Sylas trudged through the unforgiving expanse of the Shattered Lands. Reeds, as tall as a man and sharp as knives, sliced at his worn cloak with every step. The relentless sun beat down, turning his throat to sandpaper and his vision hazy. He squinted at the endless green horizon, a monotonous tapestry that seemed to mock him with its lack of direction. The first year had been a desperate scramble for survival. Hunger gnawed at his belly, a constant companion. Every rustle in the reeds sent a jolt of fear through him, the only company these whispering stalks and the occasional scavenger scuttling on its many limbs.

But slowly, as time went on in the reeds, a strange resilience bloomed within him. He learned to read the subtle whispers of the wind, to find hidden pockets of rainwater and the occasional scuttling lizard. Now, in the second year of his exile, a grudging respect had formed between him and the Shattered Lands. He’d discovered a twisted beauty in this almost desert, a solace in the endless expanse of sky. At night, under a canopy of countless stars, he’d sit by his crackling fire, a solitary ember in the vastness.

He’d trace constellations unseen from his old life, wondering what secrets they held. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a glint of metal in the distance. His heart hammered against his ribs. Was it another scavenger, or perhaps something… else?

Sylas kicked dirt over the fire and walked over to where his two curved greatswords stood slammed into the ground. Their runes seemed to shine underneath the moon light with the fur connected at the edge between the hilt and blade letting off an iridescent gray light as well. He carefully lifted his blades one on each hand and walked to where he had seen the metal. Sylas cursed under his breath. Sellswords. He'd been careful to avoid them, clinging to the desolate stretches of the Shattered Lands where even scavengers wouldn't dare.

Now, the stench of cooking meat and the raucous laughter of men shattered the silence. He crept deeper into the reeds, the sharp stalks whispering against his cloak. Panic clawed at his throat. How had he missed their camp? Was it the false comfort of familiarity that clouded his senses? Suddenly, a figure loomed before him. Before the man could speak, Sylas lashed out with his swords. A spray of crimson stained the reeds as the man crumpled to the ground, his eyes wide with betrayal. A guttural roar erupted behind him.

Sylas spun, heart hammering against his ribs. The camp was in chaos, sellswords scrambling for their weapons. He didn't wait. Spittle flew from his lips as he tore through the reeds, the sharp edges slicing at his exposed skin. He ignored the pain, the desperate need to escape driving him forward. He burst into his makeshift camp, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He gripped his swords, their familiar weight a small comfort in the face of overwhelming odds. But the figures emerging from the reeds weren't the hardened sellswords he'd expected. He saw boys who seemed to barely be past their namedays and a girl who looked like she couldn’t be older than sixteen.

The ragged children, barely past their teens, surrounded him, their makeshift swords held high. One, his face a web of scars, a single black eye staring accusingly at Sylas, grinned with a malice that sent shivers down the sellsword's spine.

"Our leader wants you," he rasped, his voice raw like a crow's. "And what Aerith wants, Aerith gets." The air hung heavy with the stench of woodsmoke and fear, a stark contrast to the clean, harsh winds of the open Shattered Lands. Sylas cursed himself. These weren't hardened sellswords, but barely more than children, their fear a tangible presence in the air. But their leader, this 'Aerith,' who was he?

"Tell your leader I have no quarrel with him," Sylas said, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of caution. "Let me pass, and there will be no bloodshed." They exchanged nervous glances, the bravado fading from their faces. The girl, the one with the sensible eyes, rolled her own when the man with the missing eye launched into a boastful speech about their skills.

"Aerith will deal with this," she said, her voice small but firm. The one-eyed boy hissed at her, his pride wounded. "We'll handle him. Let him see what we can do!" His voice held an edge of desperation that made Sylas narrow his eyes. These weren't soldiers, but a ragtag band led by someone called Aerith. Realizing these people barely his own age weren’t going to leave him so easily he dashed forward faster than the blink of an eye and brought down his swords again, beheading the one eyed man in an instant.

“You bastard!” The one with the stupid haircut screamed. Sylas spun out of his reach and instead caught his blade with his own and slammed him down onto the floor. Sylas stepped on the person’s face and turned to the others. He realized in the moment of frey the girl had run off, probably to go get this man Aerith but Sylas feared him none. They all looked at him worry etched in their features. One of them dropped their sword and cried out falling on his knees.

Pathetic.

Amused, Sylas lifted his sword, drawing it over the neck of the person he stepped on. He heard them whimper and when he brought his sword down on him he knew he never would again. One of the men fainted at the sight. Sylas felt almost guilty about what he had done. These were hardly men who had seen battles. These were at most orphans grouped together by foolishness most likely caused by that man Aerith who was using them. Life could be so unfair sometimes it felt heavy on Sylas’s heart.

“My friend, may you lower your sword?” Sylas lashed out at the man immediately, not listening to him. He didn’t understand how he had appeared beside him so quietly uncaught by Sylas’s honed senses and he didn’t want to pay a price to know. He brought his swords from either side of the man but he easily jumped up using Sylas’s sword to launch himself to the other side to safety. The man had long red hair with matching blood red eyes. A streak of white went through his hair and he couldn’t understand if it were from age or terrible hair choice.

A single look on his face though made him understand this person was hardly older than Sylas. Maybe younger. He had handsome features and his clothes seemed to be better than the people around him. He gave Sylas a charming smile holding out his hand.

“I am Aerith, captain of this sellsword company you’re defacing,” the man rumbled. His voice was smooth as oiled leather, but Sylas glimpsed steel beneath, the glint of a well-honed threat. Sylas ignored the hand offered in greeting, a snort escaping his lips.

"Tell your bloody fools not to tangle with a viper, or it'll be the last dance they ever take." He kept his gaze locked on the man, searching for any sign of weakness. Aerith chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Sylas' spine despite the desert heat.

"Why such haste, friend? Can't a warrior enjoy the moonlight with another? Share a flagon of wine, perhaps?" His eyes, impossibly blue under the twin moons, held a gleam that flickered between amusement and something more dangerous. Sylas scoffed.

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"Tea and gossip with a stranger under your damned stars? I wouldn't be caught dead with a spindle, never mind a cup." The amusement in Aerith's eyes vanished like a snuffed candle but only for a moment making Sylas second-guess himself. A faint scar, pale as moonlight, traced a jagged line across his cheek.

"Think not of it as weakness, friend," he said, his voice straining kindness. "A seasoned warrior knows when to choose his battles." He gestured with a languid grace that belied the brutal falchion strapped at his hip. Sylas spat on the sand.

"Some warriors trust no one, not even the ground they walk on. Out here, in this wasteland where the very reeds cut, a blade finds its sheath only over a dead man's chest." A low growl rumbled from one of the sellswords.

"Aerith, be careful." Sylas saw a flicker of something cold in the man's eyes before he turned on his own underling. A swift, practiced motion – and a strangled gasp on all of them. All of his aggressors crumpled, hands reaching for the bloody gash at their throats. Just as the girl arrived seeming to have their whole camp at her back. They watched, faces grim and unreadable. Aerith clapped his hands, a chillingly casual gesture.

"A wise reminder, friend," he said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "The weak cling to life with desperate fingers, but strength demands a sharper edge.." He approached Sylas, hand outstretched once more. "Forgive my oversight. You never introduced yourself." The smile on Aerith's face seemed genuine, yet Sylas couldn't shake the memory of the slain man's lifeless eyes.

"No name," he lied, meeting the leader's gaze. Aerith's eyes narrowed for a fleeting moment, then a shrug. "Then a name you shall have, if you choose to join me." A ripple of amusement passed through the crowd of sellswords, some hands tightening on sword hilts. Aerith held up a hand, silencing them. "Respect is not a coin to be demanded," he said, his voice low. "It's earned, a lesson learned through blood and hardship. A lesson that brought me to lead this company." Sylas felt a surge of anger.

"I have no interest in your coin or your company. I fight for myself, not with a pack at my back. I have never needed one and I never will." He lunged forward, blade flashing, but Aerith danced away with a laugh, a predator toying with its prey. The man's smile turned cold, a cunning glint replacing the charm in his eyes.

"There's always a bigger fish, is that what you want to hear?" The moonlight seemed to intensify around him, glinting off his pupils like twin flames. Sylas felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. No one had ever bested him in speed, not yet. He wouldn't be here, whole and undefeated, if they had. A flicker of shame sparked in his gut, and he steeled himself, shoving down any sliver of respect that threatened to rise. "Prove yourself," the man challenged, his voice warm. "Best me, and you walk away. Lose..." He leaned closer, the fire in his eyes so wild he thought it might burn him. "You'll serve as my blade, an extension of my will." Sylas understood the man's magnetism. He saw it in the way the sellswords hung on his every word. A smirk twisted his lips. With a clatter that echoed in the tense silence, he slammed his swords hilt-deep into the ground. The challenge had been laid down.

A grudging respect flickered in Sylas' eyes as he met Aerith's gaze. This man was unlike any opponent he'd faced. He gripped Aerith's hand in a firm shake, accepting his proposal.

"Vyla," Aerith called out, his voice steady. "See to the duel." Vyla acknowledged him with a curt nod, her green eyes lingering on Sylas for a moment. Was that a flicker of sympathy he saw there? Aerith strode to the opposite side of the clearing, mirrored by Sylas. Confidence radiated from him, fueled by countless past victories. He'd seen more battles than he could count, felt the sting of steel more times than he cared to remember. This wouldn't be different.

Aerith drew his falchion, the moonlight seemingly trapped within its polished surface. The metal itself was a curiosity – unlike anything Sylas had encountered before. Thin, almost delicate, yet he knew a skilled warrior wouldn't choose a weapon that would break easily. Aerith was a puzzle, a cold calculation wrapped in an aura of charisma. But brute strength would prevail. One swing of his own blade could shatter that fancy weapon, maybe even end the fight then and there. Vyla's voice cut through the tension.

"Ready yourselves." Her hand rose, then fell with a decisive snap. The duel had begun.

Aerith was a blur of motion, his speed defying what Sylas thought possible. A frustrated snarl escaped Sylas' lips as his attack landed on empty air. He spun, blades flashing, but Aerith was already gone, leaping over him with an almost inhuman agility. A searing pain erupted across Sylas' cheek.

He hadn't felt the sting of a blade in years, and the sight of his own blood sent a surge of primal anger coursing through him. He slammed his swords into the ground, using the leverage to launch a spinning kick aimed at Aerith's face. The kick missed by a hair's breadth, and with a frustrated roar, Sylas brought his swords crashing down. T

hey met only empty ground. Aerith reappeared like a phantom, his blade flashing towards Sylas' throat. This time, Sylas barely managed to deflect it. Another desperate kick, another dodge. He lunged forward, swords outstretched, only to find Aerith a step ahead. Landing in a roll, Sylas acknowledged the gnawing truth. Anger clouded his judgment, making him predictable. He had to regain control.

Aerith, a smirk playing on his lips, found himself toe-to-toe with Sylas' massive swords. He tapped the hilt of one with a casual flick of his fingers.

"An impressive weapon," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement. The touch ignited a fresh wave of fury in Sylas. With a roar that shook the very ground, he launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, his movements faster than ever before. Yet, Aerith weaved through the onslaught with effortless grace, dodging every blow without breaking a sweat. Sylas' rage, however, proved to be his undoing. Blinded by anger, he left himself open. Aerith didn't need a killing blow. A swift foot swept out from under Sylas, sending him crashing to the ground. Before Sylas could scramble back up, the cold press of steel found its mark at his throat. The fight was over.

Sylas spat a curse under his breath as cheers erupted around him. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew resistance was pointless. He was bound to this man's company, for better or worse. Vyla's declaration of Aerith's victory grated on him, a reminder of his own shortcomings. He'd never lost before. Never. Aerith sheathed his sword and offered a hand to help Sylas rise. Taking the hand of an opponent was a foreign gesture, a sign of begrudging respect. Years of self-reliance had hardened him, but facing this man, a strange vulnerability surfaced. There was something about Aerith, perhaps his confidence or his easy smile. It drew people in, even a hardened warrior like Sylas. A flicker of amusement, not mockery,for the battle danced in Aerith's eyes. And for the first time in a long time, Sylas found himself returning the smile. The anger that had consumed him moments ago started to ebb away.

Aerith's smile widened, infectious as ever. "You'll join us, then? Ride by my side. You've piqued my interest, a feat not many achieve." He placed a hand on Sylas' shoulder, and this time, Sylas didn't flinch.

"Perhaps," Sylas conceded, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Seems I have little choice at the moment." Aerith barked a laugh, a booming sound that echoed across the clearing. He turned and called out to Vyra.

"Find our newfound friend a worthy steed, Vyra. No more shall he wear out his boots!" Vyra acknowledged the order with a curt nod and disappeared into the bustle of the camp. Aerith gestured towards a nearby group of sellswords. "Let them take care of your blades for now," he said. “You no longer must carry them in your arms, for now, you have a pack at your back, friend." Aerith placed an arm around Sylas' shoulder, a gesture that felt oddly familiar despite the circumstances.

As they began to walk, Aerith's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ah, yes, your name. I promised you one, didn't I? Well, from this day forward, you shall be known as Kor'zil.” The name sounded odd to Sylas but he didn’t mind. It warmed his heart in fact, to hear his new name. He liked it, he decided.