Vyra had dashed off to alert their soldiers, and he was surprised to find the enemy’s numbers far fewer than he had expected. Aerith, without a moment’s hesitation, unsheathed his falchion and charged towards the enemy, his red-golden hair streaming behind him like a banner in the wind. Sylas couldn't help but be momentarily captivated by the sight, his gaze drawn to the thin golden rectangle of an earring that danced at Aerith’s ear. Sylas roared, a thunderous sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.

He felt a surge of primal satisfaction, ready to dive into the fray and claim victory. But then Aerith raised his hand, signaling him to stop. Sylas pulled back on his horse’s reins, sliding to a halt with a mix of confusion and disappointment. Why were they retreating? He had been so sure of their strength, his mind already picturing the swift, brutal defeat of their foes. As Aerith turned and sprinted towards the forest, Sylas followed, his thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and doubt. His previous defeat, the cold steel pressing against his neck, haunted him. Had that moment of vulnerability planted a seed of hesitation within him?

The notion gnawed at his pride. They plunged into the forest, the dense canopy swallowing them whole. Sylas sheathed his sword, his movements precise and deliberate. The forest was a maze of shadows and thick underbrush, but both he and Aerith navigated it with practiced ease. The enemy, however, blundered in after them, their pursuit reckless and loud. Sylas could hear their curses and the snapping of branches underfoot. His senses were heightened, every rustle of leaves and distant birdcall amplified in the stillness of the forest.

The disappointment he felt was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on him. He had wanted to prove his strength, to reclaim the sense of invincibility that had been shattered. Instead, they were playing a different game, one of strategy and patience. Aerith’s figure ahead of him was a blur of movement, his confidence evident in every step. Sylas couldn’t help but admire the man’s composure, even as it fueled his own frustration. He wanted to fight, to let loose the storm brewing within him. But for now, he had to trust in Aerith’s plan, whatever it might be.

There was silence until there wasn’t. The first screams sliced through the air as Aerith's soldiers descended upon their enemies like hawks, dispatching them with lethal efficiency. Sylas felt a grim satisfaction watching the chaos unfold. Battle had always been his element, a symphony of violence where he could lose himself. Yet, amidst the frenzy, Aerith halted his horse and approached Sylas with a sense of purpose. "Go and search for the commander. Capture him and abandon the battle to find me," Aerith ordered, his voice cutting through the din. Before Sylas could question him, Aerith spurred his horse away from the battlefield, leaving Sylas momentarily stunned. Where could Aerith be going that was more important than this fight? Frustration bubbled within him, but he had no time to dwell on it.

He turned his horse toward the source of the blood-curdling screams, determined to follow his orders. The forest seemed to close in around him, the path narrowing as dead bodies began to litter the ground. Each corpse was a silent testament to the brutal efficiency of their assault. Sylas pushed forward, his senses heightened, searching for any sign of the commander. He felt a twinge of excitement mixed with anger—how dare Aerith leave him in the dark like this? Finally, he spotted the commander. The man was a hulking figure, his broad shoulders and massive chest reminiscent of a tree trunk. Bushy eyebrows almost obscured his eyes, giving him a menacing, unyielding appearance. He stood alone, as if he were waiting for the fighting to end so he could resume his command.

But this time, the fight had come to him. Sylas grinned, unsheathing his sword with a metallic hiss, but the commander hardly reacted. "Ride into the back to find the weakest, and instead, you come upon the commander," the man sneered, his voice rough and mocking. "Unless you were hunting for me." He laughed, a harsh sound that devolved into a fit of coughing. Sylas ignored the taunts, focusing instead on the task at hand. He kicked his horse into a charge, but the commander dismounted with surprising agility for his size, drawing a brutish, misshapen sword. It looked like it had been forged from the remnants of other weapons, a crude amalgamation of steel honed to a deadly edge.

Sylas leaped from his horse, his swords descending with a thunderous crash. Despite the man's size, he moved with surprising agility, evading the strike and swinging his own sword to meet Sylas’s. Sylas narrowly avoided the blow, his body reacting instinctively. With a fierce determination, he launched a relentless assault, his swords flashing through the air. Their blades met, a clash of steel and raw power, locking them in a battle of strength and will.

"Not bad, old bastard, but your tricks won’t win you a duel here," Sylas sneered, his smile partially obscured by his thick mustache.

"Your swords are a work of art, I must say. I will meld them into mine just the same though," he continued, his voice dripping with confidence. Sylas responded with a cackle, his eyes glinting with fierce determination. In a sudden move, he kicked out, finding the man’s weak point and forcing him to one knee. The man’s sword clattered to the ground. Seizing the moment, Sylas flicked his wrist, aiming for the man’s neck. But the commander flattened himself against the ground, grabbing Sylas’s leg in a desperate counterattack. Before Sylas could react, a vicious twist sent pain shooting through his leg, causing him to stumble. He nearly dropped his sword but held on with a vice-like grip. Kicking out with his other leg, he managed only to strike the man's helmet, his frustration mounting.

Ignoring the pain, he swung his sword with all his might, the blade slicing through the man’s helmet and into his head. A cold dread washed over Sylas as Aerith’s words echoed in his mind: "Bring him back alive." He groaned inwardly, punching the ground in frustration. He turned back to the commander, who lay disturbingly still. Was it just the last twitches of a dying man? No. To Sylas’s horror, the commander began to stand, cackling a ghastly tune. The top of his head was gone, exposing his brains, yet he stood, defying all reason. Sylas’s mind raced. How could this be happening? He had seen many things in battle, but this?

He fought to suppress his revulsion and fear, focusing instead on the impossible task at hand. The commander was a nightmare come to life, a horror that Sylas had to face with every ounce of courage he had left.

"How are you still standing?" Sylas muttered, more to himself than to the abomination before him. The commander’s laughter was a chilling reminder that some battles were fought not just with steel, but with the very essence of one’s sanity.

"No one dies so easily," rasped the man, his voice a grotesque parody of life. With a gruesome determination, he picked up his sword and charged at Sylas again. Sylas blocked the attack, pushing the man away with a snarl of frustration.

"How are you still alive?" Sylas roared, his voice echoing through the forest. The man gave no response, only swinging his sword in another relentless assault. Sylas, irritated and bewildered, deftly weaved around the strike and seized the man's arm. With a brutal tug, he yanked the arm down and shoved his fingers into the exposed brains. The man didn't scream. He didn't roar in pain. He merely stared at Sylas with those vacant, lifeless eyes, a macabre puppet with strings that defied comprehension. Sylas's fingers felt the cold, slick matter within the man's skull, a sensation that sent a shudder of revulsion through him.

How could he be standing, let alone fighting? His mind raced, grappling with the impossibility before him. This wasn’t just a battle of flesh and steel—it was a confrontation with the unnatural. Sylas's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to maintain his composure. The man’s silence, his eerie calmness, was more unnerving than any scream could have been. Sylas tightened his grip, digging deeper into the man's brain.

"Answer me!" he demanded, his voice cracking with a mix of rage and desperation. But the man remained silent, his body merely twitching in response to Sylas's invasion. The absence of pain, of any human reaction, was maddening. Sylas’s thoughts churned. What dark sorcery was at play here? He had seen wounds that should have been fatal, men who should have died, but this was beyond anything he had ever encountered.

The man was a walking corpse, a nightmare made flesh. Determination hardened within Sylas. He couldn’t afford to be paralyzed by fear or confusion. He had to end this, whatever it took. With a roar, he wrenched his fingers free, stepping back to deliver a decisive blow. But even as he moved, the man’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with an iron grip. Sylas stared into the man’s eyes, or what was left of them.

"What are you?" he whispered, more to himself than to the abomination before him. The man's grip tightened, his strength unnaturally powerful for someone who should be dead. Panic clawed at Sylas’s mind, but he pushed it down. He had faced countless foes, survived countless battles. This was just another enemy, no matter how grotesque. Sylas swung his sword not holding back and cleanly shaved the man’s head off and watched it roll on the floor. The man laughed again, spurting out blood.

Sylas stood up and watched the man for a few moments as if expecting him to do something. Maybe grow out his body again but he did nothing of that sort. Feeling slightly relieved he went over to the man and lifted the part of his head that remained. He raised it up to look it in the eyes but he just glowered back at him.

“I’ll remember your face boy. Death won’t be light for you!” He raged about Sylas’s ‘coming’ death. Sylas rolled his eyes and grabbed the shirt under the man’s armor. He ripped it out and shoved it in his mouth so he would stop talking. Sylas placed the man on his horse and sheathed his swords across his back. For a moment Sylas’s eyes hovered over the man’s hideous abomination of a sword but decided against it. The man did gratefully shut up and Sylas mounted his horse getting prepared to head back to Aerith. He kicked his horse and rode through the tight forest trees to where Aerith had exited the forest.

Blind swords swung at Sylas as he navigated the chaotic battlefield, each strike falling short as his comrades deftly intercepted the blows. He heard someone call his name and turned, only to narrowly avoid a sword slicing through the air in front of him. Frustration flared within him as he spurred his horse forward, breaking free from his attackers. He had no idea where to look for Aerith now or how he was supposed to find him. The battlefield was a labyrinth of chaos and death. Sylas slowed his horse, guiding it out of the forest’s dense underbrush, and scanned the landscape for any sign of Aerith.

He sighed heavily, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and frustration. The head of the undead commander hung at his side, its dull eyes staring up at him. Sylas gave it a rough shake, but it hardly reacted. Was it truly dead? Could he ever know for certain? Half of his head had been obliterated, and then he was decapitated—yet he had spoken. How? Sylas scratched his cheek, his mind churning with questions. The gruesome scene replayed in his thoughts. How could the man have survived such injuries? Was it some dark sorcery that reanimated him, or was there another force at play? He had seen many horrors on the battlefield, but this was unlike anything he had ever encountered.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Kor'zil!" The barked name sliced through the dust. Sylas spun in his saddle, disbelief widening his eyes as Aerith materialized from the haze behind him. Sweat slicked Aerith's usually composed face, and a deep crease carved itself between his brows.

"Thought you went west," Sylas managed, his voice hoarse over the desolate landscape. Aerith snatched his horse's reins, his grip surprisingly tight. His emerald eyes, normally cool and assessing, burned with a frantic urgency Sylas had never witnessed.

"Their leader?" Aerith's voice was a low growl. Sylas reached into his satchel, the weight of the unknown clinging to the contents. He produced a strange head. Aerith's face contorted in a snarl hotter than any sun on this unforgiving planet. He ripped the head from Sylas's grasp and flung it aside with a clatter. "Alive!" he roared, the veins in his neck bulging. "I said bring it back whole!" Sylas blinked, unfazed by the outburst.

"It was," Sylas said, his voice flat. "Moments ago." The artifact lay on the barren ground, a silent testament to a forgotten power. Yet, moments before, Sylas could have sworn... Aerith's companions stumbled out of the ruins, faces etched with exhaustion and bewilderment. Marks of their arduous journey marred their bodies. Sylas scanned the group, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. The three leaders – ever boastful, ever arrogant – were absent.

"What do you mean, 'alive'?" Aerith spat, his voice laced with disbelief and a tremor of something primal. Sylas met his gaze, a horrifying truth settling in his gut.

"It just...was. Like nothing could harm it." The words came out hollow, devoid of the terror that had gripped him moments before. Aerith sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes squeezing shut for a fleeting moment. When they opened, they were cold and distant.

"We leave. Now!" The command echoed across the clearing. The remaining companions, their faces etched with a mix of grief and grim determination, began to gather their belongings. No one questioned the order. No one lingered to investigate further. Part of Sylas yearned to ride beside Aerith, to break through the wall that had descended between them. But reason held him back. Instead, he drifted to the side, his gaze sweeping over the strange landscape. Whispers seemed to rise from the dust – a symphony of secrets. Amidst the desolation, a flicker of hope – Vyra. She emerged from the ruins, relatively unscathed, a beacon of determination in the growing mystery. Finally, Sylas spotted them – the three commanders – at the head of the retreating column, arrogant and unscathed.

When they returned to their camp after what seemed like an eternity everyone collapsed into their own little groups again. Sylas once again got off of his own horse and dragged himself back into his own bed, feeling tired and worn out. He placed his curved swords upright again lied down against the ruined walls of the castle. For some odd reason Sylas felt lonelier than he ever had in his life. He’d spent years as a traveler of the world and never felt this lonely in his life. Yet today something felt more different. The sight of those soldiers fighting side by side. Their struggles apparent on their faces, all of them fighting for one reason or another. It affected him more than he realized.

Perhaps it was because Sylas had never actually seen a real relationship. Maybe that was why he felt so affected. He placed a hand over his face. There was no mirror around him so he had no other idea how his face was shaped at that moment. Perhaps he was wondering a little too much. Or maybe it was some other emotion he was unfamiliar with. Sadness? No. Sylas didn’t remember anytime he’d felt sadness because of another person. Maybe one time someone had stolen his game but he got it back after a moment.

“Kor’zil.” Sylas craned his neck over to see who said his name. It was Lancel, one of the commanders in the battle. He appeared to be fine with no cuts on him. Sylas gave him a knitted brow and the man chuckled a little revealing a little fur bag to him that he shook. “May we eat together?” He said, offering a kind smile. Sylas didn’t reject him but nor did he agree yet the man made space for himself right next to Sylas. He took out the food from the bag which was a wheel of cheese and bread. Nothing else.

“Very dry,” Sylas observed wryly, eyeing the food with distaste. Lancel chuckled, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Well, Master Aerith is still waiting for his payments from the Minor King. When that happens, perhaps our tongues will be better satisfied.” Lancel’s eyes remained fixed on the bread as he spoke. He grabbed a piece, pried it open, and placed half a wheel of cheese inside. With a casual grace, he held it out to Sylas, an offering. Sylas stared at the man’s outstretched hand, a rare gesture of camaraderie. How many hands had been offered to him with genuine intent?

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion. Lancel didn’t waver. He extended his hand further until Sylas finally accepted the bread.

“I only wanted to speak to you after the battle. It was your first, and I wanted to know how you were holding up. I hear you fought their commander?” Lancel’s tone was conversational as he made himself a similar bread and cheese sandwich. Sylas nodded slightly.

“Yes, Aerith told me to hunt him down and bring him back alive.”

“And yet, I see no dead body,” Lancel murmured before taking a bite of his bread. Sylas’s gaze darkened, drifting away momentarily.

“Yes, I killed the man,” he admitted, though the words felt hollow. Who would believe him if Aerith didn’t?

“That’s quite alright, I think. Master Aerith will get over it in a day or two. Perhaps there was an extra reward in it, but it’s fine.” Lancel gave him a sly smile. “Master Aerith wouldn’t tell you that because he wouldn’t want you to feel bad for us.”

“Oh, that’s just... quite alright with me,” Sylas murmured, letting his head rest against the cool stone wall. Lancel waved his bread around theatrically before taking another bite.

“I thought you wouldn’t care,” Lancel said, swallowing his mouthful. “You don’t have any reason to, of course, so I cannot resent you for it.” Sylas furrowed his brow, unsure where Lancel was going with this. “You should come down sometime. I know Commander Vyra tries to get you to join us, but you reject her every time. Why is that?” Sylas sighed, contemplating if he should entertain this conversation at such an hour.

“Well, like you said, I don’t have any reason to.” Lancel nodded, seemingly satisfied with the response.

“But how would you get a reason any other way? Or is it just that you do not wish to?” His tone was probing, curious. Sylas took a bite from his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

“Will you bore me anymore?” he asked, groaning slightly. Lancel lifted his hands in a gesture of apology.

“Forgive me. I am only curious and will leave soon.” Sylas’s eyes wandered over the man’s fine clothing, a stark contrast to their surroundings.

“Why is it that you are dressed so well? And why do you have such a nice sword all the way out here?” Sylas asked, mildly curious. Lancel smiled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve explained this tale to someone. I’m glad it was you. Perhaps we will grow closer together?”

Sylas scoffed, not entirely convinced. “Let’s learn, shall we?”

“I’m the son of an ex-king from a king once around these lands, you know,” Lancel began, his voice taking on a darker tone. “One day, everything came crashing down because of another foolish war my father dragged us into.” He paused, eyes distant. “I watched the castle walls crumble before my eyes. I left with only this suit and cutlass, ready to fight my enemies. That’s when I met Master Aerith.” A small smile played on his lips as he closed his eyes, lost in the memory. “His white hair shimmered in the light. His army was smaller then, but he looked no less a king.”

“White hair? He has red hair now,” Sylas pointed out. Lancel shook his head slowly.

“In those days, Master Aerith had white hair. Over time, it turned red. Why? Well, none of us can say.” Sylas shrugged, accepting the answer. “I did love my father and mother,” Lancel continued, his voice softening. “I was devastated to find out they had died.” He let out a bitter laugh, covering his face as if to hide his vulnerability. “If only he hadn’t been so ambitious,” he murmured. Sylas watched him, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t empathize with Lancel’s loss, having never experienced such devastation. All he had were his two blades, and nothing more. Lancel wiped a tear from his eye, his voice becoming hoarse. “I must apologize. I don’t want to be like this in front of you.”

“Doesn’t concern me much,” Sylas said, his tone indifferent, but Lancel seemed to take it as a sign of assurance.

“I thank you. Perhaps I came here to talk to you for myself. Why… I am quite the selfish man, aren’t I?” Lancel mused. Sylas had met selfish men before and didn’t think Lancel fit the mold. “Do you want me to continue, or would you like to rest now?” Lancel asked. Sylas was tempted to end the conversation but his curiosity about Aerith got the better of him, so he nodded. “I’m glad,” Lancel whispered softly. “When I first saw Master Aerith, perched upon his horse so gracefully, I charged at him. But I fell to the ground, too weak. My cutlass slipped from my hands. Yet, he got down from his horse.” Lancel’s hand tightened around his knee, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He picked up my gilded cutlass, placed it back in my hand, and challenged me to a duel, quite similar to you. He laughed suddenly, a bold, hearty sound. ‘If you win, you can kill me, but if you lose, you are sworn to me,’ he said. Well, you can see how that turned out.”

“If you loved your parents so much, why didn’t you kill him?” Sylas asked, his voice curious. Lancel shrugged, looking up at the stars before meeting Sylas’s gaze.

“I think I am an honorable man. Aerith gave me a chance to reclaim my honor and rebuild my life, something my father’s ambition had taken away.” He sighed deeply, a mix of resignation and gratitude. “Sometimes, loyalty is forged in the strangest of fires.” Sylas nodded thoughtfully, understanding a bit more about the man before him, and perhaps even about himself. "And Master Aerith was different. He never showed me the interest he shows for you, yet... you crave that attention from him. He is a man of charm like no other. Like the heroes the bards sing about in songs." Lancel leaned forward, his hand reaching out towards Sylas. It took every muscle in Sylas's body to resist the urge to slap it away. "You are in the midst of a song being sung for the first time, a new bird. Yet you have no idea, my friend." Lancel smiled, pulling his hand back as if finding ease in his presence for the first time. Suddenly, a shriek pierced through the serene sky. Lancel's expression turned somber.

"Who is that?" Sylas asked, not bothering to stand.

"That must’ve been Eleanor, crying for her lover, Robert." Lancel placed a hand over his chest. "Robert was quite badly wounded in the battle. The only one, gratefully, yet..." Sylas couldn’t muster any feelings for the man, nor could he recall any images at the name. Lancel turned to him, seemingly for the final time, since he stood up. "That is why I tell you, friend. Do not waste your time here. Otherwise, you will live to regret never getting to know these people. Robert has left us, yet I assure you, many will as well. Do not let this time of yours go to waste." Lancel didn’t wait for another word from Sylas, only turned and jumped off the platform, walking away.

Sylas snorted, the tasteless bread and cheese crumbling dryly in his mouth as he tossed it over the ruins. A yell erupted from the other side.

"Watch where ya throwin' your trash!" came a snarl. Sylas couldn't summon the energy to offer an apology. "Ah, wait a minute. This ain't no trash! Hah! Seconds for me then, I guess." Sylas could hear the man chewing down ferociously. After he finished, he called out again. "Are ya that new fella that arrived here a while ago?" he asked, punctuating his question with a burp.

"Yeah. What's it to you?" Sylas called back, his tone gruff.

"Oh, nothing, buddy. Just wondering." For a moment, they both lapsed into silence, and Sylas felt the weight of exhaustion settling in. But then the man spoke again. "I'm gonna miss old Robert. He always spoke to me when no one else did. I figure I'll just die now without him." Sylas muttered,

"Oh, is that true now?" "Well, you're here now, and you just shared your food with me, so I guess I won't go anywhere yet," the man replied. Sylas snorted and laughed.

"You keep telling yourself that, old man," he called over to him. There was no response from the other side, just a contented sigh.

"Oh, you young'uns. Let it be my own song, will ya?" the man grunted, muttering something inaudible. "Well, good sleepin's now," he called to Sylas, who grunted, wondering why such a talkative man had never spoken so much before this moment.