Bright flames twisted violently, casting wild shadows onto pine trees and moss covered rocks. He sat cross-legged on the hard ground, watching the fire flicker.

    The kindle quietly cracked and splintered, hurling tiny glowing sparks into the cold, still air. He knew his passion was obscene but the man he was now no longer cared.

    He loved how it burned flesh, searing it black, meat melting off the bone. Its red hot tongues vigorously licking over naked flesh like a musician playing through the climax of a song.

    Its music was enchanting. It lulled him into closing his eyes.

    The crackling began to fade and the wailing of men and women lashed to pyres and bathed in flame grew louder. The stench of roasting flesh replaced the scent of burning wood.

    Fully surrendered to the music, he lost track of time until his stomach growled, interrupting his vision of the future.

    Slowly, he opened his eyes and glanced at his meager ration. He’d already finished it. Bones upon bones littered the rocky ground before him.

    He considered leaving camp to hunt but dismissed the idea as quickly as it appeared. Farol was due to return soon.

    By now the sun would have risen, bathing the Dreadnaughts in morning light, but the heavy canopy of pines and rockwoods blanketed the forest floor in shadow.

    He peered over the fire into the darkness beyond. Straight ahead, through the forest and over the next mountain ridge a village sat at the gaping mouth of a deep valley.

    The village, really a large town by its own right, clung at the edge of civilization, far away from prying eyes. A perfect place to hide something you didn’t want found.

    He was close.

    After what felt like a life time he was finally close to making things right.

    His trail of thought ended abruptly as he felt a large presence approaching through the darkness. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who it was.

    Farol strode through the small camp without making a sound, his hulking Lycan form a mass of muscle and long limbs, and knelt before the fire, bowing a head shaped like a wolf’s but much larger. Glowing red eyes regarded him for a moment before dropping to the ground.

    In a fraction of a second the form of Farol’s soul became a cloud of essence that swirled around him once like a black vortex of smoke.

    Where a Lycan knelt now was a man clothed all in black. Even the metal worked into his clothing had been lacquered black to assist with melding into the dark.

    Without taking his eyes off the fire he acknowledged his subordinate.

    “Farol,” he said.

    The man who knelt before him was young, in his mid twenties, he believed. The youngest of his class to break into the third World and become an Essence Warrior.

    But already Farol was one of his best soldiers, having completed numerous missions all over Lucidia. Several of which extended as deep into the heart of Lumenos itself.

    “Master Grendyl,” Farol said. “The targets arrived at the village a day ago. They should be settled in by now.”

    “Good,” he said. “In just a few short days everything will be ready.”

    “It’s about bloody time.”

    On the far side of camp, sitting with his back against a rockwood, Savahge paused in rubbing a whetstone along the length of his blade.

    Since rebelling against the North Lords, he rarely spoke anymore. But when he did he was blunt and straight to the point.

    If Savahge had been any other man, his guts would have been spilled already. But instead a ghost of a smile crept into his eyes at the sound of the man’s voice.

    He spared Savahge a glance.

    A thin white scar divided shrewd, calculating gray eyes. He’d given that to the man a long time ago, before the war.

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    Thick black hair streaked with iron grey adorned his shoulders and glistened in the light of their small fire.

    He wore a heavy black cloak over a loose black robe styled in the Hargonian fashion. Even when they should be blending in Savahge still clung to his roots.

    Savahge wasn’t his real name, of course. Like Grendyl, it had been a name given by those who feared them. By those who had once hailed them as heroes.

    Savahge was staring at him, he realized.

    “I apologize for the inconvenience, old friend. I’ll remember to ask our quarry to go faster the next time we hunt. It’s not as if there’s a plan we have to follow.”

    Savahge grunted and returned to sharpening the edge of his long thin blade. Farol still knelt by the fire, motionless as a stature.

    He shifted his gaze and regarded the young man. The sides of Farol’s head were shaved close to the skull, leaving a crown of short black hair.

    Like Savahge, Farol wore a heavy black cloak, a deep hood settled around his shoulders. Unlike the other man, Farol was dressed in the rural Lucidian fashion. A long wool tunic dyed black and secured around his waist by a wide leather belt.

    A pair of plain short swords hung on both hips. The hilt of a knife peeked over the edge of one black leather boot.

    The young man favored throwing knives and would have at least half a dozen more hidden all over his body.

    “Speak,” he said.

    Farol shifted and turned his gaze toward the distant village. A small frown creased his brow.

    “I spotted a boat downriver heading for the village. It looked brighter from a distance than it should have for a mere trading vessel so I left a subordinate behind while I investigated it personally.

    "I spied a dozen men in full armor on deck. All but three were Essence Channelers. Two of the three hid their cultivation well but it was obvious they were in the third World. The last one, who appeared to be the leader, I couldn’t sense him at all.”

    Farol’s essence perception was strong enough to see through even a fourth World cultivator’s best efforts to hide their power.

    It could only mean this leader was stronger than an Essence Conqueror. It made no sense for an Essence Ruler to visit a backwater corner of the kingdom.

    Unless….

    He crossed his arms and frowned, contemplating their next move.

    “Farol. Savahge. Tell the others. Our presence is to remain unknown. But should we be discovered, kill the soldiers. Kill the villagers. And burn the village. We can’t have any witnesses spreading tales. However the goal remains. Secure the targets and return to Hargon.”

    The two men rose smoothly to their feet. Savahge sheathed his sword in one flowing motion and strode into the dark forest. His shadow immediately grew several feet taller as he broke into a jog.

    Farol bowed his head and turned as the form of his soul reappeared around him. A black vortex of essence swirled and where Farol stood a Lycan several feet taller took his place. His red eyes glowed briefly in the dark and disappeared as he sprinted in the opposite direction.

    Despite the soldier’s unexpected appearance, he was still in quite a good mood.

    A grin spread across his face as he thought of his red soaked vision of the future.

    Fire and blood.

    The world was going to change soon. And for the better.

    His stomach growled once more. He sighed and rose to his feet. He would just have to indulge his hunger. Just this once.

    On the edge of camp beyond the dim light of his meager fire several men were bound hand and foot, naked and bloody. One had already had been picked clean but the two remaining were still very much alive.

    He put out the dying fire with a kick of his boots and took a step toward the darkness. On his second step he was a man. On his third, he was not.