Ordran stormed into his kitchen, feet stomping across the floor as he hurried away from the main room of The Hearth & Ember. The heavy aromas of roasting meats and spiced breads lingered in the air, but they barely registered to the cook as he barreled past the broad oak counters, thick fingers clenched rather than reaching up to brush the gleaming brass pans hanging neatly from hooks as he usually did on entering the kitchen. Each and everything in its place and, most importantly, clean.


    Without thinking, he bypassed the wash station near where he chopped the vegetables for the meals he made. A sacred ritual he had never once neglected since opening this tavern several years ago, the deep basin was always filled with fresh, clear water ready to be used with the block of soap nearby.


    Never again, he had vowed, the memory of grime and field soot burned deep into his soul. After fifty years cooking for legionnaires on distant, war-torn battlefields, he had promised himself that his kitchen would always be spotless — a haven free from the chaos and filth of the greater world. Clean hands, clean kitchen, clean work.


    Yet now, for the first time, he unthinkingly broke that sacred promise.


    He charged past the station without a glance, the urgency in his steps pushing toward the back office tucked behind shelves stacked with barrels of vegetables and crates of imported spices that could not be found in most of the kitchens in the Imperial Academy. His mind raced faster than his feet, driven by a sight that he now recognized from old memories of years ago.


    Those eyes.


    Red-gold, searing with a cold fury that clung to the air like frost.


    Ordran’s breath caught in his chest as he recalled the weight that had settled over the tavern in the moments before Scion Klarion Blacksword ended the duel. It wasn’t just the tension of a fight nearing its brutal conclusion. No, he had been on enough battlefields and in enough fights to know well that feeling. No, it was something darker. The almost aura that filled the room had been suffocating, ancient in its wrath yet terrifyingly immediate.


    He had felt something like it before, years ago while in service with the Legions. But even among the Empire’s elite nobility, trained killers who could command battlefield chaos with a mere flick of their will, none had radiated that. Even weak as it was, what the Blacksword had given off was different. He focused on the sense of it.


    It wasn’t just power.


    It was certainty.


    The kind that came only when death was no longer a decision but an inevitability.


    And he knew as soon as he sensed it that Ort was a deadman who hadn’t yet finished breathing.


    His office door creaked as he shoved it open, the wood groaning under his heavy push. The familiar scent of parchment and ink greeted him, a disheveled stack of orders and accounting where he had left them several hours ago. Ordran spared them only a single glance before he was moving around the edge of his cluttered desk, his fingers reaching for the worn grain of the wooden drawer as he fought to steady himself.


    The image of the Blacksword’s eyes lingered, vivid and unyielding. They weren’t the eyes of a scion still learning his place in the world — they were the eyes of someone who had already decided what that place would be, and woe to anyone who stood in his way.


    Ordran squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory refused to fade. Those red-gold irises, glinting like embers caught in a winter gale, pulled forth a long-buried recollection.


    He had seen eyes like that before.


    A shiver crawled down his spine as he opened his eyes, the memory pushed aside for the moment. He straightened, his grip on the desk loosening.


    Klarion Blacksword.


    The young scion had stepped into The Hearth & Ember like any other patron, but he had left an impression on him. Ordran had seen more than a few scions come and go since he had opened his tavern, their arrogance and entitlement a dime a dozen. But the Blacksword was different. Polite, kind even, he had quickly won an old dwarven veteran of the Legions over. And the way he carried himself with a quiet confidence that spoke of battles fought and won — not just with fists and blades, but with willpower and resolve.


    And now, with what he had felt back in the main room during the duel, Ordran had a deep suspicion the Blacksword was a bit different from the others of his year.


    Ordran reached down, yanking open the bottom drawer with a strength born of urgency. The wood groaned as it slid free, revealing an assortment of documents neatly stacked alongside a few spare odds and ends.


    He would have to restack them later.


    With a grunt, he dumped the entire drawer onto the ground, scattering its contents across the wooden floorboards. Ordran knelt down, his thick fingers reaching into his desk until he grasped the hidden latch at the back of the cavity. A click came as he pressed it, and a small panel slid aside to reveal a concealed compartment.


    Inside, the first thing his eyes landed on was the medals — polished discs of gold, silver, and bronze, each etched with symbols and words of valor and service. They gleamed faintly in the dim light of his office, a testament to five decades of sacrifice and dedication. Ordran’s fingers brushed over them briefly, his expression hardening as memories came alongside each one: desperate battles, hard-won victories, great beasts slaughtered before the walls of Imperial cities, and, most of all, the faces of comrades who hadn’t made it back. He gently set each aside.


    Next were the commendations, parchment sheets bearing the signatures of high-ranking officers and nobles alike. The gaudiest among them was a thick scroll sealed with red wax, the insignia of an Imperial Archduke prominent on its face. Ordran sneered at it, the bitter taste of politics and empty platitudes rising in his throat. He had little love for nobility, especially the kind that decorated their legionnaires from a distance without ever dirtying their own hands. He set those aside as well, though with perhaps a bit less care.


    He reached in and pulled out a heavy bag made of thick leather, its weight unmistakable even before he lifted it free. The bag jingled faintly as he moved it, the sound of platinum coins clinking together filling the room. Inside was the bulk of his savings from fifty years of violence, earned through sweat, blood, and toil. That too was set aside.


    Ordran’s hand trembled as he reached deeper into the compartment, his fingers closing around the smooth, cool surface of a small stone. He pulled it free, holding it up to the light.


    The communication stone glimmered faintly, its surface etched with intricate runes that shimmered in hues of blue and silver. It was a gift from the General, a man Ordran respected above all the others he had served with. The General had been a rare breed — noble by birth but soldier by heart. Where many of the nobility had focused their strength on greater threats, or simply avoided the fighting altogether, he had fought alongside his men, bled with them, and earned their unwavering loyalty through deeds rather than commission.


    The General gave a communication stone to each of his legionnaires’ upon their departure, for emergencies only. Ordran had been in several difficult situations since he had left the Legions, but he had never once considered reaching out to the General. Until now.


    The Blacksword might be a good one — a rare scion with the potential for the strength of arms and character — but Ordran knew that the potential he suspected he had would not go unnoticed for long. There were forces within the Empire that would seek to control him, manipulate him, or destroy him outright.


    Ordran exhaled slowly, his resolve hardening. He had seen too many good men and women fall to the machinations of those who cared only for power. He pressed his thumb firmly against the divet in the communication stone, activating its runes. The stone pulsed in his hand, a faint hum filling the room as the connection was established.


    “General,” Ordran rumbled. “It’s Ordran. I’ve got a situation, and I need yer counsel.” He paused, then included a code for the seriousness of the situation. “Steel to the heart, sir.”


    The stone in his hand pulsed once more, and the faint humming faded away, signaling that the message had been successfully transmitted. It would find the General soon enough — his former commander was many things, but inattentive wasn’t one of them.


    Still, Ordran’s hand trembled faintly as he set the communication stone on his desk. Reaching for the other drawer, he pulled out an expensive bottle of dwarven spirits, one he saved for the kinds of memories he was about to relive. He poured half a glass’s worth into a mug left on the corner of his desk. The burn of his first swallow hit just as the memory did.


    The Legion had just been diverted from being sent to fortify a Throneworld in the midst of a Beast Wave to protect some city on a remote frontier world.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    A Baron’s city.


    Their Legion had answered the call reluctantly; the mission had seemed beneath their expertise. But orders were orders, and the Baron’s pleas for aid had reached the chain of command for the Imperial Legions.


    When their thousands had marched through the Portal, it became clear the Baron and his city had been under siege for weeks. Smoke drifted over stone walls, and gaping holes marked key defensive structures. The Baron’s soldiers had fought back hard, but their enemy was elusive and relentless — a singular figure who struck with brutal precision before vanishing into the wilds beyond the city’s walls.


    The Baron had met them there, before the Portal, practically begging them for the Legion’s help, claiming his assailant was some frontier rogue warlord from beyond his territory that was bent on taking his city from the control of the Empire. He spoke of ambushes on supply lines, assassinations of trusted men, and the wholesale destruction of outposts critical to maintaining control over the local population.


    After the pleading, the General passed over a copy of the orders he had received, and while the Baron examined them, a squad of Hunters, seconded to the Legion for the mission, went out into the city proper to track down the attacker with their usual clinical precision.


    They cornered him at a modest inn on the city’s outskirts.


    Ordran had been part of the General’s personal squad when they had stormed the building, weapons drawn and senses sharpened for a vicious fight. He took another deep drink of the dwarven spirits, as he remembered how his pulse had thundered in his ears, muscles taut with readiness as the door had been breached. Legionnaires flowed inside like a tide, blades flashing in the light of the open hearth. The General himself had been shrouded in his Essences, leaving nothing to chance.


    He remembered the smell the most. Rather than the coppery tang of blood in the air, which they had expected given what the Baron had said about the viciousness of the enemy, the air inside simply carried with it the savory scent of spiced meat and fresh bread —a shockingly domestic contract to the grim anticipation of violence.


    And there he was.


    The one the Hunters had tracked sat at a simple wooden table near the hearth, steam curling from a plate of food before him. His midnight-black hair was neatly pulled back, and his posture was eerily relaxed, as though he were a lord dining in his own hall rather than an enemy of the Empire surrounded by the best of an entire Legion. His appearance would have fit any one of the scions Ordran had met throughout his service. But it was his eyes that the veteran dwarf would never forget.


    Red-gold, shimmering like embers.


    They held no fear — only a smoldering intensity that spoke of ruin. They were the eyes of a man who had walked through an inferno and carried its rage within him, tempered but ever ready to roar to life.


    He took another long drink, and then refilled his mug.


    Facing those eyes, Ordran remembered tightening his grip on his sword, expecting the man to rise and fight. Instead, the man had wiped his mouth with a cloth, leaned back in his chair, and regarded all the bared steel before him, and the Essences of the General, as one might a minor inconvenience.


    I take it you’re the General?


    The entire room had frozen at the man’s words, but the General had stepped forward.


    I am. And you are?


    The man hadn’t wavered, only shifted to focus on the General alone.


    A father.


    What followed was a tale that etched itself into Ordran’s memory — a grim, bloody story of vengeance.


    The man, who had refused to give his name, had waged a personal war against the Baron and his allies, tearing through their operations with ruthless efficiency. His reason was devastating: his daughter had been taken.


    She had been enjoying a rare day of freedom, free from her studies undertaken while they traveled, browsing the markets while he, her father, had left her to restock supplies for the next step of their journey.


    The Baron had spotted her in the market. He assumed that, as a veteran of the Legions and a noble of considerable influence in the local region, he was untouchable.


    He had been wrong.


    Ordran remembered how the General had asked the man why he had resulted to such tactics to get his daughter back.


    I didn’t know where she was being kept. If I had, the city wouldn’t still be standing.


    He hadn’t been the only legionnaire present to again reach for his sword. But the General had waved them off, instead asking another question.


    Would you really have destroyed the entire city?


    Ordran finished his second mug, and filled it up a third time.


    The man’s eyes had darkened, their molten hue intensifying until they seemed to glow with a fury that bordered on madness. The itself had thickened, heavy with an oppressive energy that had made it a struggle for Ordran to draw a single breath.


    Then it hit.


    A wave of raw, unbridled power exploded from the man, slamming into the gathered legionnaires like a tempest made solid. The very walls of the inn groaned under the force, timber creaking as if under the weight of a mountain.


    Ordran remembered how his knees had buckled, and he had collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. What was a struggle before turned to a crushing pressure, every breath one of the hardest battles he had ever fought. Then the heat hit as that same air seemed to ignite. Tables and chairs shuddered, their legs scraping against the floor as the force of emanating from the man threatened to tear the room apart.


    He remembered his vision blurring, dark spots creeping at the edges as he struggled to stay conscious. In those hazing moments, the only thing he remembered for sure was that the General himself was the only one who remained standing, though even he had braced himself against the onslaught. The Essences he had cloaked himself with wavered under the pressure.


    You ask if I would have destroyed the city? I would have rained hellfire down upon it and salted whatever ashes remained if it meant finding her.


    The power had surged again, redoubled, a primal force that felt like an executioner’s blade was about to press down on him. He had lost consciousness just as the General’s knees had hit the floor.


    When he woke, the labored breathing of Ordran and the rest of the General’s squad was greeted by the sounds of quiet conversation. The General was seated at the table with the man, deep in negotiation. Not knowing how long he had been out, he did not know all that they talked about, but he did know what they agreed.


    The weight of a different memory hit him then, pressing heavily on Ordran as he slumped into his office chair, empty mug in his hand. He did not see the simple office of The Hearth & Ember around him, but the burning wreckage of a once-grand estate.


    The agreement made between the General and the stranger was a simple one. A pragmatic man, the General was fiercely loyal to the Empire but drew the line at senseless cruelty. The Baron’s request for aid had initially seemed justified — a noble under siege by a powerful but lone assailant who threatened the peace of a frontier world. But when the truth unraveled, the General had the courage to change his mission.


    The General was no friend to slavery, and the abduction of children disgusted him to his core. It was one of the things he liked most about the man. Nobility be damned — there were lines that even those with titles and land had no right to cross. The father with red-gold eyes had made his intentions crystal clear: either the city died or the Baron did. The General decided to help, and confided in his men why they needed to be involved through to the Baron’s estate itself.


    If we let him tear through the estate on his own, he will leave nothing but ashes and corpses. And honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.


    And so, under the General’s orders, the Legion struck against the noble who had expended all his political capital to get the Legion dispatched to his world. As much as the nobility were the foundation on which the security of the Empire rested, sometimes there were those who just needed killing.


    The assault on the Baron’s estate was a thing of brutal efficiency. The gates had fallen swiftly under the surprise of their attack, and what few defenders responded were quickly cut down. Ordran had been with the General as they swept through those ornate halls. The estate was a labyrinth of luxury and excess — marble floors slick with spilled wine, grand tapestries depicting battles the Baron likely hadn’t even fought in, and servants cowering in nearly every room, eyes wide with terror.


    But it was the hidden rooms that haunted Ordran’s dreams.


    They had found the first chamber behind a false wall in the Baron’s private quarters. A young legionnaire on his first term of service with the General had stumbled upon it, his armored hand brushing against some hidden mechanism. The wall had groaned as it slid aside, revealing a narrow passageway lit by flickering torches that the Legion used to scout the way.


    What lay beyond was a nightmare.


    Chains hung from the walls, and the stench of fear and filth was overwhelming. Cushioned benches lined one side, stained with dark things Ordran still didn’t care to identify. The sick realization of who they had almost helped to save dawned on them all at once.


    Ordran had moved as quickly as he could with his comrades, freeing those they found shackled and broken. Some were too far gone to speak, their eyes hollow from the unspeakable torments they had suffered.


    Ordran’s fists clenched at the memory, the mug cracking in his grip. With a wince, he set it aside. He had fought monsters before, but never had he seen anything so vile. So evil.


    And that was only the first chamber.


    They had pressed deeper, uncovering more secret passageways and hidden staircases that led to more chambers — each more horrifying than the last. The Baron had surrounded himself with decadence and cruelty, a festering rot hidden beneath the polished surface of noble privilege.


    And there, in that final room, they had found her.


    The Baron had kept the girl caged like an animal, her wide eyes filled with terror. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen, her dress once pretty, now torn and dirty. Luck was with them, and they had arrived before the Baron could get her cage open.


    What happened next, he didn’t remember, only that it had cost platinum for a Mind Surgeon of the Legions to excise the memories. Shame the star elf had warned him away from giving up more than that. Something about the integrity of his mind.


    Ordran clenched his hands, trying to stop the shaking that had snuck up on him. After several long minutes, it finally stopped, and he was able to put those memories away. Hopefully, it would be months until he had to deal with them the next time.


    The communication stone still lay dull and dead on his desk. He stared at it, mind going back to the duel that had just happened. Yes, the feeling of what the Blacksword had given off had been different — less refined, and far less overwhelming — but unmistakably cut from the same cloth.


    Ordran rubbed a hand over his face, the hair of his beard scratching against his palm. He had thought those few days were long behind him, that he would never again encounter a presence like that, especially here at one of the Imperial Academies.


    But here it was, manifesting in the young Blacksword scion.


    The communication stone on his desk pulsed faintly, signaling an incoming response. Ordran’s heart steadied as he prepared to hear the General’s voice. Whatever was unfolding now, he needed guidance, and there was no one better to provide it than the General.


    The communication stone pulsed again, a humming filling the room again. Looks like a live communication then. Ordran took a steadying breath and reached for it, his fingers grasping it like a drowning man a lifeline. The General’s voice crackled through, steady and commanding despite the vast distance between them.


    “Steel holds, Ordran,” the General said the countercode, confirming his identity. “This is General Glaros. I received your message, Sergeant. What’s this about red-gold eyes?”


    Ordran’s jaw tightened. “General,” he said, voice low, as if the walls might be straining to overhear them. “I think I’ve found another one.”


    There was a long pause on the other end before General Glaros spoke again, though a crackle of interference obscured his tone. “Tell me everything.”