Dawn crept slowly over the hills, bleeding pale gold into the storm clouds as Aeron left the ruined village behind. The mud had hardened into dark veins across the road, and the air carried the stale scent of burnt grain. The Dominion had been here for days—maybe weeks—yet their presence still lingered like a bruise on the land.
Aeron didn't look back. There was nothing left for him to fix.
The wind shifted, carrying a new scent.
Cold metal. Oiled leather.
And beneath it: discipline.
Not soldiers.
Not raiders.
Something older.
Aeron slowed his steps.
Moments later, he saw them cresting the ridge ahead—four figures moving in perfect unison, each stride measured, each breath controlled. Their armor was simple but immaculate, reinforced with dark iron plates etched with prayer-lines. They carried no banners, no emblems… only the unmistakable weapons at their backs.
Greatswords. Nearly as tall as a man.
Aeron's lips tightened.
Iron Monastery.
A faction older than most kingdoms—warrior monks who rejected magic entirely, believing mastery of body and blade was the purest expression of the mortal spirit. Rumor said their discipline was so absolute they could split boulders with a whisper of their blades.
Rumor… and firsthand experience.
The lead monk stepped forward. His head was shaved, his face lined with weathered calm. Only his eyes broke the serenity—sharp, analyzing, weighing Aeron as though he were a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
"You walk alone," the monk said. His voice was smooth, deeper than Aeron remembered from their kind. "These roads are no longer safe for travelers."
"They never were," Aeron replied.
The monk's gaze flicked to the dried blood on Aeron's cloak. "Dominion soldiers?"
"Three. They won't trouble anyone for a while."
A faint crack formed in the monk's composure—a twitch of approval, or interest. Hard to tell.
"We hunt them," he said. "Their warlord, Varkos, sends his armies to seize the divine scars. Magic has no place in mortal hands."
Aeron raised a brow. "The Dominion uses more steel than spells."
"For now." The monk stepped closer. "But rumors say their commanders have begun binding mages into their ranks. We intend to stop them before their corruption spreads."
Aeron considered the words. "You're far from the Monastery. Why here?"
The monk paused. Then, unexpectedly:
"Because we were told to find you."
Aeron stiffened.
Behind the monk, his companions shifted slightly—not aggressive, but alert. Ready.
Aeron's voice was low. "I've had enough of people searching for me."
"The Order does not seek you to bind or command. Only to warn." The monk's eyes narrowed. "The Dominion soldiers who attacked that village carried a message—one meant for their general. A name written in blood."
He reached inside his armor and pulled out a sealed scroll stained with crimson.
Aeron's stomach tightened.
The monk continued:
"It is your name."
Aeron's breath left him.
The Iron Monastery was many things—unyielding, merciless, bound to rules older than empires—but they did not lie. They did not exaggerate. They did not chase shadows.
Aeron took the scroll, hesitating as if it might burn him.
"Why would the Dominion write my name?" he muttered.
The monk's expression darkened. "Because they believe you are the key to a prophecy. One that speaks of a deathless man and a god returning in the flesh."
Aeron clenched the scroll so tightly it crinkled.
"I want no part of prophecies," he growled.
"Neither do we," the monk said softly. "But the world does not care what we want."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Finally, the monk stepped aside, giving Aeron a clear path along the road. "We travel east to cut off the Dominion's next advance. If your curse stirs the attention of kings and warlords, you will need allies."
Aeron frowned. "And you think I should trust the Iron Monastery?"
"For now," the monk said, "you should trust that the Dominion knows your name."
The wind cut between them like a blade.
Without another word, the monks continued down the road, moving with the same perfect discipline as before. As they vanished into the morning mist, Aeron looked down at the scroll—his name written in drying blood—and felt the familiar pull of the gods echo in his bones.
Someone was hunting him.
Someone powerful.
And they were getting closer.
Aeron exhaled slowly.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Not again."
He broke the seal.
The message inside would change everything.