In the earliest hours the furious howl of the wind dwindles to a tired sigh, and the incessant drumming of rain on fabric and flesh ceases, leaving in its wake a resonating stillness.

Figures begin to emerge, shadows trudging through the soppy terrain, their form barely discernible in the night. Slowly they gather numerous logs from the adjacent forest. The camp's outskirts became a hive of low-voiced activity. Here, the mercenaries work with deliberate caution, mindful of the significance their task entailed.

They arrange the logs methodically, building rectangular formations on the ground. Each piece of timber is placed with respect in absolute silence. Beneath those tall and imposing structures, they fashion beds of hay, the dry strands meticulously fluffed.

As the preparations near completion, a solemn procession makes its way towards these pyres. Families and friends carry the lifeless forms of their loved ones. The deceased, draped in their final attire, are soon accompanied by an array of their most cherished possessions: elegant clothes, gleaming gold, sparkling gems, sturdy weapons, and ornate armor.

Inside Uther's tent Katherine works diligently to conceal any visible marks on Seren's body. Nearby, Gabriel and Astrid lay on Uther's bed, lost to the world in deep unconsciousness. Gabriel, after an eternity, begins to rise. As his eyelids flutter open, the world around him seems out of focus, and his thoughts echo with a dull ache. Katherine, without diverting her attention from Seren, whispered in a voice laden with relief and concern, "You could have been killed."

Her words, barely a whisper, seem to hang in the air of the dimly lit tent. As Gabriel's senses continue to return, albeit slowly, Katherine's hands don't cease their careful movements over Seren's body, tending to the myriad of marks left by the poison along her veins, around her face, and in her eyes. Running his hand along his shirt, he realizes his large wound has vanished, leaving not even a scar behind.

"Disappearing without a word for the entire day, taking it upon yourself to play the hero." she begins, her voice a low, controlled tremor of anger, and fear. "If it weren't for Isabel's intervention, we'd be preparing another pyre right now."

After putting the finishing touches on Seren, Katherine straightens up, her body exhausted from the long day. She moves slowly towards the bed, sitting down between its two occupants.

"Despite everything, without your actions, Astrid would not be with us now," she acknowledges, her voice soft yet firm. "But, Gabriel, regarding Orla... you must promise me that you'll keep it a secret. It's crucial that no one else finds out."

"I won't tell anyone," Gabriel responds, his young voice earnest. He falls silent for a moment that stretches into an uncomfortable pause. His eyes wander towards the entrance of the tent, double-checking they are indeed alone and their conversation private.

He turns back, gathering the courage to voice his fears. "I... I almost killed Astrid," he admits, his voice trembling. "When I was trying to fight off the person who took us, something happened to me. I couldn't control myself, and I nearly attacked her before I snapped out of it." His voice cracks. "Everything turned red, and I felt so angry, like something wild was inside me."

The dim, flickering light from the few lanterns casts deep shadows, veiling her features. Yet, there's no mistaking the absence of surprise in Katherine's expression.

"Gabriel," she begins, "what you've just gone through... it's a legacy that's haunted your father's family for time immemorial. Your father wrestled with it, as did his father before him. It's a curse, one that you carry in your blood, a remnant of a distant past that we cannot cure."

Gabriel's eyes, wide and fearful, reflect the flickering light as he absorbs her words. "Does that mean we could all turn? Me, Owen, Yorick, Sigurd, —"

Katherine raises a hand, a gentle but firm gesture that halts his words. "No, my dear," she interjects softly. "Of Uther's twelve siblings, he alone bore this burden. It's a capricious curse. It can skip generations, slumber within one's veins, only to awaken in their child or grandchild. The manifestations are as unpredictable as they are rare."

She turns, moving with quiet purpose toward a chest nestled among Uther's possessions. Her hands sift through the relics of his life, occasionally pausing to acknowledge the presence of an object. Finally, she retrieves what she's been seeking, a pendant of intricate workmanship, forged in silver, depicting a star with a pair of wings unfurling from its sides.

Returning to Gabriel, she leans down to fasten the pendant around his neck. "This was your grandfather's," she tells him, her voice a murmur. "He gave it to your father, to help him anchor himself amidst the storm that raged within. It's not a cure, Gabriel. It won't end the curse. But perhaps, it will guide you on the path to control it."

She draws him into a tender embrace, her arms a protective fortress around him. His heart, a frenzied rhythm against her, betrays his youthful anxiety. "How I wish I could stay by your side, guiding you through it," she murmurs.

The clanking cadence of armored footsteps approaching the tent captures their attention. As the fabric of the entrance is hoisted, Thorald appears, his expression serious as he notifies them, "Uther has returned to camp. We're about to start."

As the inhabitants of the encampment stand in quiet reverence among the unlit pyres, a single one remains empty. The silent throng parts as Uther emerges from the heart of the encampment. In his arms, he carries the lifeless form of Seren. Each pair of eyes follow this solemn procession, marking the journey to the final pyre.

Uther, his demeanor softening in stark contrast to the stern leader he usually embodies, tenderly places Seren on her final resting place. Beside him, Oswald, their fifteen years old son, begins the heart-rending task of arranging his mother’s prized possessions around her.

The items he places with meticulous care stand apart from the others' gold and weapons. Detailed annotated maps of the world, ancient leather bound tomes, chests like gold and silver pieces representing armies, monsters, forts, and cities.

Under a sky quilted with stars, the flickering flames of the torches cast an ethereal glow over the gathered faces. Their expressions solemn, their hearts heavy with an unspoken ache.

"Under the sacred vigil of Wolfurius and Eddona, we are one in sorrow," Uther’s voice booms, deep and resonant, carving through the stillness. "This night, we usher the souls of the fallen on their path to the Boreal Sanctuary, to reunite with our forebears. May their valor, and their sacrifices, open the doors of Odasgal for them, where our spirits shall one day reunite."

The crowd remains hushed, hanging onto his words. One by one the pyres ignite in a silent homage, until only Seren's remains unclaimed by fire.

Uther’s voice gathers strength and depth as he continues, “We stand here not solely to mourn those who valiantly fell in battle, pursuing the goal that unites us. We also gather for my dear Seren, whose indomitable spirit and keen intellect were my compass through countless ordeals. For nearly twenty years, her wisdom as my strategist charted our course through turmoil and triumph alike.”

A deliberate pause allows his words to echo in the hearts of those assembled before he addresses his son, "Oswald, within you rests not only the pain of loss but also the monumental heritage of your mother, an exceptional woman. You have inherited her insightful vision and sharp intellect, and she has bequeathed to you her mastery of strategy. Soon, you will embark on a path laid by her guidance, following in the footsteps she has set for you."

Oswald's young face, painted with the contrasting dance of shadows from the growing fires, is a tumultuous canvas of battling emotions, sorrow, determination, and a smoldering anger. Holding his gaze, Uther offers him a torch, its flames licking the night air. With a resolute stride, Oswald approaches the pyre. With a hand that trembles ever so slightly, he lowers the torch to the awaiting kindling, setting the final pyre ablaze.

The hush that had blanketed them begins to fracture into murmurs as individuals exchange reminiscences and tales of those who have passed. Removed from the glow of the pyres, Gabriel finds himself amidst Katherine and Owen, confusion knitting his brow. "Why are they burning the maps and books? Couldn't they help or even save people?"

Owen replies, "It's a significant act, Gabriel. We're all meant to take our most treasured items with us to the Boreal Sanctuary. They're symbols, things to remind us of who we were for eternity."

Katherine chimes in, her tone gentle, "Uther has other versions of Seren's maps, her strategies, and her writings. The ones in the flames were her personal copies. But they might not be something she can take where she's headed."

Confusion knits the brows of both Gabriel and Owen, prompting them to ask in unison, "What do you mean?"

Katherine pauses, measuring her words. "Seren didn't ask for guidance from Wolfurius or Eddona, the deities who oversee our passage to the Boreal Sanctuary. Her faith was placed in Valkurn, praying for victory in her tactical plans and, consequently, in our battles. If Valkurn receives her spirit, she could join him in his endless realm of conflict, a place where she can perfect her art of war for all eternity."

The trio watches in silence, the stories, and memories around them weaving a communal tapestry of mourning and celebration.

As the pyres turn to ash, specks of molten gold glimmering amidst the grey, the assembly begins their slow journey back to their tents, ready to surrender to sleep with the hint of dawn on the horizon.

Katherine turns to Owen, her voice soft yet firm. "Go get some sleep, Owen. Gabriel and I have something else to take care of."

Owen pauses, giving Gabriel a speculative look. "Alright," he responds, understanding lacing his tone. "Goodnight, then." He doesn't hesitate further, turning swiftly to blend into the crowd, his figure becoming one with the multitude all seeking the solace of their resting places.

Reentering Uther's tent, Katherine and Gabriel find a waking up Astrid, her consciousness gradually returning from the grasp of slumber. Her eyes, still foggy from the depths of sleep, slowly regain their focus as she takes in her surroundings and their presence.

Just seconds behind them, Uther strides into the tent. Silently, he takes off his coat and lays it over a chair, the fabric's quiet rustle resonating in the tent. Watching him Astrid stands from his bed to join Katherine and Gabriel.

"Father," she starts, her voice quivering, but the determination evident in her eyes. "About mother... I..." Her voice breaks, betraying the turmoil inside her, desperate to find some reason, any reason, to explain her mother's actions.

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"Astrid," he speaks, each word deliberate, carving out space in the heavy air. "You must never seek excuses for her. What she did is beyond any reason, beyond any justification," he says, his voice a quiet rumble. Astrid nods, wiping burgeoning tears.

"From the lands of Svalreach where I took refuge to Valkyria where we now stand, we walked through wars towards a single, hidden, goal. " Uther continues, his tone shifting, instilling a sense of urgency and importance into the conversation.

Katherine steps forward, capturing Astrid's and Gabriel's attention. "There's a task at hand that requires great courage and cunning," she begins, her gaze steely. "We need to infiltrate the heart of Stormwatch, king Barnes shelter."

Astrid's eyes widen in apprehension and incomprehension, and Gabriel straightens, a serious look crossing his features.

"We've, … Seren, has been devising a plan," Katherine continues, "for both of you to enter Stormwatch, to create opportunities for our forces, to break its impenetrable defenses."

Uther continues, "It's a perilous path," Uther continues, his deep voice filled with a grave seriousness. "I won't hide it from you. Stormwatch is a fortress, and Barnes and his court are no fools. But we have no choice, for long ago Barnes cursed me, and his curse will soon bring my death."

Astrid and Gabriel stand stunned, as with a swift movement Uther removes his chainmail shit, revealing burned markings on his chest. The language is foreign to anyone in the room, jagged runes made of claw like strokes. "They appeared four years ago, forming from a wound I suffered from his hand," he says, placing his hand on a scar from which spread black veins.

As he speaks, Katherine takes a step toward the tent's entrance, her movements graceful and deliberate. She closes the tent's flap, watching for any eavesdropper. With no perceptible magic aura, her hands weave through the air, and suddenly the interior of the tent alters. They are enveloped in an illusion, their modest surroundings expanding to mimic the grandiosity of a regal throne room. A detailed map of the island they inhabit begins to etch itself into the surface of a table before them, intricately depicting its terrain, waterways, cities, fortresses, and military forces.

"Close to twenty five years ago, my father ruled over Greyhollow, a kingdom he claimed after journeying from the frozen north," Uther begins, his finger indicating the northern part of the Island on the map. "We bestowed those territories upon our kin, nurturing them to prosperity. But then Barnes, the reigning monarch of the unified southern territories, set his sights on expanding his dominion over the entirety of the Nilfmark Isles."

Katherine picks up the narrative, "His forces swept across the land, overpowering each minor kingdom in their path. They unleashed a torrent of destruction, spreading plagues and drawing nightmarish creatures in their wake."

"As he approached our stronghold, his legion dwarfed ours, outnumbering us thirty to one," Uther recounts, the stained glass of the throne room parting to unveil a dark tide of soldiers advancing like a shadow over the terrain. "We held our ground, fighting shoulder to shoulder. Many of my brothers and sisters fell in that battle. Them, and more." Katherine gaze darkens at his words. "Ultimately, within these very walls, Barnes confronted my father."

The illusion morphs, now presenting a colossal warrior, akin to an elder, more formidable version of Uther, his eyes ablaze with a fierce red glow. He stands defiant against a regally armored adversary, Barnes, who is clad in golden armor. In Barnes' grasp, a long sword blazes, its blade marked with engravings that eerily mirror the scars that mar Uther's body. Barnes' lengthy blond hair billow in the tumultuous battle winds, momentarily exposing his square jaw, trimmed beard, and unmarred visage. Even when facing what Gabriel perceives as an indomitable warrior, Barnes bears a smile that revels in the thrill of battle.

Adjacent to this showdown, a younger Uther is portrayed in the throes of combat, battling Barnes' minions with relentless ferocity. A short distance away, a youthful Katherine is seen, her hands dancing in the air as lightning bolts answer her call. Alongside her, an older woman, distinguished by raven hair and steely grey eyes that hint at kinship with Uther, conjures her own tempest of electric fury.

Uther strides up to the image of Barnes, his gaze piercing into the illusion's eyes. "Burn this face into your memory," he commands, his voice low and fierce. "This is the man we seek to bring down."

Gabriel studies the map sprawled on the table, each golden griffon flag representing Barnes' territory. He points to a southern area of the island and says, "Barnes only controls the region below Stormwatch. From what I've read, he's never held dominion over the entirety of the Nilfmark Isles."

"This battle was his demise," Katherine answers.

"As our duel raged on, following my father's fall, an unexpected event happened," Uther adds. The illusion shifts again, showcasing Uther locked in combat with Barnes, but now, a new figure enters the scene, garbed in white robes, emblazoned with gleaming gold sigils.

Katherine steps closer, her focus fixed on the new figure. "This man is the High Sentinel of the Silent Order, a fanatical church that worships Godric the Arcane-Slayer. He was responsible for the massacre of countless mages across the Nilfmark Isles two centuries ago." Contempt shadows her features as she observes his illusion. "Upon his arrival, he wielded a force no lesser god should have the power to grant. In that dire moment, your father's mother and I, desperate and reckless, invoked a spell beyond our means. It twisted, transformed into an arcane catastrophe we never meant to summon, calling forth a monstrosity from the Abyss."

The vision transforms yet again, this time transporting them beyond the castle walls amidst the turmoil of battling forces. Abruptly, a thunderous tremor ripples through the ground, the castle itself seeming to shudder and fracture, giving way to gaping, scorched crevices in the earth.

From these abyssal splits, fiery tendrils burst forth like cyclones of flame and obsidian smoke, all converging into one catastrophic epicenter to manifest a gargantuan, glowing nightmare of black incandescence. The skies above take on a foreboding crimson hue, mirroring the hellish inferno that spills across the battlefield in relentless waves of fire belching from the creature's very core. The demon's shape is transient, an ever-morphing chaos where solid form gives way to writhing smog and serpentine flames. Its visage, a horrific semblance of a skull, boasts empty sockets filled with ghostly fire, casting a sinister, spectral luminescence that chills the soul.

Combatants, previously engaged in fierce conflict, come to a standstill, their expressions morphing into raw terror and disbelief at the apocalyptic spectacle before them.

Each resonating footfall of the demon radiates blistering heat waves, the intensity so immense that nearby soldiers are instantaneously incinerated, their agonizing screams swallowed whole by the voracious inferno roaring around them. Those fortunate enough to avoid direct contact with the monstrous entity find themselves ignited nonetheless, becoming unwilling torches that streak across the battlefield in frantic, fiery desperation.

The air itself becomes a lethal tempest of ash and glowing particles, suffocating many of the fleeing warriors who fall to their doom, their bodies succumbing in mere instants. The illusion accelerates, hours passing in moments, depicting the demon as it relentlessly plows through encampments, supply chains, and reserve forces, leaving only incandescent devastation behind. Barnes' formidable legions have been reduced to mere smoldering echoes, testaments to the demon's ruinous passage.

As the first rays of light peek from the horizon, a figure emerges, not from the ranks of the scattered, terrified soldiers but from the skies. Landing in an eruption of smoke, she descends upon the chaos, her armor a stark contrast to the surrounding devastation. A mesmerizing white, shining with and ethereal light, stopping the embers, smoke, and flames before it touches its surface.

In her hand she carries a sword, the blade gleaming with the same pure light, humming with power that seems to dissipate the demon's chaotic energy. Her sole presence pushes back the fire and smoke, a clearing among the chaos.

The demon turns its fiery towards her. It roars, a sound of fury and defiance that shakes the earth beneath them. Flames surge around its form, unleashing a burning tidal wave to destroy her.

Undeterred, she raises her sword, and power answer her unspoken call. Light bursts from the blade, casting a beacon across the darkened land. With a single burst she crosses the wave of fire placing herself before its head, high in the sky.

As her blade meets the demon it disintegrates parts of its jaw. The demon lashes on her as she hits the ground, but each of her strike, each of her parry is precise, and her sword cuts through the smoke and fire as if dispelling darkness with light.

The demon fights back with chaotic ferocity, but its flames and smoldering claws cannot mar her armor. Finally, she drives her sword through its chest. A blinding light explodes from the contact point.

When the blinding effect recedes, the demon is gone, evaporated into a swiftly dissipating cloud of smoke. The hero disappeared and only a few survivors, linger on the battlefield.

The illusion fades, leaving the young spectators in the tent with palpable awe. Gabriel asks, "Who was that, was that a Knight? No, a god's chosen one?"

Katherine releases a solitary chuckle before responding, "Her identity remains a mystery. However, she prevented the rest of the Nilfmark Isles from succumbing to the same doom that befell Barnes's forces."

"In the subsequent year, even though he emerged alive as we did, he lost dominion over vast lands, more than he had seized," Uther elaborates. "Those territories reverted to the heirs of their former leaders or were claimed by new opportunists."

He pauses, the next words carrying a weight that seems to darken the atmosphere further. "Our quest has drawn us into uneasy alliances with various factions who also desire his downfall. Thus, you will not face this mission alone. You will be sheltered by individuals who have crafted identities for you, posing as your guardians, and acting as your guides." Uther resumes, his tone bearing a hint of caution. "However, while their assistance is a necessity for our infiltration into Stormwatch, be wary. Do not thrust them too easily and think of the consequences of the actions they tell you to undertake. Your paramount task is to uncover the root of my curse and break it."

"I've been monitoring changes in your father's magic, and there's a clear metamorphosis occurring. I think it will be another five years before whatever is festering truly happens," Katherine notes, her tone imbued with a mix of concern and analytical distance. Pausing, she meets Astrid's gaze with intensity, "Astrid, I trust you now with the knowledge that I am a mage. This secret is a heavy burden, and to divulge it could endanger both our lives. Nonetheless, Gabriel is now at liberty to share with you all I've taught him about mages and the arcane. And with the time we have, I will instruct you on how to kill them."

"I'll keep it a secret, I swear," Astrid responds promptly.

"Good. Take some time to rest. Our departure from Valkyria is imminent, in just a few days, and your journey will begin alongside ours," Uther states, pulling back the tent flap, subtly indicating the conclusion of their conversation.

As dawn's initial glow bathes the camp, Gabriel is already outside, seated on a rock that grants him a panoramic view of the unfolding morning below. His heart is a battleground of conflicting emotions, caught between the allure of adventures he's only encountered in books and the gnawing realization of the very real dangers that await.

Part of him yearns for this new chapter, imagining the bustling streets of Stormwatch, the clandestine meetings under the cover of darkness, the fights against deadly enemies, like in the many stories he read. Yet, fear anchors his soaring excitement. He understands that the world outside is filled with danger, a realm of unpredictability where he could be a helpless soldier in the way of an invincible beast.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of chainmail jingling, and he turns to see Uther ascending the small incline toward him. His father takes a seat beside Gabriel, the seriousness of his demeanor belying the calmness of the morning.

"Your mother told be about your, … change," Uther begins, his voice a mixture of concern and an odd form of encouragement. "I hope this trinket will help you as it helped me. But I must warn you. There will come times when it will overwhelm you, when its power makes your will seem like a whisper in a storm. In those moments, it's crucial to focus it against your adversaries because it will not distinguish friend from foe. To its influence, anyone else in your vicinity is merely prey."

Gabriel looks up at his father. Turning his head back at the camp he says, "It's all just fragments. Red-tinged memories, violence, blood... they flash within my mind, but they don't feel like they're mine. I don't know how to harness this... this thing inside me. I can't control it, and I don't even understand what triggers it."

"Intense fear, overwhelming rage, gnawing hunger, desperate thirst, mortal injuries. These have been the triggers for me," Uther elucidates. "It has both saved me and exacted a heavy price in return," he adds, his voice heavy with the weight of experience and regrets.

"Have you ever hurt someone you cared about?" Gabriel queries, his voice barely above a whisper.

The silence stretches between them before Uther responds, his words tinged with a sorrow that seems to age him in front of Gabriel's eyes. "I have taken the lives of those I held dear, not once, but twice. Comrades who would have willingly died for me, yet whom I betrayed in moments of lost control," he confesses, the shadows of his past flickering across his features.

A chill runs down Gabriel's spine as he processes Uther's words, the terrifying scenario of what could have happened playing in his mind. Uther's voice softens, "You're so much younger than I was when it first consumed me. Maybe with time, you'll find a way to master it more than I ever could." He gazes into the distance, lost in the past, "If there's ever someone you hold dear, someone you'd trust with your very soul, … make sure they know. Tell them, caution them, … show them. Don't repeat my mistakes."

With those final words, Uther rises, leaving Gabriel to grapple with his own thoughts.