toppled, spilling black rivers across the map. The lantern swayed as the air grew heavy, compressing, vibrating. Sweat prickled across brows.
The Count's eyes widened in dawning terror. It's not heat… it's pressure. He's condensing the very air around us.
The table groaned under invisible weight. The flame inside the lantern flared, then shrank, nearly snuffed. Even the hardened Ascended officers around the table struggled to stay upright.
At the center of the storm, Leon stood utterly still, his gaze locked on the single damning line. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the letter. The power flooding from him was raw, primal, impossible to contain.
Then, as swiftly as it came, it vanished. The air cleared. The lantern steadied.
Leon folded the letter, handed it back to the knight, and rose from his chair. His voice, when it came, was calm—far calmer than it should have been.
"The war may be finished, but your work is not. Sweep up the stragglers. Secure the supply lines. Do not mistake silence for peace." His gaze lingered on them, sharp as the edge of a blade. "I won't be needed here any longer."
No one dared answer.
He stepped out of the tent. With each stride, pieces of his armor loosened and fell, thudding into the mud. By the time he reached the edge of camp, only his tunic and boots remained, his golden hair catching what little moonlight pierced the smoke-filled sky.
The knight who had delivered the letter hurried after him, struggling to match his pace. "Sir Leon," he said carefully, "shall I prepare a carriage? It would take a month, but—"
Leon glanced back, his expression unreadable, his voice low. "A month is too long. We'll run. A day will be enough."
The knight hesitated, then bowed. "Then I'll gather your belongings and follow as best I can. I know I can't keep up with you."
Leon gave a single nod.
And then he was gone. One stride, two—and the next heartbeat, the night was empty where he had stood. Only the echo of his boots remained, swallowed quickly by the dark.