Roran Brightholm ran, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Every step sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body, like glass shattering inside him. His skin burned, deep cracks forming along his arms and legs, oozing dark, sluggish blood. The power inside him surged wildly, barely under control, making his muscles twitch and his head pound. If he stopped, even for a moment, he feared his body would finally break apart. No—he knew his body would finally break apart. So he ran.

He knew he had to go somewhere safe—Vasper forest, that’s where he should go. Arzan’s forces might not be able to find him if he just—

Suddenly, his eyes widened.

The walls of Veralt were right in front of him, lined with guards. Oh, goddess!

He saw them pulling out their weapons and preparing to cut him down. Among them, he recognised the Knights—they wouldn’t hesitate. His heart pounded harder. No time to think, he had only one way out.

Grinding his teeth, he forced the power inside him outward. The air around him howled as blades of wind, thick with a dark, pulsing energy, wrapped around his body. The moment he leaped forward, the guards sprang into action. Swords swung. Arrows cut through the air and spears almost reached closer to him. But the wind around him pushed them aside, snapping the projectiles before they could reach him.

He hit the ground on the other side of the wall, knees nearly buckling from the impact. A sharp, searing pain tore through his legs, but he didn’t stop. He pushed forward, the wind carrying him as he blurred through the dusty roads and past the city’s edge. The world became a streak of movement—boulders, trees, empty roads—until the Vasper Forest finally appeared before him.

The moment his foot touched the soft earth beneath the trees, he let the spell drop. The wind died, and with it, his last bit of strength. His legs nearly collapsed under him, and fresh pain exploded through his body.

He inhaled deeply, but a sharp pain shot through him, it spread until the very tips of his fingers. He looked down at him. Blood soaked his robes, dripping onto the fallen leaves. He sucked in a shaky breath, his entire body trembling.

Still, he moved.

One step. Another. He had to go deeper, far enough to be safe. The shadows thickened around him as the trees grew denser, their twisted branches blocking out the moonlight.

Then, the sound came. Soft. A shift in the leaves.

His body froze. His breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t alone.

Slowly, he lifted his head, scanning the darkness between the trees. At first, he saw nothing—only the endless stretch of tangled roots and foliage. Then, movement. A shadow, too fluid, too purposeful to be just the wind.

His fingers twitched, but when he tried to summon a spell, white-hot pain lanced through his arm. Blood dripped from his fingertips, the cracks on his skin deepening. He winced, biting back a cry as he forced his shaking hands into position.

The rustling grew louder. The shadows shifted.

Then, from the trees, something stepped forward.

A fray. It’s a fucking fray.

It was tall—so fucking tall, its limbs lean and stretched, moving with an unnatural smoothness. Its eyes, piercing violet, locking onto him with a silent, predatory intensity. Its skin, if it could even be called that, was white fur with red stripes. He swallowed hard.

Then, more movement.

Another figure slinked out from between the trees, then another. More and more emerged, melting out of the darkness like shadows peeling away from the night itself. Within moments, the clearing was filled with them. A dozen? Two dozen? He couldn’t count. His breathing grew unsteady, his hands twitching as fear clawed at his throat.

Then, one stepped forward. Different from the rest. Taller, broader, and exuding an unmistakable aura of command. The Fray king.

The creature snarled, its hollow eyes locked onto him. Then, in a voice like wind cutting through stone, it spoke.

“Human…. Put… down.”

The Fray wasn’t speaking fluidly, but Roran understood.

“We… give you… less pain…”

The fray king moved, gliding forward without a sound. Roran flinched, his fingers curling as he took a staggering step back. His body ached, the power inside him flaring wildly, barely contained. But it wasn’t just the Fray that filled him with dread.

No.

It was the thing he felt.

His gaze flickered, and for the first time, he truly saw it—the chaotic bubble of power that had settled over him. It pulsed, unstable, writhing like a living thing. The power he had been given, forced into his body to gain strength he didn’t deserved, only to find it tearing him apart.

His chest tightened. Was this it? Was this where it all ended? He felt tears pooling his eyes, and his nose getting heavier. He sniffled.

No.

His eyes snapped back to the Fray, his expression hardening.

“I can’t give up,” he whispered. “I won’t give up!”

Then, he let the power loose.

The wind roared to life, a cyclone of dark energy bursting from his body. The trees groaned, leaves ripping free as the force spread. The ground cracked beneath him. The Fray didn’t flinch.

But then—the pain burst forth. Agony unlike anything before.

Roran gasped, choking on his own breath as something tore through him. His own power. The dark winds lashed wildly, not just striking the Fray, but slashing into him.

He staggered, barely able to think as the spell spiraled out of control. His skin peeled away in ribbons, his body splitting apart with every surge of power. His scream tore through the forest, loud enough to wake every slumbering beast.

The chaotic mana reached its peak, writhing, twisting—

And then, he collapsed.

A deafening blast erupted, shaking the trees to their roots. The air distorted, the raw force tearing through everything in its path. The last remnants of Roran were swallowed by the explosion, his body reduced to nothing more than scattered fragments in an instant.

The Fray stood still, watching.

The wind settled. The forest grew quiet once more.

The leader tilted its head, staring at the smoldering remains.

Then, without a word, it turned. The rest of the frays followed the king into the forest.

***

Unlike what Kai had hoped for, Roran hadn’t made it out alive. Reports from his men confirmed the gruesome details—his body had detonated from the unstable, bubbling mana within him before the Fray had even laid a hand on him. A tragic end, perhaps, but one Kai found little sympathy for.

Afterall, the man did try to end his life. Moreover, Roran wasn’t stupid—he had known what would happen when he consumed the potion. Even if he hadn’t fully understood the consequences, he had still chosen his path as a spy. One way or another, his fate had always led to death.

Still, with his demise, the invisible knife hovering at Kai’s throat was finally gone. No longer did he have to keep a constant eye on the man, waiting for the inevitable betrayal. Though there was always a possibility of more spies, therefore, his Watchers had been monitoring everything closely, and for now, things remained under control.

He did felt it was regrettable that he wasn’t able to take him as a prisoner to be used against Magus Veridia, but he’d no doubt she would have discarded him just as Actra.

In the larger game, people like Roran were just pawns.

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With that matter settled, Kai shifted his focus to the next pressing issue.

While he had been recovering from the strain of strengthening his body, the fief war had started to move. Lucian had evidently caught wind of what had happened with Idrin. In response, the noble forces had begun to mobilize, their armies moving to converge at Castle Dorn. Kai had no intention of letting them consolidate their strength. Not at all.

After ensuring that Veralt was adequately defended in case of a surprise attack, he took action. With his forces prepared, he led them toward the castle, cutting off the enemy before they could gather in full force.

With both Verdis and Veralt under his control and the steady recruitment that had been ongoing for weeks, his army had swelled to over two thousand and five hundred men. A staggering number. Many of them were fresh recruits, but they hadn’t been thrown into battle unprepared. Those who had volunteered had undergone rigorous training, whipped into shape by his Knights. They might not yet be seasoned veterans, but they were no longer the untrained civilians they had once been.

Now, it was time to put them to the test.

Kai didn’t know what to think as he led his forces toward the castle of House Dorn. The reality of war was never far from his mind—there would be deaths. It was unavoidable. He had already borne that weight in past battles, and had felt the crushing responsibility each time men under his command fell. Yet, no matter how much he steeled himself, it was never easy.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the task ahead. The open fields stretched endlessly before him. Behind him, his men were following in disciplined formation.

It wasn’t extremely far away, just a little to the East from Veridis.

And as they rode, the silhouette of the castle finally emerged in the distance, a dark mass against the horizon. With a flick of his wrist, Kai cast a simple signal spell— a small firecracker-like explosion that burst in the air with a crackle of red sparks. At once, the marching force behind him came to a halt, their training evident in the way they stopped without disorder or confusion.

Kai glanced back, pleased with how well Killian had drilled them. Then, shifting his gaze forward, he took in the fortress that loomed ahead.

Castle Dorn was nothing like Veralt. It was massive, far larger and more imposing, its walls thick and weathered by years of conflict. This castle had undergone several major battles according to history, but all were under different rules. It was still a sight to see.

Towering stone bastions stood at its corners. The outer walls were reinforced with layers of black stone, basically designed to withstand sieges. Arrow slits lined its upper sections, giving defenders the perfect vantage point to rain death upon invaders. Behind the battlements, he could make out the edges of high towers, their spires reaching toward the sky. The entrance was sealed shut with a heavy iron gate, thick enough to hold against a battering ram for hours.

This was not a castle built to fall easily.

As Kai studied it, a figure moved toward him from the ranks. Killian moved on his horse beside him. The knight’s sharp eyes were locked on the fortress ahead.

“When should we march?” Killian asked.

Kai exhaled slowly before replying, “In a couple of hours. According to tradition, we must offer them a chance to surrender first.” He smirked slightly. “Though, I doubt they will.”

Killian made a sound of disapproval. “I don’t like it. Giving the enemy time to prepare is foolish.”

Kai turned to him, an amused glint in his eyes. “You don’t like traditions? That’s new, coming from such an uptight Knight.”

Killian shook his head. “There’s no tradition in war. Every second we give them is a second they’ll use to fortify their defenses. And we both know they won’t surrender.”

“That’s true,” Kai admitted, his smirk fading. His gaze returned to the castle, calculating. “But it won’t change the outcome. No matter what, we will win.”

Before Killian could respond, a gruff voice cut through the conversation.

“The lad is right. There isn’t a way those pesky humans can d’feat us.”

Kai turned toward the speaker, his brow raising slightly. Striding toward them with short but confident steps was a stout figure barely reaching his waist. Despite his small stature, the presence he exuded was anything but diminutive. A thick, unruly beard covered most of his face, streaked with gray and tangled in places. Deep-set eyes, sharp and shrewd, peered out from beneath bushy brows. His skin was weathered. And he wore sturdy armor reinforced with engravings. Needless to say, he carried himself with the air of someone who had lived long years.

Kai met his gaze with a knowing look. “Tharnok,” he said. “You do realize our forces are human too, don’t you?”

Kai watched as the dwarf stroked his beard, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Aye, but you’re fightin’ with weapons that I had a hand in craftin’,” Tharnok said with a proud grin. “They’ve got the dwarven touch in ’em—superior to any human weapons.”

Kai chuckled but didn’t argue the point. He had already met the dwarf when he returned to Veralt, a master smith who had been teaching Balen. The old craftsman had been more than enthusiastic about weapon designs, bombarding Kai with questions the moment they met.

In exchange for the answers, he had eagerly thrown himself into helping with the production of lightwood armor and other weapons. His fascination hadn’t stopped there—he had even tinkered with improving their golem designs. Now, he followed them into war, accompanied by a group of apprentice blacksmiths ready for on-the-spot repairs and reinforcements.

Kai let out a breath, shaking his head in amusement. “Let’s hope your weapons truly are superior,” he said. “Because in a few hours, we’ll be using them against those walls.”

The dwarf smirked. “Aye, lad. It’ll be a great demonstration. By mornin’, that castle will be ours.” He then turned to Kai with a hopeful expression. “And then you’ll have time to answer more of my questions. I still can’t wrap my head around how you think of such fancy designs. But I guess humans have their smart men too.”

Kai ignored that last part, suppressing the familiar pang of guilt. He wasn’t some brilliant innovator—just a plagiarist, borrowing knowledge from another era. The thought weighed on him for a moment, but he pushed it aside, shaking his head.

“Everything else can wait,” he said, turning to both Killian and the dwarf. “First things first—we need to conquer a castle.”

***

Viscount Buck felt his hair rise and his chest tighten as the scout’s words rang in his ears.

“A large army, my lord. Moving straight toward the castle. Their banners bear the sigil of Count Arzan.”

Buck clenched his fists beneath the folds of his robes. He had known this was coming—had braced himself for it ever since the news of Idrin’s capture. But still, it felt too soon. He had hoped, even prayed, that the infamous Count would remain cooped up in Veralt, delaying his march until their own forces were fully assembled. Yet, deep down, Buck had known that was nothing but wishful thinking.

Arzan Kellius was a man of action. His past feats proved that much.

Taking a slow breath, Buck forced himself to remain composed as he ascended the castle walls.

When he reached the top, the sight below made his throat run dry.

The scouts hadn’t exaggerated. Their army was sprawled across the open grass fields, moving with unnerving discipline, banners fluttering in the wind. The sheer sight of them sent a dull throbbing through Buck’s skull. He had been in his share of conflicts before, old enough to have seen and heard about battles and disputes over the land, but none of them compared to this.

And worst of all, this wasn’t even his war.

He wanted no part in this madness. And even considering the dark rumours that surrounded him, Buck had little desire to clash forces with such a man.

But he had no choice.

For centuries, House Dorn had been subservient to the Kellius line, bound by blood and fealty. Betrayal was not an option, not if he wished to keep his head. So when the Count’s forces inevitably sent a man forward, offering terms of surrender, Buck did the only thing he could.

He stalled.

Hours passed as he gathered his men—Knights, warriors, battle-hardened veterans. The Mages reinforced their formations, readying spells and enchantments, while archers prepared for the first volley. The castle had been on alert since the fief war began, but now, with the enemy at their doorstep, every muscle in Buck’s body tensed.

Yet, as he stood on top of the walls, overlooking the battlefield, his confidence didn’t come from his forces.

It came from the walls themselves.

Towering structures of black stone, they had been transported from the depths of the caves of Xaldris generations ago—an underground labyrinth of minerals and enchantment-laced rock. Not even magic could breach these fortifications.

Numbers might be on Arzan’s side. His forces might be better trained, better equipped.

But no army had ever broken through the black walls of Dorn Castle.

And Buck intended to make sure that remained true.

He gripped the cold stone of the battlements as a sharp gust of wind swept across the field. His hair fluttered behind him, his unease hidden beneath a hardened gaze. Below, the enemy camp stirred with movement, a disciplined shift in their ranks that made his throat tighten.

“My lord,” one of his knights called out, voice taut with unease. “There seems to be some metal contraptions among their forces.”

Buck narrowed his eyes, scanning the battlefield. At first, he saw nothing unusual. Then, gleaming in the afternoon light, he spotted them—small metallic machines, hovering just slightly above the earth as they advanced.

His brow furrowed.

These were not golems. They were too small, too frail-looking to be war constructs. Unlike the hulking, enchanted automatons of destruction, these contraptions seemed almost delicate, moving with an unnatural smoothness.

They’re no different from carts with floating enchantments, Buck thought. A few well-placed arrows or spells should shatter them.

“Archers!” he commanded, raising his voice over the wind. “Loose upon them! Mages, burn them to cinders!”

The air filled with the hum of spells and the hiss of arrows as volleys rained down upon the advancing machines, initiating an attack. Yet, to Buck’s growing concern, the projectiles bounced harmlessly off their surfaces. Spells that should have melted steel fizzled against an unseen barrier, and arrows snapped uselessly upon impact.

His fists clenched. These things were sturdier than they appeared. But even then—what could they do? They were small, lacked visible weaponry, and had no soldiers escorting them.

“Stay your fire,” he ordered after a moment. “They are not golems of war. They can do little—”

His words died in his throat.

The machines reached the foot of the wall. A split second later, their metallic bodies pulsed like a yellow heartbeat. Once, twice—

Then, the world shattered.

His ears rang and the force rattled Buck’s bones. Soon, the castle’s lower walls were engulfed in blinding light, and when the smoke cleared, horror gripped him.

A section of the black stone fortifications—the very walls that had stood unbroken for centuries—had crumbled.

His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at the destruction, dust still settling.

***

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