Suspended in darkness. Suspended in agony. The cold of the night coiled around him like a waiting serpent, slithering into his bones. He was adrift, neither awake nor lost entirely to the void. Only the ragged, uneven rhythm of his breath anchored him to the realm of the living.

  He remembered swords.

  He remembered spears.

  He remembered boots—boots—boots.

  Forever marching. Then silence.

  Then the screaming began.

  The cries of men and the shrieks of the damned wove together in a terrible symphony of war, pain… and fear. A fear that had clutched his heart with iron fingers, a fear that gnawed at the edges of his resolve even as he had stood amidst the carnage, blade slick with gore.

  And then—him.

  A figure in the abyss. Cold, crimson eyes gleaming like dying stars. A presence that swallowed the battlefield whole, devouring the light, devouring hope. A whisper of steel, a blur of motion—then nothing.

  The rest unraveled like smoke.

  He tried to grasp at the memories, to seize them before they dissipated entirely, but they slipped through his fingers like sand. He saw limbs torn asunder, heard the last, choked breaths of warriors who had once laughed at death, now reduced to carrion for the crows. He saw their agony, their desperation. He saw their end.

  And then, darkness.

  His consciousness flickered in and out, drifting between the waking world and the abyss beyond. He was caught in the tide, drawn away, returned again, then taken once more. Came and went. Came… and went.

  Until at last, he surfaced.

  Slowly, painfully, Yirtin opened his eyes to the night sky. The moon—full and merciless—stared down at him, white and distant, an unblinking eye watching a defeated thing be carried back to the world.

  The air reeked of death. The stench of blood and sweat, of damp earth and something fouler still—the unmistakable scent of failure.

  The world rocked gently, a lulling, nauseating motion. A wagon. The rhythmic plod of hooves. The murmur of voices, low and indistinct, like whispers from the grave.

  Yirtin forced his eyes to focus, his breath shallow, his limbs unresponsive.

  He was alive.

  He did not know if that was a mercy or a curse.

  And then, with an effort that sent pain lancing through his broken body, Yirtin forced to keep his eyes open.

  "Oh, mercenary knight. You are finally awake."

  The voice was hoarse, brittle, as if it belonged to a man who had spent a lifetime swallowing dust and regret. Yirtin turned his head, sluggish and aching, and found himself staring at a thin, hollow-faced man with sharp, defined cheekbones and dark blue eyes. Bald, save for a few wisps of gray on the sides of his head, he looked as though he had long been acquainted with hunger and hard living.

  "Where am I?" Yirtin’s voice came out rough, like steel grinding against stone.

  "Aldir’s Hollow," the man said simply.

  Aldir’s Hollow?

  Yirtin’s brow furrowed. That couldn’t be. It was miles from where the battle had taken place. He shifted, pushing himself upright on the bed of hay, his muscles burning in protest. As he looked ahead, he saw the village approaching in the distance, its small thatched roofs clustered together beneath the wan glow of the moon, the night fog curling around it like a creeping beast.

  "Sit down, mercenary. You're hurt."

  Yirtin ignored the warning, his mind racing. His hand gripped the side of the wagon as the memories clawed their way back.

  "What happened to me?" His voice was low, edged with something dangerous. "What happened to my troops?"

  The thin man exchanged a glance with another figure—a shorter, stockier man who sat beside him. The second man was everything his companion was not: thick-bearded, broad, and reeking of ale and stale sweat. A commoner, a man who had likely never seen war beyond a bar brawl, yet he sat before Yirtin with an air of grim certainty.

  "When we arrived," the thin man said at last, "they were all dead."

  Yirtin stilled.

  "Dead?" The word left his lips as a whisper, then grew sharp. "What do you mean, dead?"

  Something icy slid into his chest—an emotion he refused to name.

  The thin man exhaled, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them against a chill only he could feel.

  "Yeah," the bearded one muttered, swaying slightly with the wagon’s motion. "Dead as a skeleton. Well… at least the skeletons that don’t walk."

  A short, bitter chuckle.

  Yirtin wasn’t laughing.

  No. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. He saw them dead, but how could it be? His men trained to be the best, to endure the most pressing of hardships. Armies, Monsters, Demons.

  And yet...

  He saw them in the dark. Torn apart, drained, broken. His hand tightened into a fist.

  "I thought you Solareye mercs were good at your job," the bearded man said with a smirk, taking a swig from a dented flask. "Was our king sold a lie?"

  Yirtin’s eyes snapped to him, golden irises burning like embers in the night.

  Before the fool could react, Yirtin moved.

  His right hand shot out, wrapping around the back of the man's thick neck in an iron grip. The air in the wagon shifted—suffocating, deadly, primal—as Yirtin’s body tensed, his powerful arms twitching with barely restrained violence.

  "Speak no ill of my troops, peasant." His voice was a growl, low and rumbling, like a storm waiting to break. "Or I'll gut you like a gnoll."

  The bearded man went stiff, his drunken bravado shattering like glass.

  "Woah, woah, sir—"

  The thin man raised his hands, his breath quickening. "We—we want no trouble."

  Yirtin’s grip lingered, claws pressing just enough into flesh to make the fool’s pulse race beneath his fingertips. It would be so easy to tighten his hold, to snap the man’s windpipe and let his body tumble off the wagon like a sack of rotten grain.

  But he was not a beast.

  Not yet.

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  "Then you should know better than to insult a Solareye," Yirtin snarled, baring sharp canines as his golden mane caught the moonlight.

  The bearded man swallowed thickly, his confidence drowned in fear.

  "Sir, please…"

  Yirtin exhaled sharply. His grip loosened.

  "Fine."

  With a shove, he released the fool, who gasped as if he had just been freed from a noose. The wagon trundled on, the air heavy with unspoken things.

  The village loomed closer.

  And Yirtin?

  Yirtin stared ahead, unblinking, as the weight of the dead pressed against his soul.

  "Look, we saved you. You don't have to try to kill us..."

  The thin man’s voice was even, but edged with caution, as though speaking to a cornered beast rather than a wounded knight. The wagon rocked gently beneath them, the groan of wooden wheels against the dirt road filling the silence between words.

  Yirtin barely heard him.

  "You don’t understand," he murmured, his breath shallow. "My troops... they... they were not meant to have this fate. We—"

  "—Are trained, yes, we heard of your academy out west." The bearded man scoffed, still rubbing his throat where Yirtin’s grip had nearly crushed it. "Yet, here you are."

  Yirtin’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond. Instead, he turned his gaze inward, trying—struggling—to piece together the fragments of that night.

  It had happened so fast. Too fast.

  He remembered the charge, the shining gleam of Solareye steel under the moon, the banners flying proudly as they moved with the discipline only a lifetime of training could instill. He remembered the enemy—a shadow given form, its eyes glowing like molten coals in the abyss. And then—

  Blood. Screams. A massacre.

  Gone. All gone. His Golden Dragoons—warriors who had stood against giants, crushed demon hordes, shattered armies—had died like cattle.

  Yirtin clenched his teeth, his fingers twitching against the cracked golden filigree of his breastplate. His ribs ached beneath the ruined metal, bruised and broken from a battle he could scarcely recall.

  "You must return for my brothers," he said at last, his voice low, hoarse. "It is a dishonor to leave the dead behind."

  The wagon jolted over a rock, but the words lingered in the air like a drawn blade.

  The bearded man scoffed. "You want to go back? Run back there, cat."

  The thin man shook his head. "You’d just die like the others."

  Yirtin’s ears flicked at the insult—cat—but he did not rise to it. Instead, he curled his fingers into a tight fist, his claws pressing into his palm.

  The bearded man took another swig from his flask, his face grim. "Look, whatever got you was some real twisted abomination."

  "Aye," the thin man agreed. "Sucked the blood dry of most of your comrades, broke their bones like twigs." He exhaled, glancing at Yirtin with something between pity and dread. "Really, a blessing of the Broken One that you’re still alive."

  A blessing?

  Yirtin wasn’t sure.

  They entered the town, the dirt road giving way to uneven cobblestone, worn and weathered by time. The first sight to greet them was the old church of the Broken One, its high spire casting long shadows in the moonlight, its once-pristine stone now cracked and blackened by age. The air was thick with damp earth and distant woodsmoke, the scent of a place that had long since learned to live in quiet suffering.

  Then they saw them.

  Six riders. Six dark-armored figures atop towering warhorses, two of them in a carriage, their breath misting in the cold night air. Their armor bore the insignia of the Solareye, but to the common folk, they might as well have been knights of judgment, executioners clad in steel.

  One of them dismounted—a leonin, tall and broad-shouldered, his golden mane flowing in the night breeze like a river of molten sun. He moved with the confidence of a man who had never lost a battle, nor suffered the weight of doubt.

  His hand rose. "Halt there."

  The wagon’s pace slowed before coming to a full stop.

  The two wagoneers froze, exchanging a glance, their earlier bravado slipping into unease.

  Yirtin recognized him immediately.

  Kogun.

  His older brother. Legate Major of the Solareye Contract Army. A commander of men, a warrior of high renown. If he was here, it could mean only one thing—something had gone terribly wrong.

  "Brother..." Yirtin’s voice was hoarse as he forced himself to stand, though his body screamed in protest. He moved to climb down from the wagon, but his legs faltered beneath him. Kogun stepped forward, offering him a firm hand.

  "Easy now, brother." Kogun’s grip was strong, steady, as he helped him down from the cart.

  The stockier wagoneer, the one with the thick beard and the lingering stink of ale, grunted as he jumped down from his seat, his belly jostling beneath his stained tunic.

  "Well, well. Cat man, we saved your little brother here."

  Kogun’s golden eyes narrowed, his hand hovering just above the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  The man’s grin widened. "Some gold coins could go a long way, mercenary."

  Kogun’s fingers curled around the grip of his blade.

  The bearded man swallowed, though he still held the smirk of a man who thought himself clever. His companion—the thin, hollow-eyed one—watched in wary silence, his lips pressed together as if he already knew what was about to happen.

  Then Kogun reached for a small black leather pouch at his waist. He shook it once. The metallic clink of coin was unmistakable.

  "Do you want coin?" Kogun asked, voice even.

  The bearded man licked his lips. "Oh yes, noble mercenary."

  Kogun tossed the purse to the ground.

  The stout man chuckled, bending down to snatch it up—

  With a single fluid motion, Kogun drew his sword and swung.

  The blade whispered through the air before meeting flesh—a sickening crunch of bone, the wet slap of a severed head hitting the dirt

  The bearded man's head separated cleanly from his shoulders, rolling into the dirt like a discarded stone, eyes still wide with the foolishness of a man who had believed himself untouchable. His body collapsed beside it, twitching once before going still.

  "By the Broken One!" The thin man nearly toppled off the wagon, scrambling to move from his seat, not sure how to even react. He seemed to want to jump, to move to the aid of his fallen friend.

  "Edvar!" He gasped the dead man's name, horror and disbelief warring across his pale face.

  "Don't you dare, peasant." Kogun’s voice was ice and iron. "One strike, and you will be as dead as this pathetic excuse for human life."

  The man hesitated, his breathing ragged, his fingers his fingers trembling, his eyes widened in horror as his heart raced.

  Yirtin winced at the scene, his golden eyes shadowed. He was no stranger to death, no stranger to the ruthlessness of their family’s way. And yet, this felt... needless.

  He turned to Kogun, his voice tight. "Was this necessary, brother?"

  "I'm afraid you bear no say in these decisions anymore, Yirtin."

  Kogun's voice was steady, implacable. A pronouncement of fate, not a discussion.

  Yirtin blinked, confusion threading through the exhaustion that still held his body captive. "What?"

  Kogun did not answer. Instead, he turned his head slightly. "Men."

  Two of the knights dismounted, their movements measured and disciplined, heavy boots pressing into the dirt with unwavering certainty. They were clad in the armor of the Solareye, the mercenary-knights of the Shining South. Their cuirasses bore the intricate detailing of a golden lion's head, a symbol of their family’s unyielding code, polished to gleam even beneath the dim light of the oil lamps lining the street. Their helmets—blackened sallets adorned with the same leonine sigil—obscured their faces, leaving only cold, emotionless figures of judgment standing before him.

  Yirtin didn’t move as they reached him. Didn’t flinch as the first knight pulled out a set of iron manacles from his belt, their metal links rusted from use but still strong, unyielding, binding. They clasped them around his wrists with a practiced efficiency, the lock clicking into place with a finality that made his stomach twist.

  The iron was cold, biting against his fur. Not heavy, but final. A restraint not just of flesh, but of honor.

  He had not resisted. He had no reason to. But still, something inside him curled in protest, something instinctive, something that knew this was wrong.

  "You've broken the code, brother," Kogun said, stepping closer, looking down at him. Not as kin. Not as a sibling. But as a judge, a soldier delivering a verdict. "You have failed to lead your men in battle, and you have committed the sin of desertion."

  Yirtin’s breath hitched. His ears flattened slightly against his mane, but his voice was steady. "I did not desert."

  Kogun’s golden eyes did not waver. "Whether by will or by higher force, you left the battlefield without calling for a retreat. You abandoned your command post. You returned alive when none of your men did." His voice did not raise, did not falter, but there was something deeper behind it, something unsaid. Something between anger and disappointment.

  Yirtin’s throat tightened, his fists clenched within the restraints.

  "But your worst offense," Kogun continued, "was the failure to lead such an esteemed legion." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "The Golden Dragoons were our finest. Legends. Their name alone was enough to strike fear into our enemies." His voice hardened. "And now, their name will be remembered only for the night they fell."

  Yirtin took a step forward, shackles rattling against his wrists. "Kogun, you don’t understand—"

  "Save your words for the Council Magistrates, Yirtin."

  For the first time, there was something in Kogun's voice that wavered. Something that almost resembled regret. Kogun looked away, as if the words hurt him deeply, he couldn't stand to witness the code being brought upon his brother, not with such... shame.

  "Do not shame your men any further."

  Kogun looked away, as if the words hurt him deeply, he couldn't stand to witness the code being brought upon his brother, not with such... shame.

  It was a sentence heavier than the chains around his wrists.

  The mercenary-knights turned him away from Kogun and pushed him forward, guiding him toward their own wagon. He did not resist, but his mind raced.

  His trial would be before the Council of Elders, before the highest-ranking officers of the Solareye Army.

  And in their eyes, he was already guilty.

  Yirtin stepped up into the cart, a prisoner now, rather than a commander.

  He looked at his brother as he moved to mount his horse, there he saw something flicker in Kogun’s gaze—not anger, not judgment, but something dangerously close to sorrow. But it passed as quickly as it came.

  For the first time in his life, Yirtin Solareye did not know if he was a soldier, a traitor, or a dead man waiting to be buried.