It was still possible to smell the blood. Two years had passed, and it was still possible to smell the blood in that damned city—or what was left of it.

  Kynnyav was an ancient city. Philosophers claimed it was the cradle of civilization. The city had a strong personality and often challenged the Empire’s policies. And if Gwynngala Empire had historically avoided confrontations with Kynnyav, now, with the Empire deeply fragmented, the Emperor was forced to choose his battles even more carefully.

  Two years ago, that story changed.

  Brennik had been a troop captain during the Massacre of Kynnyav. Whenever he saw a standing column, he remembered the building that had once stood there. Artisans and merchants ran in desperation, not knowing where to go, peasants made the vainest attempts to escape the city...

  But what lingered strongest in his memories were the children.

  Brennik could forgive himself for what he had done to the adults—though he wasn’t sure he should—but the clash of his blade against those small beings was an image he couldn’t shake, nor could he forgive himself for it.

  Burm died for refusing to carry out the fateful order to eliminate the elderly, children, and babies. He was a good man—he truly was. He didn’t deserve to die. I shouldn’t have killed him. It would’ve been better for everyone if Burm had been better with a sword than I was. Back then, Brennik had thought he had no choice. He was the captain; he had to obey the general’s orders. Simple as that.

  Sadorn had issued the command to let no human escape the city—the blood weavers could transform themselves into the elderly, children, even babies—and so Brennik had obeyed it. And, to his regret, he had done it perfectly—as always.

  Brennik, the former captain, stared absentmindedly, his gaze unfocused on any particular part of the ruins. Noticing the dangerous distraction of the mercenary hired to ensure the caravan’s safety, Elowen called for his attention.

  “Hey, have you actually been here before?”

  “Yes,” Brennik replied.

  “You look lost, mercenary.”

  “It’s ghosts I see,” he said. Noticing Elowen’s confused and terrified expression, he added, “Don’t worry, they’re ghosts of the past”

  Brennik had abandoned Sadorn’s army two years ago. The images of the children he had executed—or ordered to be executed—haunted him through the nights following the Massacre of Kynnyav. Almond-shaped eyes shining with fear, desperate screams, vain cries for their parents… Burm was a good man. Wherever he is, he’s surely not suffering for what he did. He can rest in peace.

  It didn’t take long for Brennik to abandon the army. Every day with Sadorn felt like a day of torture. How could he give those orders? Brennik could no longer bear his presence. No… I gave those orders to my subordinates too, he thought.

  Brennik didn’t feel any different from Sadorn. He didn’t feel entitled to condemn him. He had no right to stand against him. All he could do was leave.

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  And so he did.

  The punishment for deserters was death. So when Brennik met with Sadorn to inform him of his intention to leave, he fully expected to die. But death did not come. Sadorn told him that, due to his services, he had earned the right to walk away.

  But that wasn’t the truth.

  The truth had another face. Brennik was the most respected man in Sadorn’s army—to the point of idolization by some soldiers. If Sadorn had carried out the sentence, the army morale would have been shattered—and for a warlord (such as Sadorn), morale was vital. It wasn’t uncommon for a warlord to be killed once the soldiers lost respect for him.

  In fact, Sadorn saw Brennik’s departure in a favorable light. Those who rose too high often seized the position of warlord when things became unstable. Getting rid of him was convenient. Besides having the army’s respect, Brennik was one of the most fearsome blood weavers Sadorn had ever known.

  When he integrated into society, he realized something terrible. The only thing he knew how to do was kill, and that shocked him. He tried to live in the countryside, but, at his age, no longer far from forty, he could only live as a poor, miserable assistant to peasants. He couldn’t stand such a life of poverty and tried his hand at craftsmanship, but his life on the battlefield had made him a brute, his fine motor skills were poor, and his life as a craftsman was a failure. Nor did life as a merchant suit him. If his grumpiness wasn’t enough to scare away customers, his inability to hide his thoughts through his facial expressions, coupled with his unwillingness to lie, made that path unlikely.

  No. But he had to eat, and preferably eat well. And there was one thing he knew very well, and that paid very well: killing.

  Although he had tried to avoid entering this line of work, he ended up accepting one job, then another, and so on, until he found himself, definitively, as a mercenary. Looking back, he thought it had been an inevitable path. Burm would certainly have left the army and settled for the miserable life of a helper in the fields. I chose to return to the path of blood. I really can’t judge Sadorn.

  Now he was in the ruins that had changed his life. At least it wasn’t a mission to kill. It was a mission to protect. And maybe that would make some difference...

  Elowen had hired Brennik back in Nihonek.

  He was in charge of escorting the caravan. They had left Nihonek, the capital of the Empire, and were now in the ruins of what had once been Kynnyav. They would scour the ruins in search of an artifact of interest to the contractor and then head to the next city, where Brennik would complete his task and receive his payment. A very generous payment, in fact.

  The wind whistled through the narrow, destroyed streets, playing the tragic melody of the ruins of Kynnyav. The buildings—or what was left of them—were twisted skeletons of stone and charred wood. The rubble of the walls revealed interiors consumed by destruction. Low-value belongings could still be found, small fragments of the life that once was. The city had been completely destroyed, and it was said that the entire population had been annihilated. A genocide.

  It was possible to find abandoned tents among the rubble, surely set up after the tragedy. In the years following the destruction, the ruins had become home to those who wanted to hide from society. Fugitives, thieves... It wasn’t a particularly welcoming place. Hence the need for an escort.

  The city exudes death, Brennik thought as he watched it. However, when he shifted his attention to the cracked cobblestones, he noticed that vegetation was taking over the place. And when he saw a bush filled with the beauty of blue flowers, a sudden flash of hope crossed his mind: Maybe there’s a new beginning for everyone.

  He walked at the front of the caravan, ensuring the safety of their next steps. The sight of the bushes brought a pleasant feeling to the mercenary, but it quickly dissipated with what he saw: there was the charred wood from what had been a campfire. And worse: loose ashes, remnants of water, and a faint, almost imperceptible smoke. It had just been extinguished. The mercenary had enough experience to know: trouble was ahead.

  Brennik cut the tips of his index fingers with his own thumbnail, closed his eyes, and rubbed the blood on his eyelids and tragi. Blood weaving. When he opened his eyes, he could see what he hadn’t seen before and hear what he hadn’t heard. His senses were amplified by the weaving, revealing dozens of watchers in the surroundings, closing in as the caravan moved forward.

  Definitely trouble ahead.