The fire crackled softly in the ruined outpost, casting flickering shadows against the cold stone walls. The small safe house—if it could even be called that—reeked of damp earth, mold, and old blood. The wooden beams above them were rotting, their splintered edges blackened by time.
Achem sat against the far wall, his arms draped over his knees, exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. His wounds still ached, the bruises and cuts from their escape refusing to let him forget how close they had come to dying.
Across from him, Lysara sat by the fire, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes.
She looked better than he felt—her long black hair falling loosely over one shoulder, her expression unreadable as she worked. But Achem wasn’t fooled. Magic drained its users, and Lysara had burned through a lot of it.
“You need rest,” Achem said finally, his voice rough.
Lysara didn’t look up. “So do you.”
“I’ll rest when I know we’re safe.”
Lysara smirked, finally meeting his gaze. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She flipped the dagger in her hand, catching it effortlessly. “We’re never safe.”
Achem exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening into fists. She wasn’t wrong.
----------------------------------------
Outside, the forest was silent—too silent.
The usual sounds of nocturnal creatures, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant chirping of insects—gone.
Achem felt the weight of it pressing against his chest.
Something was watching them.
Lysara sensed it too. She rose to her feet, her body tensing like a predator scenting danger. Her fingers twitched, and the air around her crackled faintly.
Then, in the distance—the snap of a branch.
Achem was moving before he had time to think. He grabbed his sword, muscles coiling as he pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway.
Lysara whispered an incantation, her eyes glowing faintly as her magic stirred.
Then—a shadow moved between the trees.
Achem’s grip on his sword tightened. No torches. No armor clanking. Not soldiers.
Lysara narrowed her eyes. “Mercenaries?”
Achem shook his head. “No.”
Another shadow. Then another.
Too fast. Too fluid.
Lysara’s breath hitched. “They’re not human.”
A deep, guttural growl rolled through the darkness.
Achem barely had time to react before red eyes blinked into existence all around them.
----------------------------------------
The first creature lunged.
Achem twisted, barely avoiding a set of gleaming fangs aimed at his throat. He brought his sword up just in time, the blade slicing into thick, matted fur.
The beast snarled but didn’t stop.
It wasn’t just an animal. It was something worse.
Lysara’s hands moved in a blur, sending a wave of fire crashing into the oncoming creatures. The flames illuminated them for the first time—hulking, wolf-like monsters, their bodies twisted by unnatural magic. Their eyes glowed with an eerie, sickly green light.
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Summoned beasts.
Achem swore under his breath. Someone was controlling them.
Another beast lunged. Achem ducked, rolling across the damp ground before slashing upward, his blade cutting deep into its exposed belly. Blood splattered across his face, hot and reeked of something rotten.
Lysara dodged another creature’s attack, her form blurring as she vanished for half a second—teleporting behind it. She plunged her dagger into its spine, twisting the blade before ripping it free.
The beast crumpled, but more took its place.
Too many.
Achem’s pulse hammered against his ribs. They couldn’t win this fight.
“Lysara—” he started.
“I know!” she snapped, already moving.
She threw up a barrier, the air warping and shimmering as a translucent wall of energy surrounded them.
The creatures slammed against it, snarling, their claws screeching against the magical shield.
Lysara’s face twisted in pain. “I can’t hold this for long.”
Achem’s mind raced. They had to end this at the source.
He scanned the treeline, searching—and then he saw it.
A lone figure, standing just beyond the clearing.
Cloaked in shadows. Hands raised. Lips moving in silent incantation.
The summoner.
----------------------------------------
Achem moved before Lysara could stop him.
He sprinted toward the treeline, his sword gripped tightly in both hands.
The moment he crossed the barrier, the beasts turned on him.
One lunged—Achem ducked, feeling hot breath against his skin. He lashed out, his blade cutting through muscle and bone.
Another pounced. He twisted, rolling across the forest floor before driving his sword through the creature’s skull.
His body moved like it remembered battles he had never fought.
This was Rogar’s muscle memory, guiding him, pushing him past his limits.
The summoner’s eyes snapped to him.
Achem didn’t stop.
The cloaked figure raised a hand, and the very shadows around them twisted into jagged, black tendrils, reaching for Achem like living chains.
He barely dodged the first.
The second wrapped around his wrist, searing his skin with cold, unnatural energy.
The summoner whispered something, and suddenly, pain exploded through Achem’s mind.
Not physical. Not real.
Memories—Rogar’s memories—rushing in like a tidal wave.
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The throne room.
His trusted generals kneeling before him, whispering false oaths of loyalty.
The Council of Lords watching with unreadable expressions.
The betrayal.
Blades flashing. His own men turning on him.
Blood staining the marble floors.
Achem gasped, his knees hitting the ground.
The summoner’s voice slithered through his mind.
"You are not Rogar."
"You wear his face, but you are not him."
"What are you?"
Achem’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
His grip on the sword trembled.
Was this true? Was he just a shadow of the fallen king?
Or was he something else entirely?
----------------------------------------
A sudden burst of fire shattered the vision.
Lysara.
She stood between him and the summoner, her eyes blazing with fury.
"You don’t get to break him," she snarled.
Before the summoner could react, she threw both hands forward—
A roaring column of fire erupted from her palms, consuming the figure whole.
Achem blinked, his mind still reeling as the summoner’s screams faded into the night.
The moment the figure fell, the monsters collapsed, their bodies disintegrating into ash.
Silence.
Then—Lysara grabbed Achem’s wrist and hauled him to his feet.
Her grip was tight. Steady.
"Stay with me, Your Majesty," she murmured. "We’re not done yet."
Achem swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
Something in him had changed.
Something dark.
Something powerful.
And he wasn’t sure if it terrified him—or thrilled him.