As the capital of Amberfell, Amberheart was well-guarded by two military garrisons, each positioned to watch over the city’s vulnerable edges. While the Royal Knights guarded the palace itself, the Eastern and Western garrisons kept a vigilant eye on the city’s periphery, patrolling for threats that might slip past the walls or infiltrate from the edges of the kingdom. In order to implement relative unity among the garrisons, both contained mundane soldiers and Soulweavers from the royal family, the seven elders and the major noble houses in Amberheart. The commanding positions, however, were mostly occupied by either the High Elders’ of the royal family’s factions.
The Western Garrison was led by Commander Quinton Remington, a stalwart Tier 3 Soulweaver from the royal family, known for his sharp tactical sense and unwavering loyalty to the crown. His force was strengthened by his three vice commanders—three Tier 2 Soulweavers and a scattering of company captains who, though mostly Tier 1, with an occasional Tier 2 amidst their ranks.
From his command post, Quinton prided himself on the capital’s defences. Amberheart was no ordinary city; guarded on all fronts, fortified by the best Soulweavers the crown had to offer. But…
Just as Quinton was thinking about Amberheart’s impenetrable defence, a faint tremor rolled through the city, followed by a distant, ominous boom. Commander Quinton Remington, resting in his command post, opened his eyes. His eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze on the thin plume of smoke rising from the heart of Amberheart. He walked outside as the soldiers around him shifted uneasily, hands instinctively going to their weapons. Whispers rippled through the ranks, tinged with fear and a readiness honed by years of service.
Quinton’s expression hardened as a rider approached, his armour splattered with soot, eyes wide with alarm. “Commander, there’s been an explosion—at the palace.”
A murmur of disbelief swept through the gathered troops. Quinton felt the tension pulse spreading outward as if the air were holding its breath. He turned to his three vice commanders, who had each gone silent, their gazes fixed on the column of smoke twisting into the sky. One of them, a sturdy woman with an array of scars marking her hardened face, clenched her jaw. The other two exchanged a grim look, the shadows on their faces deepening with the gravity of what they’d just heard.
Quinton didn’t waste a moment. “Companies one to four with me,” he ordered, voice steady but carrying an edge. “Everyone else, stay alert and defend the Western Gate. We don’t know if this is a diversion, but we’ll be ready for anything.”
The soldiers sprang into motion, armour clinking as they mounted and formed ranks. Quinton’s vice commanders rode beside him, their expressions set, each preparing for what awaited them.
The four companies from the Western Garrison as well as their commanders and vice commanders surged into motion. The rest had been left behind to watch out for external chaos.
The sounds of distant screams and chaos filled the air as they pressed forward, speeding through the winding paths of the noble district. Yet, the area ahead seemed eerily quiet, shrouded in a silence that did nothing to ease the nerves of even the most battle-hardened soldiers. The silence felt unnatural, pressing down on Quinton and his men as they approached the noble district.
Quinton’s mind churned as he surveyed the area. His gaze darted along the cobblestone streets, noting how the usual hum of late-night activity had stilled, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that crawled beneath his skin.
‘This doesn’t feel right,’ he thought, gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched. ‘An explosion at the palace should’ve had every man, woman, and child out in the streets. But there’s no one.’
Quinton dismounted, placing a gloved hand against the cobblestones. As a Tier 3 Soulweaver, he could judge the surrounding area with his soul sense and discover if there really was something wrong, or if it was just his nerves acting up at the wrong time.
With a deep breath, he activated his spirit sense, sending a pulse through the ground, scanning the area just ahead. Quinton stilled, catching a hint of movement in the shadows.
And then his heart dropped abruptly...
“Prepare yourselves!” Quinton barked, the warning slicing through the silence just before the thunderous roar of cannons shattered the calm.
The first wave of cannon fire erupted from hidden alleyways. Soldiers closest to the front lines flew back in grotesque arcs. Sickening thuds echoed as bodies struck the ground, flesh torn by unforgiving metal. Blood sprayed the cobblestones, painting a path of crimson. The air filled with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the powdery stench of burning gunpowder.
The cannons fell silent briefly before the next phase of the ambush unfolded. Massive barrels rolled down the alleys toward the garrison lines, a thick, black oil sloshing from their sides as they tumbled closer. Flames licked out as the barrels hit the open area, igniting the oil in blinding bursts. Walls of fire erupted along the narrow street, catching soldiers in their deadly embrace.
Quinton watched in horror as some of his men fell, their screams swallowed by the roar of the flames. Skin blistered and peeled away from flesh as they staggered, their bodies lit up in brutal, hellish hues.
The acrid smell of burning flesh and melting armour filled the air as if the city itself had become a sacrificial pyre. The flames quickly spread, forcing the survivors to pull back, only for more cannon fire to follow.
Quinton forced himself forward, cutting through the smoke. “No retreat!” he barked, forcing strength into his voice. “We’re the last line standing! We shall bring honour to the Remington crown, even if it means death!”
At this point, he was desperate to keep morale from crumbling entirely. But even as he thought about what to do next, his soul sense flared with an alert as one of his own vice commanders turned on another.
Without warning, his blade flashed in a swift, brutal arc that barely missed his comrade’s neck, only to land on his back. The intended target stumbled back, eyes wide with shock, pain and betrayal, but quickly steadied himself, meeting his former ally’s strike with a defensive blow. They clashed violently, their spirit infused weapons crackling with spiritual energy as sparks flew between them, sending shockwaves through the already reeling soldiers.
Quinton’s heart lurched as he watched a familiar face turn on one of his own. The blade that had once defended the Western Garrison now struck a trusted ally. He had fought with these men; they were supposed to be family. And yet…
The first betrayal rippled through the ranks, and Quinton’s heart sank as he noticed more of his men splintering off. In the haze of smoke, betrayal and confusion, a portion of the soldiers defected, joining the hidden attackers. The mutiny tore at the already fragile structure of Quinton’s forces.
Then came another wave of figures, moving through the fog of smoke and flame with deadly purpose. At the forefront strode Kael Sanguis, adorned in a black garments and wearing a menacing wooden mask that obscured his face. He was followed closely by Bai Lanhua, her elegant features hidden behind a similarly menacing mask. Her loose kimono had been replaced by an equally revealing and enchanting black dress, fashioned in Amberfell’s style. Her supple bosom was in full bloom beneath it, barely hidden by the scant fabric. She had arrived in Amberheart with her mother a few weeks ago to help with her plan with Sullivan.
With them were five Soulweavers, two Tier 3 and three Tier 2, they exuded a cold killing intent that only added to the terror enveloping the soldiers.
Bai Lanhua signalled to one of the Tier 3 Soulweavers with her, a man with harsh, angular features beneath his mask. Without hesitation, the Soulweaver lunged at the last Tier 2 vice commander - the sturdy woman, his aura blazing with lethal energy. The woman barely managed to raise her weapon in time to block the attack, her sword clashing against her assailant’s with a force that sent both staggering back.
Meanwhile, the other masked Soulweavers split off, cutting through the soldiers and the four Tier 1 and Tier 2 Soulweavers with brutal efficiency. Their strikes were precise and unforgiving, severing limbs and spilling blood across the cobblestones. Cries of pain and fear filled the narrow street as the loyalists were systematically slaughtered, one by one.
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Bai Lanhua turned to Kael, her voice low, but deadly. “Leave the remnants to the others,” she said, nodding to the dark shapes that continued their ruthless assault on the garrison. “Commander Quinton deserves a more personal touch.”
Kael’s gaze locked onto Quinton, a cruel glint in his eyes as he nodded. “About time I got my hands on a Remington to kill,” he replied, his voice cold and biting.
Kael’s chilling gaze unnerved Quinton for a second. He smiled dryly. He had a hunch that his opponents were Tier 3 Soulweavers, just like him. He gripped his sword tightly and thought, ‘Ahh… It doesn't seem that I’ll make it out alive,’
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Commander Julius Osborne, a decorated Tier 3 Soulweaver, led the Eastern Garrison’s force steadily through Amberheart’s winding streets, his movements as deliberate and unhurried as ever. Julius was known for his keen soul perception and strategic prowess despite his age. High Elder Marcus Remington had trusted him implicitly, and with a lifetime of service behind him, Julius believed nothing could disrupt his control over the soldiers and his emotions. Until now...
The head of one of his vice commanders, a Tier 2 Soulweaver and a longtime ally, suddenly exploded in a gruesome burst, scattering blood and remnants of flesh across the cobblestones. The soldiers around him froze, stunned, eyes wide as shock painted their faces. Standing in a dark alley, where the surprised soldiers couldn’t see a woman holding a sleek black bow, her fingers still hovering over the string from her fatal shot. She lowered her bow, and the edges of her beautiful lips, which hid behind a wooden mask, curved into a satisfied smile as her icy gaze roamed over the other targets.
“Ambush!” Julius barked, but his voice held more fear than steadiness as he spun around to assess his men’s readiness. As he was about to shout for a defensive formation, horror struck him as one of his vice commanders turned, swinging his weapon savagely at a fellow officer. One by one, other soldiers including some Soulweavers followed, their faces twisting into sneers as they lunged at their former allies, dividing the regiment in a frenzy of betrayal.
Julius’s grip tightened around his rapier, his expression darkening. “Traitors, every one of you! High Elder Marcus will see you hang for this.”
But his words had barely faded when a figure emerged from the shadows of an alley. Kaede Hakirai, her face concealed behind a carved wooden mask, held her bow with a poised stillness. Her graceful kimono, one favoured in the Ryukami continent, was missing; instead, she was dressed in the utilitarian garb of Amberfell—dark, close-fitting layers designed for swift movement and concealment.
Beside her stood Kie Takahara, similarly clad, a sinister smirk barely visible beneath her own mask. She surveyed the wreckage with a casual amusement that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Beneath the detached gaze lingered something else—a bitterness, perhaps, or a reluctant acceptance of the carnage before them.
The commanders and their vices were fair targets, their loyalty unwavering to the very end. But the common soldiers, and even some of the Soulweavers—they hadn’t deserved this slaughter. Yet if vengeance was the goal, it demanded ruthless action. Moral hesitation held no place here; loyalty to the wrong masters had sealed their fates.
There were four other Soulweavers with them, all Tier 2s. They quickly joined the battle against the soldiers and the lingering Soulweavers while Kie and Kaede glared at Julius to keep him from joining the fray.
Maybe to distract herself from her sudden thoughts, Kie leaned toward Kaede with a casual smirk. “My dear Kaede,” Kie drawled, her tone as sweet as honey. “Care for a wager? First one to kill the old man wins.”
Kaede shot her a sidelong glare, her voice low and curt. “He won’t last long enough for it to be interesting.”
“Maybe you’re right, or maybe you’re scared of losing,” Kie taunted, letting her words linger in the air.
Kaede’s grip tightened on her bow. Just as she wanted to retort. Julius interrupted her.
His voice boomed out, carrying above the din of battle. “You think you can walk into my city and slaughter my men?” His gaze bore into Kie and Kaede, a mixture of disdain and fury burning in his eyes. “You filthy little whores!”
Kaede’s eyes narrowed behind her mask, a frown hidden beneath its carved facade. She sighed, the sound low and ominous. With deliberate slowness, she set her bow down at her feet, letting her fingers linger on it as if bidding a temporary farewell to the patient weapon. Straightening, she reached into her garments and withdrew two black, lusterless blades, each honed to a lethal edge.
Without turning her gaze from the man, she addressed Kie in a voice as cold as iron. “We’ll kill this one slow.”
Kie laughed coldly and shrugged, “Yeah… he needs to be taught some manners.” With that, she lunged at the old man with her spirit infused blade.
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The royal castle had become a hellscape. Flames devoured every corner, thickening the air with acrid smoke as desperate screams ricocheted through blood-slick corridors. Bodies lay strewn across the stone floors, some charred beyond recognition, others slashed by merciless blades. Guards, servants, and courtiers alike scattered in every direction, trying to escape the blazing inferno, but the exits were blocked.
Three masked figures in dark robes blocked the exits, each exuding a chilling calm. One—a hulking man with dual sickles—stood silent, his gaze slicing through the fleeing crowd. Beside him, a wiry man held a glaive, its edge shimmering like molten amber, and the third—a lithe woman—moved with deadly elegance, the twin scythes in her hands slicing the air in mesmerising arcs.
If Silas, Rowan, and Layla had been there, they would have instantly recognized the three from the ambush in Amberwood Grove. But here, facing off against wave after wave of royal knights and Soulweavers, they were undeniably stronger, their movements more precise, their power more daunting. The attackers seemed content to hold the palace under siege, cutting down anyone attempting to flee but making no move to advance deeper into the castle.
In the heart of the chaos, Crown Prince Edward fought to keep his composure. He was sheltered behind a ring of royal knights and a scattering of Soulweavers, all of whom barely held their ground under the relentless assault. Edward’s face was pale, his jaw clenched as he scanned the smoke-filled corridors, desperate for a sign of his parents.
“Where are they?” Edward roared, grabbing a nearby guard by the shoulder and shaking him. “Where the hell are my father and mother?”
The guard’s voice wavered. “The Queen ordered us to ensure your safety, Your Highness! The King’s instructions were to prioritise—”
“How are you supposed to ensure anything against them?” Edward interrupted, pointing a shaking finger toward the attacking trio outside.
“Do you not understand who they are, fool? They’re Tier 5 Soulweavers! Tier 5! Only my father or High Elder Marcus Remington could hope to face them!” He turned away, muttering to himself in disbelief.
Edward’s mind raced, panic creeping in around the edges. The defenders were crumbling fast, and unless they could mount a counterattack, the entire royal family was doomed. He bit down hard on his lip until he tasted blood, then shot a cold, calculating look at one of his senior aides.
“Go. Capture as many servants as you can find and bring them here immediately,” he commanded, his tone ice-cold.
The aide hesitated, glancing at Edward with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Your Highness, summoning the Guardian without the King’s explicit order—”
Edward grabbed the man by his collar, his eyes burning with fury. “Father isn’t here, is he?! Do you think we have time for this bullshit? Summoning the Guardian is our only chance! Now move!”
The aide swallowed, his reluctance clear, but with a stiff nod, he turned and bolted deeper into the palace, rounding up a small group of men and instructing them to bring any remaining servants they could find.
As the minutes ticked by, Edward’s heart pounded. The prospect of summoning the Guardian, a being of ancient legend bound to protect the royal bloodline, sent a chill through him—but he knew the cost. The ritual demanded human life to fuel the Guardian’s spirit, a sacrifice that could spell doom for anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. He didn’t care about the pathetic life of the servants; they should be honoured to die for him. However, he would need to be careful when conducting the ritual lest he lose his own life.
His heartbeat steadied, shifting from fear to a darker, seething anticipation as his confidence grew. The thought of summoning the Guardian sent a thrill through him. Not only would it rid him of the intruders, but it would establish him as a hero among his people—a warrior prince who, in the face of insurmountable odds, had brought forth the continent’s ancient protector to vanquish its enemies. The people would revere him. They would speak of his bravery, his cunning, and his strength.
In his mind, he could already see himself returning to his quarters amid cheers and praise, his name whispered in awe. It would cement his reputation as the strongest prince in generations, a legend born of fire and blood. He could cement his position as the next ruler of Amberfell. His younger brother would forever be left in his shadow, with no chance of making a comeback...
Next, his eyes drifted over the chaotic battlefield, landing on the woman with the twin scythes and her lithe, perfect body. Her movement was quick and ruthless, each swing a deadly arc of precision. But Edward didn’t see the lethal figure that had struck terror into the castle guards. He saw a prize—a future conquest.
He watched her with a chilling possessiveness, imagining her subdued, no longer wielding scythes but grovelling before him, forced into submission by his will. A wicked smile played at his lips as he indulged in his vision: she would be a prized addition to his collection, a rare, fiery creature brought low beneath his crotch. He relished the thought of her proud spirit crushed, her strength broken, until she begged on her knees, obedient to his every desire. She would serve him with desperation in her eyes, her rage extinguished beneath his control...
‘And slowly, she’ll learn to like it,’ the crown prince cackled madly.
“Bring it on, bastards,” he sneered, fingers tracing his sword hilt as he savoured the promise of revenge. By the end of the night, they would kneel or fall, and his enemies’ humiliation would be complete."