Asher leaned heavily on his blade, the once-clamorous battlefield now silent save for the crackle of flames consuming the grotesque remains of the corrupted. Non-combatant villagers moved like shadows, solemnly carrying off the fallen, their faces etched with grief and determination. Yet Asher remained rooted to the spot where his rage had nearly devoured him, unable—or unwilling—to take a single step.
His appearance matched the turmoil within him: his face was ashen, streaked with dirt and dried blood. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, and his remaining hand trembled against the hilt of his blade. His armor was battered, the intricate etchings of Aetheric symbols marred by the black ichor of Veinforged blood. The stub of his severed arm still throbbed beneath its crude bandaging, the faint scent of burnt flesh clinging to him like a shroud.
He clenched his jaw, his thoughts a storm of shame, anger, and guilt that churned relentlessly. What kind of leader was he? A man who could barely control himself, who teetered so close to becoming the very monster he fought against. Every breath carried the phantom weight of his severed arm, a grotesque reminder of the price they had all paid.
But worse than his own thoughts were the whispers—slithering, insidious things that had taken root in the corners of his mind.
They fear you, Champion, the voice hissed, cold and oily. Look at them, scurrying like rats. Do you think they trust a man who can barely hold his own soul together? A man who would burn down his own humanity for power?
Asher squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the hilt of his blade. He could still hear them—the snarls of the Veinforged, the desperate cries of his soldiers, and the guttural screams of the monstrosity as it fell under his hand. But even louder was the voice of the corruption, gnawing at his resolve.
This is who you are now, it purred. You can’t deny it. That rage—it’s your strength. Why fight it? Embrace it, and no one will ever doubt you again. No one will dare.
“Stop,” Asher muttered through gritted teeth, but the whisper only deepened its hold.
Weak, it spat, the word echoing like a taunt. They see it in you. Brynn. Elara. Even the Frostborn. You think they follow you out of respect? No—they follow out of pity, out of fear of what you might become if left unchecked.
Aetheros’s voice, warm and steady, cut through the storm. Do not listen to it, Champion. The corruption feeds on your doubts, twists your pain into a weapon against you. You are more than this.
“Am I?” Asher whispered, his voice hoarse, bitter. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”
You are mine, the corruption hissed, triumph laced in its tone.
Aetheros broke through his spiraling thoughts again, their voice insistent. Your people are waiting for you, Asher. They await your orders. No one knows what’s next. This is foreign territory to them.
Asher spat aloud, the words cutting through the still air like a blade. “Leave me alone, you godforsaken thing. Give me a moment’s peace. I’m still just a man, and I can go without the constant reminder of what rests on me.”
Nearby, his lieutenants stood in uneasy silence, their gazes fixed on him as they lingered just out of earshot. The battle had ended, but the tension still hung thick and suffocating, pressing down on them like a heavy fog.
Elara was the first to step forward, though her movements were hesitant. Her sharp eyes studied Asher, taking in the tremor in his hand, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the exhaustion etched into every line of his body. She exchanged a glance with Brynn, whose worried gaze hadn’t strayed from Asher since the end of the battle.
Finally, Elara broke the silence, her voice quiet but tinged with frustration. “We’re asking a lot of one man. I don’t even know how long it’s been since he’s slept... That arm needs tending.”
Brynn, standing a few steps away, crossed her arms tightly, her gaze dropping to the ground. “He won’t let anyone touch him,” she said, her voice heavy with both sorrow and frustration. Her face turned downward as she added softly, “I was just starting to see him open up again. Now, I feel like we’re back at the beginning.”
Her words hung in the air, and Garran broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “Time, I hope, will help heal this,” he rumbled, his deep voice a steady anchor amidst the uncertainty. “But we can’t ignore what’s ahead. We still have to clear this area of corruption, train our forces, and prepare. This battle was only a scratch on the surface. I fear what comes next will be larger—more relentless.”
Vicky stepped forward, her glowing runes pulsing faintly as she studied Asher. Her voice was a mix of sharpness and care. “He can’t carry this alone, but he’s doing it anyway. He’s breaking himself to keep us standing.” She tilted her head toward Asher, her tone softening. “We need to reach him before he breaks completely.”
Brynn nodded, her expression tightening with determination. Without waiting for an answer, she moved closer to Asher. “Asher,” she called, her voice trembling with emotion. “We need you. I need you.”
He didn’t respond, his silence a wall none of them could breach.
Vicky tried next, her voice rising, firm but not unkind. “Ashe, you’re not alone in this. Stop trying to carry it like you are. Let us help, for once.”
Asher didn’t acknowledge her. Finally, he shifted, straightening his battered frame. Without looking at any of them, he stood, his steps deliberate, each one weighted with exhaustion.
He turned and spoke, his voice distant but edged with determination. “Begin training the recruits tomorrow. We need every able body ready to fight. Send out search parties—any wanderers, any stragglers willing to hold a blade or bow, bring them in. And…” He hesitated, the words bitter in his throat. “Send another runner to Rivermaw. It’s been six days since Lirien was sent, and we’ve heard nothing. That’s too long.”
The weight of his words settled over the group.
“You’re wasting your time,” he muttered after a pause. “Go focus on what’s next. That’s where your energy should be.”
With that, Asher walked away, each step heavy with the burden he refused to share.
Brynn moved to follow, but Garran’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Let him go,” he said gently, though his eyes betrayed his own concern. “He’ll come back when he’s ready—or when we make him ready.”
The group watched in silence as Asher disappeared into the shadows, his figure swallowed by the darkness that seemed all too eager to claim him.
Brynn, Elara, Garran, Vicky, Kaelen, Jorven, and Malisya sat around the rough-hewn table in Brynn’s modest home. It was the same table that had borne the weight of their desperate strategies before the Veinforged descended on Duskshade. Now, it bore the silence of uncertainty.
Elara leaned casually against a sagging bookshelf in the corner, her knife flicking between her fingers in a restless rhythm. Shadows played across her sharp features as she studied the room, though her keen eyes often flickered toward the empty seat at the head of the table.
Kaelen sat closest to the hearth, tinkering with a small device. His hands moved with mechanical precision, but his eyes betrayed the tension he tried to mask. Each adjustment to the gears seemed more about distraction than utility, the awkward silence gnawing at him like a poorly-tempered blade.
Vicky broke the stillness, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “Asher gave us orders,” she said, her violet eyes scanning the weary faces. “We need to focus on the troops first. Who has ideas on how best to train them? And we’ll need an accurate count of what forces remain.”
Jorven, seated stiffly, folded his frostbitten hands atop the table. The faint glow of Aether coursed beneath his pale blue skin, giving him an otherworldly aura even in repose. “The Frostborn still number 1,300,” he rumbled. “They are disciplined, experienced, and ready to assist. But even they require rest. Battle has taken its toll.”
Vicky nodded and turned to Brynn. “And our soldiers?”
Brynn’s gaze remained fixed on the untouched bowl of stew before her. She toyed absently with the edge of the wooden table, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “Four hundred. That’s all we have left who can fight. Another two hundred villagers—men, women, and children. Of those four hundred, maybe one hundred fifty are properly trained. The rest… well, they held the line, but they weren’t soldiers before this.”
The quiet that followed was oppressive. Garran leaned forward, his hulking frame casting a shadow across the flickering firelight. “We need to prepare for worse,” he said, his voice gravelly but steady. “This battle was a skirmish compared to what’s coming. We’ve only scratched the surface of the corruption’s strength. If we’re to survive the next assault, we’ll need to clear the surrounding land of corruption, train every able hand, and recruit anyone who’ll fight.”
His words hung heavy in the room, but it was Malisya who cut through the weight. “You’re all missing something,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms as her fiery eyes narrowed. “Food. Water. If we’re going to train and fight, we’ll need supplies to keep people alive long enough to do either.” She gestured toward the window, where faint wisps of smoke from the pyres still curled into the sky. “I’ll take hunters and gatherers from my strike teams to comb the area for game, clean water, and anything else useful. We’re one bad harvest away from eating dirt.”
Kaelen grunted in agreement. “A necessary move. If our people see progress—food on the tables, patrols securing the land—it might stave off despair for a while longer.” He glanced toward Brynn. “But we still need answers on Asher.”
Brynn flinched at the mention of his name, her hand tightening around the edge of the table. Elara caught the motion and stepped forward, her knife vanishing into its sheath. “Speaking of Asher,” she said, her voice a razor’s edge, “where is he?”
“I saw him by the pyres,” Garran said, leaning back heavily. His one good eye glinted with concern. “He hasn’t moved since this morning.”
Vicky’s expression tightened, worry threading her words. “He hasn’t been seen since? We need him. The people need him.”
“Do they?” Elara asked sharply, pacing toward the table. “Because right now, he’s barely keeping himself together. Did you see him during the fight? He’s unraveling.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Brynn snapped, her voice cracking with a mix of anger and grief. “He’s carrying a burden none of us can comprehend.”
The tension thickened as Jorven raised a hand. “Enough,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “We all saw what happened. The man fights as though the weight of the world rests on his shoulders—and it does. But that does not make him infallible.”
He paused, his crystalline gaze sweeping the room. “That is why we must shoulder what burdens we can. He tasked us with scouring the land for allies and rebuilding our forces. I have one suggestion to add: the Order of the Azure Fang. They are a militant sect of humans who revere Aetheros. They claim to guide and protect her chosen mortals. If we approach them, they may aid us—or they may see us as heretics.”
Vicky nodded thoughtfully. “Worth the risk. We’ll need to split efforts. Some of us remain to oversee training and supplies. Others head out to recruit and investigate leads.”
Her words shifted the room’s focus, but Kaelen raised a hand. “One more pressing matter,” he said grimly. “Lirien. It’s been six days since we sent her to Rivermaw, and there’s been no response. If something’s happened—”
“Something has happened,” Elara interrupted coldly. “If she could have sent word, she would have. We can’t leave this unanswered.”
Brynn pushed her bowl aside, her face pale but resolute. “Agreed. We need to know what happened to her. If Rivermaw has fallen, or worse…”
“Three scouts,” Jorven said firmly, cutting through the rising unease. “My Frostborn can spare them. Elite, disciplined, and fast. If anyone can return with word, it will be them.”
Vicky nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Make it happen. They leave at dawn.”
Garran leaned forward again, his tone grave. “We have our orders, then. We prepare our people, secure supplies, and search for answers. But someone needs to bring Asher back. If he stays lost in himself, this whole effort crumbles.”
Brynn’s voice wavered, but she held firm. “I’ll speak with him.” She rose from her seat, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her cloak. “He listens to me. Sometimes.”
Malisya snorted, though not unkindly. “Good luck. The man’s as stubborn as a wounded wyvern.”
As Brynn moved toward the door, the others fell into a subdued silence. The flickering fire cast long shadows on their weary faces, each of them turning inward as they braced for the trials ahead.
Outside, the smoke of the pyres mingled with the cold night air, and the faint hum of activity from the survivors filled the gaps between the crackling flames. The council had made their plans, but the weight of uncertainty lingered, as pervasive as the corruption that surrounded them.
The frost-bitten air clawed at Brynn’s face as she trudged through the desolate streets of Duskshade, her boots crunching softly against the snow-crusted dirt. The town had settled into an uneasy stillness, the aftershocks of battle leaving the remaining villagers and soldiers too weary to fill the air with even murmurs of recovery. Brynn pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders, her gaze distant, her mind lost in a storm of doubt.
She hadn’t wanted to admit how much it hurt to see Asher unraveling. He was the anchor they all leaned on, and if he shattered completely, she wasn’t sure she could keep holding the pieces together. Her heart twisted as she thought of his haunted face, the way his green eyes had dulled under the weight of despair.
Her steps carried her instinctively toward the outskirts of the town, where the forest loomed like a silent sentinel, watching over the living and the dead. It was where Asher always went when he needed to escape—when the weight of leadership became too much. Brynn knew he would be there. Where else could he go?
Unbeknownst to Brynn, a second figure slipped through the shadows, trailing her steps. Vicky lingered in the periphery, her luminous runes dimmed to avoid detection. She had started this trek to find Asher herself, a gnawing worry eating at her, but when she saw Brynn heading in the same direction, something stilled her steps.
Vicky didn’t know why she followed. She should have stepped forward, joined Brynn in this search. But she hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know what she would say to Asher when she found him. Would she scold him for disappearing again? Beg him to share the unbearable weight he carried? Even her clarity of purpose faltered in the shadow of his suffering.
From her hidden vantage, she watched Brynn move forward, her shoulders squared against the cold but her steps faltering as if each one took a piece of her strength. Vicky frowned, her heart heavy. Brynn was always the hopeful one, the optimist, but now even she seemed weighed down by something unspoken.
The forest pressed in around Brynn, its skeletal branches reaching overhead like black veins against the faint light of the moon. The silence here was suffocating, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through dead leaves. Brynn hesitated as she caught sight of a figure up ahead, sitting motionless against the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree.
“Asher,” she called softly, her voice trembling with both relief and apprehension.
He didn’t respond, but she knew he’d heard her. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something far away. Brynn stepped closer, her breath hitching as she took in his state.
Blood—some dried, some fresh—streaked his tunic and the skin of his forearms. His single hand rested limply on the hilt of his blade, which was stabbed into the frozen earth before him. His face, pale and gaunt, was marked with exhaustion and faint streaks of dirt. His emerald eyes were unfocused, staring into the middle distance as though he were seeing something she couldn’t.
“Asher,” she tried again, kneeling cautiously a few feet from him.
“Why did you follow me, Brynn?” His voice was hollow, barely more than a whisper.
“Because I care,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. She hated how small and fragile she sounded.
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of warmth. “I think caring for me is a mistake. It’s a curse more than anything.”
Brynn flinched but didn’t back away. Instead, she shifted closer, resting her hands on her knees. “You’ve carried so much, Ash. Too much. No one could hold all this and not break. But we’re still here. We’re with you. I’m with you.”
He turned his head toward her slowly, his eyes glinting with an unnatural light, as though some deep, festering darkness were bleeding into his soul. His voice, a low and jagged whisper, cut through the still air. “Are you? Are you truly with me, Brynn? Or are you just waiting—waiting for the moment I finally lose control, when this thing inside me takes over and I become the monster you all fear?”
His hands trembled as he clenched them, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his shallow breaths. “You can feel it, can’t you? This... this corruption crawling through my blood, gnawing at what’s left of me.”
Her throat tightened, but she refused to look away. “Don’t do that. Don’t push me away just because it’s easier than letting me in. You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there. I saw what it cost you to close that rift. I watched you lose your arm, your sanity, and still keep fighting. I know what it’s doing to you, and it’s killing me too, Asher.”
From her hiding place, Vicky’s heart clenched as she watched the exchange. Brynn’s words struck a chord in her, the honesty and vulnerability resonating in ways she hadn’t expected. She’d always been one to act decisively, to lead with conviction, but now she realized how much of herself she had buried in the process.
For a fleeting moment, she considered stepping forward, joining them. But something held her back—perhaps a fear that her presence would shatter the fragile connection Brynn had managed to create.
Instead, she sank against a nearby tree, her hands clenching at her sides. She resolved to wait and watch, letting Brynn’s words do what hers couldn’t.
Asher closed his eyes, the silence between him and Brynn stretching long and heavy. Finally, he exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. “I’ll try,” he said, his voice trembling with uncertainty. “I don’t know how much I have left to give, but I’ll try.”
Brynn managed a faint, watery smile, her relief palpable. “That’s all we need from you, Ash. Just try. One step at a time.”
He nodded again and slowly pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly before catching his balance. Brynn rose beside him, her hand hovering near his arm as if ready to steady him but hesitant to overstep.
In the distance, Vicky watched them emerge from the forest together, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and guilt. She turned away before they could see her, slipping back into the shadows and heading toward the heart of the town. For now, Brynn had done what she couldn’t, and that was enough.
But as Vicky walked away, one thought lingered in her mind: How much longer can any of us hold out?
The frost-laden forest blurred into the muted warmth of Duskshade’s interior as Asher and Brynn walked side by side. The silence between them was neither tense nor comfortable, but fragile—like glass balanced on the edge of breaking. As they approached the heart of the town, the flickering glow of lanterns spilled onto their path, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits.
Ahead, the faint hum of voices and the clatter of activity echoed from Brynn’s home. The tension in Asher’s shoulders tightened at the thought of facing them all—his lieutenants, his allies, his friends. They deserved answers, explanations he wasn’t ready to give. Yet, as Brynn had reminded him, they were with him, even when he couldn’t carry the burden alone.
The door creaked open, spilling warm light and the mingled scent of stew and aged wood into the icy air. Inside, the group was gathered around the same table that had borne the weight of their last battle plan. Jorven stood near the hearth, his frostbitten features illuminated by the firelight. Kaelen’s hands worked diligently at some mechanical contraption, though his sharp eyes flicked up when the door opened. Malisya was leaning casually in a corner, but her restless energy betrayed her alertness. Vicky, standing apart near a window, turned sharply at their entrance, her gaze piercing.
The hum of conversation died as the room’s occupants turned toward the doorway, a collective breath held in silent anticipation. Asher stepped inside, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He removed his battered cloak, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like the remnants of the battle.
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“Sit down,” Brynn urged softly, her hand brushing his arm as she gestured to the empty seat near the table.
Asher hesitated, the words he needed to say swirling chaotically in his mind. But he nodded and moved forward, the weight of every eye in the room following him. He eased into the chair, resting his single hand on the worn table, the grooves of his gauntlet catching the firelight.
“I owe you all an explanation,” he began, his voice low but steady. He looked up, meeting each gaze in turn. The unspoken tension in the room hung thick, but Asher forced himself to push through it.
“This isn’t easy,” he admitted. “But you deserve to know the truth.”
Asher cleared his throat, his voice rough as he began. "I’ll start from the beginning. I suggest everyone grab a drink—you’ll need it."
The room stilled as Brynn silently knelt beside him. Her hands worked with practiced care, gently cleaning and rewrapping the raw stump of his arm. He didn’t flinch, his focus locked on the table in front of him as though it alone could anchor him to the moment.
He continued, his tone brittle but unwavering. "Vicky and I... we’re not from this world. We come from a place called Earth. A planet that would seem like a fairytale compared to this one."
Elara’s voice sliced through the thick air, sharp and disbelieving. "How the hell is that possible? How did you even get here?"
Her words stirred a ripple of skepticism across the room. Malisya, Kaelen, Garran, and Jorven exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions etched with doubt. Each of them nodded faintly, their silent agreement with Elara adding weight to the question.
Asher slammed his hand on the table, his emerald eyes blazing. "For gods' sake, I am speaking! Let me finish before you call me a liar. I swear this is the truth, so listen."
A heavy silence fell over the room, oppressive and expectant.
He exhaled shakily, the air trembling with the weight of the words he was about to share. "I got here because..." His voice faltered, his gaze dropping as though the ground itself might offer him the strength to go on. "I was married. I had a daughter. My wife, Rachel... and my little girl, Delaney."
Tears welled and spilled freely down his face, but he didn’t sob or break. The room held its breath, the weight of his grief drawing everyone in like a silent storm. Asher’s tears weren’t for the raw pain of their deaths but for the cruel erosion of their memory—faces blurred and softened by time and horrors too fresh to ignore.
"My wife," he continued, each word dragging him deeper into the darkness of his past, "cheated on me. I caught her with another man and... I left her." His jaw tightened, and his voice cracked, but he pushed on. "One day, I came home to the smell of blood in the air... and found them. Butchered. My wife and daughter, murdered in cold blood by a psychopath. I didn’t stop to think. I reduced him to nothing... and then..."
He hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper so fragile it barely reached the others. "I ended it all."
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. No one dared to move or speak as the room seemed to shudder with the weight of his confession.
"When I woke," he said, his voice hoarse, "I was standing before Aetheros. That... that was my first secret."
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of Brynn’s bandages as she worked. The room felt smaller, heavier, as though the walls themselves were absorbing the gravity of his words.
The room fell into a heavy silence as Asher’s words settled over them, raw and unflinching. Vicky leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, and met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile. She didn’t speak—she didn’t need to.
Elara, uncharacteristically subdued, placed her knife on the table and murmured, “I didn’t know, Asher. I’m sorry. It makes sense now—why you fight so hard.”
Malisya shifted uneasily, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’ve all got scars, but yours run deeper than most. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still standing. That’s worth a lot.”
Kaelen set aside his tinkering, his broad shoulders sagging slightly. “You’ve already lost everything once, and yet you keep giving. I think we’ve taken more from you than we’ve realized.”
Garran leaned forward, his single eye gleaming with quiet respect. “Loss like that breaks most men. But not you, Asher. You’ve bled for us, and we’ll not let you carry that weight alone.”
Jorven, stoic as ever, spoke with solemnity. “Perhaps that suffering was meant to forge you into what you are now. But even the strongest blade needs respite, or it will shatter.”
The flicker of the fire cast their expressions in shadow, and for the first time, they truly saw not just their leader but the man beneath—the one who bore the unbearable cost of their survival.
Asher raised a hand to quiet the room, his voice low and trembling. “There’s more,” he began, the weight of his words pressing heavily on those gathered. “And it’s worse. The corruption—or some twisted fragment of it—has taken root in my mind. Aetheros is there now, holding it at bay, but I can feel it lurking, clawing at the edges of my thoughts.” His emerald eyes flickered with a mix of anger and despair. “I left because I’m fighting, with every ounce of will I have, to keep it contained. It feeds on my hate, on my anger. During the battle…” His voice faltered, the memory cutting like a blade. “I felt joy. I relished every strike, every drop of blood, every scream. And all the while, the corruption whispered to me. It still does. I’m not free of it—not yet.”
Brynn’s hands hesitated as she rewrapped Asher’s arm, her fingers trembling just slightly. Her eyes lifted to his, brimming with worry. “Asher,” she said softly, “this just happened, didn’t it? We’ll figure it out. We have to.”
Elara stood, her blade spinning absently in her hand. Her voice carried a sharp edge, but her words betrayed an undercurrent of urgency. “You can’t just sit here hoping this thing doesn’t consume you. You need to fight it, and if you falter, you need to trust us to pull you back.” She paused, her blade stilling mid-spin. “But we can’t fight for you. That much is clear.”
Kaelen’s gaze remained fixed on the table, his knuckles white against its edges. “Corruption like this isn’t something we can fix with brute force or clever tactics,” he said, his tone quiet, almost resigned. “But if there’s a way to burn it out without destroying you, we’ll find it. Just don’t lose yourself before we do.”
Malisya leaned back in her chair, her twin swords glinting faintly at her sides. Her expression was fierce, her voice filled with fiery determination. “We’ll tear this thing out by its roots, even if it means breaking every rule in the book to do it. You’re not going to lose to this, Asher. Not while I’m still breathing.”
Jorven regarded Asher with his usual stoicism, though his words were measured and grave. “The fight against corruption is a fight for control. If it’s feeding on your hate or despair, you must stay stronger than it. You’ve already faced worse than this, Asher. But if you give in…” He didn’t finish, but the weight of his warning was clear.
Vicky stepped forward, her glowing runes casting faint light across her features. She didn’t offer a speech or a promise. Instead, she placed a hand on Asher’s shoulder and gave him a small, steady smile. Her presence alone spoke the words she didn’t need to say—she would be there, no matter what.
The room wasn’t silent; it thrummed with tension and resolve. Each of them had spoken in their own way, but Asher could see the shared understanding in their expressions: this fight was his to lead, but he wouldn’t walk the path alone.
The next morning sun broke through the haze of Duskshade, its pale light doing little to lift the weight hanging over the town. Nearly Two months had passed since Ashers Arrival in this World. On this morning, Soldiers and villagers moved like shadows, their steps heavy with the memory of the battle. The once-bustling square had become a grim monument to survival, its cobblestones stained with blood and its air thick with the acrid stench of burned corruption. Despite the scars of war, the people endured, their grim determination a flicker of hope in the face of despair.
Asher stood at the edge of the square, his lone arm hanging at his side, emerald eyes scanning the remnants of his army. Smoke from the battered encampment drifted on the cold morning air, the mingled scents of ash and frost clinging to everything. The soldiers, weary but resolute, gathered in loose clusters, their armor bearing fresh scars from the recent battle.
Brynn approached from behind, her steps cautious but deliberate, stopping just a pace away. Without a word, she handed him a fresh roll of bandages. He took them silently, the unspoken trust between them clear as he nodded in acknowledgment.
Malisya was the first to break from the group, calling out commands to a mix of soldiers and villagers. Her twin blades gleamed faintly in the early light as she motioned toward the treeline. “Split into pairs! You’ve got your sectors—water, game, herbs. Move like your lives depend on it, because they do!” She strode past a group of hesitant hunters, clapping one of them on the shoulder with enough force to almost knock the man over. “You’re with me. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Meanwhile, Kaelen had commandeered a section of the square, setting up an impromptu workshop beneath the shattered remnants of a smith’s awning. His fingers worked deftly over a collection of trap components, the faint metallic clink of springs and gears blending with his barked instructions to the soldiers gathered around him. “You, reset the tension coil. No—carefully, unless you want to lose a finger! Watch, and learn.” Already, a few of the makeshift traps were being carried off toward the defensive perimeter by eager recruits.
Elara had vanished into the shadows before Asher even reached the assembly. Her sharp whistle echoed faintly from the edge of camp, followed by the soft crunch of boots on frost-covered ground as her scouting party slipped into the wilderness. She moved like a phantom through the treeline, marking trails with faint notches in the bark and scanning for movement with hawk-like precision. Her team carried little more than short bows and daggers, their silhouettes melting into the morning mist.
In the center of the square, Garran drilled the remaining soldiers with relentless focus. His booming voice carried across the camp as he marched among the ranks, correcting postures and breaking down formations. The crash of shields and the thud of boots striking frozen earth echoed like a war drum. “Tighten up that line! If a Veinforged breaks through, you’re already dead! Now again!” He pounded his own shield for emphasis, the sound reverberating with authority.
At the perimeter, Vicky knelt in the snow, her glowing runes pulsing softly as she closed her eyes in concentration. Tendrils of silvery light threaded through the air, faint but visible to anyone nearby. Her hand hovered over the blackened veins spreading across Asher’s forearm, her expression tight with focus as she monitored the corruption. She said nothing, but her furrowed brow spoke volumes.
Jorven stood apart, his massive frame outlined against the rising sun. The cold wind ruffled his fur-lined cloak as he watched two messengers mount their horses, the sealed message for the Order of the Azure Fang tucked tightly in their saddlebags. He offered a single curt nod before they spurred their mounts into motion, galloping toward the distant horizon.
Asher moved through the square with steady purpose, stopping briefly to observe each effort. The camp bustled with activity, a hive of movement and noise as his lieutenants and soldiers worked with grim determination. He paused near the training yard, grabbing a discarded practice sword from the rack. The blade was unbalanced and crude, but he hefted it with familiarity, stepping into a sparring circle where a group of soldiers had paused to gawk.
“If you’re not going to train, you’re wasting time,” Asher said, his voice cutting through the din. He raised the sword and beckoned one of the younger recruits forward. The soldier hesitated, then lunged, only to be disarmed in a heartbeat by a swift parry. Asher didn’t smile or taunt—he simply reset his stance and motioned for the next.
The camp seemed to steady around him, the chaotic energy settling into a rhythm of purpose. The weight of the recent battle still lingered, but the focus on preparation was like a balm for frayed nerves. For now, there was hope—fragile, but burning bright.
Later that morning Asher sat cross-legged at the edge of Duskshade, the faint hum of Aether crackling around him as he fired bolt after bolt into the scarred hillside. Each shot was deliberate, precise, and clean, the glowing energy slicing through the cold morning air before dissipating against the rock. His single hand trembled slightly from the strain, but he steadied it with controlled breaths, determined to improve both his precision and endurance. This had been his routine for the past day—training, healing, and preparing.
From the outskirts, he could hear the rhythmic clash of steel and the barked orders of Garran drilling the soldiers. Further off, the woods echoed faintly with the twang of bows and the rustling of Elara’s scouts moving through the underbrush. Malisya’s strike teams had already brought back game and wild herbs, while Kaelen’s traps dotted the perimeter, giving the camp an air of readiness it hadn’t seen since before the battle. For once, the burdens Asher had carried alone felt lighter, shared across capable shoulders.
Aetheros’s voice threaded through his mind, steady and calm. “Someone approaches. Also, Champion, I am sorry we haven’t spoken much. The corruption tires—it slumbers after our struggle. But it is not gone.”
Asher nodded faintly, focusing his next shot on a faint crack in the hill’s surface, landing the bolt precisely within the groove. He exhaled, satisfied, and turned as he heard boots crunching over frost-laden earth behind him.
Vicky emerged from the shadows, her glowing runes faint in the daylight. Her expression was hesitant, uncharacteristically so. “Hey, Asher,” she began, her tone lighter than her body language suggested. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but, well… you know. Chaos and all.”
Asher set his hand against the ground, pushing himself up to face her. “What’s up?” he asked, his voice warm but tinged with curiosity. He could tell something weighed on her.
Vicky hesitated, glancing at the glowing veins of Aether coursing beneath his skin before meeting his eyes. “In order to gain the Frostborn’s support—and Jorven’s—I had to… take him on as my master.”
Asher blinked, then gave a small, encouraging smile. “He’s training you to fight? That’s great! Double positive for us, right? You get stronger, and we keep his support.” He shrugged lightly, his optimism genuine. “I’d call that a win.”
Vicky shifted uncomfortably, her hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s not that simple.” She bit her lip, her words measured. “Jorven’s intentions—they’re not just about training me. I think he… likes me. As in, more than just respect.”
Her thoughts flickered back to moments she hadn’t fully processed: Jorven bringing her breakfast with a rare smile, his hand lingering too long on her shoulder after a sparring match, or the way his gaze softened when he spoke to her. None of it was overtly inappropriate, but it made her uneasy. Not because Jorven wasn’t attractive—in his own foreign, frostbitten way—but because her feelings were tangled in a far more complicated web.
Asher tilted his head, his expression softening. “I see. That could be… tricky,” he said carefully, sensing her discomfort. “Do you want me to talk to him? Or maybe Brynn? She’s better at… feelings.” He chuckled faintly, hoping to lighten the mood.
Vicky didn’t laugh. She looked down, her glowing runes casting faint patterns on the frozen ground. “It’s not Jorven that’s the problem,” she admitted quietly. “It’s me. It’s…” She paused, her voice catching slightly. “Asher, I’ve been decisive about almost everything in my life—my career, my choices, even fighting for survival in this world. But with you…” She looked up, meeting his eyes, her expression raw. “I’ve never been able to figure out what to do. You’ve always felt out of reach, like there was some invisible wall I couldn’t cross. Even now, with everything we’ve been through, I feel like I’m standing on the wrong side of it.”
Asher’s brows furrowed, his eyes searching hers as understanding began to dawn.
Vicky pressed on, her voice steady but vulnerable. “I loved you, Asher. I think I still do. And for years, I kept it to myself because I thought I didn’t have a chance—or maybe I was too afraid to risk ruining what we already had. But now, with everything going on… with Brynn, and Jorven, and the fact that none of us might live to see another year…” She trailed off, the words hanging in the cold air.
Asher stared at her, stunned. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotions and the weight of years unacknowledged. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity. “Vicky… I didn’t know. I mean, I should have seen it, but I didn’t.”
She shook her head, forcing a small, self-deprecating smile. “Of course you didn’t. You’ve always been too busy carrying the weight of the world to notice what’s right in front of you.”
Asher reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before settling back at his side. “I don’t know what to say. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known, and I…” He hesitated, his thoughts spiraling between gratitude, guilt, and something deeper he wasn’t ready to name. “I care about you more than I can put into words. I always have.”
Vicky’s heart twisted painfully, knowing that his care—though genuine—might not be what she wanted to hear. But she nodded, swallowing her emotions as she forced her voice to steady. “That’s enough for now.”
They stood there for a long moment, the frost-bitten air swirling between them. Then Vicky smiled faintly, her usual confidence slipping back into place like a well-worn shield. “I’d better get back to training before Jorven decides I’m slacking off. You should rest for once.”
Asher watched her walk away, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. For the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders felt a little less crushing—and a little more complicated.
The moment Vicky departed Aetheros’s voice resonated in Asher’s mind, laced with playful sarcasm. “Ah, don’t fret, Champion. Too many women vying for your attention is a problem most men would envy.”
Asher smirked at the remark, sensing the faint amusement in her tone. “Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Sylvari women don’t view relationships the same way Earth women do—especially when it comes to men with status and responsibilities.”
He hesitated, the thought swirling in his mind before he voiced it. “Wait… are you saying I should try to be with both of them?”
Aetheros’s laugh rang like a melodic chime, light and teasing. “Don’t be so slow, Asher. You could, if you so desire. Brynn’s Sylvari heritage and beliefs mean she doesn’t feel the need to limit you—especially not when it comes to someone as integral to your life as Vicky. However,” she added with a knowing lilt, “Vicky may take a bit longer to embrace the idea.”
Asher realized he wasn’t feeling guilt over these thoughts. If anything, he craved the warmth of affection. Tilting his head toward the sky, he let his mind drift. In his heart, he saw his wife and daughter as he remembered them—smiling, laughing, untouched by the pain of their loss. Strangely, the memories didn’t ache like they used to. Perhaps it was the battles he had fought, the corruption he had endured, or the sight of men torn apart on the battlefield, screaming for their mothers and families. Whatever the reason, one truth crystallized in his mind: if he denied himself even a sliver of happiness, he wouldn’t survive this world.
He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew what he wanted. It was selfish, undeniably so—but he wanted both of them. And for the first time, Asher found that he didn’t care.
The quiet of the camp pressed down on Asher like a heavy weight, the distant sounds of the soldiers training muffled by the rush of his own thoughts. He sat near the edge of the encampment, staring out at the frost-covered hills beyond. His hand gripped a mug of lukewarm tea, though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d taken a sip.
Brynn’s approach was soft, her steps barely audible over the crunch of frost underfoot. She stopped a few feet away, watching him as if sensing the storm brewing within.
“You’ve been out here a while,” she said gently, breaking the silence. Her voice, steady and warm, cut through the chaos in his mind.
Asher glanced up, and for a moment, his breath caught. The faint moonlight caught Brynn’s pale skin, the glowing blue runes beneath shimmering softly like hidden constellations. Her small, almost hesitant smile tugged at something deep in his chest, but it was her eyes—cloudy and blue, like a sky just after a storm—that made his heart ache.
He swallowed hard and looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “I needed time to think,” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
Brynn nodded and moved closer, sitting on the log beside him without a word. She didn’t press him, her presence a quiet invitation rather than a demand.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Asher’s thoughts churned, tangling around his own doubts and fears. He knew what he needed to say, but the weight of it made the words feel impossible. He tightened his grip on the mug, his knuckles whitening.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and strained. “Brynn… I don’t know how to say this.”
She turned toward him, her dark eyes studying his face. “Then just say it,” she replied softly, though there was a flicker of worry in her tone.
Asher let out a long, shaky breath. “This isn’t normal. Not for me. Back on Earth… this kind of thing wouldn’t have even crossed my mind. I had Rachel, and that was it. One person. That’s how it worked—how it was supposed to work.”
Brynn didn’t interrupt, her silence encouraging him to continue.
“But here, everything’s different,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I care about everyone we’ve fought for, everyone we’ve lost. But you…” He glanced at her again, and this time, he couldn’t look away. Her runes pulsed faintly, matching the rhythm of her breath, and the soft glow only accentuated the way her smile curved, gentle yet sure. “You pulled me back when the corruption almost took me. Without you, I wouldn’t even be here.”
Her breath hitched, but she stayed quiet, her hand tightening slightly on her cloak.
“And Vicky,” he went on, his voice trembling with emotion. “She followed me across time and space. She’s been by my side through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I didn’t realize how she felt.”
The words spilled out faster now, as if the dam had broken. “I can’t imagine leaving either of you. Not after what we’ve been through. Not after everything I know you both feel. But I also can’t shake the fear that I’m being selfish. That asking this of you… of either of you… will hurt more than it helps.”
His heart hammered as he spoke, and when he finally fell silent, Brynn reached out, her hand brushing his arm lightly. “Asher,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion behind it.
He looked at her, and this time, his gaze lingered. The faint glow of her runes, the curve of her lips, the steady strength in her eyes—it was too much, and not enough all at once. His heart felt impossibly heavy as he whispered, “I don’t know what to do, Brynn. I just know I want you. And I want her too. And I hate myself for even thinking that’s okay.”
Brynn didn’t speak immediately, her fingers resting lightly against his arm. Then she smiled—a small, soft smile that somehow made the weight on his chest lift just slightly. “This isn’t Earth, Asher,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s Aeloria. And things don’t work the same here—not for Sylvari, and maybe not for you either.”
Asher’s chest tightened, his thoughts a swirling mess. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words failed him.
And then, without thinking, without planning, he leaned in. His hand reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against the smooth warmth of her skin, and before he could stop himself, he kissed her.
It was soft, tentative—almost questioning—but Brynn didn’t pull away. She leaned into him, her runes flaring faintly under his touch. For a moment, the world felt still, the noise and chaos of their lives fading into the background.
When they finally parted, Asher rested his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure why.
Brynn smiled again, her hand resting gently over his. “Don’t be,” she said softly, her voice tinged with warmth. “I’ve wanted you to do that since the day you saved this town… and me.”
She leaned in, her lips capturing his once more, this time with greater fervor. Her kiss deepened, her tongue brushing against his in a gesture that was both tender and bold. When she finally pulled back, her smile lingered, radiant and full of unspoken promise.
Brynn’s gaze snapped toward the treeline to the south, her cloudy blue eyes narrowing. “Someone’s coming,” she murmured, her voice low but steady.
Asher tensed instantly, his remaining hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. The tension in the air grew thick—and then they heard it.
The fragile quiet of the camp shattered as the mournful blast of a hunting horn echoed through the trees. His body tensed as the faint sound of hooves reached his ears, growing louder with every second.
Brynn was already on her feet, her cloudy blue eyes scanning the forest line. “The scouts,” she said, her voice edged with tension.
Moments later, three Frostborn riders emerged from the southern trail, their mounts coated in mud and snow. Two of them were grim-faced and silent, but the third—the youngest—slumped in his saddle, pale and trembling. Draped across the saddle of the lead rider’s horse was a body—a slender figure with matted red hair.
Asher’s stomach churned as the riders dismounted. The scarred leader of the scouts strode forward, his fur-lined armor stained with blood. He gave Asher a curt nod before gesturing to the body. “Champion,” he said, his voice grave. “We found her… what’s left of her.”
The bundle was lowered carefully to the ground, and Asher’s breath caught as he recognized Lirien’s lifeless form. Her once-vivid hair was dulled, her pale skin marred with bruises and cuts.
A familiar wave of guilt rose within Asher, tightening his chest. He had sent her—without hesitation, without considering the possibility she might not return. All he had thought about was the mission: reinforcements, survival. And now, here she lay, lifeless before him.
He forced the guilt down, sealing it away like wine in a corked bottle. There was no time to mourn, not now. He had to be strong for Brynn—for everyone. And deep down, he knew the harsh truth: this wouldn’t be the last friend he’d watch fall.
Brynn knelt beside her, her glowing runes casting faint light over Lirien’s broken body. Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from Lirien’s pale face. A sob escaped her lips, quiet at first, then breaking into a series of ragged, heart-wrenching cries as she pressed her hands to her face.
The scout’s voice was heavy as he continued, his words cutting through the weight of Brynn’s grief. “We found her in Rivermaw’s dungeons. The city…” He paused, his jaw tightening. “It’s abandoned, Champion. The buildings are intact, but there’s no sign of life—only corruption. The Moonweave River itself runs black, and the air reeks of decay. We couldn’t stay long.”
Brynn’s sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking as she crumpled over Lirien’s still form. Asher knelt beside her without hesitation, placing a steadying hand on her back. “Brynn,” he said softly, his voice laced with sorrow. He didn’t try to stop her tears—he wouldn’t rob her of this moment—but he stayed close, a quiet anchor in the storm of her grief.
“She was one of the only ones I had left,” Brynn choked out, her voice barely audible through her sobs. “And now she’s gone.”
Asher felt the sharp sting of his own guilt, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on her. His hand moved gently to her shoulder, squeezing in silent reassurance. “I know,” he murmured, his voice steady. “I know, Brynn. I’m here.”
Asher felt his heart sink, but the lead scout wasn’t finished. “The dungeon where we found her was destroyed—walls shattered, iron bars bent. She…” He glanced at the knife in Lirien’s neck, his voice faltering. “She couldn’t escape. She ended it herself.”
Brynn’s breath hitched as she examined Lirien’s battered form. “She was tortured,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “Her wounds—they’re deliberate. Whoever did this… they wanted her to suffer.”
The youngest scout finally spoke, his voice shaking. “We… we lost Gareth trying to retrieve her. The corruption in Rivermaw—it’s in the walls, the air. It got to him before we realized. He… he turned on us.” His voice cracked as he continued, “We had to kill him to get out.”
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the faint whistle of the wind through the trees.
Asher clenched his fists, his chest tightening. “Did you find anything else? Any sign of Captain Lysara or the Morvani?”
The lead scout hesitated, his expression dark. “No bodies, no survivors. But…” He unwrapped a seaworn blade from his pack, its hilt etched with intricate carvings that shimmered faintly in the light. “We found this. Lysara’s sword. It was in the dungeon, near Lirien.”
Brynn’s face paled as she looked at the blade and then at Lirien. “If Lysara was there… why didn’t she stop this?”
The scout glanced at his comrades, his voice dropping. “We don’t know, Champion. But whatever happened in Rivermaw… it wasn’t natural. There’s something there—something powerful. It felt like it was watching us the entire time.”
Asher’s mind churned as dread clawed at his thoughts. The Moonweave’s corruption, the empty city, and Lysara’s missing presence all pointed to something far worse than he had feared.
Brynn stood slowly, her voice steady but strained. “If the Moonweave is poisoned, the lands downstream will fall. Duskshade will be next.”
Asher nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked down at Lirien’s lifeless form. “We need answers. Send out a patrol to monitor the Moonweave’s spread. And prepare the camp—we’ll need to push south soon. We have to find Lysara.”
“And if she’s…” Brynn began, but the words caught in her throat.
“If she’s fallen,” Asher said, his voice low and grim, “we’ll do what we must.”
The camp stirred with renewed urgency as Asher rose, his gaze fixed southward. Beyond the frost-laden woods, the Moonweave River coursed like a vein of poison through the land, and Rivermaw’s shadow loomed heavy with secrets.
Whatever waited there, Asher knew it would not let them approach unchallenged.