The air in Solis didn't just sit; it clung. It tasted of wet copper and fermented peat, a thick humidity that turned every breath into a conscious effort.
Luca Marine stood waist-deep in the emerald murk of the Blackbasin wash, his boots sinking into the silt. He didn't mind the leeches. They were honest. They took what they needed and left. It was the "Rot" he hated—that oily, iridescent film that now coated the surface of the swamp, turning the once-clear lagoons into stagnant graves.
He swung the practice spar—a heavy length of reclaimed ironwood weighted with lead—and brought it down into the water. Splash. The resistance was his only trainer. He imagined the water was the chest plate of a Flare Royal Guard.
Thwack. "You're breathing too loud, Luca. The mud-lurkers will hear you before you even see them."
Luca didn't turn. He knew the voice. It was dry, like parchment rubbing together. He adjusted his stance, his muscles burning with a dull, familiar ache. "The mud-lurkers don't wear gold-leafed armor, Rose. They don't have eyes that look down at you like you're a stray dog."
Rose stepped out from the shadow of a weeping willow, her bare feet silent on the mossy bank. She was thirty-five, but the swamp had a way of etching lines into a face like a map of hard miles. She began unbuckling the heavy, dirt-stained leather apron she wore for the rice paddies.
"Gold-leafed armor doesn't bleed any differently than a pig," she said, tossing the apron onto a flat stone.
She didn't hesitate as she stripped out of her salt-rimed tunic. To anyone else, it might have been an invitation. To Luca, it was a testament to the fact that they were the only two people left in this corner of the Hollow who hadn't tried to kill each other yet. Modesty was a luxury for people with solid roofs and full bellies.
She waded into the water a few yards away, her skin pale against the dark water, scrubbing the day's grime from her shoulders with a bundle of fibrous roots. "The recruiters are coming tomorrow. To the village square."
Luca stopped mid-swing. The lead-weighted wood hovered inches above the water. "The Blood Knights?"
"Crownstorm needs more meat for the grinder," Rose said, her voice devoid of emotion. "They're offering a signing bonus. Two Rex Orbs for the family, and a seat at the Citadel for the recruit. If they survive the first year."
Luca looked toward the center of the Hollow. Far beyond the trees, obscured by the eternal haze of the swamp, lay the heart of the continent. Flare.
Suddenly, a sound tore through the sky—not a roar, but a wet, rattling wheeze that shook the reeds. High above, a winged shape struggled against the wind. It was a dragon, its scales once brilliant crimson, now a dull, sickly ochre. It flew with a limp, its tail dragging as it disappeared into the clouds.
"The Age of Rot isn't just killing the lilies, is it?" Luca whispered.
"The dragons are dying, Luca," Rose said, stepping out of the water, her body glistening and unashamed in the fading light. "And when the fire dies, the cold moves in. Flare is getting desperate. That's why the Knights are scouting so deep into the mud this time."
The "house" was a skeletal structure, a former brothel that Rose had spent years turning into a functional farmstead. Silk drapes that once saw better days were now used to filter silt from their drinking water.
That night, the humidity broke into a torrential downpour. The sound on the thatched roof was like a million drumsticks. Inside, the single room was cramped. Luca lay on the straw mat, his eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.
Rose climbed in beside him, her skin still smelling of the sharp, antiseptic root soap. She didn't wear a stitch of clothing; the heat was too oppressive for fabric. She pressed her back against his, a grounding weight in the dark.
"Your father was a fool," she murmured into the silence.
Luca stiffened. "He was a commander."
"He was a man who believed the Emperor's word was as solid as the Obsidian Wall," she countered. "Look where that got him. Look where it got you. Fleeing through the night with nothing but a name you had to bury in the mud."
"I'm going to go back, Rose," Luca said, his voice a low vibration. "Not as a refugee. As a Knight. I want to see the look on the High Counselor's face when a 'traitor's' son stands in his hall with a humming blade."
Rose turned over, her hand resting on his chest. Her palm was calloused, rough as sandpaper. "The Blood Knights go outside, Luca. They see things that make men tear their own eyes out. The Giants aren't just stories anymore. They say one spoke to a scout last month. Actually spoke."
Luca's heart hammered against her palm. "I don't care. I'd rather face a Giant that talks than a King who lies."
The next morning, the village of Solis-End was a hive of frantic energy.
In the center of the square stood a man in silver-and-blue plate armor. A Crownstorm officer. Beside him stood a Blood Knight, draped in a tattered cloak that looked like it had been stitched together from the shadows themselves.
The Knight didn't speak. He didn't need to. At his hip hung the hilt of a sword. It wasn't iron or steel. It was a housing for a Rex Orb.
As the officer barked out the requirements, the Knight reached down and flicked a small toggle on the hilt.
Vrrr-thrummm.
A blade of pure, concentrated violet light hissed into existence. The air around it began to smell of ozone and burnt hair. The humidity seemed to flee from the weapon, the mist evaporating in a five-foot radius.
"This," the officer shouted, pointing to the blade, "is the only thing that stands between your children and the things that howl in the dark. We need strong backs. We need men who have nothing left to lose."
Luca stepped forward from the back of the crowd. He didn't look at the officer. He looked at the blade.
He felt the weight of the silver coin in his pocket—the only thing his father had left him before the executioners came. He felt Rose's gaze from the edge of the square, her arms crossed, her face a mask of stone.
"I'm Luca," he said, his voice steady. He didn't give his last name. He didn't need a past. He only needed a future.
The Blood Knight turned his head. Behind the dark visor of his helmet, two eyes glinted with a cold, analytical light. He raised the humming violet blade, the tip stopping an inch from Luca's throat. The heat coming off it was like a furnace.
"Why?" the Knight asked. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He felt the sweat bead on his forehead and instantly sizzle away.
"Because the walls are too small," Luca said, "and I'm tired of breathing the rot."
The Knight held the blade there for a heartbeat longer, the violet glow reflecting in Luca's dark pupils. Then, with a sharp snap-hiss, the light vanished.
"The transport leaves at dusk," the Knight said. "Bring a shovel. You'll be burying your friends before you learn to swing a sword."
Luca didn't look back as he walked toward the recruitment table. He didn't need to. He could already feel the Hollow shrinking behind him, and the great, dark shadow of the Obsidian Wall calling his name.