"Leave the kingdom before sunrise, or I'll kill you myself."
Those were the first words Rya's mother had spoken to her in years.
No greeting. No farewell. Just a cold, merciless sentence that cut deeper than any blade ever could.
It wasn't as if Rya had been waiting for a loving reunion. No, that time had long passed. There was nothing left to say between a mother who hated her daughter, and a daughter who had learned to hate in return. Whatever love might've existed between them had withered away years ago, buried under silence and scorn.
Now, Rya ran through the shadowy woods with nothing but the night to keep her company. Her boots thudded against the damp forest floor, the leaves crunching beneath her feet. Branches whipped against her face as she pushed forward, not stopping to rest, not daring to look back. Her breaths came out ragged, mixing with the misty air. Every gasp felt like it was scraping her throat raw.
She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to keep moving. Far away from her mother's wrath. Far away from the soldiers she was sure had already been sent to track her down. The queen never gave empty threats. If she said she would kill Rya, she meant it.
The trees soon began to thin, the dark forest slowly opening up into a clearing ahead. Moonlight poured in through the cracks in the canopy, casting silver patterns across the grass. It looked peaceful—almost beautiful—but the silence was broken by faint clinking sounds in the distance ahead. Metal brushing metal.
She was being followed.
Of course she was.
Rya didn't panic. She'd already accepted her fate. If her mother truly wanted her dead, then maybe death was better than whatever life she'd been living inside those castle walls.
But then there was Michael.
Her childhood friend. Her only friend.
He refused to let her die. He stood between her and her mother's guards, buying her time with everything he had. Rya hadn't even been able to say goodbye. She could still hear him yelling for her to run, pushing her out the back gate as chaos erupted behind them.
He gave up everything for her—his home, his place in the kingdom… maybe even his life.
And because of that, she couldn't give up. Not yet.
She clenched her fists, eyes burning as she forced her legs to move faster.
The forest finally gave way to a wide, open field. Rya didn't hesitate—she ran straight into it, her heart pounding and her lungs burning with every breath.
The moment her feet hit the soft grass, she froze.
"What in the world...?"
Her voice came out in a whisper, barely carried by the wind.
Before her, the open field was a battleground.
A man dressed in a flowing black uniform moved like a shadow across the blood-soaked grass. His cloak billowed behind him like dark wings as he sprinted toward a wave of soldiers wearing brown and silver armor. What struck her the most was how exposed he was—he wore no helmet, no chest plate, no armor at all. Just fabric and confidence.
He was... breathtaking.
His long, raven-black hair fell in smooth waves all the way down to his waist, catching the wind as he moved. His skin was pale—almost ghostly pale—like porcelain that would crack under the slightest pressure. There was something haunting about his beauty, something unnatural and eerie.
The first of the brown-armored soldiers charged in, yelling in rage.
"Argh! Draven, you bastard!"
A few more followed behind him, their weapons raised high—axes, spears, hammers, and curved blades gleaming in the moonlight. They looked strong, armored from head to toe in heavy gear, each step they took thudding against the earth.
But it didn't matter.
Bodies in brown and silver already lay scattered across the battlefield, their armor torn, weapons broken, and lifeless eyes staring at the night sky. Blood soaked the ground, mixing with the dirt and turning the grass into a dark, muddy mess.
The red soldiers stood their ground, holding nothing more than a sword in one hand and a round shield in the other. Compared to the enemy, they seemed underdressed, underarmed—vulnerable. But they moved with purpose, reacting quickly and striking with deadly precision.
And then there was the man in black.
He held only a sword—long, slim, and glowing faintly under the moon. No shield. No armor. Just that blade and his strange presence.
Rya couldn't take her eyes off him.
There was no doubt in her mind.
This was not a battle.
It was a massacre.
And the man in black was its conductor.
The battlefield was chaos—dirt flying, metal clashing, and screams echoing through the air. Soldiers dressed in red were locked in brutal combat with enemies clad in brown. Amid the storm of blades, the man in black moved, calm and deadly.
One of the brown-cloaked soldiers charged with a roar, swinging a heavy axe from the right, trying to cleave the man in black in two.
But the man in black didn't flinch. In a fluid motion, he tossed his longsword into his left hand and spun with perfect timing. Steel met steel. The deflection was so powerful that the soldier in brown staggered backward, his footing lost.
Before he could recover, the black-clad warrior thrust his longsword straight through the soldier's chest. The blade punched through his heart and jutted out from his back. The soldier coughed, blood spilling from his mouth as his eyes widened in shock.
"Damn... you..." he groaned weakly, then collapsed on his side. His body went still.
From behind him, another brown-cloaked soldier shouted, panic rising in his voice. "Everyone, go in at once! Even he can't come out of this unharmed!"
As if summoned by those words, a young man in red stepped forward, his black cloak fluttering behind him like wings of flame. His eyes burned with focus as he approached the man in black, nodding once with respect.
"Your Majesty," he said firmly, "I'll take the left."
The two of them moved together with deadly grace. They cut through the remaining enemies like blades through paper. The brown-clad soldiers didn't stand a chance.
One of them, a massive man with wild eyes, leapt into the air, screaming as he swung a butcher's sword down with all his might, aiming to take the head of the red-cloaked warrior beside the man in black.
But the man in red was faster.
He sidestepped once. Twice. Then in a blink, he swung his sword upward. The blade flashed like lightning—and the attacker's head flew clean off his shoulders, spinning through the air before thudding onto the ground with a sickening thump.
Blood sprayed like a fountain as his body collapsed. The red-cloaked warrior didn't even blink. His sword gleamed in the dusty light, untouched by the gore.
More enemies rushed at them in desperation, but it was already too late. The man in black danced between them like a phantom, parrying, striking, spinning—every move smooth, precise, and ruthless. Each swing of his blade took down another foe. Each step brought him closer to victory.
Only about fifty soldiers remained from the enemy's side. Their eyes darted in every direction, filled with fear and desperation. The ground around them was soaked in blood, littered with fallen weapons and lifeless bodies. The air stank of sweat, metal, and death.
"Damn it—retreat! Run!" one of the men shouted, his voice cracking with panic. He looked to be their leader, his armor slightly more polished, his cape torn and stained. Without another word, he turned and bolted, pushing past his own men in a frantic dash for survival.
The man in black stood tall amid the chaos, unfazed. His dark cloak flapped gently in the wind as he turned to the red-cloaked warrior beside him. His voice was calm, cold, and sharp as a blade.
"Harion," he said quietly, though his words carried weight, "if even one of them escapes... you might as well run with them."
Harion stiffened. A chill ran down his spine. He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze.
"Yes, Lord Draven," he replied quickly.
Without wasting a second, Harion spun on his heel and roared at the soldiers in waiting at the rear.
"After them! Don't let a single one get away!"
At once, the red-armored soldiers surged forward like a crimson wave. Their swords gleamed under the sky, their boots thundered across the ground as they chased down the fleeing survivors.
Screams of terror rose from the enemies as one by one, they were struck down—cut through by blades, or slammed into the dirt with the merciless force of a shield. Some tried to beg. Others tried to hide. But none escaped.
Harion himself led the charge, his blade singing as it carved through fleeing backs and swinging arms. Dust rose around him, blood splashed across his cloak, but he didn't slow down.
Behind them, Lord Draven stood silent, his eyes cold and distant. His presence alone seemed to crush the battlefield.
And just like that, the brown-cloaked army was no more.
The battlefield had finally gone quiet. The cries of battle had faded, leaving only the sound of crackling flames and the soft whistle of the wind sweeping across the blood-stained ground.
The red-armored soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices filled with relief and pride. Some raised their swords to the sky, shouting in victory. Others clapped each other on the back or embraced, laughing and panting as the tension in their bodies faded. The battle was over—at least, they thought so.
Harion-his sword now hanging at his side-approached Lord Draven. His boots crunched over the dried leaves and splattered blood. He stopped a few feet from him and wiped the sweat from his brow, then spoke with a tired but satisfied smile.
"We've taken care of all of them," Harion said, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted off his chest.
But Draven didn't move. His dark eyes stared into the distance, and then he spoke in a quiet, firm voice.
"No."
Just that one word froze the air.
The soldiers stopped celebrating instantly. Their smiles faded. Confused glances passed between them. The sounds of joy were swallowed by sudden silence, as if the battlefield itself dared not make a sound.
"But... we killed them all," one soldier muttered.
"There's no one left," another added, scanning the area. All they saw were corpses, broken weapons, and the fading smoke of war.
Harion furrowed his brows and looked at Draven. "What do you mean, Lord Draven?" he asked, uncertain.
Draven's expression didn't change. Slowly, he turned his head—and in one sharp, smooth motion, his gaze snapped toward the trees.
"There's still one left," he said, his voice calm but heavy with intent.
Harion followed his line of sight. So did several of the red soldiers.
Rya's heart dropped like a stone thrown into the depths of a lake.
She had been hiding behind one of the tall trees at the edge of the battlefield, pressed tight against the trunk, barely daring to breathe. The blood, the screams, the slaughter—she had watched it all unfold in silence. Frozen.
Now, Draven's eyes were locked on her.
The shadows no longer protected her.