The tight-quartered outposts smelt of old soot, herbs, and spoiled blood. Kiran worked tirelessly, tending to his brother’s wounds.

Cleaning and bandaging them, stopping them from festering. The outpost was barren in supplies, only holding aged rations and rusted Ordinary blades, which once again reminded him of how remote of a mountain this was…

It was on the northeastern boundaries of their land, nearly sharing a border with the Outer Valleys, but far from where the wars were fought against the Tailed Brothers.

There were thick outgrowths of forestry, and a treeline rich in Ordinary herbs. Tonight, his yields concocted a familiar blend, easing his brother’s pain.

He had a vast selection to choose and pick from, but it seemed this particular mix eased the pained face of Osias the most, so he’ll continue to make it.

But he had problems, many pressing problems.

First was that there was a limit in treating Osias with such methods. Ordinary herbs cannot completely heal him. Osias needed a proper healer, a Path Finder of the First Ordeal would suffice.

The second problem he had to solve was the matter of their escape. He had a choice. He was told to head far North and seek refuge in the lands under the Northern Wind Union. That was what Garm imparted him with before their embarkment. They had no place here, the Tailed Brothers wouldn’t allow that. Even if the Tailed Brothers had no information about them, it only took one mistake to reveal themselves.

They cannot live their entire lives scouring the south for refuge.

So he had a choice — to traverse north through the inlands… or the Outer Valleys, the land beyond the reach of the Three Factions.

Kiran just frowned at the plights that lay ahead.

Through the inland, he’ll have to find a healer — also disguising themselves, something difficult with their outstanding appearances. Then they’ll travel north through many borders and fortresses, undoubtedly manned by Path Finders, many of whom were much stronger than him.

Vexing, it was…

‘There’s also that story of a time’s past…’ He thought as he considered the latter option.

The flickering flames from an oil lantern cast dancing shadows upon Kiran's weathered face — he was opposed to an open fire tonight.

Against this dim light, both the scars of battle and the rugged wear etched by his time spent groomed as a successor were revealed, an aged look beyond his years plastered on his body.

His rough-hewn hands moved with an unexpected grace as he unwound the previous day’s bandages around Osias's forearm — the limb he was least worried about as he lowered his gaze to his brother’s legs.

"Stay still, Osias," Kiran murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Three days have passed since their… assimilation. Osias was still unresponsive. Yet the pain emanating from his wounds caused his body to occasionally grimace and writhe, jolts that misled Kiran into believing he was to awake soon.

He’ll come around though, Kiran stubbornly convinced himself as he recalled the assimilation.

For the body and mind to so earnestly reject something etched into their skin — something so foul and profane… It was only natural for the mind to fall.

Even more so, it was the Garm himself who performed both the tattoo and the ritual. His methods were cruel as they were effective. The Red Sky was a band of mercenaries, after all. Bringers of war and death in the wastelands they call home. The land demanded conflict. There were only so many resources and land to share. Engrossed in strife, the Red Sky fought many battles to claim their mountains.

Their valleys.

Their home.

Men support their families and the rest of the band through violence and death. The love and attachment in their hearts only hold true for their own, anyone else is only worth as much as the fuel for their Path. And Kiran was hailed as a talent within such a band.

So much so that the boy infront of him was still alive because of Kiran’s behest.

It was amusing in a way — the very reason that Osias was in this state was a great part of why he still lived even after the inheritance.

Osias’s essence reservoir was greater than most at his age as well as his body in more ways than just strength. Kiran has yet to feed him, nor provide water, yet he still lives… Such was the Path of Blood.

Suddenly a little somber, Kiran slowly looked around the outpost as he worked.

It was underdeveloped and tight in its confines. Though it was reasonable in its scarceness, the Red Sky has expanded hastily in recent years. What use would it be to arm a remote outpost? They fought tirelessly, enough to carve their own seat atop the Wailing Chain, mounting everything upon this expansion. Another blade in the hands of a warrior was more fruitful than arming this place. Even as everything descended into chaos, they took advantage of it.

However, it didn’t matter anymore — the band had fallen.

But it made him think… just what if an alliance between the Three Factions hadn’t formed?

Would the band still live? He wouldn’t concern himself with it, only resuming his secluded training. Though… with the war for conquest, perhaps even he will be called upon, heedless of his wishes for isolation.

Kiran sighed, more of a low groan rather. It was a useless thought, nothing but a fleeting fantasy of ‘what if’.

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Finishing the delicate poultice pressed against the worst of the wounds, Kiran wore a scornful look as he planned ahead. They couldn’t remain here for long. Soon, they’ll have to depart. Head for another land, away from their enemies. He lacked information, yet he did not dare to test their luck.

Such was reality — they were stragglers, remnants of a fallen Path.

He had seen comrades fall, felt the precipice of life and death, and emerged from the crucible of conflict that stemmed from the Red Sky. And beneath the veneer of care, there lingered a subtle hint of malice—a brooding presence in the glint of Kiran's eyes.

----

"Brother, what now?" Arslan asked.

A heavy silence enveloped the air, broken only by the breath of the group of four.

The two brothers, Arslan and Altan stood as the illustrious rulers of the most dominant faction, The Tailed Brothers.

Heavy presence radiated off each of the brothers, and both were immensely powerful.

The eldest of the two, Altan looked to be in deep thought, then peered to the figure on his right.

Beside the pair was Borte, Matriarch of the Northern Wind Union. A composed and dignified woman she was, starkly contrasting the scenery before them.

She too was perplexed, her deeply furrowed brow and contemplative eyes revealed her troubled thoughts with the weight of the the scene before her. The surroundings mirrored her turmoil within as she silently absorbed their findings.

Completing the four was a meek man named Bo, anxiously pacing around. Clad in simple attire that belies his presence, Bo moves with a quiet, contemplative demeanor, his gaze reflecting the weight of the scenes that surround him.

Bo was the representative of his absent leader, hailing from the Band of the Crest. Sent to handle their faction's proceedings with the destruction of the Red Sky.

"Disgusting," Altan muttered, breaking the eerie absence of both sound and life.

"To think he'd go this to avoid destroying his legacy. A sly monster." His brother added.

"Garm's willingness to sacrifice everything, reeks of desperation and deceit. A warrior's strength lies not just in martial skill but in the integrity of their path. To spare not even their own young." Borte continued, her beautiful face twisted to a scowl. She felt revolted as her eyes glazed upon the decayed body of a child clutching a larger one. ‘A child and their mother…’

Arslan rose from the ground, his hand letting go of a lifeless and shriveled hand.

'All paths lead to snuffing the life of others, it is inevitable for someone to grow with taking from others. Such is the way of the world.' Arslan looked over his and his brother's temporary allies.

'Hypocrites. Long before we reached our strength — no, the very moment we began our Paths, we were fated to take, destroy, kill. That is set in stone. That wench and her union of scoundrels act as though they weren’t headed to battle. For honor and principle to matter now… when affairs are at an end?' Arslan thought to himself. He loathed sharing the very air of his enemies. Had his elder brother not been so adamant about allying with the two other Great Factions, he’d have slaughtered the wench and the representative.

"Why would this be a problem?" He irritatedly asked out loud as he arose to his feet before adding:

"Garm himself solved our most pressing problem — any surviving blood fiends. There was a chance that if they all resolved to break through our net with their strongest warriors on many fronts then many would have escaped."

"Now we must only deal with the recipients of this ritual. But this leads to other problems. We lack any grasp of this grand ritual's purpose. Who are the recipients? How many?" Arslan carried on, already thinking ahead.

Bo raised his head for the first time and meekly objected, "Isn't it already over? Like you said wasn't there always a chance of people surviving this… this slaughter?"

Shaking his head, Arslan glared at the representative. Out of the four, he abhorred Bo the most, 'Out of place. A weak complacent man only of the Second Ordeal. And now a grand fool who speaks a web of stupidity.'

"Merely your own ignorant opini–"

"I second Bo's judgment, too much innocent life has been taken, I, for one intended to spare the women and children who have yet to even begin their Path. Aside, our alliance ended with the death of Garm, " Borte interrupted him abruptly.

"What?" He bellowed loudly, and a spasm of disdain rippled across his sharp face. For a moment, he was so angry he could not speak. He stepped across the swathe of withered corpses, towards the wench, his face dark. He snatched up a perished and sunken child from the ground and threw it at Borte in a wordless fury.

She simply stepped to her side and dodged the flung corpse.

"Are you blind?" he asked then, coldly threatened, "Or should I truly make you so, if the alliance has ended as you’ve said?"

But she said nothing in return, only reciprocating a cold sneer once her eyes met his own.

'Northern Wind Union and The Band of the Crest... worthless mongrels.' Arslan thought as he whipped his head to his elder brother. Both other factions contributed the least in battle, fearful for their own forces after their first clash. Like fools, they underestimate a band of blood-born.

Lucky they were — so fortunate not to share borders with these blood fiends! Even as their own forces marched beyond the red gates, only to fall victim to a mass ritual… how could they not comprehend the dangers of such people strengthening whoever benefitted from this mass ritual?

"Elder brother, it is foolish to not persist in pursuing the stragglers!" He snarled, anger edged his words.

Silence befell the chamber as the three looked expectantly to Atlan, the eldest of the Tailed Brothers.

His elder brother looked aloof and distant, clutching an intricate, tall carved staff — Garm’s, they all recalled from the once distant view of the old blood coot.

But then, Atlan spoke, regarding them all coldly, more specifically the two from the other factions:

"Hatred planted in those you leave alive will pass from one generation to the next, you don’t understand how fast these blood-born rose to power. I cannot risk our people's lives in a battle for revenge.”

Silence arose as he came to a decision. He didn't say much, even during the long battle outside. Periodically casting an incredulous glance upon the remnants of the Great Mountain, he thought it was too empty, all devoid of life. No matter how he looked, death covered all corners.

And yet, he was not foolish to leave a few seeds alive. Worse still, ones that have inherited a monstrous amount of blood essence. That amount of essence was bound to nurture dreadful foe given time, without a doubt.

"Bo, relay to your reclusive master — the alliance has ended. The Tailed Brothers will continue the search ourselves.” Atlan commanded.

Letting go of the grand crimson staff, he faced Bo with glaring eyes:

“Now, retreat your foul Crested from my lands."

"V-very well, I will report back and detail the findings then return to my camp and sound the order to return," Bo replied with a slight bow.

"No," Atlan dismissed curtly.

"Do you take my brother and I for fools? The ignorant boast of their own cleverness. Do not mistake my strength as an absence of mind… Your master is nothing but a sly hermit, stagnant as water rotting in a well.” He berated Bo, before adding:

“The rising disappearances of my people the moment the alliance was set? The moment the rags that you call warriors entered my lands?"

Bo began to sweat profusely. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. Perhaps, if he was lucky he’d leave alive. His eyes swept back and forth over the desolate grand hall, eager to find something to use.

But with the pressure being emitted onto Bo, he threw away all sense of pride and prostrated deeply before the three powerhouses before him. A wise man values his neck rather than dignity — the lower the head the wiser the man…

"I-I will immediately return to camp and retreat with the rest of the Crested with haste," he exclaimed, flustered as he respectfully withdrew towards his servants posted outside the Great Mountain.

Atlan couldn’t help but think of the insolent fool as a rat, scurrying away in a flurry.

The chamber seemed to respond with an eerie stillness as the sound of Bo's clumsy steps waned, amplifying Altan's disdain. The flickering candles cast long shadows on the floor, accentuating the moral chasm that now yawned between the three remaining hegemons.

"As for the Northern Wind Union..."