Narrated by Veyren
Dust rose in soft clouds as the wheels of the heavy carriage ground over the uneven stone. The road wound along a steep mountainside, cracked with age and narrow as a blade's edge hugging cliffs that dropped into valleys drowned in mist. Far below, the land of Aetherion lay wounded, its fields scarred, its forests blackened, its rivers choked with ash. War had not just passed through. It had stayed.
A cold wind swept over the peaks, tugging at worn flags and battered armor, whistling through the stones like a dying hymn.
Inside the lead carriage, silence reigned.
Four of us sat in the dim interior, cloaked in leather and shadow. Our armor was scraped, dented, burnt in places. Our weapons were within reach, though none of us truly rested. We weren't used to peace. Not anymore.
In the far corner sat the black container the jewel's prison. It pulsed faintly with a red glow, slow and steady, like the breathing of something asleep. Or something pretending to be.
No one mentioned it.
Not yet.
I sat nearest the slit in the carriage wall, my green-lined cloak tugging slightly in the wind. Beyond the bend, I could see the road sloping toward the lowlands, and in the distance, just faintly the fractured skyline of the capital. Home.
If it could still be called that.
"It's been months," I said, voice quiet. "Since I heard the voices of children. The sound of street vendors, or rice boiling in a pot. It's strange how sound disappears when there's nothing left to protect."
Across from me, Nyavell kept her gaze lowered, fingers resting elegantly on the hilt of her curved blade. Her voice was soft, a whisper that slid like silk across steel.
"War doesn't just burn cities. It devours silence, too. And makes it louder than screams."
Ruzakai scoffed from his corner, arms crossed, one boot kicked up on the opposite bench.
"You two sound like poets. Maybe that last demon knocked your brains sideways."
Caelith stirred, slow and precise, his head angled slightly to the side. His voice was steady deep, even, and cool as riverstone.
"He's not wrong. We've lived more as weapons than as men for a long time."
None of us argued.
The carriage rocked gently over the mountain's spine. The wind grew colder.
We had been away too long.
Once, we had names that echoed across the empire. Warriors of myth. Symbols of hope. Now, we were shadows whispers of a story Aetherion was still trying to understand.
But let me tell you how we came to be.
Nyavell – The Blade in Shadow
She wasn't chosen. She chose herself.
When the king summoned me to form the strike force, I thought I'd be traveling alone to gather candidates. But as I left the court, I found her waiting cloak drawn, blade at her hip, eyes burning with purpose.
"You're not going without me," she said.
I told her this was no place for royalty. That the Holy Church requested warriors, not heirs.
She didn't flinch.
"If this kingdom has no heir, then I'll fight to ensure it still has a future. This is my home too. And I won't let it fall while I sit safe behind walls."
Graceful. Silent. Deadly. She never asked permission. She simply was. A mystic, trained in arts the Church barely dared to name. An assassin whose footsteps left no echo. I knew then and there, she didn't need my approval.
She had already chosen her place beside me.
Ruzakai – The Red Storm of Zarephis
The war-chiefs of Zarephis sent their strongest. And they sent him in chains.
He fought in the sun pits, blades in hand, crowd roaring with bloodlust. When I arrived, the chieftain merely gestured to the arena.
"There is your warrior. If you can control him, take him."
Ruzakai was chaos incarnate. His strikes were fury. His laughter came with blood on his lips. Three beastmen fell before him, and still, he turned with fire in his eyes.
"You're the tactician?" he said, grinning like he'd met a challenge. "Tell me you're not boring."
I told him I'd lead him into battles that made that pit look like a nursery. That we would bleed not for sport but for survival. For legacy.
He licked blood from his thumb and smiled.
"Then let's start bleeding."
He didn't care for politics or kings. But he understood war. And that was enough.
Caelith – The Silent Sentinel of Nytherra
In the cold north of Nytherra, they sent a statue to fight for them.
Or so I thought.
Caelith guarded the Shrine of Brevorn, a ruined holy site at the edge of the frozen frontier. Demons came for it in waves. He did not leave his post for days. He did not speak. He simply stood, and they broke against him like tide on stone.
When I arrived, the elders demanded I duel him to earn his trust. He accepted without a word.
He was slow, but deliberate. A wall. Every strike I made was met with force meant not to defeat but to withstand. I outmaneuvered him, barely, drawing first blood.
He knelt then, and simply said:
"Then I'll follow you until the road ends."
No oaths. No speeches. Just loyalty, carved in silence.
Together, we defended Aetherion and the Holy Church from the Warlord of Ash.
We stood against legions of flame-born, and faced demons not just of flesh, but of corruption, memory, and fire.
It was at Elaram's Gate that the nightmare ended.
The Battle of Elaram's Gate
The sky bled fire. The Warlord came with wings of bone and a heart of coal, his army howling across the continent. Cities fell like dust. Temples cracked and crumbled.
We held the line.
I summoned seals from the Emerald Codex until my blood stained its pages. Nyavell disappeared into smoke and returned only when necessary her blade red, her eyes unreadable. Ruzakai lost count of his kills and still wanted more. Caelith stood in a sea of corpses and never once looked away.
When the Warlord fell, he didn't scream.
He shattered.
And in the crater of his death, we found it.
The jewel. Black as obsidian. Glowing faintly red.
It should not have existed.
The Church called it a divine relic. I called it a question no one could answer.
We sealed it. And now, it rides with us.
Return to Present
"It's quiet again," Nyavell murmured.
"Don't trust quiet," Ruzakai muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Quiet's what happens right before something ugly."
I leaned forward and looked through the slit.
The road was beginning to curve down into the lowlands.
And there just at the bend a figure stood.
Unmoving.
Cloaked.
The wind whipped at his robes, but he did not move. His arms were relaxed. His face hidden beneath a hood. He stood as if the mountain itself had carved him into place.
"Not one of ours," Nyavell said, hand already sliding to her blade.
"He's waiting," Caelith added, voice flat.
"Good," Ruzakai grinned. "Been needing to bleed something since yesterday."
But I didn't smile.
Because behind us, the jewel pulsed once, hotter than before.
For the first time since Elaram's Gate... it responded.
The stranger raised his head.
And one glowing eye, white, bright, unnatural cut through the fog and stared directly at our carriage.
The wind stopped.
The horses reared.
And the mountain exhaled.
The fifth had arrived.
And the road home... would not be easy.