《Ashes Before Dawn》 Episode 1 - Another Routine Mission The desert stretched, vast and endless, its sands burning white under the raw eye of the sun. The Humvee roared through the wasteland, wheels chewing through dust, heatwaves dancing off the metal hull like spirits escaping the underworld. Inside, it smelled of sweat, gun oil, and the faint, lingering scent of charred corpses. A Vanguard Humvee always smelled like death. Knight Braythar drove, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Beside him, Knight Teorista sat silent, helmet resting in his lap, blindfold wrapped tight across his cursed eyes. In the back, Knight Varro Locke and Knight Dain Thorne sat like two wolves sharing a cage with a rabid dog. And the dog was Delacroix. The first Shadeborn Knight in the Legion¡¯s history. The mistake. Locke shifted, adjusting the weight of his rifle across his lap, the metal rasping against his gauntlets. ¡°Feels wrong, don¡¯t it?¡± His voice was low, almost conversational. Thorne smirked. ¡°What, the mission?¡± ¡°No,¡± Locke murmured. He let the word stretch, curling his fingers against the grip of his rifle. ¡°Him.¡± Araeius didn¡¯t react. Delacroix didn¡¯t move. Thorne exhaled, slow and measured. ¡°You know, my father used to tell me stories about your kind,¡± he said, tilting his head as if studying something grotesque. ¡°Said the old world had it right. That when they saw something unnatural, they put it down.¡± Locke nodded. ¡°Because that¡¯s what you do with mistakes.¡± No anger. No raised voices. Just calm, doctrinal certainty. Like they weren¡¯t talking to a man. Like they were talking about a piece of rotting meat sitting in the middle of the truck. Thorne scratched idly at the plate of his gauntlet. ¡°See, I¡¯m struggling with something, foulblood. Maybe you can help me understand.¡± Delacroix tilted his head slightly. Not enough to look at him¡ªjust enough to acknowledge the question. Thorne leaned forward. ¡°What the fuck are you still doing breathing?¡± The words hung in the air. Delacroix breathed in slowly. He could feel it, that familiar suffocation, that weight pressing against his skin, the one that had been there since the day he was born. His fingers curled, just slightly. Then he exhaled. A slow, humourless smile touched his lips. ¡°I ask myself the same thing sometimes.¡± Locke¡¯s smirk twitched. Delacroix tilted his head back against the seat, relaxing. ¡° I mean, by now, I should¡¯ve been stabbed in the back by some righteous Legionnaire.¡± His voice was even, cool, unconcerned. ¡°Or maybe I should¡¯ve been sent to die in the first wave of some glorious charge. You know. Two birds, one stone.¡± No one laughed. Delacroix rolled his shoulders. ¡°But for some reason¡­ I just won¡¯t fucking die.¡± His voice wasn¡¯t a boast. It was a fact. Locke¡¯s fingers twitched against his rifle. Thorne¡¯s jaw flexed. Araeius¡¯ hands tightened on the wheel. A long silence. Then: ¡°See, that¡¯s the fucking problem, foulblood.¡± Locke¡¯s voice was quiet. Almost too quiet. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ¡°You¡¯re a mistake. And mistakes don¡¯t get to survive.¡± Delacroix stayed still. Locke¡¯s voice didn¡¯t rise, but his words carried weight, heavy as iron shackles. ¡°You. Should not. Be here.¡± The tension became a living thing. The heat pressed against their skin, the air turned thick and suffocating, the Humvee¡¯s engine filled the silence with a low, predatory growl. Locke and Thorne stared at Delacroix. Waiting. Daring him to challenge it. Delacroix¡¯s lips parted slightly¡ª And that¡¯s when Araeius spoke. ¡°Enough.¡± One word. One sharp, cutting thing that sliced clean through the tension. Locke and Thorne turned to look at him. Araeius kept his eyes on the road. His fingers flexed against the wheel, slow, deliberate movements. ¡°All I know,¡± he said, his voice low, even, controlled, ¡°is that between my trigger finger and Teorista¡¯s swordplay¡­¡± His gaze didn¡¯t move from the horizon. ¡°You two might as well be fucking tourists.¡± Silence. Thorne exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. Locke sat back slowly, shaking his head. ¡°Flameborn,¡± he muttered, his voice full of something between disgust and amusement. Araeius said nothing. He kept his hands steady on the wheel. He didn¡¯t need to look at Delacroix to know what the Shadeborn was thinking. Because they¡¯d had this conversation before. Maybe not in words. But in the way the world was shaped around them. They¡¯d been through this before. And they¡¯d get through it again. At least, that¡¯s what they thought. The Humvee pulled into the town square, dust curling around its wheels as it rolled to a stop in front of the alderman¡¯s hall. Al-Miraj was quiet. Not dead. Not abandoned. But too quiet. The kind of quiet that settled in a man¡¯s bones before his brain caught up. Buildings stood hunched around the square, stone and rusted tin roofs baking under the sun. A market stall lay overturned, its goods long since scavenged. Further ahead, a stray dog limped between alleyways, ribs sharp against its skin. But no people. No merchants. No children playing in the dust. Just silence. And silence was the first thing that should¡¯ve told them to turn back. Araeius killed the engine. For a moment, the only sound was the soft ticking of cooling metal and the distant howl of desert wind. Then he turned in his seat. ¡°Locke, take the street. Watch the alleys. If you see anyone moving, you call it in.¡± Locke frowned. ¡°The hell do you think we¡¯re walking into, sir?¡± ¡°Not a fucking debate. Move.¡± Locke clicked his tongue but grabbed his rifle, hopping out of the truck. His boots hit the ground harder than necessary. ¡°Thorne,¡± Araeius continued. ¡°At the door. No one goes in or out unless I say so.¡± Thorne¡¯s lip curled. Then, his gaze slid toward Delacroix. And there it was. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. That momentary hesitation¡ªthe second where disgust twisted into something sharper. Thorne huffed a laugh, shaking his head. ¡°You¡¯re bringing him in?¡± ¡°You got a problem?¡± Thorne smirked, looking to Locke for backup. Locke took the bait. ¡°Not a problem,¡± Locke said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. ¡°Just funny. The rest of his kind get sent in first to die, but this one gets a seat at the table?¡± Araeius didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Trust is earned.¡± His voice was cold. Absolute. ¡°And unlike you two, Knight Teorista has earned mine.¡± Locke¡¯s smirk twitched. Thorne clicked his jaw but didn¡¯t back down. ¡°All due respect, sir, but¡ª¡± ¡°Get to your fucking posts.¡± Locke exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. Araeius turned his head, slow and deliberate. ¡°I didn¡¯t quite catch that.¡± Locke stopped walking. His jaw tensed. Then¡ª ¡°We hear you, sir.¡± Araeius watched them for one extra second before stepping toward the building. Delacroix followed, his boots crunching softly against the sand. He kept his voice low, dry, effortless. ¡°Permission to put a stray round through the back of their heads?¡± Araeius snorted. ¡°They keep this shit up, I¡¯ll probably shoot them first.¡± Delacroix smirked¡ªjust barely. Then he pulled his rifle a little higher against his chest. Araeius nodded. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s meet the alderman.¡± The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled of dust, incense, and something metallic, like old copper left too long in the sun. The alderman stood waiting, hands resting on the wooden counter of his office. He was a man in his fifties, dressed in traditional Al-Zahir robes lined with fading gold trim. A rifle lay against the counter within arm¡¯s reach. Araeius noticed that immediately. Delacroix saw it too. ¡°Knight Braythar,¡± Araeius said, keeping his tone even. ¡°Knight Teorista. Gallianese Vanguard, joint operation with the Al-Zahir government.¡± The alderman nodded once. Slow. Heavy. ¡°Ah,¡± he murmured. ¡°I see.¡± His fingers tapped once against the wooden counter. Then¡ª ¡°So, you were sent to kill us.¡± The words hit the air like gunfire. Araeius flinched. Just for a second. Delacroix went still. The alderman¡¯s eyes locked onto them, calculating, weighing something they hadn¡¯t seen yet. Then¡ª his hand snapped for the rifle. Delacroix moved first. Boot forward. Elbow up. A single sharp motion¡ª The rifle smacked against the counter, spinning from the alderman¡¯s grip. A heartbeat later¡ª Araeius fired. The bullet tore through the alderman¡¯s chest, spinning him against the wall. He choked. Twitched. Then slid to the floor. Silence. Then¡ª Gunfire erupted outside. The gunfire outside came in waves¡ªshort, panicked bursts, then silence. A rhythm. Thorne staggered into the room, clutching his side, his armor slick with blood. His rifle dangled from his shoulder, useless. ¡°They¡¯re everywhere,¡± he gasped. ¡°Shooting from all fucking directions.¡± Araeius tensed. ¡°Where¡¯s Locke?¡± Thorne shook his head. No time for details. KIA. Araeius muttered, ¡°Fuck.¡± The gunfire stopped. Too soon. Too coordinated. Delacroix¡¯s head tilted slightly. ¡°They¡¯re repositioning,¡± he murmured. ¡°They¡¯ll move in any second. We need to¡ª¡± ¡°Should¡¯ve been the darkie out there taking the bullets,¡± Thorne spat. Delacroix moved before he even thought about it. A fistful of Thorne¡¯s collar¡ªa shove against the wall¡ªthe cold press of a gun against his throat. ¡°Say that again.¡± Thorne froze. Delacroix¡¯s blindfolded gaze was unreadable, but his grip was solid. Calm. Precise. Not rage. Finality. ¡°Enough,¡± Araeius snapped, yanking Delacroix back. ¡°Not now. MOVE.¡± The door burst open. Five men rushed in, rifles swinging. Everything happened too fast. The first man barely got a step in before Delacroix¡¯s knife buried itself in his throat. Araeius fired on reflex. The second man dropped, then the third, then the fourth. The fifth raised his rifle¡ª Delacroix pulled his MAG52, levelled it at center mass, and fired. The gun barked. The last man folded backward, chest torn open. Then silence. Thorne stared at the bodies, panting. And for the first time, he saw it. Why the Legion whispered about Braythar and Teorista like they were an army of two. Araeius snapped his rifle to check ammo. ¡°We need the stairs.¡± Delacroix reloaded without looking up. ¡°Teorista,¡± Araeius ordered, ¡°get Thorne.¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t move. His gun was still warm in his hands. ¡°I said get Thorne,¡± Araeius repeated. Delacroix sighed through his nose. Slowly, he slung his weapon over his shoulder, moving past the bodies. Then he looked at Thorne. And walked past him. Araeius grabbed Thorne and hauled him up instead. ¡°Move.¡± They started up the stairs. And behind them, the bodies bled into the dust. The rooftop air stank of sweat and gunpowder. The gunfire below had gone quiet. Not gone¡ªwaiting. Delacroix didn¡¯t take his eyes off the stairs. Didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t even blink. Which was why he only half-noted the sound of a gun cocking behind him. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be alive.¡± Araeius turned sharply. Thorne had his sidearm raised. His grip was shaky, fingers too slick with blood, but the barrel was dead steady. Pointed straight at Delacroix¡¯s back. Delacroix exhaled through his nose. ¡°If you¡¯re gonna do it,¡± he murmured, calm as a goddamn Sunday morning, ¡°then do it.¡± Thorne¡¯s breathing was all wrong. Shallow. Frantic. Like an animal caught in a snare. His lips moved before his voice did. ¡°Says so in the Scriptures.¡± Araeius took a slow step forward. ¡°Thorne. Put the weapon down.¡± Thorne didn¡¯t even blink. ¡°Says so in the Scriptures,¡± he whispered again, eyes wild now. ¡°Darkies are a bad omen. A stain. A curse. They shouldn¡¯t be in the Legion. Shouldn¡¯t be soldiers. Shouldn¡¯t be anything.¡± The gun in his hand shook, but his conviction didn¡¯t. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be alive.¡± Delacroix still didn¡¯t turn around. His grip tightened on his rifle, but only slightly. He shifted his weight¡ªthe barest readiness, the smallest calculation. Thorne¡¯s hands twitched. He was gonna do it. Araeius lunged. The shot went off. A sharp thunderclap against the sky. The round fired wild, punching into empty air. Araeius had wrenched Thorne¡¯s arm up at the last second, forcing the shot wide. ¡°What the fuck is wrong with you?!¡± Araeius shouted, slamming Thorne¡¯s arm down, disarming him with one brutal twist. The gun clattered to the rooftop. Thorne choked on something¡ªrage, bile, pain. Araeius didn¡¯t let go. ¡°You¡¯re pulling this shit now?¡± His voice was hoarse, furious. Thorne glared at him, teeth bared. His wound pulsed dark through his uniform. ¡°He shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± Delacroix spoke. Not to Thorne.To Araeius. ¡°You wanna know why?¡± Araeius froze. Delacroix finally¡ªfinally¡ªturned his head slightly. Not fully. Just enough to let the blindfolded gaze settle between them. ¡°Because that¡¯s how the world works.¡± His voice was low, matter-of-fact. ¡°We darkies? If we¡¯re not built to take bullets, we¡¯re built to serve. Or we¡¯re built to take shit from assholes like Thorne. Or we¡¯re built to die.¡± Araeius didn¡¯t respond. Didn¡¯t know how. ¡°It¡¯s instinct for them,¡± Delacroix continued, his tone almost thoughtful. ¡°Like a dog pissing on a tree. Thorne sees me breathing, and it doesn¡¯t sit right with him. It¡¯s almost¡­ animal.¡± Thorne gritted his teeth, struggling against Araeius¡¯ grip. But something in his eyes flickered. Not fear. Recognition. Like for the first time, he was realizing Delacroix wasn¡¯t scared of him. And that? That was worse. A shadow shifted below. Delacroix¡¯s head snapped back to the stairs. The barrel of his rifle tilted up a fraction of an inch. There¡ªa sliver of movement. A hand. Not a gun. A mirror. Held just beyond the stairwell¡¯s edge. They were testing him. Seeing if he was still watching. Delacroix fired once. A sharp, splintering crack¡ªthe mirror shattered. The hand jerked back out of sight. Below, there was movement. Voices. They weren¡¯t charging anymore.They were reconsidering. Delacroix tilted his head. Good. Araeius let go of Thorne. Roughly. He moved to the rooftop¡¯s edge, peering over. And that¡¯s when he saw them. A crowd. Dozens of figures gathering in the town square below. Not all of them were armed.Not all of them were men.Some of them held makeshift weapons¡ªknives, pipes, old rifles. They weren¡¯t a trained militia. They were a mob. And when Araeius¡¯ silhouette appeared against the rooftop, they opened fire. Bullets shrieked past his head. Araeius ducked hard, dropping low behind cover. ¡°Fuck.¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t flinch. He just reloaded. What felt like an eternity of waiting ended in thirty seconds of hell. The whump-whump-whump of approaching rotors split the sky. Then¡ªa voice over comms. ¡°Vanguard 1-1, we have eyes on your position. You are marked. Copy.¡± Araeius lit the flare, its harsh red glow swallowing the rooftop in bloody light. ¡°Copy.¡± His voice felt hollow. ¡°Light ¡®em up.¡± The chopper tilted, the gunner adjusting position. Then the world went red. The .50 caliber rounds hit like a meteor storm. A man didn¡¯t just fall when he was hit. He came apart. Ripped open. Limbs folded unnaturally, bodies flung back with wet, splitting sounds. Some ran. They didn¡¯t make it far. Some tried to fight, lifting their weapons skyward, screaming defiance. They didn¡¯t last long, either. And some? Some just held each other, too scared to run, too scared to breathe, waiting for it to end. It did. All at once, it was over. The chopper hovered over a dead square. The gunner flashed a thumbs-up. Araeius barely acknowledged it. "I¡¯m grabbing Thorne. Cover us." Delacroix didn¡¯t move. Araeius looked at him. ¡°That an order?¡± Araeius set his jaw. ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s an order.¡± Delacroix exhaled. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± The stairs were slick with blood. Bodies piled where they¡¯d fallen. Some whole, some half-missing. A hand twitched. Delacroix paused. A man, sprawled on his back, coughing something wet. He reached¡ªnot for a weapon, but for Delacroix¡¯s boot. His fingers barely brushed leather. His lips moved. Muttering. Asking something. It wasn¡¯t in Common.Didn¡¯t need to be. Delacroix didn¡¯t speak Al-Zahiran. But he understood the look in his eyes. The same look they all had. Not anger. Not hatred. Just confusion. Why? Delacroix stepped over him. They saw them before they reached the square. Three men. Standing. Waiting. Delacroix raised his rifle. The men lifted their hands. Knelt. No sudden movements. No tricks. Just surrender. Araeius stepped forward. ¡°Any of you speak Common?¡± The one in the middle nodded. He wore glasses, his hair graying at the temples. A learned face. A professor¡¯s face. ¡°I do.¡± Araeius¡¯ fingers twitched near his trigger. ¡°This a trap?¡± The man smiled thinly. ¡°No.¡± A pause. Then¡ª¡°We know when we¡¯ve lost.¡± Delacroix¡¯s eyes narrowed. The man¡¯s gaze flicked slightly past them. Delacroix adjusted his aim. ¡°What are you looking at?¡± The man hesitated. Then, softly¡ª¡°Our families.¡± His voice was too calm. Too measured. ¡°What¡¯s left of them.¡± Araeius stiffened. The man sighed, adjusting his glasses. ¡°We¡¯ve come together to surrender, Knight. So that they might yet live.¡± Araeius¡¯ gun didn¡¯t lower. ¡°You¡¯re terrorists.¡± The professor blinked at him. Then¡ªslowly, softly¡ªhe chuckled. Delacroix felt his stomach drop. That wasn¡¯t the laugh of a defeated man. That was the laugh of a man who understood something they didn¡¯t. ¡°Do you even know why you¡¯re here?¡± Araeius¡¯ grip tightened. ¡°We were told¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± The professor shook his head. ¡°You were ordered.¡± Araeius said nothing. ¡°Out here, no one cares if we live or die.¡± The professor¡¯s voice was quiet. ¡°But when we thrive without them? That¡¯s when they notice.¡± Delacroix stared at him. Araeius¡¯ face hardened. ¡°What are you saying?¡± The man sighed. ¡°I was a professor at the University of Aman. I came here to build a light source. A way for these people to combat the dark.¡± Araeius swallowed. The words felt wrong. ¡°Bullshit.¡± ¡°Is it?¡± The professor tilted his head. ¡°Tell yourself whatever you need to, Knight. But know this¡ª¡± he gestured toward the dead, the burning square, the bodies. ¡°These people were just trying to survive.¡± Silence. Then, softly¡ª¡°And now they won¡¯t.¡± The professor lowered his head. ¡°Mercy would serve no purpose now. So please.¡± His voice was steady. ¡°Kill us.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°If not you, they¡¯ll send someone else. But this way, at least our families will see another sunrise.¡± Araeius¡¯ gun stayed raised. His finger didn¡¯t move. Delacroix stepped past him. Three shots. One. Two. Three. Quick. Clean. The bodies slumped forward, blood soaking the sand. Delacroix holstered his handgun. Turned to Araeius. ¡°Mission accomplished.¡± His voice was flat. Hollow. He nodded to the horizon. ¡°Let¡¯s get the fuck out of here.¡± Araeius didn¡¯t follow immediately. Didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t move. Just stared. At the blood on the sand.At the hands still bound in surrender.At everything they had done. His stomach twisted. For the first time since they landed, Knight Araeius Braythar felt like the enemy. Episode 2 - The Butcher Of Al-Miraj The Humvee roared across the open desert, kicking up dust as the sun bled into the horizon. The sky was already bruising. Twilight stretched long and thin, the last sliver of light fighting to hold onto the dunes. Not much time left. Araeius pressed the gas harder. The Humvee rattled, groaned, metal protesting against the terrain. In the back, Thorne was unconscious, his breath shallow, his bandages soaked. The smell of blood, sweat, and spent ammunition clung to the seats. But inside? Silence. Not the comfortable kind¡ªthe kind that sat between old friends, easy and warm. This was the silence of dead men. Of things left burning. Of ghosts trying to catch up. Araeius kept his eyes forward, hands too tight on the wheel. The road was a blur, the desert stretching endlessly ahead. For minutes, neither of them spoke. Then¡ªAraeius exhaled. ¡°You were out of line.¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t react. Didn¡¯t turn his head. Didn¡¯t blink. Just kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. Araeius¡¯ voice came again, rougher this time. ¡°We could¡¯ve brought them in.¡± Nothing. ¡°They¡¯d already surrendered.¡± Delacroix finally moved¡ªjust slightly. He adjusted in his seat, rolling his shoulder like he was working out a knot. ¡°That wasn¡¯t the mission.¡± Araeius¡¯ grip tightened. ¡°That¡¯s not how we operate. We don¡¯t just shoot¡ª¡± He stopped. A pause, long and sharp. Delacroix tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the hesitation. ¡°¡­Don¡¯t think about it too much.¡± His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Like he was doing Araeius a favor. Araeius¡¯ jaw locked. ¡°Can you really do that?¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t answer. Araeius glanced at him, scanning for something¡ªanything. ¡°Just ignore it? Pretend it didn¡¯t happen?¡± Delacroix was still. Araeius shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know how we¡¯re supposed to live with that.¡± Delacroix finally spoke. ¡°You mourn them, right?¡± His tone was light, almost absent. Like he was asking if Araeius liked his coffee black or with sugar. ¡°You think about it further and, yeah, what we did¡ªit¡¯s an atrocity.¡± Araeius felt something loosen in his chest¡ªjust slightly. Then¡ªDelacroix kept going. ¡°Let me ask you something.¡± Araeius glanced over, uneasy. Delacroix finally turned his head, just slightly¡ªenough that the blindfold faced him. ¡°If that village was filled with men, women, and children¡­¡± A beat. ¡°¡­With blindfolds like mine¡­¡± Another beat. ¡°Is that an atrocity?¡± Araeius felt something cold slide down his spine. His hands clenched on the wheel. ¡°What the fuck kind of question is that?¡± Delacroix¡¯s lips ticked up, like he already knew what Araeius would say. ¡°No, you¡¯re right. Stupid question.¡± He turned back toward the window, letting his head rest against the glass. The Humvee kept moving. The sun kept sinking. And the silence settled back in. The Humvee rolled past the gates just as the last light slipped below the horizon. The perimeter floodlights blazed, cutting through the dark, casting everything in harsh, sterile white. Beyond the wire, the desert was black, bottomless. They were safe. But the ghosts rode in with them. Araeius killed the engine. The silence that followed felt heavier than the drive itself. He stepped out first, boots hitting the dirt, scanning the faces of the waiting soldiers. They didn¡¯t know yet. To them, this was just another mission complete. Delacroix climbed out, rolling his shoulder like he was shaking off something invisible. Then¡ªthe welcoming party. Two figures emerged from the command tent. One clad in the armor of a superior. The other younger, sharper, a mirror of Delacroix if he had been born with golden eyes. Knight-Commander A¡¯noa Teorista.Knight-Lieutenant Ashen Teorista. Delacroix straightened slightly. It wasn¡¯t respect¡ªit was a reflex, the instinct of a beaten dog. ¡°Knight-Commander,¡± Delacroix greeted. A¡¯noa didn¡¯t even look at him. He strode right past his son, stopping before Araeius instead. ¡°Knight Braythar,¡± A¡¯noa said, as if Delacroix didn¡¯t exist. ¡°This is all that remains of your squad?¡± Araeius squared his shoulders. ¡°Yes, Knight-Commander.¡± A¡¯noa nodded once, expression unreadable. Then, the news. ¡°We have a situation. Both of you clean up and meet me onboard the Archgriffin for debriefing.¡± Araeius and Delacroix answered together. ¡°Yes, sir.¡± Only then did A¡¯noa glance at his son, the look brief, impersonal, like he was inspecting a defective weapon. Then, he walked away. Ashen stepped forward, filling the space their father left. ¡°You look like shit.¡± Delacroix snorted, shaking his head. ¡°You should see the other guy.¡± Ashen¡¯s gaze flicked between them both. For a moment, something genuine softened his features. ¡°Glad you made it out.¡± Delacroix only nodded. Then they were gone, disappearing into the flood of moving bodies. The Archgriffin loomed overhead, its hull cutting against the night like the blade of a guillotine. Inside, the Knight-Commander¡¯s office was cold, orderly¡ªno unnecessary d¨¦cor, no sentimental clutter. A room for a man who had no past worth remembering. A¡¯noa sat behind his desk. Ashen stood at his side, arms crossed. A screen flickered to life. The image was grainy, shaking with every breath of the man holding the camera. His face was bloodied, glasses cracked¡ªbut his voice was steady. ¡°My name is Amir Hassan.¡± A pause. A glance toward something out of frame. ¡°I am a former professor of the University of Aman. And if you are watching this, then you need to know the truth about what happened in Al-Miraj.¡± Delacroix¡¯s fists tightened on his knees. Hassan inhaled sharply. ¡°We are not terrorists. We are civilians. And we are being slaughtered because of this.¡± The camera tilted¡ªrevealing the generator. A crude, homemade machine, wires still sparking from the damage, its core still pulsing with a dying blue light. ¡°A free light grid,¡± Hassan said. ¡°One that does not belong to the government. One that does not belong to the Obsidian Court. One that is ours.¡± This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Gunfire rattled in the background. Hassan flinched, then steadied himself. ¡°We are not soldiers. We are not enemies. And now, we surrender.¡± His voice cracked. Then¡ªhe turned the camera. A woman, clutching two children to her chest. They were crying, pressing their faces into her torn clothes. ¡°Amina,¡± Hassan whispered. ¡°My love.¡± One of the children looked up. A boy, maybe six. Hassan¡¯s voice broke completely. ¡°Take them away from here. If you survive, if you see this¡ªknow that I love you. And I will always be with you.¡± The screen went black. The silence in the room was absolute. Then¡ªA¡¯noa spoke. ¡°People are already citing this as genocide. The CA has called for a hearing in Lionel City.¡± His voice was calm. Too calm. ¡°The man surrendered,¡± A¡¯noa continued. ¡°Was he taken alive?¡± Araeius¡¯ throat was dry. ¡°No.¡± A¡¯noa¡¯s gaze turned sharp. ¡°Was it on your orders?¡± Before Araeius could speak¡ªDelacroix cut in. ¡°I took the shot.¡± Ashen¡¯s posture stiffened. Delacroix¡¯s voice was flat, clean, precise. ¡°The mission objective was to eliminate the cell and all high-value targets in Al-Miraj. That¡¯s what we did.¡± A¡¯noa¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. Then, Araeius spoke. ¡°Was it really bad intel?¡± A¡¯noa¡¯s gaze flicked to him. ¡°What sort of answer are you looking for, Knight Braythar?¡± Araeius¡¯ jaw locked. ¡°The kind that doesn¡¯t make us feel like we just murdered civilians.¡± A pause. A¡¯noa said nothing. Araeius slammed his fist onto the desk. ¡°You¡¯re the fucking Knight-Commander. This is your operation! How the hell did this happen?¡± ¡°Araeius.¡± Ashen¡¯s voice was low, warning. ¡°Stand down.¡± Araeius didn¡¯t move. His breath was sharp, ragged. Then¡ªDelacroix grabbed his arm. Firm. Unyielding. Araeius turned, eyes burning. Delacroix shook his head. A silent command: Not here. Not now. Araeius¡¯ hands clenched. Then, slowly, he let Delacroix pull him from the room. The office was quiet. The only sound was the distant hum of the Archgriffin¡¯s engines, pulsing through the walls like the heartbeat of something vast and mechanical. A¡¯noa sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, watching the door Araeius and Delacroix had just stormed out of. He didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t react. Just watched. Ashen stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn¡¯t spoken since Araeius¡¯ outburst, since Delacroix dragged him from the room. Now, he did. ¡°That wasn¡¯t bad intel, was it?¡± A¡¯noa didn¡¯t answer. Ashen didn¡¯t back down. ¡°The order didn¡¯t come from the king.¡± A¡¯noa exhaled slowly. Then, finally, he looked up. His eyes were sharp, polished steel, the kind of gaze that weighed a man¡¯s worth in silence. ¡°Someday,¡± A¡¯noa said, ¡°you will learn firsthand that there are commands more absolute than those from a king.¡± Ashen felt something cold slip into his spine. Because that was not a denial. The door slammed shut behind them, sealing the office like a tomb. Araeius barely made it five steps before he turned and drove his fist into the wall. Concrete cracked. Blood smeared the surface. His shoulders rose and fell, breath sharp, ragged. ¡°It isn¡¯t goddamn right.¡± Delacroix leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his biceps. Araeius shook his head, teeth gritted. ¡°I expect to be a tool, Del. That¡¯s what we are. We¡¯re weapons, nothing more. But not for this.¡± Delacroix said nothing. Araeius turned, eyes burning. ¡°They were civilians, man.¡± His voice cracked. ¡°People. They were just trying to fucking live.¡± Silence. Then, finally¡ªDelacroix spoke. ¡°So?¡± The word landed like a slap. Araeius stared at him. ¡°So?¡± Delacroix pushed off the wall, stepping forward, slow and deliberate. ¡°You think that changes anything? You think the brass gives a shit?¡± Araeius let out a short, hollow laugh, shaking his head. ¡°I knew you were cold, but fuck, Del.¡± Delacroix tilted his head. ¡°You want to be mad? Fine. Be mad. But don¡¯t pretend to be surprised.¡± Araeius stiffened. ¡°We were told they were terrorists.¡± Delacroix arched a brow. ¡°And you believed them?¡± The words hit harder than any bullet ever could. Araeius opened his mouth¡ªthen shut it. Because Delacroix was right. Araeius wanted to believe it. He wanted the lie. Because the truth meant he¡¯d been complicit. It meant his hands were just as dirty. Delacroix kept going, voice smooth as cut glass. ¡°You ever ask yourself why we¡¯re really here?¡± Araeius frowned. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Delacroix gestured vaguely. ¡°Al-Zahir. The desert. The whole damn op. You think this is about national security? Protecting the world from ¡®terrorists¡¯?¡± Araeius stayed silent. Delacroix smirked, but there was no humour in it. ¡°No, man. We¡¯re here because someone up top didn¡¯t like that these people found a way to survive without paying for it.¡± Araeius stared at him. Delacroix stepped closer. ¡°That¡¯s the truth, Araeius. You didn¡¯t kill ¡®bad guys¡¯ today. You didn¡¯t wipe out a terrorist cell. You enforced the status quo.¡± Araeius felt something in his chest crack open. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to protect people.¡± The words sounded hollow in his own mouth. Delacroix tilted his head, like he was studying something pathetic. ¡°No. We¡¯re supposed to protect power.¡± Araeius felt sick. ¡°You don¡¯t believe in anything, do you?¡± Delacroix exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. ¡°I used to.¡± Araeius looked away, staring at the ground like it might offer him something solid to stand on. Delacroix studied him. Then¡ªhis voice softened. Just slightly. ¡°You¡¯ll get used to it.¡± Araeius snapped his head back up, eyes burning. ¡°That¡¯s the problem, Del.¡± A breath. ¡°I don¡¯t want to.¡± Silence stretched between them, raw and fraying. Then¡ªDelacroix sighed. And somewhere in the spaces between their words, something cracked that would never be whole again.
TWO DAYS LATER¡­ The SUV rolled through the neon arteries of Lionel City, its black frame swallowed by the glass and steel canyon surrounding it. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the streets still glistened, slick with light from the monolithic billboards that hung like false gods over the avenues. Everything about the city was pristine, artificial¡ªclean in the way that only something soulless could be. Inside the vehicle, three men sat in silence. Delacroix watched the skyline pass through the tinted glass, jaw tight, hands resting on his knees. Araeius sat beside him, shoulders squared, like a man trying to convince himself he still had a spine. Thorne was in the front, silent for once, his face still a mess of bruises and healing wounds. The bandages across his temple made him look like a war hero¡ªa laughable irony. None of them spoke. Because what was there to say? They had seen men packed into transport trucks before. Prisoners being ferried to sentencing, hands bound, faces blank with the knowledge that the verdict had already been decided. Now, they were the ones in the back of the bus. The SUV pulled up to the grand staircase of the Continental Alliance Courthouse¡ªa brutalist behemoth of cold marble and towering columns, its presence designed to intimidate, not inspire. A temple to justice built on the graves of a hundred forgotten wars. Beyond the cordon of armoured security personnel, a sea of protestors waited. Hand-painted banners flapped in the wind: A woman shouted through a megaphone, her voice raw with fury. Someone else threw something¡ªa rock, a bottle, whatever was on hand. It clattered against the armoured windshield, leaving a spiderweb of cracks. Flashbulbs exploded like muzzle flashes, journalists shoving microphones forward, their questions indistinguishable from the shouting. Delacroix didn¡¯t blink. He had been the subject of whispers and stares his entire life¡ªwhat was one more trial where the verdict had been written before he stepped inside? Security personnel pushed back the crowd, creating a path up the stairs. The courthouse doors loomed ahead, a mouth waiting to swallow them whole. The doors slammed shut behind them, muting the storm of voices outside. Inside, the air was sterile, cold. And then¡ªwarmth. Princess Melianna Del Gallian stepped forward, and for the briefest moment, Delacroix was not a soldier, not a Shadeborn, not the butcher they all claimed him to be. He was just a son in his mother¡¯s arms. She held him tightly, longer than she should have, as if trying to shield him from something that had already broken through. ¡°It¡¯ll be alright,¡± she whispered, voice thick with restrained emotion. Delacroix stiffened. Because he already knew the answer to the next question. ¡°He isn¡¯t here, is he?¡± Melianna pulled back slightly, brushing a hand over his cheek, a gesture so tender it almost hurt. ¡°You know your father,¡± she said softly. ¡°Duty calls.¡± Delacroix let out a quiet, humourless chuckle. ¡°Funny.¡± He gestured to the marble halls, the banners of the Continental Alliance hanging above them like funeral shrouds. ¡°I thought this was what duty looked like.¡± Melianna closed her eyes for half a second, then exhaled sharply. ¡°I spoke to your father. Everything will be fine.¡± Delacroix said nothing. Because she wanted to believe that. But they both knew better. A cleared throat broke the moment. Magistrate Thompson approached, his presence as sharp as his pressed suit. He was the kind of man who could walk through a massacre and emerge without a drop of blood on his shoes. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± Thompson greeted, clasping his hands behind his back. ¡°I trust you¡¯ve committed your talking points to memory?¡± Araeius, Delacroix, and Thorne nodded. Thompson adjusted Thorne¡¯s collar, straightened Araeius¡¯ cuffs, wiped an invisible speck of dust off Delacroix¡¯s shoulder¡ªlike a tailor making final adjustments before sending his clients onto the stage. ¡°Good,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°This is just a formality. You¡¯ll walk in, say what you need to say, and walk right back out. After this, we¡¯ll have you on the Archgriffin heading home. You can lay low until this all blows over.¡± Delacroix arched a brow. ¡°Lay low?¡± Thompson offered a small, polished smile. ¡°Gallian takes care of its own.¡± Delacroix looked to the doors ahead. Beyond them, the trial awaited. A script had been written. A dance had been choreographed. And all they had to do was step where they were told. They entered the courtroom like men walking into a funeral. The vast marble chamber swallowed them whole¡ªrows of seats filled with foreign dignitaries, military officials, press, and citizens who had come to see justice served. The jury, twelve men and women chosen for their ¡°neutrality,¡± sat in silence, their expressions unreadable. At the front, Judge Helena Vasquez sat on her high seat, flanked by banners of the Continental Alliance. She had presided over war crimes tribunals before, sentencing kings and generals alike. There was no warmth in her stare. Araeius could feel the weight of the world pressing down on them.Delacroix felt nothing at all. In the gallery, Princess Melianna Del Gallian sat among diplomats, her posture regal, but her hands clutched together in her lap, knuckles white. She wore a veil¡ªnot for mourning, but to hide the storm behind her golden eyes. Outside, protesters screamed for blood. Inside, justice waited. Chief Magistrate Anton Verain, a man with the voice of law itself, stepped forward, a stack of papers in hand. ¡°Knights Araeius Braythar, Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian, and Roland Thorne, you stand before this court accused of war crimes against the people of Al-Miraj. Specifically¡ª¡± He read each charge with precision: The gallery murmured. The press leaned forward. Verain¡¯s eyes landed on the accused. "How do you plead?" Araeius took a sharp breath. "Not guilty."Delacroix¡¯s voice was cold. "Not guilty."Thorne hesitated¡ªfor just a second¡ªbefore saying, "Not guilty." Judge Vasquez nodded. ¡°Proceed.¡± Araeius sat under oath, spine stiff, hands folded. Verain paced slowly, his tone calm, deliberate. ¡°Knight Braythar, describe what happened in Al-Miraj.¡± Araeius answered carefully. Verain let the words settle, then struck. ¡°Are you aware that the airstrike resulted in 47 civilian deaths?¡±
A pause. ¡°I was not aware of that number at the time.¡±
¡°But you knew there were non-combatants?¡±
Araeius¡¯ throat tightened. ¡°We had no confirmation.¡±
¡°Yet, you still called in the strike?¡±
The silence was suffocating. ¡°I made the best call I could under fire.¡±
Verain had what he needed. He let the jury sit with the answer before moving on. Delacroix moved like a man already condemned. His face was blank, but inside, he was waiting. Verain turned to him, voice smooth. ¡°Knight Teorista, confirm for the court¡ªdid you, or did you not, personally execute the three men who surrendered in the village square?¡±
Delacroix didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°I did.¡±
A gasp rippled through the gallery. Even the jury flinched. Verain let the moment linger. Let silence do the work. ¡°Would you describe yourself as someone who enjoys killing?¡±
A trap. Delacroix didn¡¯t blink. ¡°I am a soldier.¡±
¡°Did your orders specify execution?¡±
¡°The individuals were high-value targets.¡±
¡°They were on their knees.¡±
¡°They were combatants.¡±
¡°Did they resist?¡±
¡°No.¡±
Verain leaned in. ¡°Did they beg?¡±
Delacroix¡¯s mind flickered back¡ªthe steady eyes, the final words meant for a wife and children. ¡°One spoke of his family.¡±
The courtroom absorbed that answer like a bullet wound. No denial. No regret. No emotion. Verain gave a small, knowing nod. "No further questions." Delacroix returned to his seat. He felt Araeius staring, but he didn¡¯t look back. Thorne sat wrapped in bandages, looking every bit the wounded hero. Verain softened his tone. ¡°Knight Thorne, you saw the execution?¡±
¡°I did.¡±
¡°And what did you hear?¡±
Thorne exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°They weren¡¯t soldiers.¡±
A lie.
¡°They said they were just trying to survive.¡±
Another lie.
¡°They begged.¡±
Delacroix¡¯s fists clenched. Araeius¡¯s breath hitched. Verain feigned confusion. ¡°And how did Knight Teorista respond?¡±
Thorne looked right at Delacroix. ¡°He smiled.¡±
The death sentence. The gallery exploded in whispers. ¡°You¡¯re saying he killed them in cold blood?¡±
¡°Without hesitation.¡±
¡°And afterward?¡±
Thorne sighed, shaking his head like a martyr. ¡°No remorse.¡±
Delacroix was doomed. Judge Vasquez¡¯s voice was final, absolute. ¡°Knight Araeius Braythar, this court finds you not guilty. However, due to leadership failures, you are dishonourably discharged from the Vanguard Legion.¡± The jury watched. The cameras flashed. ¡°Knight Roland Thorne, this court commends your testimony. You are dismissed with honours.¡± Then¡ªthe moment history would remember. ¡°Knight Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian.¡± Delacroix stared ahead. He knew what was coming. ¡°You have been found guilty of the unlawful execution of surrendered combatants.¡± The room roared. Protesters cheered. Cameras clicked like gunfire. ¡°You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Iron Yard Prison.¡± The gavel slammed. Delacroix inhaled, exhaled. Thorne looked triumphant. Araeius was shaking with rage. His hands balled into fists, his breathing unsteady. He wanted to yell, to fight, to burn this whole goddamn court down. Princess Melianna rose from her seat¡ªthen collapsed back down, eyes wide, breath stolen from her lungs. She had been raised to never show weakness. But this? This was not weakness. This was a mother watching her son be buried alive. Her voice broke first. ¡°No¡ªplease, no¡ª¡± She pushed forward, reaching for him, but guards were already pulling Delacroix away. Delacroix met his mother¡¯s eyes for only a second. Then, they dragged him out. Like that, The Butcher of Al-Miraj was born. Episode 3 - Faith Three years. Three years of seeing the sun as nothing but a sliver of gold through a slit of reinforced glass. Three years of breathing air so sterile it might as well have been recycled through the lungs of dead men. Three years of waiting¡ªnot for freedom, not for forgiveness, but for the world to forget he existed. It should have broken him. Maybe, in some ways, it had. But Delacroix had been broken long before they ever locked the door. He sat in the darkest corner of his cell, cross-legged, a book resting in his lap. The Theory of the Day-Night Cycle. His fingers skimmed the pages, barely reading, more out of habit than curiosity. "The artificial day-night cycle dictates that survival is contingent upon an uninterrupted source of illumination. Without it, the human psyche deteriorates, leading to¡ª" The words meant nothing. Nothing compared to the first book he had touched in this place. The Scriptures of Elythea. At first, he had read it because he was bored. Then, because he was curious. Then, because he needed to know. He had spent his entire life hearing the same sermon, the same whispered condemnations: The Goddess hates you. The Light rejects you. The world would be cleaner without you. So he had searched. Page after page. Verse after verse. And he had found nothing. Not a single scripture cursing him. No holy decree marking his kind for suffering. So if the Goddess never said it¡ª Who did? The sound of steel on steel. The cell door¡¯s slot slid open. "On your feet." Delacroix didn¡¯t move at first. He let his fingers linger on the pages for just a second longer¡ªthen he closed the book and stood. Without being asked, he stepped forward and offered his wrists. The shackles locked tight. The door slid open. "You¡¯ve got a visitor." The halls of Valkarn Prison were monolithic and dead. Steel and concrete. Cold, lifeless symmetry. The guards led him through four steel doors, their footsteps a rhythm of unforgiving efficiency. Above them, past the iron walkways, inmates whispered. Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian. The Butcher of Al-Miraj. The last door buzzed. "Visitation Unit 04." The lock unlatched. And there, sitting behind the bulletproof glass¡ª Araeius Braythar. A golden Inquisition badge sat on the table in front of him. Delacroix exhaled slowly. Of course. He could already feel where this was going. The guard nudged him toward the seat. He sat without resistance, shackles clanking as he reached for the receiver. Araeius did the same. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! For a moment, neither of them spoke. Delacroix adjusted the receiver against his ear. His voice was quiet, almost indifferent. "I told you, you don¡¯t have to keep coming here." Araeius exhaled through his nose. Adjusted the phone in his grip. "I heard you." Delacroix tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for something. Araeius cleared his throat. "How¡¯ve you been, bruv? Last time I saw you was¡ª" "Almost a year ago." A flicker of guilt crossed Araeius¡¯ face. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Been caught up. But I¡¯ve got some news to share with you, though." He reached into his pocket. Placed the badge onto the glass. The crest of the Inquisition. Delacroix didn¡¯t react. Didn¡¯t tilt his head. Didn¡¯t acknowledge it. He just let the silence stretch. Then¡ª "Inquisition, huh?" Araeius nodded. "Yeah. I¡¯m a Templar now." Delacroix finally adjusted the receiver in his hand. "So what¡¯s that mean exactly?" Araeius squared his shoulders. "My job is to identify and eliminate rogue magic users, apostates, and¡ª" "That right?" The words were smooth, but the weight behind them made Araeius shift. Delacroix exhaled slowly, resting his forearms against the table. "Well, I¡¯m happy for you." Araeius frowned. "You don¡¯t sound happy." Delacroix gave a small shrug. Araeius let the moment pass. "What about you?" Delacroix adjusted his posture. "Not bad. My mom finally cut a deal. They¡¯re releasing me next week." Araeius blinked. Sat up straighter. "Holy shit, bruv. That¡¯s¡ª" He caught himself. Exhaled. "That¡¯s great to hear." Delacroix didn¡¯t react. "You don¡¯t seem thrilled," Araeius said carefully. Delacroix tilted his head, as if considering the words. Then, flatly¡ª "What¡¯s there to be thrilled about?" Araeius frowned. "You¡¯re getting out. You can start over." Delacroix exhaled, slow. "I¡¯m a darkie returning to a society that hates people like me." Araeius went still. Delacroix continued, voice smooth, clinical. "Where I¡¯m at, the only ones I have to worry about are the guards. The other inmates?" He tilted his head. "They treat me fairly. Dare I say it, with respect." His head turned slightly, the blindfold catching the light. "Now why do you think that is?" Araeius had no answer. Delacroix could feel it. A slow smile played at the edge of his lips. "You ever ask yourself that?" Araeius clenched his jaw. Then, softly¡ª "I read the Scriptures in here, you know." Araeius frowned. "What?" Delacroix leaned forward, the shackles clanking softly as he moved. "Not once did I find a passage that said the Goddess hates me. And yet, I¡¯ve been hearing it my entire life." A pause. "Funny, isn¡¯t it?" Araeius¡¯ grip tightened on the receiver. Delacroix tilted his head. "You serve her now, don¡¯t you?" Araeius clenched his teeth. "I do." Delacroix nodded slowly, like he had just confirmed something to himself. Then, he leaned in. "Call them what you will. Criminals, killers, outcasts. But at least they¡¯re honest about it." Araeius didn¡¯t move. Delacroix¡¯s voice dropped lower, his tone sharp as a razor. "What do you call the men who sent us to kill an entire village?" A muscle in Araeius¡¯ jaw twitched. "Don¡¯t do this, Del." Delacroix ignored him. "You think your church is that honest?" Araeius didn¡¯t answer. Because there was no good answer. Delacroix sat back, the ghost of a smirk curling at his lips. "That¡¯s what I thought." Araeius¡¯ fist slammed against the glass. Once. Twice. "Damn you!" His voice cracked with frustration. "I came to you as a brother! Not to be fucking berated!" Delacroix¡¯s voice turned ice-cold. "You came here to make yourself feel good." Araeius inhaled sharply. Delacroix leaned forward again. "Three men stood trial for Al-Miraj. And only one was named a butcher." The words cut like a blade. Delacroix exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Fuck you." His voice was almost soft. "Fuck your Goddess." Then, he placed the receiver down. And without another word, he walked away. Leaving Araeius alone. Delacroix returns to his cell. The door slammed shut behind him. Delacroix stood in the center of it, the weight of the moment settling over him like an old coat. Three years. Three years of concrete and steel. Three years of routine, of silence, of watching men come and go, buried beneath sentences longer than their lifespans. And now? One more week. Then, the world. He sat down on his cot, back against the wall. Exhaled. From the next cell over, a voice cut through the quiet. ¡°Braythar again?¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t answer right away. The voice belonged to Chan¡ªa Fengjianese man with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. No one knew what he¡¯d done to end up in Valkarn, and no one was dumb enough to ask. Delacroix sighed. ¡°Yeah.¡± Chan chuckled. ¡°Man¡¯s got faith. I¡¯ll give him that.¡± Silence. Then¡ªChan shifted, the sound of fabric against stone. Casual. Thoughtful. ¡°Word is you¡¯re getting out soon.¡± Delacroix leaned his head back against the cold wall. ¡°That¡¯s what they tell me.¡± Chan let out a low whistle. ¡°Three years in the Vault. Surprised you¡¯re not dead or mad.¡± Delacroix gave the smallest shrug. ¡°Maybe I am.¡± Chan laughed softly. ¡°Well, shit. Maybe we all are.¡± The silence stretched just long enough to mean something. Then¡ªChan¡¯s voice again, smooth, easy. ¡°So, back to the castle?¡± There it was. The unspoken thing. Delacroix¡¯s fingers flexed. The words should¡¯ve come easy¡ªbut they didn¡¯t. He could say yes. Could lie. Could pretend the name Gallian meant something to him still. Instead¡ª ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Chan made a small noise, like he¡¯d been expecting that answer. ¡°That¡¯s a funny thing.¡± His voice was lighter now, teasing. ¡°A prince with no throne.¡± Delacroix smirked, but there was no humor in it. ¡°Not much of a prince.¡± Chan chuckled. ¡°Not much of a throne either.¡± Delacroix let out a slow breath. Chan shifted again, voice turning conspiratorial. ¡°Listen, since you¡¯re out soon¡ª¡± A pause. ¡°If you need work, I can hook you up.¡± Delacroix arched a brow. ¡°Oh?¡± Chan nodded, though Delacroix couldn¡¯t see it. ¡°I know people. People who could use a guy like you.¡± Delacroix leaned forward slightly, his blindfold catching the dim light. ¡°The Butcher?¡± Chan didn¡¯t confirm or deny. He just let the name hang. Delacroix didn¡¯t answer right away. But he didn¡¯t say no, either. Chan hummed. ¡°Figured.¡± Another pause. Then, as if reading his mind¡ª ¡°Looking for someone?¡± Delacroix hesitated. Then, quietly¡ª ¡°Roland Thorne.¡± Chan let out a breath. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Understanding. ¡°Figures.¡± Another pause. Then¡ª ¡°You know how it is, your highness. No free lunch.¡± Delacroix nodded. He¡¯d been expecting that. ¡°What¡¯s the cost?¡± Chan leaned forward, and when he spoke, his voice changed. It was sharper, quieter, older. ¡°You ever hear about the R¨­nin Order?¡± The silence after was absolute. Delacroix¡¯s head lifted slightly, like he was hearing his own fate unfold. And for the first time in three years¡ª He had a direction. A reason. And when he spoke, it was with the certainty of a man already walking toward the dark. ¡°¡­Tell me more.¡± Episode 4 - A Kingdom That Buried Me Three years. That¡¯s how long it had been since Delacroix had seen the horizon. Valkarn wasn¡¯t just a prison. It was a graveyard built on rock and sea, a place where men were exiled to be forgotten. The outside world did not exist here. The only ones who lived beyond its walls were the guards and their families, housed in a town that clung to the prison like a parasite¡ªa town that did not welcome the men who left it. And now, Delacroix was walking out. The officer at the processing desk slid the duffel bag across the counter. "Sign here." Delacroix¡¯s fingers curled around the pen. It felt foreign in his hand, like something he¡¯d forgotten how to use. The officer barely glanced at him. "That¡¯s all you had when you came in." Delacroix slung the bag over his shoulder. It was lighter than he remembered¡ªbecause he was lighter than he remembered. The weight of a soldier had been stripped from him piece by piece. What waited in that bag? A folded uniform that no longer belonged to him. A knife he wasn¡¯t allowed to carry. A pair of dog tags that meant nothing now. He walked forward. The last checkpoint. A steel door, thick enough to hold back the ocean if the island ever drowned. The guard hit the switch. The door groaned. Light flooded in. Delacroix inhaled sharply. His whole body went rigid. Even through the blindfold, the brightness stabbed into his skull, too much, too fast. His first instinct was to step back¡ªhis body rejecting the thing he had once craved. Instead, he forced himself forward. Outside was not freedom. It was just a different kind of cage. The air smelled of salt and iron, the brine of an unforgiving sea. The dock stretched into the water, small and functional¡ªbuilt for transport ships, not people. No one had come to see him off. But the guards watched. They lingered at the edges, pretending to be going about their business, but their eyes told the truth. They did not see a man. They saw something that should have never been let out. And then¡ªa silhouette waiting near a black car. Princess Marianna Del Gallian. His mother. She was still, hands clasped before her, dressed in dark fabrics lined with gold. Even here, on this godforsaken rock, she carried herself with the quiet dignity of a royal. But when she saw him, the formality broke. She moved first, closing the space between them, and wrapped her arms around him. Tight. Unshaken. A mother¡¯s embrace. Delacroix hesitated. His arms hovered¡ªuncertain. Then, slowly, he brought them around her. A second too late. Marianna exhaled, a breath heavy with three years of waiting. "Let¡¯s get you home." The drive from the prison dock to the Archgriffin¡¯s private bay was silent. The car rumbled over the uneven roads, passing through the lifeless town that surrounded Valkarn. This was not a place where people chose to live. This was a place they were assigned to. And the people knew who he was. From behind curtains and through shop windows, they watched. Princess Marianna, the golden saint of Gallian, had come to pick up her son. The Butcher of Al-Miraj. Delacroix didn¡¯t look at them. The car climbed up to the private dock, where the Archgriffin loomed over the sea like a waiting leviathan. A symbol of wealth and power. The same ship that had flown him to trial three years ago. The same ship that had abandoned him here. The driver stepped out first, moving to open the door for Marianna. Delacroix let himself out before anyone could do it for him. The driver hesitated, then reached for his duffel bag. Delacroix¡¯s grip tightened. "I¡¯ve got it." They boarded. Inside, the parlour was everything Valkarn was not. Soft carpets, gold and velvet furnishings, a world that had never known a prison cell. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the lounge, offering a clear view of the water. Delacroix stepped forward, setting his duffel down. Outside the window, the prison still loomed in the distance¡ªa grey monolith against the water, unmoved by the fact that he had left it behind. It did not look smaller, even from here. Marianna¡¯s voice was soft. "Are you hungry?" Delacroix turned his head slightly. Considering. Then¡ª "Whiskey." A pause. Marianna almost suggested something else. But then, she nodded. She gestured to the steward. "Just water for me." The steward turned to Delacroix. "Whiskey," Delacroix repeated. "Which kind, sir?" Delacroix exhaled. "I don¡¯t care.¡± The whiskey burned smooth. Even after three years without a drop, Delacroix could still taste the notes¡ªsmoke, oak, and something almost sweet. It was a drink meant to be savored, the kind men swirled in crystal glasses, rolling the liquid across their tongues like a promise. He threw it back in one swallow. The glass hit the table with a dull clink. Marianna didn¡¯t flinch, but she watched him. The way his shoulders sat too still, the way his fingers lingered on the rim of the empty glass¡ªnot with longing, but with calculation. Measuring what it had given him, and what it hadn¡¯t. Beyond the window, Valkarn shrank beneath them. Delacroix stared down at it¡ªthe gray monolith, the coffin of steel and salt where they had left him to rot. The prison had not changed. It did not look smaller from up here. It did not look farther away. Silence settled. Marianna sipped her water¡ªslow, deliberate. The kind of sip someone took when they were thinking. Searching for the words. But what do you say to your son after three years of hell? Delacroix saved her the trouble. "So," he said, voice flat. "Dad¡¯s got duties again. That¡¯s why he¡¯s not here." A beat. Marianna set her glass down. Something in her hesitation changed the air. "A¡¯noa is sick," she said, carefully. "Lung cancer. Late stage." Delacroix didn¡¯t react. He just nodded, as if she had told him the weather forecast. "Okay." Nothing else. No change in his expression. No shift in his posture. Just okay. Marianna inhaled, fingers pressing lightly against the rim of her glass. "I know he wasn¡¯t the best father. Or husband." Delacroix exhaled a quiet scoff. "Well, that¡¯s why you got divorced, right?" Marianna let it go. She had learned long ago that her son¡¯s sharp edges were not meant to wound her¡ªthey were just how he carried his own wounds. She tried again. "Regardless, he¡¯s still your father. You should see him before it¡¯s too late." Delacroix finally turned to her. His blindfold faced her directly¡ªa barrier as much as a necessity. "That man put me on the frontlines," he said, voice even. "Sent me into skirmishes where I should have died." He leaned back slightly, rolling the empty glass between his fingers. "And when all that failed," he murmured, "he didn¡¯t lift a goddamn finger when his own son got locked up." The words didn¡¯t rise in anger. They came out like a fact, like something he had repeated to himself a thousand times in the dark. Marianna held his gaze, even through the blindfold. He let it linger. Let the weight of it settle before letting the next words slip out, quiet, almost amused. "So how ironic is it, then," he said, "that after all that, he dies first?" Silence. Marianna exhaled through her nose, the only sign of tension in her otherwise perfectly composed posture. Delacroix looked away first. He sighed, running a hand down his face. "Sorry," he muttered. "You don¡¯t deserve my bluntness." A beat. "I just¡­ need time to adjust." Marianna softened just slightly. "Of course." She studied him for a moment longer. Then, her voice dropped a fraction. "If you ever need to talk," she said, "you can talk to me." Delacroix didn¡¯t answer immediately. Because what was there to say? Would he tell her about the bodies he dropped? The things he had done to survive? The beatings in the mess hall, the days he went without sleep, the things he learned about himself in the dark corners of Valkarn? Would he tell her that the last time he felt genuine respect was in a prison full of killers? That when he closed his eyes, he still heard the voices from Al-Miraj¡ªnot the screams, but the surrender? No. There was nothing she wanted to hear. And nothing he had to share. The sky was a deep violet by the time Leonidas came into view. The Archgriffin descended like a silver phantom, cutting through the mist, its engines humming low as it approached the royal air dock. Below, the city stretched out in a lattice of golden lights, streets slick from an earlier rain, reflecting the neon glow of shopfronts and tram stations. Delacroix watched the city pass beneath him, leaning against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. Familiar streets. Familiar corners. But nothing about it felt familiar anymore. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. They landed with the kind of grace only Gallian engineering could afford, the ship settling onto the tarmac as the royal motorcade pulled into place below. The same polished black car that had picked him up from Valkarn waited at the bottom of the steps, engine humming softly. The door opened. Marianna stepped out first, her gown moving like liquid gold under the terminal lights. A footman moved to retrieve Delacroix¡¯s bag, but before he could touch it¡ªDelacroix had already grabbed it himself, slinging the strap over his shoulder. The footman hesitated. Marianna just sighed. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± The drive through Leonidas was silent. Delacroix sat in the backseat, watching the city unfold past him. New roads. Construction crews tearing up old tram lines, laying fresh asphalt. Same streets. Same crowds, moving with that restless energy unique to Gallian nights. The Bishop¡¯s Quarter loomed in the distance, the grand cathedral a towering spire of white stone and stained glass. Delacroix scoffed under his breath. "Still standing, huh?" His fingers tightened against the duffel strap. Araeius would¡¯ve had something to say about that. Finally¡ªLion¡¯s Keep. The castle gates swung open on silent hinges, the cobblestone driveway lined with servants in pristine formation. Delacroix ignored them. Once, these were the people who whispered about him behind velvet curtains, who turned their noses when he passed. Now, they stood with their hands neatly folded, like this was some grand homecoming. They were under orders. He knew it. They knew it. A butler moved to take his bag. Delacroix walked past him like he didn¡¯t exist. He walked through the castle doors without a glance. The royal quarter hadn¡¯t changed. The scent of lavender and polished wood still lingered in the air. The furniture was immaculate, untouched, as if the room had been frozen in time, waiting for its owner to return. But he wasn¡¯t the man who left it. Delacroix stepped inside, scanning the space. Not as a man returning home¡ªbut as a soldier assessing terrain. His gaze stopped. A box near the couch. A black armoured case. His throat tightened slightly. Marianna caught up behind him, watching his reaction. "Everything is just as you left it." Her voice was soft. But Delacroix¡¯s focus was locked on the case. "Those are your things from the Legion," she continued. "I wasn¡¯t sure what to do with them. If you want, I can have them thrown away¡ª" "Don¡¯t." It came out sharper than he intended. Marianna blinked. Then, quieter: "Alright." Silence settled. Then¡ªDelacroix turned. And this time¡ªhe hugged her. Not out of obligation. Not as a formality. But as a son. A mother who fought for him. A mother who never stopped. His arms tightened around her, his breath shuddered slightly against her shoulder. His eyes, hidden beneath the blindfold, were damp. "Thank you for everything." Marianna exhaled, stroking his back lightly. "I love you." "I love you too." He held onto her just a little longer. Then¡ªhe let go. Marianna lingered a moment, as if searching for something more to say. Instead¡ª"I¡¯ll let you settle in. Let me know if you need anything." "Of course." The door clicked shut behind her. Delacroix exhaled. Then¡ªhe stepped toward the black case. He set it on the coffee table, unlatching it. The scent of old steel and leather hit him first. Inside¡ªhis Legion armor, still bearing the scars of war. His hand hovered¡ªthen moved further. Cold metal met his fingers. He pulled out the MAG52 hand cannon. In his other hand, he reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small, crumpled slip of paper. An address. Merchant¡¯s Quarter. The One Evans Park building stood tall and unchallenged, a gleaming monolith of power in the heart of the Merchant¡¯s Quarter. The most prestigious address in the realm. It wasn¡¯t just wealth that got you in¡ªit was status. Influence. A place where kings without crowns lived like gods. The valet moved with trained efficiency, pulling the sleek black supercar into the front drive. The doors opened on their own, hydraulic whispers against the marble entrance. The staff moved in¡ªready to open doors, ready to bow, ready to serve. But Roland Thorne raised a hand. ¡°Move.¡± He opened the passenger door himself, the leather seats creaking as she stepped out. Kairi. A vision in red. Hell on heels, her dress slinking over curves meant to ruin men. Every movement was deliberate, measured. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to let him look. Thorne could barely keep his hands to himself. Didn¡¯t want to, either. His arm slid down from the small of her back¡­ lower. The valet took the car. Thorne took the prize. They stepped inside. The private elevator awaited, empty and waiting just for them. The doors slid shut. Thorne turned, grinning like a man who¡¯d already won. ¡°You¡¯re so fucking beautiful.¡± Kairi¡¯s smile was soft, a slow thing. ¡°You¡¯re sweet for noticing.¡± Thorne leaned in close, hand tightening on her hip. ¡°A queen deserves a palace.¡± Kairi tilted her head, watching him like a cat watches a mouse before it decides if it¡¯s worth the effort. Thorne smirked. ¡°And once you see mine¡­ you won¡¯t wanna leave.¡± The elevator dinged softly. They stepped out onto the 77th floor¡ªone of three penthouse suites in the building. An entire floor, just for him. But something was wrong. The guards. Where the fuck were his guards? Thorne felt the mood shift instantly. His playfulness curdled into irritation. What the fuck am I paying these assholes for? They reached the penthouse door. It was open. Just slightly. Thorne¡¯s blood ran cold. His jaw locked, hand instinctively moving toward the gun holstered at his hip. Kairi frowned. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Thorne stepped in front of her. ¡°Get behind me.¡± Kairi¡¯s brows furrowed. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Thorne¡¯s voice turned sharp. ¡°I said get behind me.¡± He drew his gun. The moment slowed. His training took over. Legion training. Step light. Move slow. Eyes first. Then the hands. Then the room. The door creaked open. The hallway was dark. But in the low glow of the city lights creeping in¡ªhe saw it. A smear of blood across the marble floor. Thorne¡¯s pulse hammered. One breath. Two. Then, he hit the lights. The penthouse exploded into colour. And so did the horror. A massacre. His guards. Butchered. Bodies strewn across the floor, across the furniture¡ªsome slumped against the walls, some in pieces. Blood painted the white leather couch. The glass coffee table was cracked with a deep impact¡ªwhere someone had landed face-first. Thorne¡¯s breath hitched. And then¡ª A shadow on the couch. A man sitting there. Casually. A blade in his hand, its tip dug into the marble floor, still slick with red. Delacroix. His head tilted slightly, like he¡¯d just been waiting for him to get home. A greeting, spoken like an old friend. "Hello, Thorne." Thorne¡¯s gun was up in a second. His voice came out rough, unsure. ¡°Teorista?¡± A stupid question. Delacroix said nothing. Thorne¡¯s eyes darted across the room, taking everything in. The bodies. The blood. The goddamn ease of it. His stomach twisted. Fear crept in. "What the fuck is this?" Thorne demanded. "Revenge?" Delacroix finally moved. Not much. Just enough to lift his chin slightly. "We¡¯ll get to that." He turned the blade slightly, dragging the tip through the marble with a slow, deliberate motion. "But first¡­ I want a question answered." Delacroix¡¯s voice was calm. Too calm. "I¡¯ve waited three years to ask it." Thorne gritted his teeth. "Who made me the scapegoat?" Thorne laughed, sharp and bitter. ¡°Darkie, you serious?¡± Delacroix didn¡¯t move. Thorne sneered. ¡°It¡¯s like they always said. You were born to fall on the frontlines.¡± A shift in the air. Delacroix¡¯s grip on the hilt tightened. "Who." "Made me." "The scapegoat?" Thorne rolled his shoulders. ¡°You did.¡± Delacroix¡¯s breath stilled. Thorne smirked, licking his lips. ¡°The Goddess did. The moment she made you born that way.¡± A heartbeat. Thorne¡¯s finger curled tighter on the trigger. "You really think your blade¡¯s faster than my bullet?" Delacroix tilted his head. "Of course not." Thorne grinned. "Then you¡¯re not as dumb as you look." What he didn¡¯t see¡ª Delacroix¡¯s thumb on the hilt. Click. A tiny detonation. A flash of light. The explosion rattled the room¡ªa small one, nothing to collapse the building, but enough to shake it. Kairi let out a short scream. Thorne¡¯s instincts snapped to the blast¡ªjust for a second. And in that second¡ª Delacroix moved. A gunshot. Thorne¡¯s hand exploded in pain. His gun hit the ground. Another movement¡ªa blade slashed low. Thorne felt the cut rip through his thigh. He hit the floor, howling. Delacroix stood over him. "You¡¯ve really built something for yourself after Al-Miraj." Thorne¡¯s hand fumbled for the gun¡ª The blade came down. Straight through his other hand. Straight into the marble. Pinned. Thorne¡¯s scream was raw, ugly. Delacroix leaned in slightly, pressing a boot against the mangled hand. "Hurts, doesn¡¯t it?" The pressure. The agony. Thorne twisted, trying to get loose. "Feels helpless, doesn¡¯t it?" Delacroix looked past him, toward Kairi. A small, cruel smirk. "Guess that¡¯s not the kind of penetration you had in mind tonight." Thorne¡¯s breath came ragged, pain-sharp. ¡°You¡ªyou won¡¯t get away with this.¡± Delacroix exhaled softly. "I know." And then¡ªhe pulled the blade free. Thorne¡¯s scream cut through the walls. His bravado finally gone. All that was left now was fear. "Wait¡ª" Thorne gasped. "Wait, listen¡ª" Delacroix tilted his head. "Listen?" he echoed, almost amused. Thorne nodded frantically. "I¡ª fuck¡ª" he stammered, "it wasn¡¯t just me, alright? It wasn¡¯t just me! It was bigger than that¡ªbigger than any of us! You think this was personal? You were just¡ª" A thing. A number on a ledger. A debt settled. Delacroix chuckled. But there was no humour in it. "People throw around the words¡ªdarkie, foulblood, Shadeborn¡ªlike we¡¯re nothing. Like we¡¯re just¡­ trash to be used and thrown away." Thorne swallowed hard. Delacroix knelt, pressing his weight onto Thorne¡¯s shattered hand. Thorne screamed. *"But a Shadeborn¡¯s suffering starts the moment we take our first breath. The moment the light touches our eyes¡ª" Delacroix flexed his fingers, testing the space between his hands and Thorne¡¯s face. "¡ªIt burns us." Thorne thrashed weakly. "Please, please¡ª" "Tonight, you¡¯re going to understand what that feels like." His thumbs pressed against Thorne¡¯s eyes. Thorne screamed¡ªlouder than he ever had in his entire life. The pressure built. His breath shuddered. The pain wasn¡¯t instant. It was slow. Delacroix could feel Thorne¡¯s heartbeat hammering under his fingertips. The eyes resisted at first, but the skull is a fragile thing, really. And when the first wet pop echoed through the penthouse¡ª The screaming stopped. It turned into something else. A whimper. A gurgle. A raw, choking sound. Delacroix leaned in close. "Welcome to the dark, Thorne." Then¡ªthe second pop. And Thorne knew nothing else. The room reeked of death. The sound of wet, labored gurgles had faded. Now, there was only silence. Delacroix exhaled through his nose, his breath slow, steady. He lifted his hands from what was left of Roland Thorne. Dark, wet smears trailed down his fingers, warm and sticky. He flexed them once, feeling the faint tremble of spent adrenaline in his knuckles. Then, without looking down, he stood. His blade whispered against its sheath as he slid it back into place, the sound eerily crisp in the dead hush of the penthouse. His boots left red prints as he moved. He walked casually¡ªno rush, no hesitation¡ªtoward the pristine kitchen. The contrast was almost comical. White marble countertops. Stainless steel fixtures. A window overlooking the city. A place built for a man who wanted the world to see his wealth. Delacroix turned the tap. Water rushed out, steaming slightly. He washed his hands slowly, deliberately. The blood came away in ribbons of red, swirling down the sink, disappearing into the drain. He scrubbed under his nails, feeling the sting where skin had split in the struggle. He dried his hands on Thorne¡¯s monogrammed towel. Then¡ªfinally¡ªhe turned. Kairi stood frozen near the door, her breath shallow, her fingers curled tight around her clutch. She wasn¡¯t screaming. She wasn¡¯t crying. She was watching. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted¡ªlike she was processing something she didn¡¯t quite believe. Delacroix regarded her. Then, he spoke. "I don¡¯t know who you are." His voice was calm. Flat. Not cruel. Just disinterested. "Don¡¯t much care, either." Kairi didn¡¯t move. "But if you were really scared," he mused, tilting his head slightly, "you¡¯d at least pretend to call the cops." A flicker. So small, most wouldn¡¯t notice. A faint twitch in the corner of her mouth. A subtle shift in her shoulders. Like a mask slipping¡ªjust an inch. But Delacroix had already turned away. He wasn¡¯t interested in staying to see the whole illusion crumble. He stepped into the stairwell. The air was colder here. Less suffocating. But the scent of blood still clung to him. His boots echoed as he descended. There was no rush. No panic. Just a long walk down. He could take the elevator¡ªsure. But walking felt right. Felt safer. No chance of a camera catching his face. No risk of some wide-eyed concierge asking questions. Step by step, he moved further from Roland Thorne¡¯s world. Above, in the penthouse, Kairi finally moved. She walked to what remained of Thorne, her heels clicking softly against the cool, blood-streaked marble. She crouched. Two fingers to his slick throat. No pulse. Not that she had any doubts. She sighed, barely a breath¡ªthen pulled out her phone. She dialed. The line clicked. "It¡¯s done." A voice on the other end. Smooth. Expectant. "Wouldn¡¯t be what you¡¯d call clean, I take it?" Kairi¡¯s lips curled slightly. "Clean?" She glanced at the ruined body beneath her. "No. But I never got my hands dirty." A low chuckle. "I look forward to hearing all about it." Kairi leaned back slightly, running a finger along the inside of her wrist. "You wouldn¡¯t believe it if I told you." She cast a glance at the open door. The stairwell. The man who had walked out of here like he had just settled a tab at a bar. She exhaled. "I don¡¯t quite believe it myself.¡± The night air hit him the moment he stepped outside. Fresh. Crisp. Cold. It had rained earlier. He could smell it. He didn¡¯t take the front exit. Would¡¯ve been too obvious. Instead, he moved through a service hallway, past a janitor mopping the floors. The man barely glanced up. At the end of the alley, a black van idled, headlights off. The rear doors swung open. Two men stepped out. Their suits were well-pressed, but their boots were scuffed. They weren¡¯t corporate. They were working men. Soldiers of a different battlefield. One of them¡ªa man with **shaved hair and a scar along his jaw¡ª**tilted his head. "Teorista, we presume?" Delacroix let out a short breath. "Guilty." The man smirked slightly. "Figured." He gestured toward the van. "We need to go. Now." Delacroix didn¡¯t move. "Who sent you?" The second man¡ª**older, broader shoulders¡ª**spoke this time. "Dean Braythar." A pause. "He¡¯s associated with Mr. Chan." Delacroix actually laughed at that. A soft, dry chuckle. "Braythar." He shook his head slightly. "Life is full of ironies." The two men didn¡¯t ask. They just waited. Delacroix exhaled. Then¡ª**without hesitation¡ª**he stepped forward, climbed into the van, and the doors slammed shut behind him. The vehicle pulled away, slipping into the neon-lit veins of Leonidas. Past the monuments to industry. Past the palaces of the elite. Past the city that had tried to bury him. It wasn¡¯t until they reached the Port Quarter that Delacroix finally looked back. Through the fogged-up window, the skyline of Leonidas stretched out in the distance. The place he was born. The place he bled for. And now? The place he was leaving behind. For the last time.