The gates of Torvald stood battered but unbroken, their iron-bound timbers scarred with the marks of a thousand desperate defenses. Snow lay thick on the parapets, muted and grimy with ash, a reminder that the battle for this valley never truly paused. Beyond the walls, the town stretched in tight clusters of stone and timber buildings, their slate roofs sagging under the weight of frost and wear. Smoke curled from chimneys in reluctant spirals, a sign that even now, life clawed its way forward.
The Archduke’s reinforcements arrived in ragged columns, their figures hunched under the weight of exhaustion and the lingering specter of the ambush. The soldiers bore the grime of battle like second skin—faces streaked with soot and blood, armor dented and scraped, banners tattered but still flying. They marched with a weary determination, the rhythmic scrape of their boots against the frozen ground cutting through the brittle silence. The wagons creaked under their load, supplies lashed down with hastily knotted ropes. Behind them came the stragglers—wounded men leaning heavily on companions, stretchers swaying with the uneven rhythm of movement.
They were alive, which was more than anyone had hoped for after the Dark Elves’ ambush in the western ravines. Alive, and with most of their supplies intact. A miracle, some whispered. A testament to discipline, others claimed. But to Seeker, standing near the gates with his unit arrayed behind him, it was a reminder of just how thin the line between survival and annihilation had become.
He felt the weight of their victory like a stone in his chest, pressing down even as his body ached for rest. Torvald was a fortress, yes, but it was also a trap. The pass they had fought so hard to reach was both their salvation and their prison, funneling reinforcements in while offering no clear path of escape. The Elves would come again, and when they did, there would be no retreat. Just blood and stone and the desperate hope that Torvald’s walls would hold.
Seeker shifted, his cloak tugging in the icy wind. His thoughts churned, tangled threads of memory and dread refusing to settle. He had been quiet for most of the march, his energy focused on keeping his unit alive, on leading them when his own path felt so uncertain. But now, with the gates behind him and the weight of Torvald’s cold stone pressing against his senses, the silence became unbearable.
“You’re brooding again,” came the familiar, infuriating voice.
Seeker stiffened, his jaw tightening as he glanced to his left. The fairy sat perched on a low stack of crates, her luminous form barely visible in the gray morning light. Her wings shimmered faintly, catching the sunlight in a way that made them look as fragile as frost on glass. She rested her chin on her hands, her expression equal parts amused and exasperated.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she continued, tilting her head. “Or, I don’t know, doing something constructive. Instead, you’re staring at the poor bastards dragging themselves through the gates like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Leave me alone,” Seeker muttered, his voice low. His breath fogged the air in front of him, mingling with the faint smoke drifting from the town.
The fairy laughed, a sound like the chime of a bell, though it carried none of the sweetness one might expect. “You know I can’t do that. We’re bound, you and I. I’m your delightful, unwelcome reminder that there’s more to you than you want to admit.”
Seeker’s hand flexed instinctively, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. “Or im just going crazy. I don’t need reminders. I need silence.”
“And yet,” the fairy said, fluttering up to hover near his shoulder, “you keep listening to me. Funny how that works.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Around him, the sounds of the arriving army grew louder—orders barked, wagons creaking, the rhythmic clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer as someone tried to repair a shattered breastplate. His unit stood nearby, watching him with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
“Seeker.” Liora’s voice, soft but insistent, cut through the haze of his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. The young woman’s brow furrowed, her grip tight on the spear she carried like a lifeline. “Are you... all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. His gaze flicked past her to the rest of the unit. Harken stood with his arms crossed, his battered shield resting at his feet. Gale leaned against a stack of supplies, his sharp eyes never still. Sarra worked quietly, her hands busy checking the edges of her spear. But they were all watching him, their expressions tinged with something unspoken.
“You’re talking to it again, aren’t you?” Gale said, his voice low but cutting. His smirk was half-hearted, more defensive than mocking. “Thin air, invisible friend, whatever it is.”
“Mind your own business,” Seeker snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.
“It is our business,” Sarra said evenly, her gaze unwavering. “You’re our leader. If you’re cracking under the strain, we need to know.”
Seeker opened his mouth to argue, but the fairy darted in front of his face, her expression suddenly serious. “They’re not wrong, you know,” she said quietly. “You’re the one holding them together. If they think you’ve lost it, they’ll start falling apart.”
He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking as he fought to suppress the urge to shout. She was right, damn her. And so were they. Whatever strange connection had bound him to this tiny, glowing creature, it wasn’t something he could explain—or ignore. But it was also something he couldn’t let them see. Not fully.
“I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice steadier now. He met Sarra’s gaze, then Gale’s, then Liora’s. “I just need a moment. Focus on getting settled. Check your gear, get some food in you. We’ll need to be ready.”
The words were enough to send them back to their tasks, though their unease lingered in the air like the faint taste of smoke. Seeker exhaled slowly, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword as he turned back to the gates. The reinforcements were still filing in, their movements slow and mechanical. The Archduke’s banner hung limp in the cold, its colors muted by the gray light.
“You’re going to have to tell them,” the fairy said, her voice softer now. “Eventually. About me. About what’s happening to you.”
“Not today,” Seeker murmured. His gaze drifted upward, toward the snow-dusted peaks that loomed over Torvald like silent sentinels. “Not until I know what it means. Not until i have some answers.”
The fairy didn’t reply. She simply hovered beside him, her faint glow a reminder that some things couldn’t be ignored forever.
The war room was suffused with tension, though the space itself seemed indifferent to it. Stone walls, worn smooth by generations of hands and battles, enclosed a heavy oak table that dominated the chamber. A fire burned low in the hearth, its warmth barely tempering the cold that seeped through the walls. The table was covered in maps and markers, the paper edges curling slightly from the dampness in the air. Around it stood the gathered leadership, their faces as weathered and hardened as the fortress itself.
Count Torvald presided at the head of the table, his presence like the jagged peaks visible from every window in Torvald Pass—unyielding and cold, with a hint of menace. On his right stood Baroness Illara Velden, her crimson cloak brushing the stone floor as her sharp emerald eyes scanned the maps. She was flanked by a pair of her own Disciples, their robes heavy with arcane glyphs. Opposite her, the Archduke’s emissary loomed, his black and gold uniform pristine despite the march. Around them clustered commanders and advisors, their expressions grim, their postures stiff with fatigue and frustration.
The remains of a feast lay on a sideboard near the wall. A pheasant carcass sprawled across a silver tray, surrounded by scraps of roasted vegetables. Bread crusts lay abandoned near the remnants of a wedge of cheese, and goblets of wine glimmered in the firelight. The table itself bore no such offerings; the leaders had already dined, and now only their words remained, heavy with the taste of battle and loss.
The conversation, however, was cold and clinical.
“They hit us hard,” Captain Derran growled, his scarred hands gripping the edge of the table. “If that ravine collapse hadn’t slowed them, we’d have lost half the convoy. As it stands, we’re still counting the wounded.”
“And the dead,” added Commander Rhea, her auburn braid swaying as she leaned over the map. Her gloved finger traced the narrow western ravines. “They knew exactly where to strike. They’ll be back, and next time, they’ll bring siege engines.”
“They knew where to hit us,” the emissary began, his words clipped. His gray eyes, as cold and sharp as the mountain air outside, scanned the room. His gaze lingered on each face around the table before returning to the map spread out before him. “Their ambush wasn’t a test. It was a statement. They meant to wipe out our reinforcements before we ever reached this pass.”
Captain Derran nodded grimly. His scarred visage bore the look of a man who had been too close to death and yet, by some cruel twist of fate, survived. “The attack was precise,” he said, his voice a gravelly growl. “We were stretched thin across the ravine, forced to march two abreast. Perfect positioning for their archers to rain hell down on us while their vanguard cut off our retreat.”
Commander Rhea leaned forward, her gloved hand hovering above the map. Her fingers traced the western ravines with practiced ease. “Here,” she said, her tone devoid of embellishment. “This is where they struck. Their archers had the high ground, and their vanguard pushed us toward the cliff edge. They wanted chaos, and they got it.”
Baroness Illara Velden, who had remained silent until now, tilted her head slightly, her emerald eyes narrowing as she studied the markers on the map. “And yet you’re here, battered but alive. That suggests they didn’t account for something.” Her words were smooth, a deliberate contrast to the tension hanging in the room. They cut through the conversation like the flick of a blade.
Captain Derran hesitated, exchanging a glance with Rhea. The silence stretched until the emissary’s voice broke it. “They didn’t account for Seeker,” he said, his tone low and weighted.
The room shifted subtly, the collective focus turning toward the emissary’s declaration. Illara’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened, her attention now fixed.
“Seeker?” she asked, the name rolling off her tongue as though tasting it.
The emissary inclined his head. “He and his unit were near the rear when the ambush began. By the time the vanguard reached them, the forward forces were already in disarray.”
“It should’ve been a massacre,” Derran added, his scarred hands clenching into fists. “But it wasn’t. Seeker didn’t retreat. He rallied the others—what was left of the rearguard—and held the line long enough for us to regroup.”
“And the ravine collapse?” Illara pressed, her voice cool but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity.
The emissary’s expression darkened. “That was him. He just broke to rank of Inititate”
The Baroness arched an elegant eyebrow, her crimson cloak catching the firelight as she turned toward Derran. “I assume there’s more to this story.”
Derran hesitated, as if weighing his words. “The Elves had Disciples among them—two, from what we’ve gathered. One wielding water, the other commanding stone. They came at us hard, ripping through the ranks like nothing I’ve seen before. It was the kind of power that ends fights before they start.”
“But it didn’t end this one,” Illara said, her tone softening as though coaxing the rest of the story from him.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“No,” Derran admitted. “Because Seeker fought them. He killed them both.”
A murmur rippled through the room, disbelief mingling with grudging respect. Illara’s sharp gaze remained fixed on Derran. “An Initiate killed two Disciples of the Dark Elves? And survived?”
“That’s what I said,” Derran replied, his tone blunt. “I don’t know how he did it, but I watched it happen. One moment, he was just another soldier in the dirt. The next…” He paused, his voice trailing off as he struggled to put it into words. “It was like the storm itself answered him. Lightning. Rocks shattering. The air alive with power.”
“And then the ravine,” the emissary added. “He brought it down on the Elves. Sealed the pass behind us.”
Illara leaned back slightly, a faint, thoughtful smile playing at her lips. “Intriguing. An Initiate with enough power to kill two Disciples and collapse a ravine. Tell me, does he make a habit of such... dramatic displays?”
“He’s reckless,” Derran said flatly. “But effective. His instincts kept the rest of us alive.”
Illara’s eyes sharpened, curiosity flashing behind her carefully composed mask. “And where, exactly, were your mages when this extraordinary feat was taking place?”
The war room stilled under the weight of Aldric Venn’s gaze. The Archduke’s emissary stood tall, his crimson-and-gold cloak draped over his sharp shoulders like a mantle of authority. There was no trace of doubt in his bearing; his words were the Archduke’s words, his decisions carrying the weight of a kingdom. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his angular features, emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw and the steel in his eyes.
Baroness Illara Velden, radiant and calculating, studied him from across the table. Her crimson cloak mirrored his, though hers was trimmed with black and adorned with the sigils of her house. Her emerald eyes glinted as though she were cutting him apart with every glance. “The mages,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk over a blade, “were too far forward to counter two Disciples? A tactical error, wouldn’t you agree, Emissary?”
Venn didn’t flinch. “A calculated risk, Baroness,” he replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge that silenced lesser voices. “One made to ensure the integrity of the vanguard, where the threat was expected. The Disciples’ appearance at the rear was unforeseen, but the Archduke’s forces adapted. We are here now, alive and ready to fight, because of those decisions.”
Illara’s faint smile curved at the corner of her lips, though her gaze remained razor-sharp. “Adapted? An interesting choice of words. I would say it was more... fortuitous that you had someone like Seeker in your ranks.”
Venn’s expression remained unreadable, his authority a wall she could not breach. “Fortune plays its role,” he said coolly. “But this was not luck. The Archduke’s strategy accounted for contingencies, as it always does. Seeker’s actions, while unexpected, were in line with our overarching goals: to preserve the reinforcements and ensure the defense of Torvald Pass. His actions were effective—though not without cost.”
He let the last words hang in the air, daring anyone to question the Archduke’s leadership. The weight of his tone stilled the murmurs around the table, though Illara seemed more intrigued than silenced.
Derran cleared his throat, filling the silence with a rough-edged voice. “Effective’s putting it lightly. Seeker didn’t just hold the line; he killed two Disciples. Those bastards were tearing through us like parchment, and then—” He stopped, shaking his head as if the memory was too large to fit into words. “Then he brought the whole damn ravine down.”
“Cause trained Mages were too far away.” Illara pressed.
Venn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Their position was dictated by necessity. The terrain forced us into a vulnerable column. The mages were at the vanguard to ensure the safe passage of the majority. Relocating them in the chaos of the ambush would have jeopardized more lives than it saved. As I’ve said, Seeker’s actions filled the gap.”
“An interesting gap to leave,” Illara said, her tone deceptively light. “I wonder how your soldiers at the rear felt about that necessity as the Disciples flayed them alive.”
Venn leaned forward, his hands resting on the table’s edge. “I don’t deal in hypotheticals, Baroness. I deal in results. The reinforcements arrived intact enough to bolster this fortress, and the Disciples were destroyed. Seeker’s actions were decisive, yes, but not unanticipated. That is how strategy works: adaptability in the face of the unpredictable.”
Illara tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “You wield your authority well, Emissary. But strategy without foresight risks collapse.”
“And too much foresight risks paralysis,” Venn countered smoothly. His voice was cold, like a river cutting through stone. “The Archduke’s decisions preserved this army and this pass. Without those decisions, there would be no Baroness Velden to question them.”
The room held its collective breath as Illara’s smile deepened, but she said nothing more. She leaned back slightly, as if conceding the point, though the fire in her eyes said otherwise.
Torvald, standing at the head of the table, slammed a hand against the oak, silencing any lingering tension. “Enough,” he said, his voice carrying the authority of the valley itself. “This is a waste of breath. We need to look forward. The Elves aren’t retreating. They’ll strike again, and next time, they won’t give us room to adapt.”
Commander Rhea leaned over the map, her fingers tracing the paths through the western ravines. “They’ll come here,” she said. “The terrain forces them into the pass, but they’ll scout every possible approach. They’ll be looking for weaknesses.”
“Then we deny them the chance,” Torvald said. “We send scouts of our own. Skirmishers who can navigate the terrain and report back before the Elves strike.”
Derran nodded. “Seeker and his unit. They’ve already proven they can survive the worst the Elves can throw at them. They’re the best chance we’ve got.”
Illara’s gaze flicked to Venn. “Your miraculous soldier seems to attract impossible tasks.”
“He survives them,” Venn said simply. “And that makes him uniquely suited for this one.”
Torvald folded his arms across his chest. “It’s decided. Seeker’s unit will lead the skirmishers. They leave at first light.”
The leaders around the table murmured their agreement, though Illara’s sharp gaze lingered on Venn for a moment longer. She inclined her head, her faint smile returning. “Very well, Emissary. Let us hope your faith in him is not misplaced.”
Venn didn’t respond, but his cold gray eyes held hers for a beat longer before turning back to the map. The conversation shifted to supplies and fortifications, the immediate tension deflating into the more clinical tones of war.
And yet, in the corners of the room, the slaves moved like ghosts, their presence unnoticed as always. One brushed past Illara as she gestured toward the map, her arm cutting through the air as though the slave were an inanimate object. Another refilled Venn’s goblet, careful not to spill a single drop, their movements as precise as a soldier’s march.
The conversation shifted to the question of rations. “We’ll need to cut supplies,” Rhea said, her voice devoid of hesitation. “The garrison will need every scrap to hold the pass.”
“The slaves can endure on less,” Torvald said flatly, his tone making it clear that this was not a matter for debate. “They’ve survived worse.”
And the slaves in the room heard it all.
They moved like shadows, quiet and unobtrusive, their heads bowed as they tended to tasks that no one noticed. A young man refilled goblets of wine, his hands steady despite the tremor in his jaw. A woman wiped crumbs from the sideboard, her motions precise, as if she feared leaving the faintest evidence of waste. Another knelt by the hearth, adding wood to the flames, the glow casting her hollowed cheeks in sharp relief.
None of the leaders acknowledged them. To the lords and ladies, the slaves were as much a part of the room as the stone walls and the flickering firelight—silent, invisible, necessary.
Later, as the war room emptied and the echoes of strategy faded into the fortress halls, one of the slaves made her way back to her quarters. Mira was her name, though few here knew it. Her frame was slight, her hands calloused from years of labor. She clutched a single apple against her chest, its crimson skin shining faintly in the dim torchlight. Her heart pounded with every step, the sound loud in her ears as though the stone walls themselves were listening.
The apple wasn’t hers. It had been left on the sideboard, forgotten amid the feast’s remains. She had taken it in a moment of desperation, her fingers closing around it with a swiftness she barely recognized as her own. Now it felt like a weight in her hand, heavier than iron.
Her quarters were little more than a hovel carved into the lower levels of the fortress, a space shared with dozens of others. But Mira didn’t go there. Instead, she slipped into a smaller alcove, where a thin pallet and a patched blanket marked her private claim.
A child stirred under the blanket as she entered—a boy no older than six, his face pale and gaunt. His dark eyes opened, widening slightly as he saw her. “Mama?” he whispered, his voice hoarse with hunger.
“Shh,” Mira said softly, kneeling beside him. She pulled the apple from beneath her cloak and held it out. “Here. Eat.”
The boy’s eyes lit up with a spark of life she hadn’t seen in weeks. He reached for the apple, his small hands trembling as he bit into it. The sound of his teeth breaking the skin was deafening in the silence of the room.
Mira watched him eat, relief and fear warring within her. If anyone had seen her take it—if anyone realized the apple was missing—they would come for her. They always came for her kind when things went missing. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breath shallow, as though she could crush the fear inside her before it escaped.
Outside, the fortress buzzed with preparations for the battle to come. But inside this dark, forgotten corner, there was only the sound of a child chewing, and the quiet, desperate hope of a mother who had risked everything for the smallest chance at survival.
The cold night air settled over Seeker’s corner of the camp, the faint glow of firelight flickering against the mismatched tents and lean-tos. The men and women gathered around him moved with the quiet efficiency of people who had learned that survival often depended on silence. Yet there was tension in the air, a raw edge that came from too many unfamiliar faces and the heavy weight of what was to come.
Seeker stood at the center, his posture loose but his gaze sharp. He held himself with an ease that belied the exhaustion in his eyes, his dark hair falling across his forehead in damp strands. Around him, his original unit—those who had followed him through the ambush and lived—mingled uneasily with the new additions. Most of the latter bore the marks of the arena, their bodies scarred and their eyes hollowed by years of brutality. They recognized him, or thought they did, though their expressions carried more curiosity than outright loyalty.
Seeker’s voice carried, low and steady, as he addressed the group. “I won’t lie to you. What’s ahead isn’t any kinder than what’s behind. But if we’re smart, if we work together, we’ll live through it. That’s the goal. Survival. Not glory. Not revenge. Survival.”
A tall woman with sinewy arms and a jagged scar across her cheek snorted softly. “Glory doesn’t mean much to dead men,” she muttered.
“Exactly,” Seeker said, his tone calm. His dark eyes settled on her for a moment, then moved on. “We’ll start with the basics. Formation drills, skirmishing patterns, and how to stay alive when the Elves hit us with everything they’ve got.”
He nodded toward Harken, who stood nearby with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Harken will take the first group through shield drills. Pairs. One of you learns to hold a line, the other learns how to take it apart. Switch after ten minutes.”
Harken grunted in acknowledgment and began barking orders to the nearest cluster. The recruits shifted awkwardly but began pairing off, their movements stiff with hesitation.
Seeker turned to Sarra, who was inspecting the edge of her spear. “You’re on weapon checks. See who needs a better blade or a longer spear. If they’re holding anything less than decent steel, swap it out.”
Sarra gave a curt nod, her sharp eyes already scanning the group. “Got it.”
“And Gale,” Seeker said, his voice softening slightly. The wiry man was perched on a nearby crate, flipping one of his daggers absently in his hand. He looked up, his sharp features catching the firelight.
“What’s my punishment, boss?” Gale asked, his smirk faint but present.
“You’re on scouting drills,” Seeker said. “Pick five who look like they can move without tripping over their own feet. Teach them how to stay quiet, how to watch, and how to get back alive.”
Gale’s smirk widened. “Easy. Though if I disappear into the night, don’t be too sad.”
“I’ll manage,” Seeker replied, his tone dry. The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face before it faded back into focus.
The new recruits watched all this with varying degrees of wariness and recognition. Some had fought in the same arenas as Seeker, though they had never stood in his circle. Others had only heard the stories—the gladiator who refused to play by the rules, who won without killing more than he had to, who somehow survived when no one else could. Now, seeing him in command, they weren’t sure what to make of him.
A wiry man with tattoos curling up his forearms stepped forward, his expression half-curious, half-challenging. “You really think we can make it out of this?”
Seeker met his gaze, his voice steady. “I think if we don’t try, we’re already dead.”
The man hesitated, then nodded once, stepping back into the group. The tension eased slightly, though the air remained thick with unspoken questions and doubts.
From the shadows at the edge of the clearing, Baroness Illara Velden watched. Her crimson cloak blended with the night, her emerald eyes catching the flicker of firelight as she observed the scene. She had come here without a clear purpose, her curiosity about the man who had shattered the Elves’ ambush driving her steps. What she saw unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite name.
He doesn’t move like a soldier, she thought, her gaze tracing the lines of his form. And yet they follow him. Not because they trust him—not yet. But because they see something in him. Something raw.
Her eyes lingered on his scars, faint but unmistakable in the firelight. They crisscrossed his arms, his hands, even the side of his neck—remnants of the arena, of a life that should have broken him. She had seen many Initiates before, had watched the transformation take place when mana poured into their veins, remaking them into something stronger, something almost untouched by the past. Yet Seeker’s scars remained, as if the power that now coursed through him had refused to erase the evidence of what he had endured.
It’s strange, she thought, her gloved fingers brushing against the hilt of her blade. Initiation should have healed him, made him... whole. But he wears those scars like armor. Like a reminder.
Illara’s thoughts drifted back to the war room, to the way the emissary had described him. Reckless. Effective. A man who could kill two Disciples and survive. She had thought him dangerous then, but now she saw something more. There was a depth to him, a sharpness honed not by training but by necessity. It intrigued her. It unnerved her.
He’s not just dangerous, she realized. He’s unpredictable. And that makes him a weapon. The question is, whose hand will wield him?
Illara slipped back into the shadows, her cloak blending seamlessly with the night. She would watch him, for now. Observe. There was more to Seeker than the scars he carried, more to the power that had saved the Archduke’s reinforcements. And whatever it was, she intended to uncover it.