The morning after the ambush, Fort Dravien was filled with whispers.
Every corridor buzzed with one story — how a low-ranked recruit named Arlan had sensed the trap before even the scouts did, saving the entire platoon. The soldiers called it instinct. Commander Kael called it luck.
But Arlan knew better. It was memory — memory of a past life that no one else remembered.
He stood alone in the armory, sharpening his blade. The metallic scrape echoed against the stone walls. With every stroke, flashes of his old life returned — the betrayal, the execution, the moment the dagger pierced his chest.
He had died once.
He would not die again.
"Still awake?" came a familiar voice.
Arlan turned. Liora stood at the doorway, holding a small lamp. Her white healer's robe made her look fragile, but there was quiet strength in her eyes. "You've been at this since dawn."
"Couldn't sleep," Arlan replied, setting the sword aside.
She stepped closer, studying him. "You've changed, Arlan. The way you fight… even the way you look at people. It's like—" she paused, searching for the word, "—you've seen something terrible."
He forced a faint smile. "Maybe I have."
Liora sighed softly. "Just don't forget who you are. The Empire doesn't need another soldier with a dead heart."
Her words struck deeper than she knew. Arlan looked down at the faint mark on his palm, now glowing slightly beneath the skin. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten."
She nodded and left quietly, leaving him in silence once more.
By noon, Commander Kael summoned him to the strategy chamber. The room smelled of parchment and oil lamps, maps spread across the long oak table. Kael stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"You've impressed a lot of people," Kael said without turning. "But I don't trust luck."
Arlan remained silent.
Kael turned, his piercing gray eyes fixed on him. "Tell me honestly — how did you know about the ambush?"
Arlan met his gaze evenly. "I didn't. I just… felt it."
Kael studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled — thin and sharp. "Whatever it was, you saved my men. That earns you a task."
He pulled a sealed letter from the table and slid it across. "There's a rebel outpost in the northern woods. A scout will lead you. Bring back their commander's insignia as proof."
Arlan frowned. "Alone?"
"Consider it a test," Kael said. "If you're as skilled as people claim, you won't have a problem."
Arlan hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Understood."
Kael leaned forward slightly. "One more thing. No witnesses. The Empire wants this handled quietly."
Arlan's expression didn't change, but inside, something twisted. He had killed countless men before — soldiers, assassins, rebels — but this was different. This was the beginning again. The first time.
The first sin of his new life.
By evening, Arlan was deep in the northern forest. The scout who guided him, a timid young man named Jaren, stopped near a ridge. "The camp's just beyond those rocks," he whispered. "Maybe ten men inside."
Arlan nodded. "Stay here. Don't move until I return."
Jaren's eyes widened. "You're going in alone?"
"I won't be long."
Arlan moved through the shadows like smoke. The years of warfare in his past life had honed his instincts to perfection. He kept low, silent, his breathing steady. The mark on his palm pulsed faintly, as though the presence within it — Erebus — was watching.
He crept up to the ridge and peered down.
The rebel camp was small — a few tents, a dying fire, two guards half asleep. The commander's tent stood at the far end, marked by a torn imperial banner.
Arlan unsheathed his blade.
He waited until one of the guards turned away, then moved. One strike — clean, fast, silent. The first guard fell without a sound. The second barely had time to react before Arlan's dagger slipped beneath his ribs.
When he reached the commander's tent, he paused. The man inside was seated by a lantern, writing on a map. He was older, his armor worn but polished. Arlan could see his face clearly — not a monster, not a killer. Just a man.
For a brief second, Arlan's hand hesitated.
Then the voice came. "You swore vengeance. Do not falter."
Arlan tightened his grip. The mark on his palm burned like fire.
He stepped forward, blade ready.
The commander turned at the sound. "Who—?" He didn't finish. The blade struck cleanly through his chest.
Arlan caught him before he fell, lowering him gently to the ground. The man's eyes met his — confusion, then realization, then nothing.
The light faded.
Arlan stood over the body, his breath heavy. Blood dripped from his blade, dark and warm. His hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from memory. This moment… he had lived it before, too. The first kill always stayed with him.
Erebus's voice broke the silence. "Every death feeds the mark. Every sin makes you stronger."
Arlan wiped the blood from his sword. "Don't mistake necessity for devotion."
"You say that now. But soon, you will crave it."
He ignored the voice, kneeling to take the insignia from the man's armor — a silver wolf head, the symbol of the northern rebellion. He pocketed it and turned toward the forest.
But as he stepped out of the tent, a small sound froze him — a gasp. He turned sharply, sword raised.
A child stood near the tree line — maybe twelve, eyes wide with terror. She had been carrying a bucket of water, now spilled across the ground.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then she turned and ran.
Arlan's instincts screamed. No witnesses.
Kael's command echoed in his mind.
But another voice followed — Liora's, soft and clear:
"The Empire doesn't need another soldier with a dead heart."
He hesitated.
The mark burned hotter, pulsing like a heartbeat. "End it."
Arlan clenched his jaw. "No."
He sheathed his sword and turned away, moving back through the shadows. The child's sobs faded into the distance. Erebus said nothing more, but the silence felt heavier than words.
By the time Arlan returned to the fort, dawn was breaking again. He dropped the bloodstained insignia on Kael's desk.
Kael picked it up, examining it briefly. "Efficient," he said. "Was anyone left alive?"
Arlan met his eyes. "No one who matters."
Kael nodded, satisfied. "You did well. You'll be transferred to the elite training unit starting tomorrow. Don't waste this opportunity."
Arlan gave a short nod and turned to leave.
"Arlan," Kael called after him. "Killing isn't supposed to be easy. But the Empire doesn't survive on mercy."
Arlan didn't reply. He stepped outside, the early morning air cool against his skin. His hands still smelled faintly of iron.
He walked toward the training yard and stopped near the wall, where the first light touched the stones. For a long time, he just stared at his reflection in the metal of his blade.
The mark on his palm pulsed again — brighter now, alive.
"You hesitate again," Erebus murmured. "That mercy will cost you."
Arlan's voice was cold. "Then I'll pay the price."
"You already have."
Later that night, Arlan returned to the barracks. The others were asleep, but Liora was waiting outside, arms folded. "I heard you were sent north," she said quietly. "Was it true?"
Arlan hesitated. "It's done."
She looked at him closely. "You killed someone."
He said nothing.
She sighed. "You always used to hate fighting. You said every life mattered."
Arlan looked away. "That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before I realized that mercy doesn't stop monsters. It only gives them time."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling. "And what will stop you, Arlan? When you become one?"
He didn't answer. Her words hit deeper than any blade. He turned away, walking into the shadows of the yard.
When she was gone, he looked up at the sky — dark and cloudless. The moon hung low, the same as the night he had died once before.
This time, he had survived. But survival came with a cost.
The child's face flashed again in his mind, the look of terror he'd chosen to ignore. His first kill in this new life wasn't the man he had slain — it was the part of himself that still believed in innocence.
As the night deepened, the mark glowed faintly, spreading thin veins of darkness across his wrist. Erebus whispered once more.
"You've taken your first step, Shadowborn. Every sin draws you closer to what you were meant to be."
Arlan stared at his hand, expression unreadable.
"If that's the price for rewriting fate," he murmured, "then I'll bear it."
He closed his eyes, the forest wind brushing against him.
Tomorrow, the path of blood would begin again.