The embers still floated in the air—lazy, weightless remnants of violence. They drifted between two figures at the heart of the shattered town, casting flickers of light that danced across the scorched cobblestone.
Doran, the HellFire Knight, stood unmoving. His sword rested beneath the officer's chin, the cold edge of the blade pressing just enough to draw a thread of red.
His crimson eyes burned—not with rage, but with something quieter.
He spoke low, each word deliberate. "Help me. And maybe I'll tell you."
The officer didn't move. His back was braced against the remnants of a broken wall, breath shallow, legs bent awkwardly beneath him. A bead of sweat slid past his temple.
"Fructum Vill—" he began.
Then stopped.
His eyes widened, realization flashing behind them like lightning.
"You mean the Golden Village… don't you?"
Doran didn't answer. He didn't need to. The embers responded for him, flaring slightly, pulsing with the tension between them.
Then—silently—he pushed the blade forward. Just a hair's breadth. Just enough.
A single drop of blood welled up and rolled down the officer's neck.
"I gave you the name," Doran said, voice flat. "The least you can do is use it."
The officer leaned back instinctively, trying to put space between himself and the steel. But he didn't reach for his weapon. Didn't make a move. Just locked eyes with Doran—steady, but uneasy.
"Didn't mean to offend," he said. "You must've… known someone there?"
His voice held steady, but his eyes told the truth. He was walking a knife's edge. And he knew it.
Doran held his gaze for a breath longer, then stepped back. The blade dropped away from the officer's throat.
The officer exhaled.
Doran turned away and reached for the sheath across his back. The sword slid home with a soft shhhrrk—and as it did, the last ember drifted past his shoulder and vanished into the dark.
"I'm sorry," the officer murmured, fingertips brushing the shallow wound on his neck. "Truly. But I don't know much about it. Always figured it was… divine intervention."
Doran paused, halfway through securing the blade.
"You're on the right path," he said quietly. "But I don't believe in gods."
He turned slightly—just enough to cast a cold glance back over his shoulder.
"Now get up. You're coming with me."
The officer blinked. "What?"
But Doran was already walking, his figure dissolving into the lingering smoke and fading heat. The embers had all but died now. Only ash remained.
"Why the hell should I follow—" the officer started, groaning as he pushed himself upright.
Doran stopped.
He glanced back over his shoulder, one eye gleaming like a living ember beneath the weight of his dreadlocks. A faint, unsettling smile touched the corner of his mouth—there and gone, like a flicker in a flame.
The officer winced, brushing soot and blood from his arms. His body ached. His back cracked. But something new had settled in his eyes.
Not just pain.
Respect.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming," he muttered. "Just give me a damn second…"
He looked down at the cracked street, then to the broken wall behind him. His beret lay in the ash, half-buried.
He didn't bother picking it up.
"Not as young as I used to be."
And with that, he followed Doran into the night.
They walked through the ash-covered street in silence.
Doran led, his pace steady, deliberate. His silhouette moved like a cut of shadow through the low glow of dying firelight, framed by the drifting embers that still curled through the air.
Behind him, the officer followed—rigid, cautious. Every step landed with the weight of hesitation. His eyes never left the back of the man who had nearly killed him.
I should've run. Or died with the others.
But instead… I followed.
What does that make me?
The shattered town faded behind them, swallowed slowly by the darkness. Ash fell like snow, slow and silent, catching in the faint light from the still-smoldering wreckage in the distance.
For a long while, there was nothing but the crunch of boots and the whisper of ash.
Then—quietly, without turning—Doran spoke.
"I expected more from you, Kellon DaLai."
The officer froze mid-step.
"…How do you—?"
"Know your name?" Doran's voice had a hint of something wry—too restrained to be amusement. "You think the Practum Kingdom's movements go unnoticed?"
He kept walking as he spoke.
"You served under Commander Elthis for six years. Promoted early after his death—though mostly because the rest of your squadron retired. That left you the youngest officer in over two decades."
Kellon's breath caught in his throat.
"How long have you been watching me?"
Doran turned his head slightly, just enough for one crimson eye to catch the officer in its edge.
"Who said I've been watching?"
His voice was low. Measured.
"Why would I waste time sitting and waiting?"
Kellon didn't answer. He just kept moving, slower now—like walking behind a blade that hadn't decided where to fall.
They rounded the collapsed frame of a half-burned building. Doran's boots crunched softly over broken glass.
"We're almost there," he said.
Kellon followed, gaze flicking warily to the shadows. The air was quieter here. Still.
As he turned the corner, his eyes caught on a small vessel nestled in the alcove between ruined stone and charred timber. A sloop—modest in size, but solid. The hull bore scars: cracked planks reinforced with riveted metal, streaks of old scorch marks faded but not quite erased. Yet the sails above were fresh. Clean. Recently replaced.
Stolen, Kellon guessed. Or bought with something better than coin.
They approached the ship in silence, the crunch of ash beneath their feet muffled by the closeness of the ruins.
Doran paused at the base of the hull.
"Wait here a moment," he said.
Then, with a fluid motion, he stepped onto the ship's deck and disappeared down a narrow stairwell, vanishing into its shadowed hold.
Left alone, Kellon looked up toward the sky.
The moon had vanished behind a thin veil of clouds, its glow diffused into a pale haze that settled over the ruins like breath on glass. Soft silver light spilled over his face, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes.
If he wanted me dead, he would've done it already.
A beat of stillness.
Unless he's the kind that enjoys watching people squirm.
The thought curled cold beneath his skin. A chill crept down his spine. He shivered, jaw tightening, and clenched his fists as if the pressure alone could drive the unease away.
The silence stretched on.
Ash drifted through the air in slow spirals. Somewhere in the ruins, charred wood shifted with a groan, the last whispers of collapse.
Then—soft footfalls. Measured. Unhurried.
Wood creaked above as Doran reappeared on deck.
But his eyes weren't on Kellon.
He held two worn photographs in one gloved hand, his gaze fixed on them—unmoving, unreadable.
He studied them the way one might study an old scar. Something distant.
Something fragile.
Something lost.
Doran dropped down from the ship, landing soundlessly just in front of Kellon.
The officer flinched—not from fear, but reflex. His eyes flicked downward, drawn to the photographs in Doran's hand.
Without a word, Doran held them out.
The first image: Doran and another young man—Benji. The two stood awkwardly shoulder to shoulder, arms slung around each other with the kind of closeness that didn't need explanation. The background was a sunlit field, wild and open. Gone now.
The second: a candid moment caught mid-laughter. Doran. Benji. Mira. Their expressions unguarded, their joy effortless. None of them looking at the camera. None of them aware it was being taken.
A slice of memory, untouched by grief. Pure.
Frozen in time.
"These two are missing," Doran said, voice softer now—toned down, edged with something quieter. "They both lived in Fructum. One survived the event that took place that day."
He paused.
His eyes stayed on the photo, but something flickered behind them. A hesitation. A weight. Like the memory had suddenly shifted in his grip—become too heavy to hold cleanly.
"…The other was turned into the golden state with the rest."
Kellon stared at the images.
His mind reeled—flashes of the golden villagers, frozen mid-motion like twisted statues. That prismatic mist. The bloom of unnatural death that had taken Commander Elthis right in front of him.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of memory tightening his jaw.
"Look… I'm sorry you went through that. I can't imagine how tragic it must've been. But I can't say I've seen either of them before."
Doran didn't answer.
Instead, he reached forward—smooth, sudden—and plucked the photograph of the trio from Kellon's hand. Not rough, but not gentle either. His grip was firm, almost possessive. Protective. Like the image itself was something sacred. Something that needed shielding from the world.
"These were taken more than five years ago," he muttered, not quite meeting Kellon's gaze. His voice had dropped even lower—an edge of weariness, maybe even guilt, buried beneath it. "It's probably hard to recognize him when he looked like that."
Kellon blinked.
His brow furrowed.
He looked down at the remaining photo—the one still resting in his hand.
Just Doran and another boy—Benji.
Both smiling at the camera.
Shoulder to shoulder. Carefree. Young.
Kellon stared.
He didn't know what he was searching for.
Only that something inside him urged him to keep looking.
Deeper.
His eyes traced the shape of Benji's jawline. The slight slouch in his shoulders. His nose. The shape of his eyes.
But it was the smile that stopped him cold.
Soft. Relaxed.
But underneath it… something else.
A flicker of restraint. The barest shadow of something unspoken—something buried.
Something familiar.
Kellon's stomach turned.
His eyes widened.
His breath hitched.
"…No," he whispered.
Then—
Flashes.
They didn't come like memories.
They came like attacks.
A battlefield.
But not this one.
Not ash and golden corpses.
This one was darker.
Wrong.
Soldiers shouting. Orders shattering.
Boots hammering against wet stone as panic erupted through the ranks.
Flashlights flickered, casting fractured beams.
Armor clanked.
Steel was drawn.
It didn't matter.
Men were yanked into the dark—
Not pulled.
Dragged.
Dragged backward into something that wasn't part of the world.
A blackness so complete, it didn't just swallow light—
It devoured sound.
Someone shouted behind him.
Then—
A scream.
Then—
Snap.
Tear.
Squelch.
And then—
The shadow spat something out.
Two halves of a man.
Not metaphor.
Not memory twisted by fear.
Two halves.
The left side of a soldier's body hit the ground in front of Kellon with a wet, boneless thud.
It flopped grotesquely—ribs exposed, muscle flayed.
It shouldn't have been alive.
But it twitched.
A pool of blood spread outward—dark, oily, glistening like it remembered light but no longer belonged to it.
Kellon couldn't breathe.
Then—
The eye.
That one remaining eye.
Wide.
Glass-like.
Aware.
It stared directly at him.
Unblinking.
Accusing.
Alive.
Kellon staggered backward as if struck.
The image—the memory—was burned behind his eyes, etched into the backs of his lids like fire on parchment.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles bleached white, joints straining with the effort to hold something in.
His arms trembled. His shoulders shook.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven bursts.
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't look away.
Couldn't escape.
The memory clung like oil. Refused to fade.
That eye—it hadn't just witnessed the battlefield.
It had seen him.
And it still did.
Not as a survivor.
As a failure.
His hand shot to his chest, fingers clutching at his jacket like he could tear the pain out—rip the tremor from beneath his ribs.
But it only got worse.
"It was him…" he gasped. The words barely formed, cracked and hoarse. "I've seen him… before."
His legs buckled. The weight of memory crushed downward, merciless.
He collapsed against the edge of the ship's hull, his hand scraping along the weathered wood to keep himself from falling completely.
His eyes—wide, frantic, haunted—darted down to the photo still in his grip.
And the boy in the image smiled back.
Soft. Innocent.
Unaware.
"Back when—" his voice fractured, "—when everything went to hell. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission…"
He looked up. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His eyes found Doran's.
They were wild. Distant.
Fractured.
"I always thought the devil was made of fire," he whispered. "Like you."
A pause. Breath hitching.
"But I was shown… he's nothing more than the darkest shadow."
His hand trembled as he shoved the photo into Doran's chest—quick, almost desperate to be rid of it.
"Take this back," he muttered, turning his face away.
Eyes shadowed. Voice hollow.
Like someone speaking from inside a place he hadn't returned from.
Doran caught the photo—but before Kellon could fully turn away, his hand snapped out and seized Kellon's wrist.
His grip was precise. Unyielding.
"Why do you think I sought you out?" he asked.
His voice wasn't harsh.
But it was heavy.
Focused. Controlled. Like a blade held perfectly still—waiting to strike.
"You survived," Doran said, eyes narrowing. "I want to know how."
Kellon took a breath.
Deep. Shaky.
His eyes slipped shut, and for a moment, he didn't move.
Like if he so much as shifted, the memories would come flooding back and tear him apart from the inside.
"…That was my first mission as commanding officer," he said quietly. "Hell of a way to make a first impression."
The words were steady. Barely.
Bitterness traced the edges of his voice, dulled by something heavier—exhaustion, maybe. Or guilt.
He opened his eyes again.
They looked different now.
Not just tired.
Burdened.
"Only three of us made it out," he continued. "Three… out of thirty."
He paused.
His gaze dropped to the ash at his feet.
To the faint, drying blood that stained his clothes.
"One of them…" His jaw clenched. "Didn't last. Took his own life a few weeks later. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Said the shadows kept whispering his name."
Kellon swallowed hard.
Once.
Twice.
His eyes flicked back up to Doran—and for a heartbeat, something passed between them.
Not just fear.
Not regret.
Shame.
"We reported it as a failed sweep," he said, voice hushed. "Classified the enemy as unknown. Command didn't ask too many questions."
He gave a short, brittle laugh.
Dry. Hollow.
Doran didn't move.
His grip loosened slightly, but didn't release.
Kellon kept going.
Quieter now.
"The other survivor…" he murmured, "he went silent after the debrief. Never spoke about it again. Never broke ranks. Just… kept his head down. Like none of it happened. Like watching your unit get turned into ribbons was just another day in the field."
He looked up once more.
His eyes were hollow.
Like something had been scooped out and never replaced.
"Me?" A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, twisted and brief. "I tried to forget. Buried it so deep I started to believe maybe I imagined it. That maybe I was the one going insane."
He gestured faintly toward the photo still in Doran's hand.
"But seeing him again…"
A beat.
"That smile…"
His voice trailed off as the last of his composure cracked.
His shoulders slumped, breath unsteady.
"It brought it all back."
Kellon's voice cracked, the words dragging out like they were being torn from his throat.
He shook his head slowly, as if trying to shake the memory loose.
But it clung tighter.
"…I didn't escape that day," he whispered. "Not really."
He stepped back. Just once.
His gaze turned distant, unfocused—drawn into something far from here.
"We were deep in the canyon. Fog was thick—unnatural. Too quiet. Like the whole world was holding its breath."
He paused. Swallowed.
"Then it started. Men screaming. Weapons drawn. But there was nothing to fight. No target. Just… shadows."
His hand ran through his ash-streaked hair. His fingers trembled against his scalp.
"It moved like liquid," he said. "One second it was ahead of us. The next—it was behind. We tried to form a perimeter. Hold our ground. Standard protocol."
His lips twitched into a bitter, humorless curve.
"Standard protocol got them all killed."
Kellon looked down at his hands.
Scarred. Soot-smudged.
Shaking.
"I ran," he said, voice hollow. "Told myself I was buying time. Regrouping. A tactical retreat."
He gave a shallow, broken breath.
"But I ran. And when I tripped—when I fell into one of the trenches—I just… lay there."
A pause stretched, long and brittle.
"I waited for it to come."
Another breath. This one tighter.
"It didn't."
He lifted his eyes. Met Doran's gaze fully for the first time since the story began.
"No reason for it to stop. But it did."
The cold in the air finally touched him. His breath fogged faintly, trembling with the words.
"It didn't chase me. Didn't try to finish the job."
His voice grew smaller—softer—like he was confessing something he hadn't let himself say out loud until now.
"It just… moved on."
He stood motionless, eyes glazed, staring past the present.
"Like it had already gotten what it came for. Like I was never part of the equation to begin with."
His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. There was more behind his eyes. Something teetering on the edge of revelation.
Then—
"…No."
He looked at Doran again. Harder this time.
"That's not right."
His voice didn't grow louder, but it deepened. Hardened. Not with confidence—
With understanding.
The kind that chilled him to the bone.
"It wanted me to live."
Doran's eyes narrowed, sharp with sudden focus.
Kellon nodded—slow, grim—his words gaining weight with every breath.
"I was in its reach. It had time. It knew I was there. But it turned away."
He clenched his fists at his sides.
"Not out of mercy. That wasn't it."
The bitterness in his voice now was venomous—directed at something far away. Or maybe at himself.
"It spared me like a cat spares a wounded mouse. Because it wanted me to run. To remember. To talk."
A short laugh escaped him. Jagged. Empty.
"It wanted us to know what it could do."
His voice dropped lower. Strained. Final.
"I didn't survive that day."
He looked at Doran. Eyes hollow. Mouth tight.
"I was let go."
And then—
Silence.
It stretched between them like a void.
Heavy. Cold.
Doran stood still.
His hand finally released Kellon's wrist.
But he didn't step back.
Instead, he watched the man in front of him like he was seeing something else entirely—something behind his eyes, behind the shaking, behind the shame.
"…So that's all?" Doran asked, voice low. Measured.
"You ran. You hid. And you came out with nothing."
Kellon's brow twitched. "I—"
"Can't lie. I'm disappointed."
Doran's tone cut sharper now, cool and exact.
"Youngest squadron leader in Practum. Handpicked by Commander Elthis himself."
The name struck.
Kellon flinched.
Doran stepped closer—not as a threat, but with weight.
A presence that pressed down like a verdict.
"I read your files. Studied your battle formations. You dismantled an insurgency in Emberline while outnumbered three-to-one. You broke a siege at Marren Ridge with a fractured platoon—using nothing but improvised defenses and weather reports."
His eyes narrowed.
"And yet… when it mattered most—when it truly mattered—you remembered only fear?"
Kellon's throat tightened. He didn't speak.
"I thought you would've found something," Doran went on. "A trace. A pattern. A weakness."
His voice dropped, quieter.
But heavier.
Every word landed like weight added to a scale tipping out of balance.
"Because the thing that tore your squad to pieces… wasn't a monster."
A long, thin pause.
"It was a man."
Kellon blinked.
Something in his chest faltered.
But Doran didn't give him room to respond.
"That shadow—the one that watched you run?" he said.
"The one that tore men apart just to see how you'd react?"
He turned the photo slowly between his fingers.
Benji's smiling face caught the moonlight.
Stilled. Eternal.
"That was him."
Kellon looked away.
Haunted. Hollow. Silent.
Doran didn't press further.
He turned toward the ship, the photograph now tucked safely away—like a relic, or a wound not yet ready to be exposed again.
The night had grown quieter.
The smog began to lift as a cold wind swept through the ruin-stained street, pulling the ash into soft spirals and carrying the last embers into the dark.
Then—
Shouting.
Distant. Urgent.
Echoing from the far side of town, sharp against the hush of ash and wind.
Kellon's head snapped toward the sound.
"I need to get back to the caravan!"
Doran didn't move. Didn't even flinch.
"What was in the caravan?"
Kellon spun on him, incredulous. "You mean to tell me you attacked the caravan just to talk to me?"
Doran blinked. Slow. Unbothered.
Like Kellon had asked whether the sky was blue.
"Yeah," he said. "Couldn't care less about what was inside."
Kellon scoffed—half-laugh, half-snarl of disbelief.
His mouth opened, then closed again, jaw flexing with the pressure of words too tangled to speak.
"Unbelievable…" he muttered, then turned and sprinted, boots striking hard against broken stone, sending soot and ash scattering in his wake.
Doran stood still.
Just for a breath.
Then—
A sound.
Not an explosion.
Not gunfire.
A low pulse.
Deep. Resonant. Felt more than heard.
Like the toll of a bell from far underground.
The air rippled.
The ground shimmered.
Then—
A flash.
Blinding. Violet. Wordless.
Doran's eyes narrowed as the wave passed over him—silent and soft, but wrong.
It wasn't heat.
It wasn't wind.
It was… something else.
Something precise.
Runes.
Sharp. Clean.
Etched into the air for the briefest instant before vanishing again.
He started walking.
By the time he reached the edge of the blast site, the fires had mostly died down.
The caravan lay in ruin—half-split, torn open from both his earlier assault… and something else.
The metal was warped. Twisted unnaturally.
Blackened—not burned, but overwritten.
Kellon knelt in the ash.
His hands were braced against the ground.
Head low. Shoulders shaking.
He was staring into the jagged hole that had been punched through the side of the transport.
Motionless.
Shattered.
Doran said nothing.
But Doran didn't look at Kellon.
Not yet.
His eyes traced the ground instead.
Footprints.
Several sets—light, fast. Tight formation.
Boots worn by professionals.
No blood.
No drag marks.
Whoever they were, they came prepared.
Then—nearby—cracked stone. Faintly glowing. Faintly humming.
The edges were blackened and seared in a spiral pattern, still pulsing with residual energy.
Doran knelt beside it, fingers brushing the fractured surface.
"Teleportation," he murmured. "No noise. No light… until the jump."
Then—
Movement.
Off to the side.
Subtle. Small.
Almost missed.
Doran rose and stepped forward, eyes scanning the rubble.
It wasn't a man.
It was small. Metal.
Shaped vaguely like a child—but wrong.
Too thin.
Too exposed.
Joints articulated like raw wireframe. A wide skull with circular side ports—like makeshift ears—and eyes that were just hollow black lenses.
Empty.
It wore a coat, patch-stitched from old fabrics, frayed at the cuffs. A long, dusty scarf fluttered weakly in the breeze, catching threads of ash as it swayed.
Its revolver arm twitched—once—sparks jumping from the elbow joint.
The thing didn't speak.
Didn't rise.
It just lay there, one trembling hand reaching out toward where the light had vanished moments before. Reaching for something that wasn't coming back.
A small bullet hole marked the side of its skull—precise, clean, but deep.
From within, slow pulses of black coolant leaked down its cheek in thick droplets, pooling beneath its head like blood.
Doran crouched beside it.
Studied the craftsmanship. The damage. The expression it didn't have, but somehow felt.
"…You've got a story," he murmured.