ARIC FALLEN

I'd pushed the men too hard. Far too hard. We were riding the horses to their deaths. We'd retreated into Braysharl Canyon, fleeing the legion from the east: the Sin of Greed. Something unnerving about them gnawed at me. Their armour, a nearly impenetrable alloy resembling gold, gleamed with embedded jewels scattered in an irregular pattern. Their ranks boasted a well-balanced array of mages, the deadliest being their metalcasters. The soldiers moved so fast that they turned into blurs of gold and silver steel, as they tore through my men and women with horrifying efficiency.

Their strength wasn't just in their armaments, though. Even when half-hacked apart, they kept coming, arrows and spears still embedded in their bodies. After the initial, brutal clash, I'd ordered a horrified retreat.

Our horses wheezed, my stallion trembling beneath me. We needed distance from the Sin, yet this blasted canyon offered no respite. Godking forces littered the pass, firing potshots at us from rocky outcrops as we thundered past. Metalcasters lurked behind rocks, waiting to unleash their deadly slashes on horse and rider alike. Braysharl, normally a two-day trek on foot, would take mere hours to traverse on horseback under normal circumstances. But the exhausted horses were on the brink of collapse, so we were slowing.

Blake spurred his horse back from the next bend, waving me down frantically. We halted.

"They're waiting around the next bend," he wheezed. "Half a legion, entrenched on both sides with the high ground." Dread coiled in my gut. This was it. Stand or perish.

Ayasha and Isaac were by my side quickly, both etched with exhaustion. Ayasha, especially, was pale and drawn.

"You have to use the boy again," Isaac declared harshly. "None of us will survive without him."

Frustration gnawed at me.

"I know, I know," I finally choked out, my voice heavy. I did know. I'd begun with a full legion at the border fort. Just over a hundred men and women. Now, after escaping the besieged fort and punching through the hordes, I had barely sixty left. Eleven had fallen to the Sin in the initial clash, four more in the desperate escape, and sixteen lay dead behind us in Braysharl, the cost of our frantic flight into this ambush. I knew their names, their faces, and the faces of their families and children. For them, I would break my promise and ask the boy to save us.

"Oathbreaker," my mind hissed, yet I gestured for Gael to bring the boy forward.

I rummaged in my saddlebags and found the belt, sheath, and strange black sword we'd taken from him. The blade, unlike any metal I'd seen, curved and tapered towards the point, serrated on one side and bladed on the other. To me, it resembled a vicious beast's claw or tusk.

Dismounting, I met Gael and the boy halfway. He slid off the saddle as soon as he saw the weapon. His eyes, half-lidded and emotionless, watched me as I offered him the blade. Ayasha translated, but he already knew what I was about.

"I am deeply sorry to ask this of you, after promising otherwise," I began, my chest heavy. "But I fear Braysharl will be the final resting place for my legion if I do not request your assistance once more." I aimed for honesty, guilt and shame battling for dominance within me.

The boy donned his belt and weapon with practised efficiency, his fingers working smoothly as he pulled everything into place. Eyes not even bothering to glance at what they were doing. He held my gaze for a long moment, then shrugged and signed something.

Turning to Ayasha, I awaited the translation. "He says it's alright," she relayed, "These things happen."

"These things happen," I echoed numbly, stepping forward to grip his shoulder. "These things happen, but they shouldn't. Do you know how old you are?" I didn't wait for a reply. "My son, at your age, was playing in the fields with his friends. The most dangerous thing he did..."

He pulled away from my touch, his movements sharp and fluid. His voice, his hands flashed, translated by Ayasha. "I am not your son," he stated, his black eyes finally blazing with emotion, "my freedom is no game to me."

The ground trembled, a deep rumble emanating from around the bend. The Sin of Greed had arrived.

I nodded, head heavy.

"Go," I breathed out, softly.

He did.

NAMELESS BOY

Anger surged through me. I cycled my power through my body forcefully, pushing off hard from the narrow passage, my body a dark blur as I flew across the sheer drop of the canyon below and landed on one of the jutting shelves on the opposite side of where Beardman's forces were. I looked down and saw the horde before me. They had set up walls of rough-packed earth for cover. Taking a few steps back on the shelf, I calculated my next move..

Heat flooded my face, burning my cheeks. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, my magic roiling within. I channelled the energy into my muscles, the world sharpening around me as I kicked off.

This was the first time I had fought without the paintdrink in a long time. Everything felt… different. Sharper, yet raw. I felt present, truly present, in a way I hadn't been in years. And I felt... I felt.

As I landed on the ledge overlooking the horde, I unleashed my momentum, extending a hand and shoving a soldier's head into the canyon wall. A sickening spray of gore erupted, coating me in bone and brain matter. His companion let out a horrified scream. I watched, detached, as his eyes widened in terror the moment I materialised beside him, too fast for him to react. My blade sang a silent song as it kissed his throat, my movements fluid and practised. I advanced.

Fury stoked my every step. I envied, I yearned for the things others took for granted: companionship, friendship, freedom, family. How dare he speak of family, compare me to his son? I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe evenly.

A geomancer scooped a hand through the earthen wall, flinging a boulder at me. I leaned back, hanging over the edge of the ledge, twisting my body to avoid the massive projectile that whistled past. I lunged forward, burying my blade deep into the earth mage's eye, then spun away, retracting the weapon with a sickening squelch as another enemy closed in.

This one was a metalmage, wielding a longsword, a small buckler, and a recurve bow slung across his back. His movements, though slower than mine, were precise and practised. He seamlessly switched between his weapons, adapting to my unpredictable speed and ferocity. The longsword provided him with reach, while the buckler deflected my attacks. He had entered flowstate, deep into his metalmind. His focus was singular. He cut at me, each strike deliberate and perfectly measured.

I had overheard members of the Sin of Wrath discuss how each strike held a name. "This one is The Desert Snake's Ambush" punctuated by a rising strike that started low on the ground and snapped up. "The Sparrow pecks for Food" were piercing strikes aimed low to the body, "and this, The Lordlings Lance" as the man held his sword between his legs and thrust, his companions laughing raucously.

I anticipated the metalmage's movements, dodging his attacks with fluid grace. When he swung his blade in a tight, controlled motion, I saw an opening. I closed the distance, stepping past his buckler. He attempted to push me back with the shield, but I twisted and rolled under it, reappearing behind him in a blink. He reacted instinctively, he used his metal manipulation, and the buckler uncannily did not follow the momentum of his body, but instead slid into place to where my blade would have been, if I had not palmed it to my left hand during the roll. I punched the blade deep into his body, and traced a horrifying shape inside him before I yanked it out.

Curious, I wondered what that strike would have been called. Perhaps, "You Can't Sense Metal If I'm Not Holding It." Metalcasters always knew where any object made of metal was in their vicinity. My blade was bone, invisible to them.

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He twisted as he died, and he used the last motions of his body to fling his blade at me, it whisted as it tore at the air. I threw myself low, rolling under it.

Metalcasters had an unnerving habit of getting in one last attack, even in death. Their flow state ensured their blades would find their mark with deadly precision, able to ignore any distraction, including pain.

The clash of steel against steel echoed below. I assumed Beardman's forces were finally breaking through the cordon, but I didn't spare them a glance. My focus remained entirely on the remaining members of the force before me. I flashed my hands at them “Hello brothers, time to die”.

Movement became my lifeblood once again. In combat, stillness meant death. I transformed into the whirlwind of blood and death I was born to be, each flash of my blade, each touch of my hands, promising oblivion.

It was always like this.

A frost mage, a hydromancer, and a sunmage combined their powers. A massive ball of water materialised, freezing into solid ice before evaporating in a thick, billowing fog that obscured the remaining soldiers. It didn't hinder me. I sensed the rapid heartbeat of every man in the fog. Their fear guided me. I waded through the swirling mist like a wraith, cutting down soldiers with chilling efficiency. The steam scalded my skin, blistering and popping. Yet, I healed as quickly as I was hurt, my flesh knitting itself back together in a constant cycle of pain and regeneration.

The numbing effect of the paintdrink was absent, and the pain roared, but this was just a spark, an ember, compared to the bonfire when my tattoos were used to punish me.

The sunmage panicked, unleashing chaotic whips of incandescent flame into the mist. I dove low, rolling beneath the waves of searing heat, sweat stinging my eyes as I watched the flames engulf his allies, melting flesh and bone with a sickening sizzle. The stench of burnt meat permeated the air.

Emerging from the roll, I plunged my blade into the sunmage's foot, then his groin, and finally into his neck. He choked, his body contorting before slumping lifelessly. Rising, I backhanded the shocked hydromancer, snapping his neck with a sickening crack. His body crumpled and plunged into the canyon's abyss.

I left no one living behind me.

As the fog cleared, I surveyed the battlefield. It was a chaotic scene. Beardman's forces were pinned down, pressed from both sides. The Sin of Greed pushed relentlessly from behind, while the remainders of the horde rained magic down from a higher ledge.

Yet, Beardman's troops were well-trained, moving in disciplined formations, their goal to cross the canyon and escape. Beardman had conjured blindfolds and gags of darkness disabling the more dangerous mages, while geomancers erected walls of stone and rock palisades to slow the Sin's advance. Hydromancers conjured water shields to deflect incoming projectiles, while a terrifyingly skilled watermage sent thin lines of compressed water through the enemy ranks, piercing them with deadly precision. Metalmages and firemages engaged in a stalemate, their all-metal bows firing silver arrows with deadly accuracy, and gouts of flames immediately deflected and neutralised before they could inflict too much hurt.

A familiar, low hum resonated from the Sin's ranks. They were preparing their signature tactic. My heart pounded in my chest, and dread coiled in my gut. I could see motion in their ranks, objects were being spun - faster and faster.

I had seen it firsthand so many times. They would unleash a volley of weighted nets and bolas, ensnaring their victims. The captured soldiers would be broken. Drugged. Stripped of their humanity, their identity reformed with pain. When they rose again they would be another fanatic in the horde, or if they were skilled enough they would join the Furies or the Sins. Taken, bound, broken. Remade, repurposed and released.

I couldn’t let it happen. I had been promised freedom. I would not let it be taken from me.

Before I could formulate a plan, the earthmages from Greed surged forward. Their hands slammed into the canyon wall, sending tremors through the rock and causing sections of the hastily erected stone barriers to crumble. In the blink of an eye, the net throwers behind them launched their attack. Weighted nets and bolas, propelled by powerful throws, arced through the air, their targets the desperate men and women of Beardman's legion.

I wished I could scream. Reaching deep into my reserves of power, I channelled it into my legs, taking a few steps back, I launched myself again. Each second eating away at the distance separating me from the impending carnage.

Just as the first nets ensnared men, woman and horse alike, I arrived in the fray. My movements were a whirlwind of controlled chaos, a storm of bone, muscle, and blood. With each slash of my black blade, I severed the enchanted ropes and leather bindings of the nets, freeing the trapped soldiers before they could be dragged away. I didn’t get all of them, and saw a screaming woman and man disappear behind gold clad bodies.

The Sin's forces did not seem to be caught off guard by my sudden intervention, and I was soon dodging the nets and bolas with the rest of Beardman's forces. The throwers stopped as Greed's metalmages, clad in their glinting gold armour, charged towards us, their longswords flashing in the afternoon sun.

I dashed forward and met their assault head-on, my movements a blur as I weaved through their attacks, my blade a deadly song against the clang of steel. My initial strikes at normally weak points of armour were stymied, whatever it was made of was truly strong. The metal, adorned with swirling designs, seemed to ripple and absorb the impact. Gritting my teeth, I flipped the black sword, its serrated edge catching the sunlight with a menacing glint.

As I parried a blow from one metalmage, another lunged from the side, his blade aimed for my chest. I saw it coming in slow motion, but did not have the room to manoeuvre and avoid it. I heard a roar and there was suddenly a shield of earth between me and the blade, then a jarring clang as it was deflected. I looked up to see a soldier of Beardman's legion, his amber eyes alight with a fierce grin.

I felt other bodies settle in behind me, flanking me, supporting me. This was nice, I never had any support when I fought. It was almost like having friends.

We fought together for a while after that. I dashed in to crack open a soldiers guard, then moved out of the way so my… allies could land their might against them. The watermage I had noticed before had joined us, he was pulling from an orb of water, each time I broke a guards formation and gave him an opportunity, there was a hissing sound and a thin line of water would appear, cutting straight through that golden armour, sometimes even exiting the other side of their body and continuing on. There was a particularly i good earthmage as well, he was not showy, and did not throw around huge spikes of compacted earth and rock, instead he made small changes that I found even more useful - a rock would raise from the earth to unbalance a metalmage, or soften to slow another. I even felt the bloodsoaked ground under me firm so I could launch from it better.

I wanted this, I realised. People I could rely on, fight with. People I could trust to have my back. I wanted it so bad it hurt.

The watermage I had seen earlier joined the fray, conjuring a shimmering orb of water. With each opening I created, a hiss would pierce the air, followed by a thin line of water that sliced effortlessly through the golden armour, sometimes exiting the other side and continuing its deadly path.

Another, a subtle earthmage, worked silently, manipulating the ground to my advantage. A timely rise would unbalance an enemy, while a softened patch would hinder their movement. I even felt the blood-soaked ground firm beneath my feet, granting me better footing for each attack.

An unfamiliar warmth bloomed in my chest, a yearning for this companionship, for the support of others. It was a feeling strangely akin to... friendship. The chaotic symphony of clanging steel, crackling earth, and hissing water coalesced into a rhythm I understood. Every beat, every movement, became a united effort against the tide of Greed.

For an hour, I danced with this rhythm, my mind in a state of focused calm. My blade parried blows aimed at the watermage, I deflected arrows, manoeuvring them away from their intended targets.I blocked, instead of dodging more than I would have preferred, but If I moved out of the way, the soldiers behind me would die. It was a dance of perfect harmony, each movement crucial to the survival of the others.

Exhaustion gradually chipped away at the rhythm, turning the symphony into discordant notes. We had pushed back the enemy from the ledge, and were retreating in a measured way.. But the battle raged on, a gruesome tapestry of violence painted across every face.

A towering figure emerged from the ranks of Greed, easily twice the size of any man I had ever seen. More than twice the size of me. Clad in obsidian armour emblazoned with gold, he wielded a massive two-handed warhammer, its head adorned with wicked spikes. He scanned the battlefield, his gaze settling on me with a cruel smile twisting the scant flesh visible beneath his helm.

With a bellowing roar, he charged. Shards of earth, flung by unseen mages, broke harmlessly against his armour. A firemage behind me strode forward to try his luck, his chest inflating as he took a huge breath - and then he spat fire in a huge torrent and the huge warrior from Greed disappeared in the waves of flame, only to reappear from the inferno, flames clinging to his body, swinging his warhammer turning the firemages head into pulp.

Uncertainty gnawed at me. My blade felt heavy in my hand. Serrated or bladed? What side of the blade could penetrate his armour? The question echoed through my mind as I channelled my power. It felt sluggish, as if wading through thick mud. With a surge of will, I forced the energy into my limbs, stalking forward to meet my colossal opponent.

We met on the blood-soaked ground.

I tried to get close, his weapon was huge and not suited for close combat, but a powerful kick caught me mid-charge, sending me sprawling. He raised his war-hammer, the world seeming to slow as he began a devastating swing. His wind up was slow. I smirked, channelling my power for a desperate burst of speed. As I closed the distance, he spat a single word at me: "Nfoma."

I flinched, a primal fear gripping me as I shut my eyes tight, bracing for the agonising pain that had always followed this word. But instead, the world spun as the warhammer connected with me, sending me flying through the air.

Down, down, down I fell, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of colours and pain.

Falling.