Gabriel awoke on a bedroll inside a spacious tent, the air thick with the sounds of agony from those around him. Struggling to sit up, he winced at the sharp pain radiating through his own body. He surveyed the scene through blurry eyes—a makeshift infirmary awash in a sea of blood. Glancing down, he found himself surprisingly free of wounds, yet each breath felt like a knife piercing his lungs. We won, he thought. I’m still alive. But as his gaze swept across the tent, he realized this was no victory.
He stood gingerly, each movement exacerbating the pain in his chest and abdomen. “You're awake,” a nearby soldier said. “How do you feel?”
“I'm alright,” Gabriel responded, as if convincing himself. “My chest hurts, everything hurts, but I'm alright.”
“You got some bruising on your chest, but there ain't nothin’ broken, lad,” the soldier said. “You were out cold, having a right good sleep. You should have been up hours ago, you lazy bugger.” The man's chuckle seemed incongruous, a jarring contrast to the grim environment.
The mystical force he'd tapped into had drained him, a sensation he was all too familiar with. “Can I get water and food?” he rasped, his hunger as overpowering as it had been during his escape from Accamania.
“The pup wants me to fetch him some food now,” the soldier chuckled to himself. “Have a seat, boyo; I'll get you somethin’.” There was something strangely comforting about the man’s nonchalance in the face of such devastation.
Gabriel carefully unclasped his necklace, his fingertips lingering over the intricate metalwork. Why would a follower of Ash possess the same metal? What is its significance? How could this black metal turn to white? He was lost in the questions that plagued his mind.
Though he was thankful, he had been able to help his friends, something had felt inherently wrong, evil, when wielding the power. Am I one of Ash's chosen? Why do I have these powers? More lives would have been lost if it wasn’t for his magic, but the unease persisted. All his life, he had been taught that magic was an evil force. Memories of the last sermon he'd attended flashed through his mind. While one part of him trembled at the untamed power he now possessed, another part urged him to master it, to utilize it for the greater good. Someone needed to stand against these sorcerers. So, I will.
His thoughts drifted back to the battle, to the despair he'd felt as the Paresh charged the company, to how time seemed to freeze as he clutched his necklace metal. What happened with the battle? What had happened to Atlas, Olof, and Avis?
Growing restless, he searched the infirmary for Avis. Before he could find him, the soldier reappeared. “Now, where do you think you’re going?”
“Avis. Is he here?” Gabriel's voice tinged with urgency.
Handing Gabriel some bread and water, the soldier watched him as he drank voraciously and tear the bread with equal enthusiasm. “Where's Avis?” Gabriel repeated.
“Follow me,” the soldier finally said.
Gabriel moved through the tent, his eyes taking in the chaotic ballet of medical triage. Soldiers were diligently tending to their fallen comrades. They pressed cloths against gashes, trying desperately to stem the tide of crimson. A man clenched his teeth as another soldier splinted his mangled arm; a medic used heated metal to cauterize a wound, filling the air with the acrid smell of burnt flesh. The atmosphere was thick with a coppery tang, a scent that had become unsettlingly familiar to Gabriel.
When he reached Avis, his heart sank. His friend lay unconscious with a bandage wound tightly around his left leg, extending all the way to his inner thigh. The fabric of the bandage was already turning a troubling shade, as though the wound beneath it was a dark secret threatening to spread.
“How bad is it?” Gabriel asked.
“He’s lucky. The other poor bastards who got burned had their limbs cut off.”
Memories of the flames flickering at the Sorcerer’s fingertips resurfaced in Gabriel's mind. If only I could have done more. An unfathomable darkness consumed him. The Sorcerer may be dead, but they all need to pay—every last one of them.
The soldier seemed to notice the change in his demeanor, laying a hand gently on Gabriel's shoulder. Startled, Gabriel recoiled from the touch. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” the soldier said. “You good, lad?”
“I’m fine,” Gabriel replied, attempting to shake off the unsettling feelings. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.” What’s happening to me? “How can I assist with the wounded?”
“Rest, lad. You need it. We've got things under control here.”
An internal conflict waged within Gabriel. He yearned to assist, yet he also felt an overpowering urge to distance himself from the visceral panorama of suffering.
With a nod to the soldier, Gabriel exited the infirmary. His body screamed in protest as he hastened his pace, eager to escape the haunting echo of agonized cries. Finally, he pushed the heavy tent flap aside and stepped into the outside world.
Around him, the camp was a hive of activity. Men bustled with purpose, each absorbed in a myriad of tasks. Drawn towards the sanctuary of solitude, Gabriel headed for the sleeping tent. As he approached, Atlas and Olof caught sight of him. Olof gave Gabriel a deep nod. It was the most significant acknowledgment he'd ever received from the stoic warrior.
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Atlas, however, crossed the distance in a few strides and enveloped Gabriel in a warm hug, causing him to wince. “You stupid, brave, idiotic fool.”
“I couldn't just stand idly by.”
“You saved us, Little Wolf.”
Gabriel raised both brows in confusion.
“When the rest of us were down, you faced the onslaught of two Paresh head-on. You protected your pack, snapping at their heels. I don’t know how you did it. But we are glad you joined us.”
Despite the praise, Gabriel felt no triumph, only a heavy burden. He couldn’t celebrate, not when so many were hurt. “How many did we lose?” he asked, his voice hushed.
Atlas hesitated before answering. “Too many. We lost three hundred men. Another two hundred are injured, and half of them won't survive the week—or will never be able to fight again.”
Gabriel was shocked. So many dead. The loss was staggering, almost incomprehensible. The dark thoughts he had experienced earlier intensified to an almost terrifying degree. They must all be killed, and I’ll kill them myself. The notion consumed him, pulsing through him with a chilling resolve. He pictured his dagger held firmly within his palm as the steel tip dripped with the blood of Pareshi. He felt his lips tugging involuntarily at the thought.
After exchanging a few more words with Atlas, Gabriel yearned for the respite of solitude. He could have stayed and lent a hand, but the emotional weight was too much. He felt like there was an invisible hand pressing down on him. His spirit felt frayed, spent.
With a last nod to Atlas, he retreated to his tent. Once inside, he let the flap fall behind him, sealing himself from the outside world. For the first time since the harrowing events in the forest, Gabriel broke down and cried. His tears were for the fallen, and perhaps a little for himself—a release of all the tension, grief, and bottled-up anger he had been carrying. In that moment, he allowed himself the fragile luxury of sorrow—a lone figure weeping in the silent gloom.
Gabriel stood, wiping the fallen tears off his face. The weight of his grief was like a heavy cloak upon his shoulders. With deliberate motions, he wiped away the tears that had escaped his control, his hands rough against his skin, abrasive like the reality he faced. His eyes were scrubbed furiously, as if he could erase the images that haunted him with each blink. Hours had trickled by—an eternity and yet a mere moment—since he had first sought solace in the solitude of the tent.
Now, as he pushed the flap aside, his hope for a semblance of the calm that once defined his world was met with disappointment. The camp was still a living organism of chaos, with troops in frenetic motion, their purposeful strides carving paths of urgency in the dirt.
With a heavy heart, Gabriel navigated through the sea of soldiers, an island of solitude in their midst. He wandered back to the battlefield—a place he knew he should avoid, yet was drawn to as if by a siren's call. He had to see it, to bear witness to the sorcerer's fate. The Balatians, bound by superstition, would not have touched the sorcerer for fear of curses; they would leave him to the desolation of the crows until nothing but bleached bones remained. Yet Gabriel was compelled to go.
The battlefield greeted him with a brutal testament to the conflict: the earth was scarred, blackened by fire, the grass was a grotesque tapestry, soaked with the crimson of fallen warriors. Broken arrows were scattered like forsaken memories over the bloodied ground. Nearing the horizon, a plume of smoke rose from what had been a funeral pyre, its flames long extinguished. The remains of the vanquished lay in a grotesque heap, charred and indistinguishable, a macabre monument to the day's horror. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Gabriel was instead assaulted by the acrid tang of blood and decay. It was overwhelming, the stark reminder of taste and smell so vivid that it bordered on memory. He fell to his knees, enveloped by an unsettling emptiness. These were his enemies. The Paresh had killed so many. He had thought he would feel a righteous pain, a confirmation of his humanity, a sense of justice in their demise. But as he stared, there was only the chilling desire for more—the primal satisfaction of the conqueror, the dark wish to have slain more of the foe. What have I become?
Rising slowly, Gabriel accepted the stains on his clothing—the soot, the blood—as indelible marks of his experience. Some stains, he knew, would never wash away. His movements were a shadow of the battle's choreography, each step a replay of carnage and survival. He wandered until he found it, the untouched corpse amidst the desolation, just as he anticipated.
The sorcerer lay beneath the gray sky, impaled by a spear that bore the regiment’s standard—a pair of black swords crossed on a white field, the starkness of the emblem a vivid contrast against the muted colors of death. His visage was partially obscured by elaborate golden jewelry and armor, his tanned skin darker than the Balatians', hair black and shoulder-length, marred by the tale of old burns on one side of his face.
The sorcerer's stiffened fingers were still encircled by black metal rings. Symbols of power that Gabriel sought, yet dreaded. He needed to harness more strength, yet the prospect of looting the dead twisted his insides. It was an act tainted with an unease that clawed at him. The sorcerer had killed so many, but what Gabriel was planning to do now felt like a transgression of a different, darker sort. Could the rings be cursed? Such thoughts plagued him, for the magic they bore was a mystery, its consequences unknown and potentially dire. Yet, his thirst for understanding, for power, nudged his reservations aside.
Gabriel crouched low, his shirt pulled over his nose in a vain attempt to shield himself from the reek of death that clung to the fallen sorcerer. With a hesitant touch, he pried two rings from each lifeless hand, their weight settling in his palm like a verdict. The metal was a visual echo of his necklace, absorbing light in a greedy, almost sentient manner. The rings were of a simple make—two plain bands and two with a curious signet shaped like a triangle—lacking the elaborate artistry of the jewelry that graced his own body.
Yet, there was an alien quality to these rings—a coldness that defied the ambient warmth of the battlefield. They seemed to leech the heat from his skin, leaving a stinging sensation as if they bore the frost of the grave itself. A chill spread through Gabriel, an inward seeping cold that felt as if it were leeching his very life essence. This was no mere physical reaction; it was as if the rings carried with them an aura of death, an imprint of the sorcerer's last, desperate moments.
Abruptly, a sense of wrongness overwhelmed him, a profound and instinctive repulsion. Without fully understanding his own actions, Gabriel cast the rings to the ground. His boot ground them into the soil, an act of rejection, of separation. He couldn't articulate the reason, yet a primal part of him demanded distance from the malevolent chill. He clasped his necklace, the familiar contours offering a silent reassurance, a connection to a power that was his own. As he gripped the talisman, warmth seeped back into his being, the unnatural cold retreating, banished by the touch of something known, something that was a part of him. In that moment, Gabriel understood that some powers were better left buried, and the line between seeking strength and succumbing to darkness was perilously thin.