The blood-red sky pulsed above me like a beating heart as I made my way across the ashen plains towards the distant citadel. Each step stirred up dust the color of old bones, and the air carried a metallic tang that reminded me of freshly spilled blood. The gnarled trees that dotted the landscape creaked and groaned in the warm breeze.
I kept my guard up as I walked, years of survival instincts screaming that this was not a place for the unwary. I had a constant feeling of being watched. Things moved unseen in the shadows with too much purpose to be natural.
The citadel grew larger as I approached, its impossible architecture becoming clearer with each step. What I’d first taken for black stone was actually something else entirely. The walls seemed to drink in the surrounding light as if they were built from solidified darkness itself. Grotesque gargoyles perched along the battlements, their glowing red eyes following my progress with predatory interest. Some shifted position when they thought I wasn’t looking, stone wings flexing silently.
Massive chains swayed between the towers, each link larger than a man and inscribed with runes that glowed with a sickly purple light. The sound they made as they moved was like distant moaning, like a chorus of lost souls crying out in the wind.
What is this place? I wondered, taking in the oppressive grandeur of the dark citadel before me. The twisted architecture and bone-like spires seemed to beckon me forward, promising secrets and power for those brave—or desperate—enough to seek them. Perhaps within those dark walls lay the beginning of my path to vengeance and power. The wind carried whispers of ancient knowledge, and for the first time since awakening in this realm, I felt a sense of purpose. Whatever waited in that fortress would be my first step into this new existence, for better or worse.
The air grew colder as I neared the citadel’s base, though the chill seemed to emanate not from the environment but from the structure itself. The massive walls rose hundreds of feet into the crimson sky, their surface not smooth but carved with countless scenes of conquest and power. The closer I looked, the more details emerged: armies of the dead marching across blasted landscapes, dark riders on nightmare steeds trampling their enemies, sorcerers wielding powers that twisted reality itself.
The citadel’s main gates were a masterwork of dark artistry. Massive doors were forged from what looked like black iron, though the metal seemed to ripple like liquid shadow in the crimson light. Intricate patterns were worked into their surface, depicting scenes of torture and triumph that seemed to move when viewed from different angles. For a moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off the grisly images as more and more details emerged. Finally, I forced myself to tear my gaze away before the images burned themselves into my mind.
Two figures stood guard at the gates, their armor similar to what Valic had worn, though far less ornate. Their faces were concealed behind horned helmets, and shadows seemed to cling to them like a second skin. They didn’t move as I approached, but I could feel their evaluating gazes following my every step.
“Look at those clothes,” the guard on the left said, his voice echoing metallically from within his helmet. “Western Kingdom style. Must be another prospect from the Ashenford region.”
“The clothing’s finer than what we usually see from those parts,” the other replied thoughtfully, studying my attire. “Perhaps from one of the noble houses seeking to curry favor with the order?”
“Been a while since we’ve had fresh blood from the Western houses.”
I kept my face carefully neutral, letting them draw their own conclusions. Better to be thought a noble prospect from some distant kingdom than reveal my true origins.
“State your business, Westerner,” the first guard demanded, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
When I took a step forward to respond, both guards immediately drew their weapons, moving with practiced efficiency. The metallic ring of dark steel filled the air.
“Mind your distance,” the second guard warned, blade pointed at my chest. “Prospect or not, we don’t take kindly to presumption here.”
I held my ground, refusing to back down even as their sword tips hovered inches from my heart. Years of facing down threats in dark alleys had taught me that showing fear only invited aggression.
The guards exchanged glances through the eye slits of their helmets, reassessing. “Well, well,” the first one said, lowering his weapon. “No combat training, but you’ve got steel in your spine at least. Though you’d do well to learn proper protocol if you hope to survive here. Not all guards are as forgiving as we are.”
“I’m here to speak to your superior,” I replied, my voice steady. “I’ve been summoned for training.”
The first guard’s posture shifted. “Training, is it?” He chuckled. “You think you’ll get very far with that attitude?”
The second guard snorted, lowering his weapon slightly. “Boldness might earn you some respect, but it won’t save you from the trials ahead. Malachai doesn’t tolerate weakness.”
“Or failure,” the first guard added, his voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve seen prospects come and go, and I doubt you’ll last the first day.”
The name Malachai meant nothing to me, but I filed it away for future reference. In my experience, knowledge was power, and I’d need every advantage I could get in this strange new realm.
I held my head high. “I didn’t come here to be judged by you. Malachai will want to see me, especially given my lineage.”
The second guard scoffed. “You think being from one of the Western houses grants you special treatment? You might want to rethink that. Malachai has no patience for those who think their blood gives them an edge.”
The first guard’s helmeted head moved up and down slowly as he assessed me from head to toe. Finally, he sheathed his blade. “Perhaps he will want an audience with you, after all” he conceded, his tone slightly more respectful now. “But you best be prepared to prove yourself. Noble titles mean nothing here.” He raised a gauntleted hand, and the massive gates began to swing open silently, despite their apparent weight.
“Very well,” the second guard said with bitter reluctance. He also sheathed his weapon and then gestured for me to follow. “Come on, then. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
As we moved through the massive gates, I took in more of the citadel’s imposing architecture. The walls loomed above us, carved from what seemed to be solidified darkness. The smell of fresh blood assaulted my nose, a reminder of the power that permeated this place.
Beyond the gates lay a courtyard that seemed larger than should have been possible, with multiple levels connected by floating staircases of black stone. Obsidian fountains spouted umbral liquid instead of clear water. More of the living gargoyles perched on various ledges and outcroppings occasionally stretched and shifted about as they observed the activities below.
“Move,” my escort ordered, giving me a not-so-gentle prod with his gauntleted hand. “And keep your eyes forward. The gargoyles don’t take kindly to being stared at.”
As if to emphasize his point, a nearby gargoyle stretched its wings and bared stone fangs in my direction. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing instead on the impossible architecture around me. I could feel the tension and anticipation in the air, an electric charge that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the citadel.
Armored figures moved about with purpose, some training with wicked-looking weapons, others gathered in small groups discussing matters in low voices. All wore variations of the same dark armor, their presence a testament to the power and authority that thrived within these walls.
The clang of steel on steel echoed from several practice rings, where warriors tested their skills against one another. The fighting was brutal and efficient, no pulled punches or practice strikes here.
I recognized these warriors immediately from tales from my former world whispered in taverns and warnings from the city watch—blackguards, fallen holy warriors who had embraced darkness and championed absolute order. Their very existence was considered a blasphemy by the temples, and even hardened mercenaries spoke of them with fear and respect.
Stories told of their ruthless efficiency, how they corrupted divine callings and twisted them into something darker. Rather than channel divine light, blackguards wielded shadows and death. Instead of only protecting the innocent, blackguards subjugated the weak. They were living weapons of terror and conquest, serving dark gods like Valic and Tydus with unflinching loyalty.
I’d seen their handiwork in my world once, years ago—a temple reduced to ash and rubble, its defenders not just killed but corrupted, their very souls twisted into something unrecognizable. The priests had whispered that a single blackguard had done this, turning the temple’s own divine energy against it.
Now, watching these warriors train and move about the courtyard, I understood why they inspired such fear. Every movement was precise, efficient, deadly. Their armor wasn’t just for protection, it was a statement of power and authority. The shadows seemed to embrace them like old friends. Even the air grew colder in their presence.
And soon, if Valic’s words held true, I would become one of them. The thought sent an odd thrill through me, part anticipation, part terror. To wield such power, to inspire such fear... it was everything I’d need to claim my vengeance.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
I continued following the guard through the bustling courtyard. Each clang of metal against metal, each shout of a training command, felt like a reminder of the world I was stepping into—a world where power was not just wielded but embraced, and shadows were allies rather than enemies. Unlike the ceremonial duels I’d witnessed in my old life, these fights had a brutal efficiency about them. Each strike was meant to kill or maim, each movement calculated for maximum damage.
“Fresh meat,” someone called out as we passed. “Western kingdoms by the look of him.”
“Bit scrawny for a warrior,” another voice commented.
I maintained a neutral expression as I continued walking a steady pace alongside my escort, though my eyes missed nothing. The training areas were arranged in individual sections around a central platform of polished obsidian, each ring dedicated to different aspects of combat. In the outermost ring, warriors practiced with conventional weapons. Though, there was nothing conventional about the brutal efficiency of their fluid and deadly movements. Closer in, the training became more exotic, with some fighters wielding weapons that seemed to be made of pure shadow. Their forms flickered in and out of existence as they harnessed the darkness around them. The air was alive with the sounds of combat, the scent of sweat and determination converging with the ever-present tang of iron.
“Hmm… more fresh blood?” a tall figure in spiked armor commented, pausing in his sword drill.
“Been a while since we’ve had new recruits from the west,” his sparring partner replied, resting the blade of his greatsword across his shoulders. “He doesn’t look like much. Though appearances can be deceiving in our line of work, can’t they, Corvus?”
The first speaker—Corvus—tilted his helmed head thoughtfully. “He has the footsteps of a rogue.”
I noticed a strange detail about Corvus’s armor. It was adorned with feathers as black as night, and several crows perched on nearby weapon racks seemed to watch his movements with unusual intelligence.
“Keep moving,” my guard escort growled, prodding me forward when I paused to watch a particularly intense duel. “Plenty of time to gawk later, if you survive initiation.”
The central platform rose several feet above the training rings, accessible by steps that seemed to be carved from a single piece of black rock. It dominated the courtyard like a dark altar, and the figure atop it radiated an aura of authority that made even the other warriors give him a wide berth. The figure was tall and powerfully built, and his armor was a masterwork of dark artistry. A cape of deep purple hung from his shoulders, its edges dissolving into pure blackness. Dozens of small trophies hung from his belt: teeth, claws, and other grisly tokens I couldn’t quite identify that spoke of victories over creatures I hoped to never encounter.
“Malachai,” my guard escort called out, “we have a new prospect from the Western kingdoms.”
The armored figure turned, and I felt the weight of his gaze even through his helmet’s visor. He descended the steps with fluid grace, each movement precise and controlled. The trophies at his belt clinked softly.
“Interesting timing,” Malachai’s voice carried easily across the courtyard, causing several nearby duels to pause. “We don’t often see recruits from the West these days. The region has become... treacherous.”
“The clothes suggest noble breeding,” my guard escort offered.
Malachai circled me slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. “He carries himself like someone used to the shadows. Indeed, such a skill set could prove useful, when properly honed.” He stopped in front of me. “Tell me, prospect, what brings you to our order?”
Before I could respond, a commotion at one of the nearby training rings drew attention. A duel had turned lethal, one combatant’s shadow-wreathed blade finding a gap in his opponent’s armor. Rather than rush to help the fallen warrior, the other blackguards simply watched with clinical interest.
“Sloppy defense,” Malachai commented without turning. “He knew the risks when he stepped into the ring.” To me, he added, “Our training methods may seem harsh to outsider eyes, but they forge the strongest steel.”
The lesson wasn’t lost on me. This was a place where weakness meant death, where power was earned through blood and pain. It wasn’t so different from the streets I’d grown up on, just more honest about its brutality.
I felt Malachai’s heavy scrutiny as he assessed me further. The trophies at his belt caught the crimson light, and I realized with a chill that some of them were far too similar to human bones to be from otherworldly creatures.
“Your arrival is well-timed,” he said, his voice carrying undertones of raw power. “We are always seeking those with... particular talents. The ability to move unseen, to strike from darkness… these are valuable skills in our order.”
In the training rings behind him, the dead warrior was being dragged away, leaving a trail of dark-purple blood across the obsidian stones. No one seemed particularly concerned about the death, treating it with the same casualness one might regard a broken practice weapon.
“Though, of course,” Malachai continued, “such skills are merely a foundation. The true power of our order lies in embracing darkness itself.” He raised one gauntleted hand, and shadows gathered around it like eager pets. “Are you prepared to let go of everything you think you know about power? To embrace truths that would shatter lesser minds?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. The shadows seemed to whisper around me, urging me to seize the power that lay within. I could feel the darkness in my veins, a reminder of a transformation that had seemingly begun the moment I stepped into this realm.
Around the courtyard, other blackguards had stopped their training to watch, their armor gleaming dully in the crimson light. I could feel their assessment, their curiosity about how this new prospect would respond. Some of them were sizing me up, no doubt placing wagers on whether I’d survive my first day. The air thrummed with dark energy, and the gargoyles above leaned closer in anticipation, their stone faces twisting into cruel smiles.
“I seek power,” I replied carefully, meeting Malachai’s gaze through his visor. “The kind of power that makes others tremble at the mere whisper of your name.”
A low chuckle emerged from Malachai’s helmet, resonating with dark amusement. “Bold words from one so... untested.” He turned to face the assembled blackguards, his voice carrying across the entire courtyard. “You hear that, brothers? Our Western friend seeks power.”
Dark laughter rippled through the observing warriors.
The crimson sky above seemed to pulse more intensely, and the shadows cast by the twisted architecture grew longer, deeper. Even the air felt charged with malevolent energy, like the moment before a lightning strike.
“Power,” Malachai continued, circling me again, “is not merely given. It must be torn from the grasp of those too weak to wield it properly. Are you prepared to do whatever is necessary? To break yourself down and be reforged into something darker? Something stronger?”
“I’ve already died once,” I replied, thinking of the hangman’s noose. “What’s left to fear?”
This drew a different kind of attention from the observers. Several shifted their stances, reassessing me with new interest. Malachai himself paused in his circling, his helmet tilting slightly.
“Interesting,” he mused, the word carrying layers of meaning. “Very interesting indeed.” He raised his hand, and a tendril of pure darkness coalesced in his palm, writhing like a living thing. “Show me your strength.”
Without warning, he flung the umbral mass directly at my face. Instinct took over. Years of surviving in dark alleys and dodging assassins’ blades forced me to react. I twisted aside, the living darkness missing me by inches. It struck the ground behind me with a sound like shattering glass, leaving a patch of frost-covered stone.
“Good reflexes,” Malachai approved, though I could hear the smirk in his voice. “But dodging shadows won’t be enough here.” He gestured, and shadows rose from the ground like a serpent, coiling around my legs. “You must learn to embrace them.”
The cold was intense, seeping through my clothing and into my very bones. The shadow-serpent coiled tighter, its touch bringing memories of the void where I’d met Valic. But this time, instead of fighting it, I forced myself to remain still, to accept its embrace.
“Interesting indeed,” Malachai’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Most prospects try to struggle. Their fears betray them.” He moved closer, the trophies at his belt clicking together like dead men’s teeth. “But you... you understand something fundamental about darkness, don’t you?”
The serpent continued its upward climb, wrapping around my torso now. Its touch was like ice, but beneath that surface cold, I felt something else—a pulse of power, ancient and seductive. This wasn’t just a test of courage, but of unity with the dark forces that powered their order.
“Darkness,” I replied, my voice steady despite the cold, “is neither good nor evil. It simply is. Like any tool, its nature depends on who wields it.” In my ears, my voice didn’t sound like my own.
The assembled blackguards stirred at my words, and I heard murmurs of approval from several directions. Even the gargoyles seemed to nod, their stone faces showing cruel satisfaction.
“Well spoken,” Malachai said, raising his hand again. The serpent dissipated, though the cold still lingered in my bones. “But pretty words mean little here. Actions are what matter.” He turned to address the watching warriors. “What say you, brothers? Shall we see what our new prospect is truly capable of?”
The response was immediate. Weapons beat against shields in a rhythm like dark thunder. The sound echoed off the fortress walls, making the chains between the towers sway and moan. Above, the crimson sky pulsed in time with the beating, as if Aetheria itself approved of what was to come.
“Your first test begins now,” Malachai announced, his voice carrying easily over the din. “Survive until sunset, and we’ll discuss your training.” He gestured to one of the nearby warriors. “Corvus, show our new friend to the preparation chambers. Make sure he’s properly... equipped for what’s to come.”
The warrior with the crow-feathered armor stepped forward, his movements fluid and predatory. Up close, I could see that his armor wasn’t merely decorated with feathers—they seemed to shift and rustle of their own accord, as if they were still attached to living birds. The crows that had been watching earlier took flight and circled above him like a living crown.
“Follow,” Corvus commanded, his voice carrying undertones that made my skin crawl. “And keep up. The shadows here tend to... hunger for those who lag behind.”
As if to emphasize his point, the shadows along our path seemed to reach for my feet with grasping tendrils. The gargoyles tracked our movement, their stone heads turning with grinding sounds that echoed through the courtyard. The assembled blackguards parted before us and watched our every move.
We descended a spiral staircase that seemed to drill down into the very heart of darkness itself. Each step was carved with runes that glowed with a sickly purple light which illuminated our passage into the depths. I felt the weight of ancient malice in the air.
“The preparation chambers lie ahead,” Corvus said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. “Where initiates are stripped of their old lives and reforged in darkness.” He turned to face me, and though I couldn’t see his face behind his helmet, I felt his smile. “Assuming they survive the process, of course.”
The chamber beyond was a vast circular room hewn from black stone, its walls lined with armor stands and weapon racks. But these weren’t ordinary implements of war. Each piece seemed to pulse with dark energy, calling out with promises of power and transformation. Chains of living shadow hung from the ceiling, swaying without wind.
“Choose wisely,” Corvus advised, gesturing to the assembled gear. “What you select here may well determine whether you live to see tomorrow’s blood-red dawn.”
As I moved towards the nearest weapon rack, Corvus’s voice stopped me. “One last thing, initiate.” The sound of his helmet’s clasps releasing echoed through the chamber like breaking bones.
He removed the helm with deliberate slowness, revealing a face that made my blood run cold. A black silk blindfold covered his eyes. Dark veins spider-webbed across his pale skin, pulsing in rhythm with the shadows around us.
“Your old life ended the moment you entered these gates,” he continued. “But that was a gentle death compared to what awaits if you fail here.” A crow landed on his shoulder, its feathers melding seamlessly with his armor. “The shadows remember everything, initiate. And they’re always hungry for those who prove... unworthy.”
The runes on the walls flared brighter, casting twisted reflections off the dark implements of war around us. The chains above writhed, and in their movement, I saw fleeting images of previous initiates who had failed their tests.
Their fates made the hangman’s noose seem merciful.