Chapter 1.3 - When Chaos Burns: New Bonds
-Emmet and Marsh-
Emmet crouched closer to the fire, rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to ward off the biting cold. The night was darker than usual, the thick clouds above reflecting the dark snowy ground’s dim glow. His last effort to sell his inventions had ended in disappointment yet again. The wagon behind him, crammed with his carefully crafted trinkets, seemed to taunt him in the flickering firelight.
Reaching into his pocket, Emmet pulled out a small pouch and emptied its contents into his hand. A single Gritt between a couple of Megen tumbled out, landing in his palm with a faint spark. The small, electrified rock buzzed with energy, its surface shifting through a spectrum of colors as the current flowed through it. The Gritt’s metallic sheen morphed from deep blues to vibrant purples and greens, each hue reflecting the electrical charge in mesmerizing patterns. Unlike the Megen, which were rough and ancient, the Gritt’s dynamic coloration highlighted its charged nature. He winced slightly at the tiny stings, but there was a strange comfort in the familiar sensation. In a world where energy was a prized commodity and currency a matter of survival, the Gritt symbolized a crucial resource and the ever-present need to balance its use with the demands of everyday life.
The two Megen seeds drew sparks as they clinked against the Gritt as they rolled in his palm. They were small and flat, with a rugged surface that resembled pieces of bark. Each seed had a thin groove running around its edges and a gentle, raised ridge in the center, giving them a distinctive, almost medallion-like appearance. When he touched them, they felt solid and cold, like chunks of raw ore. They were relics of a time when the Vaith had harnessed their power for extraordinary feats. Yet now, their use had dwindled; today, they were barely employed for powering tools. Although each Megen seed was worth only a fraction of a Gritt, in some places it could buy a meal or a place to stay. Still, they were more than mere currency to him—they were tokens of hope, precious relics he had been collecting throughout his journey.
Emmet sighed and slipped the Gritt and Megen back into his pouch. He couldn’t understand why his inventions weren’t selling. He had put everything he had into creating them, carefully crafting each piece with a precision that should have impressed even the most discerning buyer. But the townspeople seemed uninterested, holding tightly to whatever Gritt they had. Maybe his inventions were too advanced, or perhaps they didn’t see the value in them. Either way, it wasn’t enough to make a living.
Trying to shake off the creeping doubt, Emmet reached into his wagon and pulled out one of his favorite creations—a small warming bag. Inside, a cleverly insulated Gritt sparked to life as he squeezed it, sending a gentle warmth through his chilled fingers. He smiled faintly at the familiar comfort. This bag was simple, but it worked, proving that he could make things that were not only useful but could also make life a little easier.
As he basked in the warmth of the bag, a sudden snap of a twig behind him made him jump. His heart raced as he turned, peering into the dark woods surrounding his camp. Stories of the mountain demon Varik, whispered in hushed tones around fires like his own, flitted through his mind. Though he had never seen the demon, he couldn’t ignore the chill that ran down his spine at the thought.
Then, through the shadows, he saw a figure stumbling toward him. Emmet squinted, trying to make out who, or what it was. As the figure drew closer, he realized it was a boy, no older than seventeen, maybe eighteen, wrapped in a thick, fur-lined coat that looked far too fine for these parts. The coat, despite its quality, was drenched and covered in soot, hanging heavily on the boy’s small frame.
“Hey!” Emmet called out, rushing to the boy’s side. He reached him just in time, catching him under the arms before he hit the ground. “Easy there,” Emmet murmured, half-dragging him back to the fire. The boy was freezing, his skin cold as the snow around them.
“How long have you been out here?” Emmet asked, but the boy didn’t reply. His eyes were barely open, his lips tinged blue. Emmet quickly moved to his wagon, grabbing a small pot and filling it with water from a flask. He set it over the fire, adding a few dried herbs he had managed to scrounge up from his travels. As the water heated into a thin soup, he pressed the warming bag into the boy’s hands, hoping the gentle heat would help heat up his frozen fingers.
“Here, drink this,” Emmet urged, holding a cup of the steaming broth to the boy’s lips. “It’s not much, but it’ll warm you up.” The boy took a sip, wincing as the hot liquid burned his tongue, but he drank it down eagerly. Emmet watched him carefully, noting the quality of his coat and boots—definitely not from around here.
“We need to get you out of those wet clothes,” Emmet said, eyeing the boy’s drenched coat. “I’ve got a spare shirt. It’s not much, but it’s dry.” He rummaged through his wagon and pulled out an old, patched shirt. “Here,” he said, offering it to the boy.
“T-thank you,” the boy stuttered, his teeth chattering violently.
“Don’t mention it,” Emmet replied, helping the boy out of his heavy coat and into the dry shirt. As he adjusted the shirt, Emmet noticed a peculiar mark on Marsh’s arm—a dark reddish-brown birthmark, faint but noticeable.
“Well, Marsh, I’m Emmet. Nice to meet you,” Emmet said as he wrapped a blanket around Marsh’s shoulders. “You’ve got quite the fancy coat there,” he added, curiosity piqued about the boy’s background.
Marsh gave a weak smile, his cheeks gaining a hint of color. Emmet grinned back, feeling a strange kinship with the boy. As he added more wood to the fire, he glanced back at Marsh and couldn’t help but ask, “That mark on your arm—looks like a family heirloom or something? Or just a reminder of that wild ride you’ve been on?”
Marsh looked at his arm, then back at Emmet, his expression a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. “It’s just a birthmark,” he said quietly. “Nothing special.”
Emmet nodded thoughtfully. “Well, it’s definitely unique. Adds character, if you ask me. Maybe you’ll be known for it one day.”
As Emmet continued tending to the fire, he glanced back at his wagon. Maybe his inventions weren’t the problem after all. Maybe he just hadn’t found the right place or the right people yet.
-Kyllian and Terra-
It had been a few days since Kyllian had helped Marsh escape, and the weight of that decision continued to haunt him. Doubts about his loyalty, even to his father, gnawed at him. He wondered if he had done the right thing, if the guards' deaths were on his head. What if he had captured Marsh instead? Could they have turned things around and remained brothers? But that possibility was gone now. The king had declared Marsh an outlaw, and anyone who killed him would face no repercussions. Craft, the divine arbiter, had supported the decree with his chilling pronouncement: “Order is what order makes.” Those words seemed to linger, vague yet ominous, as though they would haunt Kyllian for years to come.
Determined to clear his mind, Kyllian finished polishing his sword and packed away the deer fat. As he walked down the castle corridors, the silence offered a brief moment of peace from his own mind. Giving him the chance to appreciate the view through the colorful-tinted windows. The somber hue over the soot-snowed forest drew him back to the dark gray smoke from the nethermines to the east seemingly looming closer, darkening the sky and suffocating the light.
Kyllian’s thoughts wandered slowly consumed by the catacombs. Since Marsh's escape, he had been increasingly troubled by the strange disturbances reported in the ancient tunnels. The catacombs were more than just a maze of darkness; they had been Marsh’s route to freedom. If he could understand what had gone wrong or why the disturbances were happening, it might offer some insight into the situation. His mind often wandered back to Marsh’s frantic flight through those tunnels, the urgency and fear in his brother's eyes.
He decided to investigate the entrance gate to the catacombs, hoping to find some clues about the recent disturbances. As he approached the gate, a sense of unease settled over him. The entrance was heavy and rusted, but it had always been securely locked. Kyllian examined the gate closely, noting the cold draft seeping through the cracks. The new iron chains rattled faintly in the eerie silence, added for the extra security. As he peered into the darkness beyond, his senses were heightened. The catacombs seemed to hold their breath, and the shadows appeared to dance just out of sight.
Marsh would have been needing a key, and he stole them from the undertaker, and even if Marsh had many skills, stealth was never one of them, he would have been found out long before getting a hold of the keys, leaving only one other choice, he must have had help! but who? nothing obvious came up in his mind. but his investigation was put to a halt as a guard approached him with a sense of urgency. “Kyllian, you need to come with us. The Sentinel has awakened and is causing disturbances. Craft demands your presence.” Kyllian starts walking to the infirmary where the sentinel was stationed still wondering about the mystery thief.
Terra found herself at the morgue more frequently than she would have liked, drawn to the remains of the king’s wife, eerily preserved by the cold. Each visit was a painful reminder of how the queen’s death had become an inescapable part of her life, leaving an unsettling mark on everything she touched. Terra had helped Marsh escape, but in doing so, they had harmed a man under the goddess's protection. Though she kept this from Craft, the weight of inevitable consequences gnawed at her.
Merryl, nestled in a cozy corner of the morgue, was surrounded by herbs and elixirs neither she nor Terra fully understood. She observed Terra with an expression that was both curious and detached. Emotions like guilt seemed foreign to her now, remnants of the life she left behind when she became Terra's companion. While Terra quietly tended to the queen’s body, Merryl’s aloofness stood in sharp contrast to her own growing anxiety.
Closing the door to the queen's flowery cage, Terra’s face was a mask of strained calm. In two days, she and the king would depart for Letera, his island kingdom, and she was eager to be rid of the queen’s presence. The corpse lying there felt almost like a taunt, a reminder of a past she longed to reclaim. Merryl, perched on Terra’s shoulder, watched the ritual with a curious yet indifferent gaze.
It was Terra’s wide, Re’faimian frame—strong yet graceful—that gave her away as Kyllian passed by. His eyes landed on her as he stepped into the room, narrowing slightly when they met Merryl's. Could she be involved? Kyllian wondered. Merryl was never far from Terra, yet her absence during the sentinel’s ordeal had been conspicuous. Too coincidental to ignore. His mind raced when Terra turned, alerted by his approach.
“Kyllian?” Terra exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I just saw you mother, while I was passing by,” Kyllian replied, concerned about lacing his voice. “What are you doing?”
Terra forced a smile. ”I have just had a lot on my mind lately... but this is nothing.” The lie was thin, and Kyllian knew it. Even so, it somehow calmed him—her effort to shield him from her troubles still lingered.
“So fine that you’re spending your time with corpses!” Kyllian remarked, his voice soft but pointed, nodding toward the queen’s cage. He noticed the door was slightly ajar, something Terra had forgotten to lock. “You have been down here a lot, haven't you?” It was clear she had come to brood over their loss. Terra’s smile faltered, stepped forward and embraced him, her posture firm but her tension palpable.
The hug lasted only a moment before a strange, faint scratching noise filled the air.
Kyllian froze. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword as he positioned himself in front of Terra. The sound grew louder, more frantic, like nails scraping against steel. His heart raced as he approached the queen’s cage.
With a sickening crack, the queen’s mangled remains tumbled out. Her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, her head nearly turned backward, grotesque in its distortion.
The room fell into a suffocating silence. Terra and Kyllian stood frozen, the shock paralyzing them. Then came a twitch—a subtle, horrifying movement as the queen’s broken hands scraped against the cold floor. Her legs jerked, dragging her body forward in short, unnatural bursts. Bone scraped against stone in a sound that clawed at their nerves. And finally, only her lips moved, twitching beneath the still-bound threads.
Kyllian’s breath came shallow and quick as he cut the binding around the queen’s mouth. Terra’s grip tightened on his arm, fear radiating from her.
“Her pact... is weak,” the queen’s remains hissed, her voice barely more than a broken, hollow whisper.
The air in the morgue grew thick and cold, heavy with something malevolent. Terra and Kyllian exchanged uneasy glances, unsettled by the cryptic message. They stood, unsure of what dark power they had encountered. A haunting reminder lingered in the space between them: they were entangled in forces far beyond their comprehension.
Merryl, perched on Terra’s shoulder, appeared indifferent to the grotesque scene. The red panda shifted slightly, her fur bristling as if sensing something but giving no overt reaction.
Though Kyllian’s suspicions of Merryl persisted, the queen’s cryptic warning overshadowed everything else. The room felt colder still, as if the weight of the unknown was pressing down on them all.
-Craft-
The queen's death had rippled through Nullflare Cathedral, and while Kyllian and Terra battled one part of the aftermath, Craft now faced another.
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A low-ranking royal guard appeared, stopping in front of him with a crisp salute. "King Malachite of Letera has summoned you to his chamber," a royal guard announced, his posture rigid with formality.
Craft barely looked up from the document he was studying. A wave of irritation passed over him. Craft had tried to avoid this meeting for days. King Malachite's mourning meant nothing to him—certainly not when his own ambitions and Null's grand design were at stake. Still, Malachite was too important to alienate. He was financing Nullflare, after all, and Letera’s military strength could be an asset Craft needed to maintain.
Suppressing a sigh, Craft nodded. "Very well. Take me to him."
The guard turned without another word, walking with the stiff gait of someone who took their duties a little too seriously. Craft followed, his thoughts shifting as they made their way through the castle halls. The arrogance of this king—believing his personal grief outweighed the needs of Nullflare—was almost unbearable. Still, Craft reminded himself, Malachite's island kingdom was valuable. Too valuable to lose.
They reached a door flanked by two more guards, one of whom opened it for him. The warmth of the chamber was immediate, with firelight casting long shadows over bear-skin rugs and worn tapestries. King Malachite sat slumped in his chair, staring at the flames, his face tight with unspoken grief.
"Soon, I depart," Malachite slowly said without looking up, his voice hoarse with grief. "And you told me you'd have that boy for me by now, so I could bring him back and see him face justice."
Craft paused, measuring his words. "I understand your frustration, Your Majesty. I've sent riders to every corner of Nullflare. It's only a matter of time before Marsh is found."
The king's fists tightened on the armrests of his chair. "Time? You speak of time as if I have an abundance of it. I am beginning to suspect that you're... obstructing me, Craft. After all, this 'boy' is your son, isn’t he?"
A chill settled over Craft's expression, but his voice remained steady. "If anyone wants him found, it is me. I had plans for Marsh, and Null had even greater ones."
King Malachite’s eyes narrowed as he finally turned his gaze toward Craft. "I'm not convinced of your dedication to this cause. Before I leave, I need something more substantial than promises."
Craft’s irritation spiked, but he held his composure. "And what, exactly, would you consider 'substantial, Your Majesty?"
Malachite's lips curled into a thin smile, as he leaned forward. "Your other son. Send him with me to Letera as... collateral. To ensure your cooperation."
The suggestion landed like a hammer. Without thinking, Craft shot back, "Kyllian? Absolutely not.” The air between them grew tense, his mind raced, to retain control. “I mean, He’s far too valuable to me."
The king's face twisted with rage, as he stood up. "ARE YOU TELLING ME NO?" His voice rose as he stepped forward, his posture demanding compliance.
Craft didn’t flinch, meeting the king's rage with cold calm. “That is exactly what I’m saying. Kyllian is not a stake I can afford to part with. But... there is another option.”
Malachite paused, his brows knitting together. "And what might that be?" he asked, clearly tired of the games.
Craft allowed the silence to stretch for a moment, calculating his next move. His mind raced through the possibilities. He could not afford to lose Kyllian. Yet, Malachite needed a gesture—something that would bind him to their cause, or at least placate his anger.
He had to offer something. The King would not be pacified without a gesture of significance, something to bind their trust—or at least to give the illusion of it.
His gaze flickered to the cold stone walls, where the flicker of firelight danced, casting shifting shadows. For a brief moment, Craft considered his options. Sebill was far too involved in other matters, and his sons—both of them—were far too important. The only other stake he could place on the table was...
“Terra.” Craft stated, the name slipping from his mouth with a hard edge. "She’s... adaptable. Capable. You can take her as a sign of good faith. But I expect her treatment to be impeccable."
The thought sat heavy in his mind. She was valuable, not just as a person, but as a symbol of the Re'faim bloodline, however shackled its lineage had become. Malachite might see her as a trophy, but for Craft, offering her was a strategic move. She was not Kyllian, and her bloodline no longer carried the same weight as it once did, but she was still bound to Null’s Flame, and Terra was close enough to Craft's own heart that the offer would carry weight.
The king's eyes widened slightly, considering the offer. "Your wife?"
Craft nodded, suppressing the bitter taste of the situation. "Not as a gift. As collateral, for as long as necessary to settle this matter. Her safety however, will be paramount."
Malachite’s anger simmered, but slowly, a grudging respect seemed to settle over him. After a long pause, he gave a tight nod. "Very well. But make no mistake, Craft. If you don’t find that boy soon, there will be more than good will at stake."
Craft returned the nod, his voice like steel. "You will have your justice, King Malachite."
With that, Malachite turned back to the fire, his grief palpable but his demands temporarily satisfied. Craft, feeling the weight of the exchange, left the chamber, his mind already plotting the next steps in a game that was becoming increasingly dangerous.
-Sebill, Craft and Kyllian-
The Sentinel had been sleeping ever since he was healed by the Vaith servant. Though his body had healed, his mind was still trapped in a fog of agony. The defeat had humiliated him. Losing to an ordinary boy and his rat—how pathetic. If he kept failing like this, he would never reach his goal.
In a fit of rage, the Sentinel slammed his fist into the small table beside him, shattering not only the jug of water but the table itself, its remains crumbling beneath his bulky hand. His thoughts churned with vengeful fantasies: when he finally got his hands on that boy and that smug, perky-breasted woman, they would beg for his blade. They would serve Craft, serve Null, and most importantly, serve him.
He blinked. His eyelids passed over his hollow eye socket, but when he raised his hand to the other, he touched something cold. A spike had replaced where his eye used to be. A manic grin stretched across his face, and he erupted into fanatic laughter.
"YES, YES! This is what I need!" His voice rang out, and the migraine that had been crushing his skull suddenly made sense. It heightened his senses. He could now feel the entire room: the draft under the bed, the scent of something foul reaching his nose. He glanced at the source, finding a piss-covered porcelain bucket beneath his bed. Grimacing, he seized the filthy object, kicked open the door, and hurled the bucket against the wall, its contents splattering in a grim arc across the stone.
Before he could revel in his newfound abilities, a shadow loomed over him. The last thing he saw was the blur of a blow to his temple. Then, darkness.
Sebill had already sent word that the Sentinel had awoken, but someone should have arrived by now. He glanced down the hallway, knowing the tardiness was unusual—Craft and Kyllian must have been held up.
Sebill had always been careful, ever since he received his own enhancements. Like all Sentinels, he bore the same spikes as the others, but his mist was much thicker, spilling across the floor like a frosty lake. It hid the ground beneath it, leaving an eerie, shifting blanket of fog wherever he went.
He flung the unconscious Sentinel over his shoulder with ease, tossing him back onto the remnants of the raised bed. The door closed behind him.
Then came the sound of footsteps—Craft appeared first, his expression simmering with anger. His voice was as cold as the mist. "I expected to see both of you here by now," he said, irritation evident in his tone. He paused for a second, then continued, "Where's Kyllian?"
Before Sebill could respond, Kyllian rounded the corner, slightly out of breath. "I'm here," he muttered, finally showing up, kicking up the cold mist that swirled behind him like ghostly figures.
Craft's eyes flashed with contempt. "Not only are you late, but your ignorance is becoming intolerable." He straightened, still simmering from the King’s manipulations earlier, and Kyllian’s ineptitude only added fuel to his frustration. He needed things to start falling into place soon—too many forces were at play. his voice took on a harder edge, slicing through the air. “The Sentinels are not something you can afford to misunderstand,” he said, each word sharp as a blade. Their sensitivity, especially after the integration of new rods, could have a lethal outcome. You should be learning this—not dragging your feet." Craft’s lecture bored into Kyllian like a frosty spike, driving home the gravity of his failure. “One day I won’t be there to clean up your mess,” he added, his tone laced with a rare hint of care hidden beneath his frustration.
Kyllian was taken aback by Craft's words. He couldn’t have been that late, yet his heart strongly pounded in his chest, each thud echoing Craft’s harsh words. His mind felt foggy, struggling to piece together the implications of the reprimand.
Craft rubbed his temples, trying to calm himself before his attention shifted back to Sebill. “I hope this one wasn’t too much trouble,” Craft’s voice was taut, irritation clear not only from the stench but from the delay—and the lingering frustration from his conversation with Malachite.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, Godspoken,” Sebill replied smoothly, suppressing the burning pain from his own spikes.
Craft’s eyes flickered with faint approval. “I expected nothing less from you. Null truly found a Vaith worthy to serve her. How have the repairs affected him?"
Sebill's expression was grim. "I'm not sure yet. His eyesight hasn’t returned, but he could sense my presence. Still, I’m uncertain if we should keep this specimen.”
"Keep him?" Kyllian interjected. “What exactly are you planning to do with him?”
“Kyllian, enough,” Craft cut in, his tone final. “The Sentinels are dangerous tools. In some cases, they become too sensitive. Believe me when I say, removing a broken one is not an option you want to experience.” Craft’s gaze bore into Kyllian, silencing further questions.
“I think he’ll need more time to adjust to his new senses,” Sebill added, redirecting the conversation. “I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”
“Good,” Craft said, nodding. “Now, Kyllian, was there anything else you needed?”
Kyllian shifted under Craft’s scrutinizing stare, shaking his head. “N-no, I’ll take my leave,” he muttered, offering Sebill a nod before retreating down the hall, dragging a rift behind him in the mist.
As Kyllian disappeared, Sebill glanced back at Craft. “Are you certain you want him initiated into these trials, Godspoken?”
Craft’s jaw tightened, his tone sharp. “He’ll be perfect one day. He just got it in his head that he’s the hero of some grand tale, and that’s going to get him killed, unless I destroy that delusion first.” He dragged a hand through his dark, white-streaked hair, tying it back with a knot. “He’s promising. Just make sure he doesn’t learn about the others—understood?”
Sebill nodded. “It’s understood, Godspoken.”
Craft strode off, leaving Sebill alone in the mist-filled hallway, the weight of their plans heavy in the cold air.
-Emmet and Marsh-
The sun had finally risen, allowing Marsh to feel its warmth gently caressing his face. The cold from last night lingered, but it had become bearable thanks to Emmet's kindness. Marsh felt, it was more of a ploy to gain free labor. He was pulling the wagon, laden with Emmet’s strange collection of tools, along with Marsh's own sword and worn clothes.
Emmet smiled as Marsh clarified, “It’s the Mark of Sjael. Everyone has always hated me for it. Craft went out of his way to preach about the doom I'm supposedly destined to bring. I don’t see how a shitty mark makes me more evil than anyone else, but no one ever looks beyond the cardinal’s so-called demon spawn.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Emmet said. “It’s just... when I saw your arm, I had to admit, I got scared. I didn’t think of myself as religious, but the church had spent a lot of time demonizing people like you.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much my life story. But have you ever actually been told why the mark makes me bad? I still don't get it!” Marsh's mood darkened, his words trailing into frustration.
“Well, I’m not sure I have a reason that will make you feel better. But the church’s influence is huge, not just over the people but over countries. So it’s either trust Null or fear the—what did you call it?—the cardinal’s demon spawn,” Emmet teased, climbing into the wagon.
“Hey! What are you doing? Your tools are heavy enough as it is!” Marsh yelled, smiling.
“How’s that a way to talk to your savior? Maybe try ‘Thank you, Emmet,’ or ‘I appreciate you saving my life,’” Emmet bantered back.
“I’m starting to think you didn’t save me out of kindness but because you needed a cheap mule for your wagon.”
“Hush! Mules don’t talk!” Emmet laughed, tossing Marsh an old carrot before standing up and pointing ahead. “Wait, Marsh, there’s someone further up the road!”
Pointing toward a dozen guards patrolling the road, Marsh saw that they seemed more interested in poking a massive pile of bear dung decorating the path. Their laughter echoed, as one guard jabbed the heap with his sword.
“Look at the size of this thing! It’s fresh, too—must’ve been a real monster,” one of the guards said with a chuckle. Another continued poking at it until one of them noticed the approaching wagon.
“Halt!” a guard yelled.
“What’s going on?” Emmet asked as they came to a stop. The guards approached cautiously, with one drawing his sword and pointing it at Emmet, who remained seated in the wagon.
“Get down from there. We’re looking for a murderer,” the guard barked. Marsh released the wagon and stepped to the side.
“Well, it must not be anyone important if the city sent someone as competent as you dungeaters to handle the search,” Marsh said sarcastically.
The guard turned his blade towards Marsh, fury flashing in his eyes. “What did you just say, boy?” He marched up to Marsh, pressing the cold steel to his throat.
Marsh, relieved that this was one of the cleaner ones, slowly pushed the sword aside. “Oh, I’m sorry. ‘Competent’ means doing good work, like you,” he said, swallowing his nerves.
Emmet took this moment to swiftly attach Marsh’s sword to his waist and climb down from the wagon. “I thought so,” the guard sneered, motioning to his men to search the wagon.
One guard rummaged through the belongings and held up Marsh’s dirty old clothes. “Looks like both of you are coming with us!” the guard declared.
Everything happened so fast, yet to Marsh, it all seemed stretched out. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched Emmet draw his sword with shaky and uncertain movements. Marsh’s mind raced—Emmet, who clearly had never wielded a sword before, held the weapon like a cumbersome weight.
“What are you doing? You have nothing to do with this!” Marsh protested, his voice rising in frustration. But Emmet had already taken a stance, his knuckles white around the hilt, his grip awkward and unsteady.
“Not if I can help it,” Emmet responded, his voice wavering as he pointed the sword at one of the guards. His inexperience was glaringly obvious—he was clearly out of his depth.
The guards didn’t wait. The lead guard swung his sword at Emmet, hesitantly fumbling his defense, sending Marsh’s sword flying. The guard’s attack struck deep into Emmet’s arm, blood immediately pouring from the wound.
The guard pressed Emmet into the dark icy dunes, shoving his face into the cold as his blood seeped deep into the snow. Marsh felt a surge of panic as he watched his friend being overpowered. Desperation took over as he scrambled to pick up the sword, his hands trembling.
One guard yelled, “Give up, boy! You’ve got no chance!”
Marsh’s jaw clenched into a grim line. “Telling me what I can’t do just makes me want to do it more.” He charged forward, the sword heavy in his hands, each step driven by a mix of fear and fury. His instincts took over as he slashed at the guard’s weapon, the clash of steel ringing loud in his ears. Another guard lunged at him, tearing a hole in Marsh’s clothes, but Marsh retaliated with a fierce knee to his face, sending him crashing down.
The guards closed in, and the situation grew more dire. Marsh’s last thought before the chaos overtook him was, this is it. A deafening roar erupted from the forest, shaking the ground with its power. All heads turned toward the beast emerging from the trees.
“IT'S VARIK! RUUUUN!” one guard shouted, as a massive white bear crashed through the trees. With one swipe of its claws, it decapitated a guard, sending his head rolling through the snow. Another guard barely had time to raise his sword before the beast tore him in two.
The remaining guards fled in terror, leaving a battlefield drenched in blood. The bear turned its gaze toward Marsh, who stood between it and the wounded Emmet. Marsh held his sword high, his body trembling uncontrollably. The bear snorted, sending a chilling gust of air through Marsh’s clothes. For a moment, Marsh feared the beast might attack, but instead, it turned and vanished into the forest.
Marsh exhaled in relief. “What... was that?” he muttered, looking at the carnage left in the bear’s wake. “Why didn’t it attack?”