The battlefield exploded into motion the instant the first corrupted mannequins lunged, wielding jagged weapons sculpted from dripping dark paint — twisted spears, serrated cleavers, and malformed blades. Raijin was the first to cleave through the chaos, his massive blood-forged sword smashing downward like a falling star, shattering a dark mannequin into an eruption of blackened shards. He wrenched the blade free, spun low, and carved a brutal crescent through three more, the ground splintering beneath the sheer force of his strikes.
Zaara vaulted off Raijin's broad shoulder mid-swing, her body spinning like a golden cyclone, daggers singing as they spiraled outward, piercing into mannequin joints with exact precision. She began to move gracefully, a literal dance; Her dance was feverish, her dancing swaying arms were controlling the blades through the air as she wasn't even touching them, her golden runes flaring into intricate patterns that made her blades expand mid-air, shattering enemies with surgical brilliance and destruction.
"8 down!" Zaara grinned.
Tojin was a storm of raw, metallic might, his skin gleaming steel as he lunged through attacks with reckless speed. When a dark spear stabbed toward his heart, he parried with a brutal shoulder smash, crushing the mannequin's weapon into bent ruin.
He somersaulted over another, hammering his steel fists down like twin meteors onto its cranium. "I-I'm okay!" he squeaked, dodging a scything paint-blade with a frantic twist and immediately countering with a spinning kick that dented the attacker's torso inward like tin. Aris moved like a ghost behind him, serene and deadly; with a flick of her pale wrist, she branded enemies mid-swing with delicate, deadly flowers of dark crimson that bloomed into explosive bursts of cursed energy, crumbling them where they stood.
Foxxen hurtled into the thickest cluster of enemies, his smoke-forged blade igniting in a thick, roiling crimson haze.
"I can top 8 lousy kills." Foxxen bragged.
Every swing of his massive weapon smeared the air with toxic clouds, devouring the corrupted mannequins' painted bodies. He roared in savage glee, hurling smoke-augmented strikes in devastating, spiraling waves, the poisoned fumes latching onto enemies mid-dodge and corroding their painted forms. "I'm the best!" he barked, battering through a wall of enemies with a brutal series of overhead slashes that made the ground quake underfoot.
"In your dreams!" Lynzelle moved with her own chaos, her hellforged scythe whipping through the battlefield in a brutal, manic rhythm. She cartwheeled through incoming strikes, slashing in frenzied spirals that ripped apart the mannequins like paper dolls.
Her shadows screeched with every swing, spiraling along the weapon's path, severing legs, arms, torsos with howling destruction. She vaulted onto a broken lamppost, rebounding off it like a bullet, and corkscrewed through three enemies in a single feral slash.
"Come on! Bleed more, you ugly dolls!" she laughed maniacally, kicking off an enemy's face mid-spin. "Wait, are you guys actually bleeding? I'm not really paying attention."
'This is amazing…'
And then — they combined. Raijin braced, lifting his blade high, while Zaara's daggers circled him in a glittering golden shield, protecting him from an onslaught of attacks. Foxxen's smoke swirled into the gaps, concealing their next move. Tojin sprinted forward like a missile, his steel frame crashing into enemies like a wrecking ball, catapulting a group of mannequins upward.
In midair, Aris calmly etched explosive flowers onto them with simple, graceful gestures, she just simply moved like a shadow and touched them — and when Foxxen howled and slammed his sword into the ground, a volcanic surge of toxic smoke engulfed the falling mannequins, disintegrating them in a screaming, colorful haze of explosions.
The team weaved between each other like threads through a loom, momentum never breaking, breath never wasted. Parry became strike, dodge became counter, defense became annihilation. Golden rings from Zaara linked into Raijin's blood auras, supercharging his blade.
Foxxen's smoke coiled along Lynzelle's scythe, giving her slashes a blistering, searing edge that bored into enemy bodies with deadly efficiency. Tojin tackled an enemy into the air, spun mid-jump to launch it toward Aris, who with a lazy flick of her wrist, branded it with a single black lotus that erupted it into dust before it hit the ground.
Dark mannequins scrambled, painting the ground with chaotic runes, conjuring malformed weapons in desperation — but it didn't matter. They were overwhelmed, shattered, crushed, eviscerated, by the squad's relentless, godlike brutality. The corrupted village square was left a ruin of scattered dark pigment and broken painted limbs, twitching and dying under the colored skies.
"Haha! They don't stand a chance!" Foxxen laughed.
Aris replied, "Victory was inevitable for them."
"Ah. There you go with your wise shit again."
"Educated."
Suddenly — a blast tore through the arena dome.
Callistra exploded upward into the open sky, spinning and shrieking, blood streaming from countless deep wounds carved into her bare, paint-stained flesh. She floated there, heaving, her blackened veins pulsing, her shadowy magic flaring and sputtering as she clutched her side in agony. Her wild orange hair whipped around her face like burning banners.
She looked down — eyes wide, mind breaking — and screamed so loud it seemed to tear the clouds.
"What is he…?" she gasped, choking on her own breath. "What the fuck is that monster?!"
Below her, Cainan was walking toward her with a calm that was far more terrifying than rage.
"Fight me longer so I can hold off on going back to that dumb banquet."
Blood dripped from his face, slicked across his muscles, but he moved like a titan unfazed by mortal wounds. His chains spiraled around his arms like writhing, living serpents, burning with a savage, red flaming aura that seethed against the ground as he walked. A single chained halo of roaring red light hovered over his head, casting his shadow long and terrible across the broken square.
Chains rattling.
Eyes gleaming.
Ready to end it.
Callistra's body heaved violently, and with a sickening series of ruptures, her insides burst outward in a grotesque spectacle of color and dark magic. From the gaping wounds across her back, wings of pure tainted hues unfurled — rippling veils of blood-orange, rotting violet, sickened gold, and violent blues — stitched together by seething black veins of corruption. They flared wide, leaking oily color into the sky until the heavens above Vesvalis twisted and darkened, a swirling maelstrom of chaotic beauty and ruin. The village square was plunged into unnatural twilight, a fever-dream of shifting hues and whispering dread.
Hovering midair, Callistra raised one trembling, blood-slick hand, and a colossal shield of fused Color and darkness bloomed into existence, a grotesque swirling canvas of splintered emotion. In her other hand, a spear of the same poisoned palette materialized, crackling with wild instability. Her voice, though strained and cracked, rang out clear across the broken square as she proclaimed her truth to the gathering storm.
"I am Callistra of the Thavari'im," she announced, her words carrying the heavy gravity of the ancient tribe's forgotten pride. "We were the last true believers — the ones who knew that beauty was not decoration. It was resurrection. Through perfect art, the dead could be called home." Her burning black eyes swept across them, pleading and furious. "My beloved Velmoras — slain centuries ago by your kings, your cowards — was taken from me. His soul, shattered under cursed stars, lost beyond Hell, beyond life. I do not seek revenge. I seek reunion. I seek a vessel beautiful enough for him to find me again!" Her hands tightened on her weapons, dark magic spilling from her pores like molten despair. "Vesvalis… Vesvalis is the only place able to sustain such a dream. A land layered atop death, where beauty paints over the bones of the fallen! Here, the Great Canvas will be born."
Lynzelle rushed up, exclaiming, "Haha! I'll finish her off!"
But Cainan grabbed her saying, "No no, let her talk more. Keeps us here longer."
Lynzelle was kicking, then she sighed, "Tch. Fine."
Color bled from every ruined structure as she spoke, reality itself peeling away in oily ribbons. "By capturing all living Colors — passion, grief, fury, wonder — I collect the threads of existence itself. Today was never about the banquet. It was about bleeding the emotions, the spirits of this place, binding them into my Canvas."
She gestured toward the sky, where a titanic canvas of glistening dark colors floated, slowly knitting itself together, a terrifying mirror to the world below. "And to complete it… I must take the final Color. Heart Red. The pure life of a soul — willingly or unwillingly given." Her voice cracked into a shriek. "With it, Velmoras' soul will find this new world-body. And he will live again!" Her madness tainted the very air, the landscape shifting underfoot as the banquet square flickered, one heartbeat a broken, light-drenched battlefield, the next, a hollow white void smeared with streaks of throbbing, arterial red. "And that final color….will be all of your heart's blood! Living blood…that will finish it!"
Should she succeed, Vesvalis would be sealed in painted stasis — an eternal, blood-red sunset where no life could die, and no soul could truly live. Painters, travelers, innocents, all would become frozen brushstrokes on her perfect world's surface, their minds and bodies eventually dissolving into static perfection. The land around Vesvalis would ripple and bleed outward, swallowing real Kalazeth into the nightmare — a beautiful death of an entire realm.
And still Callistra raged. "You think I could have done this alone?" she screamed, darkness pulsing around her limbs like coiling serpents. "The witches of Tharnum — ones of the true freedom — gave me this chance! They opened the gate! They gave me the power to defy death's tyranny!" Her eyes gleamed wet with hatred and longing. "How dare the laws of your dead kingdoms bind love and life in chains!"
"Yawn." Zaara covered her mouth as she really let out a groan.
Aris added, "She's explaining so much…when she's about to die."
The Great Canvas loomed overhead, spinning slowly, colors dripping and writhing, and Callistra turned her burning gaze back down to them. "This world I'll create for my beloved.. this painted memory… will become ours." Colors and darkness coiled beautifully around her, shaping wings, shields, and blades from shifting storms of emotion and magic. The sight was breathtaking — dreadful and breathtaking — as if some god of art and sorrow had descended to war.
But across from her, Cainan and the others stood unmoved, utterly calm, utterly unimpressed. Cainan's chains coiled lazily around his fists, a red aura building. Foxxen cracked his knuckles and leaned back lazily. Zaara flipped a coin, her daggers orbiting lazily around her shoulders. Raijin hefted his massive sword onto one shoulder, the humming deepening. Aris tilted her head slightly, blindfold fluttering. Tojin bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, but he was grinning in awe at his companions.
"100 gold says she's dead before she finishes screaming," Zaara said, flashing a gold-streaked grin.
"I'll take that bet," Foxxen snorted, swinging his greatsword in a lazy arc.
"500 gold," Raijin said, his voice a low, hollow rumble, "that her shield breaks in less than ten seconds."
Lynzelle laughed, spinning her scythe once in a manic blur. "You're all being generous. She's already lost."
Zaara playfully punched Lynzelle in the arm, "Thats the spirit."
Aris added, "Cainan's wife is taking after us already. Incredible.."
Cainan's face was flustered red, looking away, and he muttered, "Shh."
Callistra shook with fury, her wings flaring wide, her spear poised to strike. "You act like kings and queens — fat with pride, blind to anything beyond your own power!" she howled. "You are the very sickness that must be purged! You are why law, order, all of it must be shattered to make way for us..!" Her body convulsed as the colorful dark magic surrounding her cracked the air like thunder.
The battlefield was set.
The air screamed with tension.
And they — they were already smiling.
Callistra hurled herself forward, her wings of smeared color slicing through the void-lit sky, her dark magic blooming into impossible shapes—weapons born straight from the fevered edges of her imagination. A jagged scythe of iridescent sorrow spun into existence in her hands as she dove. Foxxen met her head-on, his indigo doublet flaring back as he vaulted upward, greatsword swinging in a violent arc that clashed with her conjured blade.
Sparks and rainbow shrapnel exploded across the field. Foxxen snarled, bracing the impact, before twisting his hips and launching a second, spiraling cleave meant to sever her midair.
Callistra spun backward, somersaulting effortlessly in an almost balletic evasion, then retaliated by crafting a twisting flail of screaming blue and gold and whipping it at him. Raijin stormed in then, crashing through the ground like a living battering ram, blood-forged sword cleaving the flail in half with a single devastating sweep before lurching forward with a smiting overhand slam that made the ground cave in underfoot.
'She's fast…'
Callistra shrieked, vaulting over Raijin's blade, and conjured serrated, glistening twin daggers from the rift of colors above.
As she rained them down in a furious, needle-shower assault, Zaara leapt into the fray, her runes gleaming bright gold, her dance a whirling tempest of precision. "Hey! Don't steal my weapons! Get your own shit!"
She landed lightly atop one of Raijin's armored shoulders, backflipping gracefully as more of Callistra's weapon creations lunged from every direction.
Tojin, a streak of silver, exploded through the chaos, his body still in gleaming steel, fists hammering aside the conjured spears with brutal, echoing cracks. Each step he took cratered the ground as he charged, fists igniting the air with sheer impact force, driving Callistra into a desperate backstep, her shield of colors trembling with each steel-bodied blow.
"That one…he's trouble..." Callistra said to herself. "Steel is an element in this world where most magic attacks don't work on it… but what if I kept hitting it over and over..would it eventually crack…?"
Cainan was just standing there watching, letting the fight carry on with his arms folded.
'Gotta keep the fight lasting longer. Not in a rush to go back.'
Cainan called out to the group, "Oi. Don't kill her so fast."
Zaara responded, "Don't think I can promise that!"
Lynzelle added, "Me neither!"
Tojin replied, "O-Okay Cainan, I'll try not to!"
"You are filth upon a corpse!" Callistra screamed, unleashing a massive, swirling warhammer of molten green sorrow into existence, swinging it with celestial force.
'And that chain boy, I have to stay away from him-!'
Cainan finally moved, getting bored from just standing there. Chains spiraled like a living storm around him, his body a red and black blur as he danced "Shackleheart Descent."
With a grounded, pounding step, a chained crest burned into his chest, and with each crushing strike of his shoulder and fists, Callistra's conjured hammer shuddered and splintered under internal ruptures. Her scream turned ragged as he closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing her wrist with a "Maw of the Bound Flame"—his chains igniting into flaring, writhing force. Her bones cracked under the unseen implosion, and she shrieked, hurling a desperate volley of spears made from liquified despair at point-blank range.
"You will not cage me!" Callistra roared, wings thrashing, conjuring a rotating wall of whirling saw-blades shaped from betrayal itself, throwing them out like meteors.
Lynzelle danced through them, her scythe whistling through the bloody air with insane, feral joy. She weaved through the projectiles, manic laughter spilling from her throat, her blade severing the corrupted constructs with fluid slices. And as she advanced, the battlefield twisted faster, color bleeding into rivers beneath her feet, but she was unstoppable, a hellstorm in motion.
Her scythe howled and carved through Callistra's creations, severing the very emotions they were made of. Behind her, Raijin moved, blood magic thickening around him in brutal pulses, and he hurled his massive sword like a javelin. It slammed into the ground near Callistra, releasing a devastating eruption of blood-forged energy that staggered her.
"You'll never understand love!" Callistra shrieked, weaving two new monstrous sized axes of cracked violet and black guilt, hurling one at Zaara, the other spinning for Tojin.
Zaara pirouetted under the first, catching it on her forearm dagger, flicking it aside with a golden rune-etched twist, while Tojin braced his steel body and let the second axe strike him full-force—only for the weapon to shatter against his immovable form.
Foxxen surged through the opening, swinging his smoke-wreathed greatsword in a brutal upward slash, his blade detonating a wave of toxic smog across the arena. In the thick of it, Cainan danced "Dirge of the Severed Coil," dragging his chains in wide, sweeping spirals around his legs.
Every movement he made carved spirals of collapse through the smoke and color, and when he kicked, the ground itself cracked and shivered toward Callistra in jagged, snaking fractures.
"You cannot stop inevitability!" Callistra raged, creating an enormous glaive of grieving crimson, slashing in wild, sweeping slashes.
Aris stepped calmly into her range, her white gown swirling, and with a delicate movement of her fingers, she branded Callistra's wrists and ankles with luminous poisonous flowers. Every strike Callistra attempted backlashed, her limbs seizing with violent spasms as the curse bloomed deeper under her skin.
"That girl…!"
She stumbled, and in that instant, Lynzelle vaulted off Raijin's thrown blood-forged sword that was in the ground, somersaulting midair, her scythe igniting into a ravenous red and black storm. Cainan's chains lashed upward at the same time, "Crown of Wretched Pulse" detonating through them. The two forces met at once—Lynzelle's scythe carving deep across Callistra's chest in a rending arc, and Cainan's chains exploding into her ribcage with a vicious, synchronized collapse of flesh and bone. Then, Cainan shot up fast above Callistra, spun, and punched down on her stomach.
Callistra screamed—a raw, soul-breaking sound—as blood and dark colors gushed from her body, painting the battlefield in a final, broken masterpiece. Her wings shattered into thousands of color-streaked shards, raining down in a beautiful, ruinous storm, and she was sent bashing to the ground hard, leaving a large crater of destruction.
….
Callistra crawled across the shattered ground, her fingers clawing desperately through the bleeding colors, reaching for something none of the others could see.
Her mouth moved in frantic whispers as she called out, eyes wide and glassy, "My Queen… my Queen, please…" But to the others, there was only air where she pleaded, nothing answering from the bleeding sky.
She turned over with a rasping cough, face twisted in agony, and locked her desperate gaze onto Cainan. "Spare me… please…" she whispered, her voice raw, barely clinging to life. "If this is about revenge…you could join us…! The law of the kingdoms caused us to feel this way! Without law—."
Cainan stared down at her, unblinking, and after a long moment, he spoke coldly, "I won't stop killing witches."
The others watched in grim silence, expecting a reason soaked in vengeance, but Cainan's voice dropped lower, almost as if he was admitting a wound he never wanted to show. "They killed my mother… but this isn't about revenge."
The words rattled Callistra, her face contorting in confusion and anger.
"That was the first time fate screwed me over," Cainan said, his tone cold but distant, like he wasn't even speaking to her anymore. "The Witches of Tharnum… that dumb witch queen, whoever she really is… they're just harbingers. Harbingers of my own fucking unluck and ruin."
His voice sank, nearly inaudible, his eyes shadowed under the stained twilight. "All I ever wanted was to be happy. And it's hard." His fists clenched. "I try… I try to push myself, to venture out, to force a smile. But it never lasts. Fate stole my joy from me when I was just a kid. When I was supposed to be running around without a care in the world. It stole that from me."
Callistra started laughing then—a wild, broken cackle that echoed across the battlefield. She dragged herself to her knees, blood leaking from her mouth, and threw her head back. "You think…haha…you think you can actually kill her?!" she laughed harder, mocking him with every breath. "The Witch Queen is a goddess of darkness. Immortal! Eternal!" She laughed so hard she coughed up blood, still grinning with cracked lips.
But in the middle of her mockery, Callistra's hand flicked toward her side, conjuring a jagged, twisted dagger of glistening despair, aiming straight for Cainan's throat. Without even glancing, Cainan shifted. A blur of motion—his chain-arm lanced out, catching her wrist midair—and in the same breath, he drove his fist straight through Callistra's neck.
Her scream ripped through the world as Cainan yanked the fist free in a vicious, tearing motion. Dark blood sprayed across the painted stones, and Callistra's body convulsed violently. Her form began to dissolve into a shower of black rose petals, drifting away on a dead wind, her broken laughter lingering for just a moment before it was swallowed by silence.
'You want freedom…and I want it too…' Cainan thought.
From the edge of the battlefield, unseen by all but the color-stained air, two small figures watched—a boy and a girl made entirely of shifting, mournful shadow, their gazes empty and ancient. They looked exactly like the shadow boy he saw earlier.
Cainan turned away, his voice dry, "Time to head back I guess. This sucks."
Foxxen sheathed his sword with a smirk. "Right on time for the banquet."
Lynzelle smirked, "Heh. I got more kills than all of you."
IMMEDIATELY, Zaara and Foxxen dashed up to her, getting real close saying, "Huh?! No you didn't!"
"I did! I killed at least 100 mannequins!"
Foxxen scoffed, "There weren't even a hundred to begin with!"
"You're just slow!"
"Tch! No one beats me in anything…"
Zaara chuckled, "I like her. It doesn't take much to get Foxxen riled up."
Foxxen crossed his arms, and looked away, "It's because I'm dangerous…"
Aris, Zaara, Lynzelle, Cainan, and even Raijin said in sync, "No you're not."
"I am!"
As the group moved, Something heavy gnawed at the edge of Cainan's mind. Deep down, he knew this wouldn't be the last time he'd hear of the color magic. This canvas and color magic itself was too broken, too powerful.
As they made their way back, the Painters of Vesvalis gathered, offering their heartfelt thanks to the Bloodhunters. Rumors quickly spread—how the old head of the village, Master Veyric, had been most likely forced by Callistra to bring her in before she murdered him at the final moment.
With heavy hands but determined spirits, the Painters began repairing their home with flowing weaves of color magic, creating a great memorial statue made from living hues, a radiant tribute to Veyric's memory.
One by one, the Bloodhunters rode out, their horses kicking up brilliant dust as they left the village behind. Lynzelle rode beside Cainan at the rear of the group, her presence steady and close, the two trailing in silence through the vivid, war-torn landscape.
…..
The road ahead stretched broken and long, the dark blue sky heavy like a lid over the world. Up ahead, the others rode in a loose cluster, their voices a low, familiar hum against the night. In the back, Cainan and Lynzelle rode in silence, the crunch of their horses' hooves the only noise between them.
Lynzelle tilted her head, side-eyeing Cainan. "Callistra… she seemed real sad." Her voice wasn't pitying — just observant, almost too casual. Like she was poking at a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Cainan stared ahead, jaw tight. "They all got stories. Every witch." His voice was low, edged with the old steel of someone who's seen too much. "Stories about kingdoms… laws… people breaking them and calling it justice." He rolled his shoulder, the chains coiling slightly with the motion. "Callistra fell in love with a beast. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it wasn't. Kingdoms didn't care. They just called it witchcraft and slaughtered him. That's why in your case…we can't take the risk."
Lynzelle leaned back slightly in her saddle, frowning.
"Sometimes," Cainan said, voice harder, "I almost get it. Witches. Not the murderin' part. But the freedom part. Feeling trapped in some death loop you can't crawl out of. Where every time you survive, it's just fate setting you up to get gutted again."
The horses plodded along in heavy silence.
"I feel that way too sometimes," Lynzelle said, a little quieter now. She plucked at a thread on her glove, her smile faded. "In Hell, it was just death and war. All the damn time. I act all cheery now 'cause I'm not there anymore. But…" She hesitated. "I'm scared. Scared the Witch Queen or something will turn this world into another Hell. Been running from fire and war my whole life. My human side wants to live. My devil side knows I'll burn if I die. Only had one shot to escape — my mother's amulet."
Cainan turned his head slightly, glancing at her through his messy hair.
"….You aren't cursed because of what you are," he said quietly. "You're cursed because the world knows how to crush anything good before it grows. Fuck it."
Lynzelle's breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly. She stared at him like he'd said something holy without even knowing it. It wasn't even meant for her — Cainan was clawing at his own wounds — but somehow it stitched something raw in her chest shut.
Ahead of them, the others' voices rose louder, dragging them back to the world.
"Yo, did anyone else think those black rose petals were weirdly pretty?" Foxxen said, stretching lazily on his horse, his red-and-white fur bristling under the tight fit of his indigo doublet. "I know we see them all the time, but damn it looks good coming off a witch."
"Yeah it's hauntingly beautiful," Raijin said, his hollow, metallic voice rumbling. His red and grey armor caught the moonlight as his blood-forged sword hummed lightly behind him.
Aris rode silently, head bowed slightly, the white blindfold over her eyes giving her the look of an indifferent ghost. "You say this all the time…Foxxen."
"I'm just saying!" Foxxen barked. "It's not my fault dead witches leave aesthetically-pleasing corpses."
Tojin remarked, "Pleasing…?"
Foxxen grabbed Tojin by the neck, "NOT LIKE THAT, Tojin!"
"OW! Okay! Okay!"
Zaara popped a candied fruit into her mouth, crunching noisily. "Maybe her whole clan was like that. All tragic and magic and rose-dusty." She smirked, golden runes flashing along her skin. "Which made her think this was all okay."
"Or maybe she just had the worst luck," Foxxen said with a shrug.
Lynzelle laughed, then called out, "Hey, wait, why doesn't the head turn into petals when you cut them off? Idrathar brought back a few witch heads after the witch raid earlier, but the bodies were the ones that dissolved.."
They all turned their heads back.
Tojin, his dark blue eyes widened instantly when Cainan glanced at him, like a scared puppy.
"Well, uh—" Tojin started nervously. "S-Some scholars think… um, that the dark magic flows like a system through the body. If the body's whole, it maintains the magic and… um… allows the transformation. But if you separate it—like cutting the head—it severs the flow, so the magic can't… properly complete the dissolution?"
He glanced nervously at Cainan again for approval.
There was a long beat.
Zaara snorted. "Nerd."
Tojin shrank a little in his saddle, and Lynzelle grinned, her eyes gleaming with manic energy.
"Oohh~ Tojiin~" she sing-songed, inching her horse closer to his. "Are you scared of me?"
"N-NO! Maybe..!" Tojin said, nearly falling off his horse as he tried to escape her teasing.
Everyone laughed loudly, except for Aris, who only offered a faint, amused smile.
Even Raijin let out a low mechanical chuckle. "You're gonna kill him before the witches do," he said.
Cainan stayed quiet, trailing behind. His mind was somewhere far darker.
Zaara caught the look out of the corner of her eye. Her lazy grin faltered for a split second — then she popped another candied fruit into her mouth and turned away.
The ground shook suddenly as someone landed ahead of the group — heavy, deliberate, sharp…
A collective gasp came from everyone.
Lady Selvaria Lance stood there, astral stream curling lazily from her black-gloved fingers.
Every Bloodhunter froze instantly.
Cainan stiffened. Even through the disdain darkening his face, there was a heavy dose of respectful fear. "Shit.."
Foxxen's ears flattened.
Raijin straightened immediately.
Tojin nearly fell off his horse again. "No way.."
Aris merely bowed her head deeper. "Of course she's here.."
Zaara cursed under her breath. "Stalker…"
Lynzelle blinked, tilting her head. "Who the hell's that?" she said, grinning in pure, ignorant excitement. "Is she an enemy?"
Before anyone could stop her, Lynzelle charged, scythe blooming in her hand like a thorned wing.
"LYNZELLE, NO—!"
In a split second, Foxxen, Raijin, Zaara, Aris, and even Cainan dogpiled her mid-charge, knocking her off her horse and onto the ground in a mess of limbs and swearing.
"You psycho!" Foxxen yelled.
"She's the HEAD BLOODHUNTER!" Raijin growled. "I don't want to see her hurt you…•
"You maniac!" Zaara snapped, elbowing her. "Trust me, I'll let you know when to gut her like a fish!"
"She's a one-woman war." Aris hissed from underneath the pile. "Threatening."
Lynzelle just cackled madly underneath them, kicking her boots. "She looked enemy-shaped! Not my fault!"
Zaara couldn't help but smirk at Lynzelle's remark, neither could Foxxen.
Meanwhile, Tojin bolted, running away fast.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry—!"
Lady Selvaria appeared next to him in a flash, dragging him back by the scruff of his cloak like a misbehaving puppy.
"N-NO! I was joking! I was joking! I wasn't really gonna run away!"
Without effort, Selvaria then sat on the whole squad — and she was heavy as hell.
"—ghk—!" Cainan choked under the weight.
"She's a thousand pounds of pure nightmare!" Foxxen wheezed.
"I can't feel my spine!" Raijin groaned. "Wait, I don't have a spine, I'm a piece of armor. Haha.."
"AGH! Why does she weigh more than a siege engine?!" Zaara gasped.
Selvaria exhaled smoke lazily, a cold, cunning smile curling her lips. "You were supposed to be the first arrivals of the banquet. Guests are already at the palace. You were supposed to look intimidating."
Cainan growled, pinned under her. "It was my call to help the Painters. Leave them out of this. And get offa me!"
Selvaria's smile widened slightly, sharp and shark-like. "They followed you. They're part of it."
Zaara grunted, shoving at Cainan. "This is your fault, brooding fool! I blame you! I blame you! Now she's gonna kick our ass!"
"Huh?! Shouldn't have followed me, dumbass!" Cainan snapped.
"Wanna say that again?!" Zaara fired back.
Lynzelle asked, "Do they always fight like they're brother and sister?"
Foxxen answered, "Always. They grew up around each other when they joined the empire. Killed for one another, fought each other, but they're inseparable. Zaara would die for Cainan, even when Cainan doesn't want her to."
Selvaria stood up abruptly, making the ground quake. "One hundred push-ups. As a team. If one of you fails…" She grinned, smoke curling around her eyes. "You all start over."
A collective, agonized groan rose from the flattened squad.
…
The banquet hall, called the Hall of Stars was vast — impossibly vast — the ceilings vaulted high like the heavens themselves, ribbed with silver tracery and star-carved beams that glittered under the light of floating crystal lanterns. Giant banners hung like the wings of slain beasts, depicting the Empire's silver phoenix crest and the burning chains of the Bloodhunters.
The polished marble floor shimmered like frozen water, veins of gold and black running through it. Along the walls, massive murals painted by the Painters shimmered with living color magic — swirling constellations, battles against monstrous witches, the forging of Kalazeth itself. Painters, dressed in brilliant flowing tunics that changed hues with their gestures, moved along platforms and ladders, painting new masterpieces directly onto the air, conjuring colors that shimmered, bled into golden light, and left the nobles gasping in open awe.
"They even have Painters here? Such a delicacy."
"Their connections are intriguing."
"And Painters aren't known to just go out and do this for any empire or kingdom."
The nobles themselves were a dazzling spectacle — cloaked and wrapped in silks, velvets, and studded leathers.
There were women in flowing silver and ice-blue gowns cut high on the thigh, swirling like storm clouds as they passed. Men wore coats of dark forest green, gold-threaded and lined with white fur. Some wore gleaming breastplates over their attire, etched with sigils of wolf-heads, suns, or serpents. Capes of translucent spider silk or heavy battle-worn velvet trailed behind others. And at nearly every table, knights — grim-faced, powerfully armored — stood at attention behind their lieges, swords gleaming at their hips.
There were entire tables reserved for the greatest across the realms:
A man in a deep purple doublet, his beard braided with tiny rings of sapphire, an obsidian medallion resting on his chest — a general who had conquered three kingdoms.
A woman clad in blood-red silk, a dragon's tooth hanging from her neck, said to have slain a wyrm with her bare hands.
And an elderly man in armor made entirely of chain-linked silver discs, each one etched with a different witch he had executed.
Even Knight Captain Camelot stood by himself along the side of the room — tall, impassive, arms folded behind his back. His stark silver armor caught the light cleanly, polished to an almost blinding sheen. His expression was carved from stone itself.
A group of foreign knights — colors and tabards unfamiliar — approached him cautiously. Their leader, a broad man in heavy red plate bearing a wolf insignia, extended a greeting. Camelot nodded, spoke briefly, formally, his shoulders straight and still, like a statue carved from an unbreakable cliff.
"So you've been with Idrathar the longest haven't you?"
"Is it true you don't wield any magic?"
Camelot said, "I have been with Idrathar the longest, yes. And then his wife, wherever she ran off to, was the third. And yes I do not wield magic, but that does not mean I can't fight. I am honored to slay witches to prove magic does not carry strength and power alone, but will."
The hall was filled with nobles from across distant, exotic kingdoms — banners draping behind their chairs:
Vaerngard: A frozen kingdom, their nobles draped in heavy white furs and woven iron jewelry.
Drottenvall: Harsh mountain people, wearing stark black leathers and crimson sashes.
Syfrholt: Known for their seafaring, their nobles bore blue-scaled cloaks that shimmered like wet fish skin.
Yngvar's Reach: Pale-skinned desert dwellers, adorned in ivory and gold, smelling faintly of strange spices.
Askrheim: War-clans clad in bronze, faces tattooed with runic scars.
Conversation hummed everywhere:
"How is it possible they made a city-state this powerful? A nerve center for an entire kingdom…"
"This 'Kalazeth'… they're not ruled by petty emperors. A Sovereign Council bound to one King… fascinating…"
"They say Idrathar built it from nothing. A mere man with a sword and vision."
"I can't wait to meet this man."
Bards and harpists played sweet, haunting music from a dais near the grand stairway. Their instruments shimmered with soft bardic magic — harps that plucked themselves, violins that sang with ghostly voices, a flute-player who conjured faint wisps of spectral birds into the air as he played.
Among the towering arches, grim trophies hung from heavy iron hooks — the severed, dried heads of witches, mouths sewn shut, black petals falling from their mouths like morbid snow.
A ripple of murmurs and turning heads rolled across the hall —
Cainan and his squad entered.
Cainan walked at the front, every muscle in his body screaming to turn around and leave immediately.
'Too much staring!'
Lynzelle waved brightly to the crowd, her long scythe swinging lazily at her hip.
Lady Selvaria Lance followed right behind them, smoking, her eyes boring death into their backs.
The whispering started instantly.
"Aren't those the two who killed a witch summon…? A strong one at that?"
"Those are the strongest Bloodhunters here.."
"They look so young…"
"They even have a humanoid fox among them…!"
Cainan turned slightly, muttering, "Okay. I'm leaving now."
Selvaria, without hesitation, grabbed his ear like a misbehaving child and yanked him back into line. "You're not going anywhere, brat." She grinned.
Cainan clenched his teeth, glaring at her, but didn't pull away.
The nobles blinked in confusion — whatever had happened was too fast for most to fully catch.
Selvaria leaned in, smoke curling from her lips, whispering, "Walk around. Find important-looking people. No boring ones. Look dangerous. Look like gods of death. Make them remember you."
Cainan grunted lowly.
The squad, already exhausted and deeply unamused, grudgingly obeyed, splitting off into pairs.
Foxxen growled under his breath, fluffing up his fur. "You owe me, Cainan. Big time."
Zaara snickered, adjusting her golden armbands. "You say that every time."
Raijin's armored boots clanked heavily as he followed behind, like a walking siege tower. "We can do this, guys."
Tojin moved nervously, straightening his too-large tunic. "D-Do I talk to anyone? Or do I just—"
"Look scary," Lynzelle chirped, patting his head roughly. "You're terrifying. Like a scared little bunny."
"So be terrifying like you..?"
"Yes! Exactly!"
In the background, low-ranked witch hunters and Bloodhunters mingled noisily at their own cluster of tables:
"I skinned that witch in three strikes flat!" a young hunter boasted loudly, flexing.
"Pfft, please. I burned three in one night," another said, leaning back cockily.
"Yeah? Bet you still screamed when the cursed rats came out," someone jabbed.
Laughter and raucous jeers echoed from that corner of the hall.
Music, laughter, awe, and tension coiled like a living thing inside the hall.
The empire's heart was beating loud tonight — and every eye was watching them.
The hall buzzed with heavy, expectant air as Cainan's group scattered into the swirling court. Immediately, Lynzelle broke off — and without hesitation, she vaulted onto a table in a single, lazy bound, making plates clatter. A sharp silver dinner knife found its way into her hand, and she pressed it lightly under the chin of a richly dressed lord from Qathrador, whose ornate jackal mask tilted awkwardly in terror.
Lynzelle grinned wide, teeth flashing like a wolf's.
"So… how's your kingdom doing these days?"
A horrified silence seized the table.
Still holding the knife to the man's throat, Lynzelle turned her head around exaggeratedly toward Lady Selvaria, gave her a bold thumbs-up, and smiled expectantly.
Selvaria, across the room, simply shook her head with a faint chuckle, rubbing her temple. "I mean, I guess she has the right idea. As long as she doesn't slit any throats."
The nobles, after the initial shock, swarmed the Bloodhunters with questions, fascinated and nervous. They had never seen killers like these. Lynzelle had made this work.
A haughty lord of Skauldreth, wrapped in thick wolf pelts, turned to Cainan with a forced laugh.
"Tell me, hunter… what's the largest beast you've slain? I've heard of your talents from afar, like many of us here have."
Cainan barely blinked. His voice, quiet and purposefully edged with death, cut through the noise.
"Once ripped the head off a witch summon with my bare hands."
The noble stiffened, letting out an awkward bark of laughter. "Marvelous…"
Foxxen leaned casually against a table, arms folded. His tail swished arrogantly.
"I once beat a werebeast to death with its own leg," he said, flashing a fanged grin.
Zaara chuckled around a candied fruit, speaking past a lazy smirk.
"We killed a soul-maddened wyvern last month. Tore its wings off so it couldn't fly away."
Raijin, ever the looming monument of iron, simply tapped his chest plate with a heavy fist. A hollow, thunderous boom echoed, sending an uneasy ripple through the nearest table. "I once had to bury a child who's life was sacrificed to the witch queen..it was horrible."
Tojin tried to jump into the conversation too quickly and blurted, "I helped burn a witch alive!" — only to turn beet-red as a few nearby lords chuckled at his nervousness.
'Fuuuuck! That was embarrassing!'
Still, it worked. The Bloodhunters, grim, rough-edged, and unpredictable, left a mark. The nobles liked it. Fear was a language they respected.
Meanwhile, high above the banquet, behind layers of carved marble and velvet-draped halls, in the farthest royal tower of Kalistith —
Idrathar sat beside his daughter's bed.
The royal chamber was a masterpiece of gilded sorrow. Carved dragonbone arches cradled the ceiling, walls painted in dusky twilight hues. Soft golden lamps swung from silver chains, casting a mournful glow across lush blue and violet tapestries that depicted the history of Kalazeth in sprawling murals.
The bed, where Espen lay, was canopied in silken curtains. The young girl — no older than her mid-teens — had ash-white hair that framed her pale, delicate face. Her once-rosy skin was drained, her veins darkened with creeping black, like ink spilled through porcelain. But her bright, violet-blue eyes still glittered with the faint, stubborn light of life.
Idrathar's large hand gently cradled hers, careful not to squeeze too hard. He sat at the edge of the bed, reading from a heavy, worn tome, voice low and warm — forcing it to stay steady.
"…and the warrior, even with his sword broken, and his armor battered to pieces, stood atop the last hill before the castle," Idrathar said, smiling through the tightness in his chest. "Dragons circled above. Monsters clawed at his heels. But he didn't stop. No… not once. He carried the princess in his arms and told her, 'Hold tight. We're almost home.'"
Espen's faint, tired giggle bubbled out. Idrathar grinned wider, the sight of it enough to choke him with emotion. He pushed on, voice bright with false excitement.
"And the dragons — ah, vicious creatures, terrible fangs and eyes like wildfire — swooped down to tear him apart! But the warrior, bold as ever, leapt from rock to rock, dodging their fire and claws. He shielded her with his broken sword. Even when the monsters rose from the earth itself, he fought them, too. Nothing could stop him."
Espen squeezed his hand weakly. Idrathar's heart twisted.
He swallowed thickly and continued, voice cracking just once:
"And at last, battered and bloody, he reached the castle gates. They opened just in time. And the princess was safe. She was home."
He paused. His knuckles whitened, clenched against the fine sheets of her bed. For a breathless second, the mask cracked.
But he forced his shoulders to relax.
Idrathar leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Espen's forehead, lingering there longer than he should have.
"Goodnight, my little wildflower," he whispered.
Espen's small, fragile voice answered, "Goodnight, papa…and..is Cainan still okay?"
"Yeah, yeah he's fine. Would you like him to visit you tomorrow?"
"Yeah, that would be nice. He reminds me of the heroes from your stories. He told me before that he'll make sure every witch's head is put on a spike of their own spines so I could feel better!"
Idrathar chuckled, "Of course he said that, haha. That's very..detailed of him."
"And what about mom…? Have you heard anything from her yet?"
"..I have not. And I have been hoping to hear from your mother Yuniper for a year. But still nothing. But know that she has not abandoned you, she loves you."
"Mm. I love her too."
Idrathar rose slowly. At the door, he paused — every muscle screaming at him to turn back, to look at her once more.
He didn't.
He closed the door softly behind him.
The king walked down the royal hallway, his boots echoing over polished blackstone floors. Alone, with no eyes on him, his face crumpled. Silent tears welled up and streamed down his scarred cheeks, dripping onto the stone.
He didn't sob. He didn't scream. He wept quietly, trembling from the soul.
In his mind, old, buried fears surged back to the surface:
'I am not supposed to bury her… She was supposed to live, to grow older, to bury me when my time came… not the other way around. I built this empire to prove I was strong — to prove I was more than a broken man rotting. But I lied to myself.'
He thought of those dark years after his first wife's death, when despair made a home in his heart. He had clawed his way out by building Kalazeth, by forging the council, by crushing every enemy.
'Now… this. If the time comes… he thought bitterly, if the day comes when her suffering grows too cruel…'
He clenched his jaw.
'Even if I must ask Camelot Or Cainan themselves to strike me down first… I would do it before I let Espen see me fall apart. I will stay strong. For her. Always for Espen. Her mother Yuniper vanished last year, she would study the witches' magic, their relics, and their bodies with the scholars, and she was always leaving. But one day, she never came back. She was supportive, she was all about helping me find ways to counter the dark magic of witches more effectively. With our animals and magic beasts being corrupted and tainted by it, she was dedicated to helping. Now…she's gone. And where..? Who knows. What if she did abandon us? Was it too much for her? Draining?....I should've seen the signs if that's the case. I should've paid more attention! But she never came to me with her troubles. Did she not trust me?'
He wiped his face harshly with his palm as he approached the grand banquet hall towering double doors.
Two knights snapped to attention at his sides. Idrathar straightened his back, breathing deep, forcing a worn but strong fake smile onto his face.
'Yuniper..wherever you are, we won our 4th witch raid. I wish you were here to see more opportunities opening for what we built. I know you'll be back soon for your daughter, and for me. Seeing Espen like this..I need some damn strength.'
The doors swung open on ancient hinges.
The roaring sound of conversation inside died in an instant.
Every head turned. Every heart seemed to pause. The sheer presence of the man stepping into the hall was enough to shatter the moment's breathless silence.
Camelot's voice thundered with military authority:
"Idrathar has arrived!"
All the nobles, knights, and Bloodhunters rose from their seats as one — a ripple of shocked reverence spreading across the floor.
And amidst the stunned silence, some foreign dignitaries whispered confusedly to one another:
"…Why aren't they kneeling?"
At the thunderous announcement of King Idrathar's arrival, the people of Kalazeth moved as one.
They did not kneel.
Instead, a deep, resounding rhythm began — fists pounding over hearts in unison, the sound echoing like distant drums.
"Honor above all."
"Steel before surrender."
"Knowledge without corruption."
"Strength tempered by loyalty."
"Mercy only for the innocent."
"Fire against the darkness."
"And Brotherhood beyond blood."
The chant surged through the hall, proud and unyielding, vibrating in the bones of everyone present. Even Cainan and his group, without hesitation, pounded their fists to their chests and joined the declaration. Lynzelle, eyes bright and excited, was especially enthusiastic, almost bouncing in place as she slammed her hand against her heart.
The nobles from distant kingdoms watched, murmuring amongst themselves with furrowed brows and surprised, almost admiring tones. Their whispered words traveled through the hall like smoke:
"They don't kneel…"
"They have their own code of honor…"
"This empire… it is unlike any I have ever seen."
Idrathar stood tall before them, broad-shouldered and regal in a cloak of dark sapphire velvet, stitched with thin silver embroidery that gleamed like starlight. His crown was modest but powerful: a circlet of black iron and polished onyx. He let the room breathe in the sight before he raised his hand slightly, and the hall fell to reverent silence once more.
Behind him, the council of Kalazeth appeared like specters called from legend.
Lord Garron Volkrath, Lord of the Flamehold, approached first. A monstrous man clad in blackened steel that glowed faintly with heat, the roaring visage of a phoenix emblazoned across his chestplate. His beard was thick, braided with iron clasps that clicked softly as he moved, and where one arm should have been, a massive mechanical gauntlet clanked and hissed, intricate and deadly.
Lady Selvaria Vance moved like a storm contained in human flesh, her armor polished to a mirror sheen, her red and silver cape trailing behind her like blood and moonlight.
Lord Dravok Maernis, Lord of the Tethered, glided in next, his tattered robes whispering against the floor. Chains and seals rattled faintly with every step he took, and the scent of cold ash followed him like a second skin. His sunken black eyes stared from a hollow face that seemed to bear the weight of a thousand secrets.
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis, Lord of the Veil, was a shifting blur of color and metal. Blue and violet silks floated about them, weightless, their face hidden behind a smooth silver mask. Tiny silver trinkets and charms orbited them like miniature moons, glinting with faint enchantments.
Master Forgewright Brax Trenhald stomped in last, a massive figure swaddled in molten bronze and dragonbone, looking more like a walking forge than a man. His soot-blackened hands were as large as anvils, and the hammer strapped to his back looked heavy enough to crack the palace foundation if he swung it.
With his council arrayed behind him, Idrathar spoke, his voice rolling through the air like a rising tide.
"I was not born to a throne," Idrathar began, each word measured, deliberate. "I was born to ash and ruin. I grew up in a village forgotten by gods and kings alike, where survival was the only law. I watched my people die of sickness, starvation, and neglect. No banners came to save us. No kings sent their armies to protect us. Only through steel, sweat, and sheer will was I able to drag myself out of the mud."
He looked across the hall, his gaze firm.
"This city-state, Kalistith, the heart of Kalazeth — it was built from the bones of failure. It rose by the hands of those who believed that loyalty was not owed to blood, but to honor. To the idea that strength must be tempered by loyalty. That knowledge should never rot into corruption. That mercy must be given only to the innocent, and fire turned against the darkness."
The crowd was silent, hanging on every word.
Idrathar's eyes hardened.
"And Brotherhood beyond blood," he finished. "That is our soul. Not the chains of birthright, nor the shackles of heritage. We are bound together by choice. And this choice is what makes us strong."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"Our war against witches is the ultimate expression of this strength," he continued, voice lowering into something lethal. "Witchcraft is not simple magic. It is a corruption. A blight. It twists the soul, warps the world. The witches we hunt are not human anymore. They are the pawns of a darker power—perhaps even the whispered Witch Queen herself, whose name has been long cursed by the winds."
He raised a hand to the ceiling, where from iron hooks, the severed heads of witches swung slowly, preserved as grim trophies.
"The blight of witchery shall be burned from the land. The flame of the Sovereign will never dim."
The hall erupted in claps and praises, the sound a thunderous wave against the stone walls.
Once the noise subsided, Idrathar gestured outward toward the guests.
"And tonight, we are honored to be joined by many noble kingdoms," he said. "Leaders who have fought their own wars against the darkness."
One by one, the representatives stood.
From Vaerngard, a tall woman wrapped in layered white furs stood first. Her cloak was stitched with the teeth of snowbeasts, and her iron jewelry gleamed frostily under the light. She bowed her head respectfully.
"In Vaerngard," she said, "the cold is our enemy, but so too are the witches who stir avalanches, call forth beasts of ice, and shatter villages with winter storms. We survive because we burn them out before their roots can take hold."
Next, a grim, bearded man rose from Drottenvall, his black leathers stretched tight over thick muscle, crimson sashes binding his broad waist. His voice was a low rumble.
"In the mountains of Drottenvall, witches poison the stone itself. They summon beasts of smoke and rock to crush our mines, to trap our people. We hire those who can survive the black heights to kill them… but few return."
From Syfrholt, a lean noble in a glittering scaled cloak of blue rose with a wide, sailor's grin.
"At sea, we fight witches who summon storms, who turn the tides against us, who twist the minds of our helmsmen until ships crash upon the rocks. Our witch-hunters are mercenaries, wild as the waves, but never enough."
A tall, statuesque woman, her ivory robes and gold piercings catching every flicker of light, spoke for Yngvar's Reach.
"In the deep deserts, witches stir the sands into living whirlwinds. They rot our water, curse our livestock. We rely on wandering slayers and blade-brothers to survive."
Finally, from Askrheim, a scarred man whose face was marked with old runic tattoos stood proudly. His bronze armor bore dozens of old battle scars.
"In Askrheim, witches live among the clans, hiding their filth under warrior's pride. When they are found, we do not hesitate. We carve their sins from the bone with fire and blade. But the need for true allies has never been more desperate."
One by one, their words built a living tapestry of the world beyond Kalazeth. Stories of struggle, of blood and resistance, wove the hall together tighter than any speech could have done alone.
Cainan and his squad listened intently, their faces unreadable. Even Lynzelle, normally brimming with manic energy, was quiet.
She stood with her arms folded, her eyes distant. As the tales of witch-born horror filled the air, a deep tremor passed through her soul.
'They are still winning,' she thought bitterly. 'Still spreading. Still crawling into the cracks of every kingdom.'
She forced herself to smile, the muscles in her face straining. She would not show fear. She had escaped Hell once — the real thing, the burning, gnashing jaws of despair. She would not allow that nightmare to follow her into this new world.
'Not again. Never again.'
Deep in her chest, she swore it — a silent promise only she would know.
And still, she smiled, brighter and sharper than a dagger's edge.