The situation afterwards was somewhat awkward and tense, heavy with unspoken words and lingering adrenaline. At Arvid's request, I had teleported him and the wounded back to camp, focusing my depleted magical reserves on ensuring we arrived safely. The spell took more effort than usual—I was exhausted from the battle, from casting those devastating fire pillars—but I managed it.
To my surprise, the spot I had carefully chosen, visualizing an empty area near the edge of camp, wasn't empty anymore. Standing there, as if they had been waiting specifically for our arrival, was that burly deputy and a contingent of his soldiers. They stood in a loose formation, their swords drawn and gleaming in the torchlight. The sight sent a chill down my spine despite the oppressive heat.
That instance itself was deeply suspicious. The way they were positioned, the tension in their stances, the cold calculation in their eyes—everything about it screamed danger. Even when they saw Arvid materialize before them, bloodied and clearly wounded, they didn't budge. They didn't lower their weapons or rush forward to help their emperor. They simply stood there, waiting, watching with predatory stillness.
It took some time for the pieces to click into place, like trying to solve some abnormal puzzle where the pieces didn't quite fit together the way they should. My tired mind struggled to process what I was seeing, to reconcile it with what I thought I knew about these men.
They were rebelling. Against their own emperor.
But the question that immediately followed was very difficult for me to find an answer to, a question that made my head spin with its implications: Why would they do this? What could possibly drive them to such betrayal?
From what I had seen over our journey together, they had been loyal to Arvid. At least, that's what it had seemed like on the surface. The way they followed his orders without question, the respect they showed him, the efficiency with which they carried out his commands—all of it had pointed to genuine loyalty. And I had honestly believed that to be true. I had taken it as an immutable fact, something I didn't need to question. But it seemed I was sorely, painfully mistaken.
"This is the thing about Southern people," Arvid scoffed, his voice carrying a bitterness I'd rarely heard from him. "You can't really tell when they're going to stab you in the back, even with that nifty gift of mine." He let out a hollow laugh that echoed strangely in the tense silence. The sound was devoid of any real humor, empty and brittle. But no matter how hollow that laugh was, I didn't miss the tinge of sadness that glossed over it, painting his words with a deeper pain than he was willing to acknowledge directly.
"Kill that woman, Your Majesty." The burly man finally spoke, breaking the terrible silence. His voice was rough and gravelly, just as it had been when he had spoken to me earlier with such contempt. His eyes fixed on me with unmistakable hostility, burning with an intensity that made my skin crawl. But why this level of hatred? That question lingered in my mind, unanswered and troubling.
"Why?" It seemed Arvid had the same question running through his mind as he voiced it out loud. His voice had transformed completely now—it was chilly, cold as winter ice, devoid of any kind of feeling or warmth that I would have sworn was there just moments before. This was the voice of a emperor, not a man.
"Why?" The burly man answered by repeating the question back, as if he couldn't believe Arvid was even asking. His eyes were speaking volumes, practically screaming the word 'unbelievable' with every fiber of his being. His expression suggested he thought the answer should be obvious.
"Because she's a witch, Your Majesty! The Duchess of Lumirei was right about her!" His voice rose with passion and conviction. "We shouldn't let such an abomination walk among us. She's a monster—a creature that will devour us whole before long if we allow her to continue unchecked. I hate to see that happen to our people, Your Majesty!" The words came out sharp and hateful, each one like a poisoned arrow aimed directly at my heart. He pointed at me as he spoke, his finger trembling with the force of his conviction.
"Your Majesty is a valiant hero who has always picked the right path no matter how difficult or painful it might be," he continued, his tone shifting to something almost pleading. "So this time too, I hope—I pray—that you will choose the right path. The path of righteousness and protection for your people." He buried his sword in the sand in front of him with a decisive thrust, then looked up at Arvid with eyes that burned with fanatical certainty.
"If you don't, for that I would have to raise my sword against you, Your Majesty," he added slowly, each word carefully enunciated with the clear intention of expressing his choice. There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. He truly believed he was doing the right thing, that he was being noble in his betrayal.
Arvid sighed. He actually sighed in this incredibly tense situation, as if this was merely an inconvenience rather than a life-or-death confrontation. It was like he had seen this exact scenario coming from miles away, had predicted every word and gesture. Which I highly doubted was actually true, but his demeanor suggested otherwise. With movements that seemed almost bored, almost casual, he unsheathed his sword. The sound of steel sliding against leather was loud in the quiet tension.
"I just have to kill her, right?" Arvid asked, swaying the sword experimentally in front of him as if he were merely testing the weight and balance of the blade. His tone was conversational, almost curious. "Then you'll go back to being my faithful subordinate? Back to following orders without question?"
For a single, terrifying second, the thought entered my mind unbidden: he was actually going to kill me. The possibility crystallized in my consciousness with startling clarity. Even if he wanted to, he could kill me easily. There was nothing I could do to stop him, not really. Nothing at all. I was exhausted from the battle, drained from using magic, and even at my best, I could not stand against him. I would just take his blade wherever he wanted to embed it and simply fade away into darkness.
It was a terrifying scenario to contemplate, my own death at the hands of someone I had come to trust. But strangely, simultaneously, it was also kind of a peaceful ending, I thought with a detachment that surprised me. Dying by the hand of my fated one—there was something almost poetic about it, something that felt inevitable and right in a twisted way. It seemed like it could be a peaceful ending to this chaotic life I'd been living.
"Yes, of course, Your Majesty!" My train of morbid thoughts was disrupted by the sudden exclamation of the burly deputy. His words came out too quickly, too eagerly. They were way too excited, his tone felt forced and unnatural—downright fake to anyone paying attention.
Arvid's expression shifted subtly, and he smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the smile of someone who had just confirmed a suspicion, who had just watched someone walk directly into a trap of their own making.
"And that is a lie," was all he said, his voice flat and final. Before anyone could react, before the deputy could even process the words, Arvid lunged forward with incredible speed. His blade flashed in the torchlight as it slashed across the burly man's throat in one clean, precise movement. It all happened in under three seconds. The deputy's eyes went wide with shock and betrayal as blood sprayed from the fatal wound. He collapsed into the sand, already dead before his body hit the ground.
It took me several moments to process what had just happened, my exhausted mind struggling to catch up with the sudden violence.
The man was dead. Just like that, gone in an instant.
The soldiers he had brought with him—his co-conspirators in this rebellion—stood frozen for a heartbeat, shocked by the sudden death of their leader. Then, as if released from a spell, they lunged forward as one, attacking Arvid with desperate fury. Their swords came from multiple angles, seeking to overwhelm him through sheer numbers.
Arvid parried most of the attacks with practiced skill, his blade moving in efficient arcs that deflected blow after blow. But he was clearly outnumbered, at least eight against one. Some attacks were getting through his defense, forcing him to give ground. Blood bloomed on his armor where blades found their marks.
So I stepped in without thinking, without hesitating. I couldn't just stand there and watch. I used my bare hands to kill, techniques I had learned and refined through brutal experience. Killing Dergu with my bare hands had already significantly increased my combat capabilities, had taught me exactly where and how to strike for maximum effect. I moved through the soldiers like a force of nature, my hands finding throats and breaking necks with terrible efficiency. Each movement was precise, economical, born from desperate necessity.
And soon enough, there were no more attackers. Just ten dead bodies sprawled in the sand around us, their blood soaking into the thirsty desert earth.
Arvid stood there, covered in blood all over again. He had already been coated with blood from the battle with the Dergu, but this time fresh blood had splattered across him, even covering his blonde locks and staining them a dark crimson. He looked like some ancient god of war, terrible and beautiful in his violence. He heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of what had just happened.
"This is the hard part, always," he muttered under his breath, so quietly I almost didn't hear him. There was infinite weariness in those words, the exhaustion of someone who had been forced to make impossible choices too many times.
I didn't say anything in response. I didn't have any words that could console him, no platitudes that would make this betrayal hurt less. It was the same feeling I had experienced when discovering that people in Draga had wanted me dead, when I learned that those I had thought were allies had been plotting against me all along. The feeling of getting betrayed by people you trusted, people you had fought beside and bled with—it was the worst feeling there was. It hollowed you out from the inside, made you question everything you thought you knew.
I just walked over to him slowly, crossing the blood-stained sand, and placed my hand on his back. I rubbed soothing circles there, a simple gesture of comfort and solidarity. It was all I could offer in this moment of shared pain.
He let out another sigh, this one slightly less burdened. Then he looked back at me, and some of the hardness in his eyes softened just a fraction.
"We have things to do," he said with finality, his gaze shifting to the four wounded soldiers we had brought back with us. They stood a short distance away, watching the scene with wide, fearful eyes. They were still affected by the poison, still needed medical attention.
I agreed with a silent nod, pushing aside my own turbulent emotions. There would be time to process all of this later. Right now, there were people who needed our help, and a camp full of soldiers whose loyalty was now deeply in question.