The sky above Calavessa churned in shades of ash and fire, a roiling canvas painted by war. Araeius stood on the precipice of the favela, its maze of shanties sprawling below like jagged scars carved into the hillside. The air was thick with the acrid tang of smoke, sweat, and something else—something metallic and sickly sweet. Blood.
He held the detonator in his hand, its smooth, cold surface a betrayal of the chaos it promised. Around him, his squad’s voices blurred into the cacophony of desperation: civilians screaming, the crackle of gunfire, the hiss of gas canisters rupturing against tin walls.
“Knight-Captain, we’re losing ground!” Mélanie’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade. She was close, her face streaked with soot and blood.
“We don’t have time for this!” another voice shouted—Aedric, the youngest of their squad. His wide eyes darted between Araeius and the chaos below. “They’re regrouping! We’ll be overrun!”
Araeius’ gaze fell to the detonator again, his thumb hovering over the switch. Below, the alienage swarmed with bodies. Some moved with purpose—armed insurgents weaving through the narrow alleys. Others stumbled, aimless and terrified, their faces shadowed by fear and hunger. A child clutched a bundle of rags, her eyes wide and uncomprehending as she was dragged by a woman with bloodied hands.
He had the order. He had the target.
“This is the only way,” he told himself, but the words felt hollow, swallowed by the screams rising from the shanties like a dirge.
“Knight-Captain! They’ll cut us down if you don’t—” Mélanie’s voice faltered, her conviction cracking under the weight of the moment.
Araeius squeezed the detonator.
The hillside ignited in a wall of searing white, brighter than the sun. The scream of the phosphorus was louder than the cries of the dying, louder than the shouts of his squad as the shockwave knocked them to the ground. It ate everything—the homes, the bodies, the sky itself—until there was nothing left but fire.
Then came the silence.
It was worse than the noise.
Araeius staggered to his feet, his ears ringing, his vision swimming in waves of smoke and heat shimmer. The air was unbreathable, every inhale bringing the taste of ash and charred flesh. Below, the favela had become a pit of shadows writhing in the glow of dying embers.
And then he saw her.
The child.
She stood amid the ruin, untouched by the flames, her doll still clutched in her arms. Her eyes—black pools devoid of light—locked onto his. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She reached for him, her small hand trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but his voice was swallowed by the void around her. The child’s skin began to crack, fissures of white fire spreading like veins across her body. She burned without a scream, her eyes never leaving his.
Araeius jolted upright, the sheets tangling around his sweat-soaked limbs. His chest heaved as he struggled to pull air into his lungs, the phantom taste of ash still clinging to his tongue. His hand reached instinctively for the hilt of the blade beside the bed, but it was Mélanie’s voice that anchored him.
“Araeius,” she murmured, her hand brushing against his arm. “You’re dreaming again.”
He blinked, the room coming into focus—the faint glow of the street lamps outside casting shifting shadows across the walls, the soft hum of the fan in the corner. Mélanie’s face, half-hidden by the dark, bore a mix of concern and weariness.
“It was the same one, wasn’t it?” she asked, her tone laced with reluctant familiarity.
He nodded but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the faint outline of his hand against the sheets. The weight of the detonator lingered in his palm, though it was long gone.
“You did what you had to,” she said, her voice firmer now, as though trying to convince both of them.
Araeius didn’t respond. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his damp hair. The silence hummed around them, louder than the echoes of the dream.
Mélanie sighed, lying back down. “Try to get some rest. You’ve got a long day ahead.”
The day of his trial.
Araeius closed his eyes, but the shadows behind his eyelids were no refuge. The child’s eyes burned there, unblinking, waiting.
Waiting for what?
For justice?
Or for forgiveness?
The weight of the dream pressed on Araeius like a phantom blade, sharp and unrelenting. Sleep was out of the question. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Mélanie, though he knew she was a light sleeper.
The floor was cool against his bare feet as he padded into the living room. The space was as meticulously curated as the man who owned it—a sanctuary of clean lines and muted tones. Polished concrete floors stretched beneath walls of warm wood, the furniture sparse but purposeful. A low coffee table held a single ceramic bowl, empty save for his keys.
He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Lights from distant towers glimmered against the night, each one a silent witness to the choices he couldn’t unmake.
Moments later, the soft sound of bare feet padded against the floor. Mélanie appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the faint light spilling in from the bedroom. She wore one of his t-shirts—worn and a size too big—and a pair of black panties.
“You’re awake again,” she said softly, walking over to him.
He didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Mélanie sighed as she lowered herself onto the couch beside him, her movements languid yet deliberate. She tucked one leg beneath her, turning to face him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice was quiet but firm, the words cutting the air like a blade.
She hesitated, studying him. The dim light caught the edge of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the hollows beneath his eyes. “You can’t keep living like this,” she said finally. “You know there’s a group that—”
Araeius’ head snapped toward her, his tone biting before he could stop himself. “That what, Mél? Sit in a circle and talk about the atrocities they’ve committed? Trade stories about how many lives they’ve ruined? Maybe hand out trophies for the best excuse?”
Mélanie flinched slightly, but she didn’t look away. Her eyes, dark and unwavering, held his for a long moment.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re just trying to help.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she leaned forward, plucked the remote from the coffee table, and turned on the television. The screen flickered to life, casting pale light across the room. A too-cheerful host on the home shopping network displayed a set of crystal glasses, her voice grating in its enthusiasm.
“This is what’s on at this hour,” Mélanie said, her tone light but edged with irony. “Figured it’s better than watching you brood.”
“You should go back to bed,” Araeius muttered, his gaze fixed on the screen but unfocused.
“And leave you here to win a staring contest with the couch? I think not.” Her lips curved into a faint smirk as she shifted closer, her shoulder brushing against his arm. “Besides, if you’re going to sulk, someone has to make sure you do it properly.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost involuntarily. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Mm, but you keep me around anyway,” she quipped, leaning her head against his shoulder.
For a moment, the silence returned, but it was softer now, wrapped in the warmth of her presence. Araeius’ gaze drifted to the cityscape beyond the glass, the flickering lights a stark contrast to the darkness that lingered inside him.
Mélanie shifted slightly, her voice quieter now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand brushed against hers on the couch. It wasn’t much—just a fleeting touch—but it was enough.
----------------------------------------
The morning crept in reluctantly, sunlight diffused through the heavy overcast, as if the sky itself refused to bless this day with clarity. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of Araeius’ penthouse, Leonidas unfolded in shades of grey and silver, its spires piercing the clouds like accusatory fingers.
Araeius adjusted his collar, his reflection staring back at him from the mirror. The bespoke suit of the Vanguard Legion was sharp, unyielding in its precision—an immaculate blend of gallantry and control. Gold-trimmed lapels, glinting medals of commendation pinned over his heart. Commendation? The irony twisted like a knife. Each medal was a reminder, not of honour, but of the lives they weighed against victory.
Behind him, Mélanie appeared, a vision of poise in her own tailored suit. It hugged her figure with sleek precision, its simplicity accentuating her strength. She crossed the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished concrete.
“Hold still,” she murmured, adjusting his tie with practiced hands. She smoothed the shoulders of his jacket, her fingers brushing away imaginary imperfections. “There. Perfect. Now, come on—the car’s waiting.”
Araeius glanced back at the room as they left. The space he’d crafted with such detail, a sanctuary meant to reflect order in a chaotic world, felt hollow now.
The doorman greeted them with his usual cheer, though Araeius’ jovial mask was absent today. Instead, he offered a polite nod and a murmured “Good morning” before stepping into the waiting limousine. Mélanie followed, her presence as steadying as it was commanding.
Inside, Aedric was already seated, his crisp uniform making him look older than his years. The youngest member of their trio, his fresh-faced optimism had been eroded by the same firestorm that haunted Araeius.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Good morning, Captain. Mélanie,” Aedric said, his voice subdued but measured.
“Aedric,” Araeius replied, his tone heavy with unspoken understanding.
This was usually the point where lighthearted banter would fill the air, a brief reprieve from duty. But today, silence reigned—a tension that neither the hum of the car engine nor the muted bustle of the city could dispel.
The limousine rolled to a stop in front of the Supreme Court of the Kingdom of Gallian. Nestled in the Bishop’s Quarter, the towering edifice of pale stone loomed beneath a vast mural of the gods—painted figures who watched with unblinking judgment.
Reporters swarmed like vultures, their cameras flashing and microphones thrust forward. Questions peppered the air, shouted in a cacophony that blurred into static:
“Knight-Captain Braythar, do you regret your actions in Verecis?”
“Is it true the alienage was sheltering shade-born insurgents?”
“Do you still stand by the Vanguard Legion’s tactics?”
Araeius ignored them, his expression a fortress of stoic indifference. Mélanie and Aedric followed in his wake, their strides purposeful as they ascended the marble steps.
Inside, the noise faded, replaced by the reverent hush of the court’s grand foyer. Knight-Lieutenant Alaric Schreiber was waiting for them, his presence commanding despite his greying hair.
The trio saluted instinctively, but Schreiber waved them off. “At ease.”
“Knight-Lieutenant, I wasn’t expecting you,” Araeius said, his tone both respectful and guarded.
Schreiber clasped his shoulder with a paternal weight. “I’m just here to offer my support. I trust the state secretary’s office sent over your talking points?”
“They have.”
“And you’ve memorised them?”
Araeius’ lips twitched with bitter amusement. “If you’re asking whether I’ve committed all their flowery bullshit to memory, then yes.”
Schreiber chuckled, though it was devoid of real humour. “That flowery bullshit is what’s going to get you through the day. The supreme judge has already been briefed by the prime minister himself. This is just a formality.”
“How reassuring,” Araeius muttered.
Schreiber’s expression softened, but his words remained pragmatic. “Don’t sound so surprised, Braythar. You’re a national hero.”
Araeius glanced at his medals, the weight of them heavier than steel. “And the government of Verecis?”
“It’s been handled behind closed doors,” Schreiber said, his tone lowering. “By those above our pay grade.”
Araeius’ jaw tightened, the implication settling like a stone in his chest. They’d wiped it clean. The truth, the lives lost—all of it swept under the gilded rug of Gallian’s political machinery.
Schreiber tapped his shoulder, a fatherly gesture meant to reassure. “Chin up, son. You did what you had to do. Besides, no one’s going to miss a few dark—” He stopped himself, the slur hanging in the air like a shard of glass. “Shade-born,” he finished.
The pause didn’t go unnoticed. Araeius’ eyes flicked to him, hard and unreadable, but he said nothing. It wasn’t just Schreiber. This was the world they lived in now—a malicious moment in history where the sins of a few had condemned an entire elemental race. The veils the shade-born wrapped around their eyes were no different than nooses around their throats, as far as the realm was concerned.
A court official stepped into view. “Knight-Captain Braythar, you’re summoned.”
Araeius nodded, his face set like stone. As he followed the official, Mélanie and Aedric trailing close behind, the weight of the gods’ painted eyes bore down on him, as if even they couldn’t look away.
The courtroom was a monolith of power and tradition, its vaulted ceilings heavy with the weight of centuries. Gas lamps cast a flickering amber glow, their light pooling on the dark oak benches and gilded railings. The air smelled faintly of polish and old paper, an unsettling blend of order and decay.
Araeius stood at the defendant’s podium, his suit pristine, medals gleaming against the deep navy of his jacket. Behind him, Mélanie and Aedric sat at attention, their presence steady but silent. The gallery was crowded with diplomats, military officials, and members of the press, their whispers hushed under the baleful gazes of the Supreme Judges presiding over the tribunal.
At the center of the bench sat Chief Justice Lorran Greaves, a man whose narrow frame seemed swallowed by the robes of his office. His sharp, pale face bore an expression of quiet severity, his steel-rimmed glasses glinting in the lamplight.
“This tribunal is now in session,” Greaves intoned, his gravelly voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “We convene to evaluate the actions of Knight-Captain Araeius Braythar during Operation White Phoenix in Lussera, Verecis. The charges before us concern the deployment of incendiary munitions in an urban zone, resulting in significant civilian casualties. Knight-Captain Braythar, how do you plead?”
Araeius lifted his chin. “Not guilty, Your Honour.”
The response was automatic, practiced. Yet, as the words left his lips, a faint tremor ghosted through his hands, barely perceptible but enough for Mélanie to notice.
The prosecutor, Magistrate Corva Bellan, rose next, her dark hair swept back into a severe bun. She wore the black-and-gold sash of her office with the precision of a blade.
“Your Honour, I wish to present to the court a series of aerial images captured during and after the incident in Calavessa,” she said, gesturing toward an attendant.
The attendant, dressed in the crimson livery of the court, rolled out a brass projector mounted on a wheeled tripod. With a crank of the handle, the machine hummed to life, its whirring gears emitting a low, mechanical whine. A beam of light cut through the dim courtroom, casting the first image onto a hanging canvas screen.
The picture showed the alienage before the strike: a chaotic sprawl of shanties clinging to the hillside, smoke rising from countless cookfires, children darting through narrow alleys.
Bellan’s voice was sharp. “This is Calavessa, moments before Operation White Phoenix began.”
Another image flicked onto the screen. The same hillside, but now consumed by fire and smoke, the structures obliterated. The grainy photograph captured shadows amid the ruins—figures too distorted to discern if they were living or dead.
The gallery murmured uneasily. Araeius kept his gaze locked forward, his jaw tightening.
“Knight-Captain Braythar,” Bellan said, turning to him. “For the record, please recount the events that led to your decision to deploy incendiary munitions.”
Araeius hesitated. His mouth felt dry, his heartbeat a faint drumbeat in his ears. He cleared his throat, his voice measured. “My squad was tasked with neutralising an insurgent cell operating in Calavessa. Intelligence suggested they were using the alienage as a base of operations, concealing themselves among the civilian population.”
He paused, the memory flashing unbidden behind his eyes: the chaos of the streets, the smoke and shouting, Mélanie’s voice calling his name through the din.
“Our entry was met with heavy resistance,” he continued, his tone stiff but steady. “Insurgents had fortified key positions, and we were outmanoeuvred. Civilians were being evacuated, but the situation escalated. We had no support, no reinforcements. My squad’s survival depended on immediate action.”
Bellan stepped closer, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “So you made the call to deploy incendiary munitions?”
“Yes,” Araeius said, his voice harder now. “I made the call.”
“And were you aware,” Bellan pressed, “that such munitions would likely result in civilian casualties?”
His grip on the podium tightened. Images burned in his mind—the child with the doll, the fire devouring everything in its path. He swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.
“I was aware,” he admitted. “But it was the only option. Any delay would have cost more lives.”
The room fell silent. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the projector’s gears.
A representative from the Vanguard Legion rose next, his tone calm but authoritative. “Knight-Captain Braythar’s actions during Operation White Phoenix were conducted in accordance with military protocol and the exigencies of war. The insurgents posed an immediate threat to Gallian and Verecis forces alike. The civilian casualties, while tragic, were an unavoidable consequence of the insurgents’ tactics.”
Bellan’s lips thinned, but she said nothing further. The Chief Justice adjusted his glasses, leaning forward slightly.
“This tribunal finds no evidence of misconduct or deviation from protocol,” Greaves declared, his voice firm. “Knight-Captain Braythar acted within the scope of his duty. This court formally exonerates him of all charges.”
The gavel’s final echo still lingered in Araeius’ ears as he stepped down from the defendant’s podium. The Supreme Court chamber buzzed with muted conversation, but he heard none of it. Mélanie and Aedric fell in step behind him, their presence steady but unspoken.
As they exited through the heavy double doors, the press outside roared like a storm.
Microphones and cameras pressed against the iron gates, their shouts and flashes spilling into the foyer. The cacophony grew louder with every step toward the entrance.
Araeius stopped abruptly, turning to Mélanie. “Go with Aedric to the Citadel. I’ll join you shortly.”
Mélanie frowned, her hand lightly brushing his arm. “Where are you going?”
“There’s someone I need to see,” he replied, his tone firm and final.
Her eyes searched his, her concern evident, but she knew better than to push. Instead, she squeezed his arm, a brief, grounding gesture. “Be careful.”
Araeius nodded, watching as Mélanie and Aedric descended the steps and slipped into the waiting car. The press swarmed around them, but their presence served as a useful distraction.
He turned on his heel, heading down a narrow corridor that led to the stairwell. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the dimly lit service stairs. He descended quickly, each step echoing in the cold, empty space. At the bottom, another door opened into a narrow alley.
The winter air hit him like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He pulled his coat tighter and stepped out onto the quiet street, hailing a cab that chugged to a stop beside him.
The cab was a relic of brass and leather, its engine hissing faintly as steam curled from its exhaust. Araeius slid into the backseat, the warmth inside a brief reprieve from the chill.
“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“The Iron Yard,” Araeius replied.
The driver hesitated, his brows knitting. “That’s the prison, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
The driver’s gaze lingered in the rearview mirror, his expression shifting from curiosity to recognition. “Wait a second—you’re Captain Braythar, right? From the Legion?”
Araeius inclined his head slightly. “I am.”
The man’s face lit up, his earlier caution replaced by excitement. “You’re a bloody hero! You stopped those darkie terrorists! My son looks up to you, you know. Idolises the Legion.”
Araeius’ stomach churned, but he forced a faint smile. “Just did my job, sir.”
“Job or not, you’re a legend! Hey, could I trouble you for an autograph? For my son?”
“Of course,” Araeius said, his voice even. He accepted the driver’s notepad and pen, scribbling his name with mechanical precision before handing it back.
The cab lurched forward, the city blurring past. Araeius stared out the window, his reflection a shadow in the glass.
Legend. Hero. The words rang hollow, heavy with the weight of the truth.
“So, what’s this about the Iron Yard?” the driver asked, breaking the silence.
“It’s classified,” Araeius replied, his tone curt. The answer worked; the driver didn’t ask again.
----------------------------------------
The Iron Yard loomed like a monument to despair, its towering walls of black iron and stone ringed with steam-powered sentries. Araeius signed the visitor log at the gate, the quill scratching against the parchment. He passed through the metal detector, its brass frame humming as it scanned him for weapons, and was led through a labyrinth of corridors to the visiting room.
The chamber was stark and sterile, the air thick with the tang of smoke and rust. A single pane of bulletproof glass divided the room, with phones mounted on either side. Araeius sat, his reflection ghosted faintly in the glass.
Moments later, Dean Braythar emerged. The man was broad-shouldered, his bald head catching the dim light. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember glowing faintly as he exhaled a plume of smoke. He walked with the confidence of a man who owned the room—and, judging by the guard’s deference, the prison itself.
Dean dropped into the chair opposite Araeius, the glass separating them like a physical manifestation of their differences. He picked up the phone on his side, a smirk curling his lips.
“Brother, it’s good to see you,” Dean drawled, his voice smooth and tinged with amusement.
Araeius hesitated before picking up his phone, his grip tight on the receiver. His silence hung heavy between them.
“I saw you on the telly,” Dean continued. “Guessing your hearing went well, considering you’re still on that side of the glass?”
“How do you do it?” Araeius asked abruptly, his voice low and sharp.
Dean raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Do what?”
“With all the innocent blood you’ve spilled,” Araeius said, his tone simmering. “How do you sleep at night?”
Dean leaned back, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They just bolted in a new mattress for me. Custom-made in Kyosaka. Firm. I sleep like a baby.”
Araeius’ jaw tightened, frustration flickering across his face. He hadn’t known what answer to expect, but this—this cavalier response—hit like a slap.
Dean exhaled another plume of smoke, pressing it to the glass. “You did what you had to do, Araeius. The toughest choices require the strongest of wills.” He grinned, a wolfish glint in his eye. “I’m proud of you, little brother.”
“Don’t say that,” Araeius snapped. “I’m nothing like you.”
Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “No, not at all. They put me in here for moving a few boxes of opium and spilling some blood. You burned an entire neighbourhood to ash and got a medal for it.”
“They were terrorists!” Araeius spat, his voice rising. “They attacked the capital, committed atrocities against our people!”
Dean’s expression darkened, his grin fading. “Is that what they tell you?”
Araeius’ eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”
Dean shrugged, his voice turning colder. “Why would it matter? You’ve got the crown and kingdom on your side. The ultimate excuse for war crimes, right?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “By the way—did you remember it’s Delacroix’s birthday today?”
Araeius froze, the words cutting deeper than any blade.
Dean stubbed out his cigarette on the desk, the ash smearing like a wound. “We’re done here,” he said to the guard before hanging up the phone. He rose, casting one last glance at his brother. “Take care, Captain.”
The door clanged shut behind him.
Alone in the room, Araeius’ grip on the phone tightened. His knuckles turned white, his chest heaving as a maelstrom of emotions surged within him.
“FUCK!” The word tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained. He slammed the phone back onto the holder with enough force to crack the plastic, the sound reverberating through the empty space.
He buried his face in his hands, the weight of the conversation—and everything it represented—crushing down on him.