The battlefield was no longer a battlefield.
It was a graveyard of faith.
Where once the Holy Order had marched with hymns on their lips, the night now carried only the sounds of agony—the howls of men broken not by weapons, but by a realization far deeper. The once-proud encampment, brimming with sacred relics and banners aloft under the glory of the divine, was now a canvas of flame, blood, and ash. The crimson moon hovered like a sickle in the sky, casting shadows that stretched and twisted over the charred ground, mocking the holy light they had once served.
The wind was thick with the stench of charred flesh, its tang suffocating every breath. The once-pure golden tents of the Holy Order were now nothing more than twisted, blackened husks, collapsed into the earth like the hollow promises they represented. What had been a kingdom of piety was now a kingdom of despair.
The air was suffused with an unnatural silence, broken only by the distant crackling of fire and the dying gasps of the men who had once been devout. It was not the sound of battle; it was the sound of finality. The screams, once defiant, had morphed into something more primal—something more desperate. The cries of soldiers, the noble defenders of their faith, now rang out in terror as shadows descended upon them, like wolves to a flock of sheep.
No longer were there prayers to be heard—only wails of regret, horror, and helplessness.
The light of divine justice, which had burned so brightly in their hearts, had been snuffed out in an instant. The holy warriors who had once stood tall and unwavering now ran like frightened animals. The clang of their swords against shadows that bled not a drop of red told the story of their impotence. Some fought back, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, but most fell to their knees, begging for mercy that would never come. In the darkened void, no one answered. Not gods. Not men. Not angels.
Lucian staggered through the slaughter, his once-pristine armor now a cracked ruin, stained with the blood of his own men. His golden cape—once a symbol of purity and victory—dragged behind him like a funeral shroud. His eyes, once alight with the conviction of righteousness, now burned with fear. He could see the death of his comrades, hear the agony of their final breaths, feel the weight of a world that no longer recognized his holy cause.
His sword, still slick with the blood of his enemies, now felt heavier than the world itself. He moved, but his steps were uncertain, as if the earth beneath him was shifting. The firelight cast grotesque shadows around him, distorting his form into a grotesque mockery of the hero he had once believed himself to be. His chest heaved with panicked breaths, his mind racing for answers, for salvation, for a way to undo the madness that had descended upon his army.
The night, once filled with triumph, was now an unholy carnival of carnage.
"This isn't war," Lucian muttered, his voice trembling with the weight of disbelief. "This… this is damnation."
The words echoed in the emptiness, their meaning settling over him like a cloak of despair. His victory—his conquest—had been nothing more than a false illusion. And now, in the wake of his shattered dream, he was surrounded by nothing but darkness.
And then, he felt it.
A pressure.
It was subtle at first, like a whisper in the air. But then, the weight of it became undeniable. The very air around him grew thick and oppressive, like a thousand eyes were upon him. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced—a crushing force that made him feel small, insignificant, and exposed. It was as if the world itself had turned its gaze upon him and judged him unworthy.
It wasn't divine.
It wasn't magical.
It was something worse.
It was inevitable.
Lucian's breath caught in his throat as he turned, instinctively, as if the very force of his own fear compelled him to look. His hand twitched around his sword's hilt, but it was not enough to steady him. He could feel his body betraying him, his limbs stiff with the weight of impending doom.
And there, at the top of a mound of bodies—atop the very mountain of his failure—stood Kael.
Framed by the flickering flames and the smoke that billowed around him, Kael appeared more than mortal—he was a presence. His black coat billowed in the night wind, its silver threading catching the light in eerie, hypnotic patterns. There was no blood on him. No sign that he had been part of the carnage. He was untouched. Untarnished.
Untouchable.
His red eyes, glowing like embers, pierced through the darkness like a beacon of cruelty. Kael stood there, unhurried, watching with a stillness that sent a ripple of dread through Lucian's spine. His face was unreadable, but there was something about the way he looked at Lucian—something cold, calculating, and distant—that made the world seem even darker.
Lucian's heart raced, but his legs refused to move. His body was frozen, his sword trembling in his hand. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at the man who had been nothing more than a phantom in his life—an idea, a shadow in the corners of his mind. And now, in the flesh, he was the thing that Lucian had feared most.
Kael descended from the mound with deliberate steps, each one measured, as if he were savoring every moment. The shadows seemed to bend around him, obeying his will. The firelight flickered, casting an eerie glow on his face, but Kael remained untouched by the chaos around him. He was like a god among men, his very presence warping the battlefield itself.
Lucian tried to speak, tried to summon the strength to stand, to fight—but his body betrayed him. His voice cracked when he finally spoke.
"You think this is over?" Lucian spat, his words laced with broken defiance. He gripped his sword tighter, but it felt heavier with every passing moment. "So long as I stand—"
Kael was gone.
Lucian's breath caught in his throat. His senses screamed for him to react, to move, but it was too late.
Before he could even blink, Kael was there, a shadow, a wraith. His cold blade kissed Lucian's neck, the chill of it seeping through his skin, stealing the breath from his lungs. He hadn't seen him move. Couldn't even feel the wind from his movement.
It was as if Kael had never been anywhere else but the very air around him.
"You're trembling."
Kael's voice was a whisper, a dangerous intimacy that sent shivers down Lucian's spine. It was mocking. Cruel. Uncompromising.
Lucian's eyes widened in terror as he felt the edge of Kael's blade bite closer to his skin. He wanted to speak, wanted to call out to gods or men—but his voice failed him. His throat was dry. His body refused to move.
He felt the ground beneath him collapse, the weight of failure dragging him into the dirt. His knees buckled, and the sword slipped from his fingers with a hollow clang. It was as if his body could no longer hold the weight of what had happened, what he had allowed to happen.
Lucian collapsed, his forehead pressed into the dirt, his body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. He could feel the weight of his own failure crushing him. The world had been stolen from him. His purpose. His faith. His very soul.
Kael stood above him, his presence cold and indifferent.
"Do you regret it?" Kael asked, his voice low, almost too soft for the moment.
Lucian's head remained down, his body too weak to lift, too broken to answer. Regret. Could it even mean anything now? The answer was as empty as the prayers he had once held so tightly.
Kael's gaze bored into him, the silence stretching between them like a chasm.
"Do you regret standing against me? Against truth? Against power you never understood?"
Lucian's body trembled, but he could not speak. His mind was in turmoil—his very essence unraveling before him. The once-mighty knight had fallen to nothing but a craven shadow of his former self. He was no longer a hero. He was a man who had been consumed by a lie.
Kael turned, and the weight of his gaze left Lucian's soul in tatters.
"You never stood a chance."
And with that, Kael walked away, unhurried, untouched, and unchallenged.
Lucian remained on the ground, his body broken, his spirit shattered. His hands dug into the earth, as if trying to claw his way back to some semblance of the man he had once been. But it was too late.
The Holy Order had not been defeated.
It had been erased.
Kael had not taken their lives.
He had taken their purpose.
To be continued…