Grayson Windfel was a tall, stocky man in his late thirties who bore scars that showed he had been to hell and back and was proud of it. But this storm was almost too much, even for him. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and a deafening clap of thunder soon followed. The wind whistled and howled through the nearby trees, and the rain slammed against the cloth he was using for cover.

"Gods, will this weather ever relent?" Grayson muttered to himself as he stepped under the proper cover of his tent. The camp he and his crew had set up was far from perfect, but it at least provided a bit of shelter from the raging weather.

Grayson took off the heavy cloak he had been wearing, which had been made doubly as heavy due to the water that soaked into it. He laid the drenched cloak onto his cot, waved his hand over it, and the water slowly began to drain out, accumulating above the cloak as an orb suspended in midair.

His long, red hair was tied into a braid which he undid to dry it. Despite being a mercenary, he declined to wear armor. Most sets were too small for him, so instead he opted to wear a black shirt which even then was still constricting, and padded leather pants. That along with his cloak provided more than enough protection from whatever came his way.

Elemental magic was rare, with only two thousand known Elementals in the world, and had upsides and downsides in equal measure. Non-elementals manipulated an energy called ether, and while most would only be able to grasp the fundamentals of it, the power could grant someone limited precognition or even a supernatural healing factor at higher levels. An Elemental would be, if not completely separated from those abilities, limited in what they could do to the point of it being almost pointless to try and learn.

Despite this, there were reports of some Elementals seemingly having powerful healing factors. Elemental magics were largely a mystery, even to Elementals themselves, so the true extent of the power was unknown. Grayson rarely needed to use the powers in combat, more using them for ease of travel or comfortability, such as storing his oversized axe in the ground beneath him.

The weapon was far too large and far too heavy to keep on his person, so he resorted to having it follow him under the dirt. Originally the technique took intense concentration, but after years of perfecting the technique, he could control it without a second thought.

Grayson sat down next to the drying cloak and began to collect his thoughts. This storm had hit out of nowhere. One second the sky was clear and the sun was shining, next everything had gone dark and rain began to fall. It started slow, but it picked up rapidly, and soon everyone was shivering and unwilling to go on. Grayson and his men were forced to stop and set up camp, and the last thing he remembered was a deafening crash and a blinding flash of light.

Grayson racked his brain, trying to remember more, but everything after that was foggy. There was something there, but for the life of him, Grayson couldn't remember. The next thing he knew he was finishing setting up his shelter.

He hit his palm against the side of his head as if that would help jog his memory.

“Damnit Grayson, think,” He said, becoming increasingly frustrated at his sudden lapse of memory. This had never happened to him before. His memory had to be good so he could lead a mercenary group as large as the one he did. A voice in the back of his mind chided him for his forgetfulness. A voice that belonged to a man he had known since they were kids. The voice of a dead man. The memory of his friend brought a bubbling resentment to the back of Grayson’s throat. Cinris was still alive, Grayson knew that, but he was as good as dead.

“Whatever, I’ll figure this out later,” Grayson said as he waved his hand at the large ball of water, causing it to slowly float out of his tent before splashing onto the ground outside. "I'd better see if others need any help setting up."

Grayson stood and put on his newly dried furs as he walked out into the storm. It didn't matter much that he had dried his cloak because the second he stepped out into the rain he was instantly drenched. It had started to pour so rapidly that he could hardly make out the rest of the tents his group had set up, the lanterns hanging in front of them made what would essentially be stumbling in the rain a much easier task.

Grayson hurriedly made his way over to one of the tents and ducked inside. The tent was fairly large, enough to fit maybe twenty-five average-sized people and their cots. It was a wonder that they were able to get it set up at a time like this. However, Grayson wasn’t an average-sized man, and with the tent already being near its max capacity, it felt exceptionally crowded.

Grayson’s full group, not counting the divisions he entrusted to his other generals, consisted of roughly five thousand mercenaries. However, on this expedition, he only brought one hundred of them. Like most of his men, they were reliable. He knew that none of them would leave another behind, and they certainly wouldn't disobey him.

They had been tasked with defending some Elven nobility from a cult that had sent vaguely threatening letters to their front door. The family suspected that the cult was one dedicated to the worship of an old god; a cult Grayson was all too familiar with.

"Ah! Commander Windfel, we were just about to go get you," one of them said. There was a slight quiver in his voice, which Grayson picked up on almost immediately. It confused him; he might’ve been intimidating, but it wasn’t like he’d lash out at his men.“Is something the matter,” Grayson asked as he turned to address the soldier speaking to him. Grayson recognized the man as one of the captains he had brought along.

“Well,” the captain continues, “I sent out a small scouting party not too long ago. I would have woken you up and asked for your permission, however, I thought it better that I let you rest a bit after we had set up your tent.”

This struck Grayson as odd. For one, he didn’t remember sleeping. Moreso he didn’t recall waking up. And he was fairly certain he had set up his tent himself. Grayson chalked it up to his already distorted recollection of everything after the storm.

“Have you received word back from them yet,” Grayson pried, pushing the intrusive questions from his mind for now. The captain’s shoulders seemed to relax as Grayson asked, letting out a sigh as he realized that the commander wasn’t upset at him.

“We have, actually. It’s strange, though; they’ve reported finding a town nearby. That was all we could get before our scroll ran out of charge. We could gather our things and start the trek over and we’d arrive within ten minutes, sir,” the captain said. That was a sting, transmission scrolls were a rare commodity and wildly expensive to boot, but that wasn’t Grayson’s main concern.

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“What? We checked the maps, there weren’t any settlements for miles! There’s no way we moved that far in this weather,” Grayson exclaimed perhaps a little too harshly, causing the captain to wince.

“There shouldn’t be, sir. That’s why I’m reluctant to go. I think it might be the smart choice either way, it’s unlikely these tents will hold up long in this storm.”

Grayson scratched his chin in contemplation, mulling over his options.

“It’s worth a shot,” he relented.

The minute the words left his mouth, everyone in the tent stood at attention, saluted, and hurried to gather their supplies. Grayson turned to leave, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. With a raised brow he turned to look at who had grabbed him, but there was nobody.

“You alright, Sir?”

Grayson looked to the soldier addressing him, “Yeah, I just… never mind, get back to what you were doing,” Grayson said with a dismissive wave of his hand. The soldier nodded and returned to packing, and with that, Grayson left the tent.

° ° °

“Prophet, where the hell are we going?!” The wind whistled and the rain stung as it hit Huojin’s skin as they raced down the dirt roads at breakneck speeds. The Prophet ignored his question, focusing instead on driving. The horses were going wild, whipping their heads from side to side and neighing crazily; the Prophet wasn’t fairing much better. It had been years since Huojin had seen him this disturbed, and the look on his face was enough to send a cold chill down Huojin’s spine. The blind traveler that Huojin and the Prophet had picked up had stayed silent for most of the ride, so when his gravelly voice spoke up from the back it made Huojin almost jump out of his skin.

“He’s here.”

Before Huojin could begin to question what ‘he’ was, the sky was wrenched open, revealing not the night sky that Huojin expected, but a void littered with ethereal light. A pillar of crimson flame descended unto the earth, scorching any land it neared. Huojin could feel the blistering heat, and despite them being at least several hundred feet away, he recoiled as if he’d melt. The flame expanded and began to engulf the land around it, before dispersing with a rumble that shook Huojin to the soul.

In the middle of the field where the flame had first touched down stood a figure. Huojin could hardly make out anything about it from this distance, but even so, he could feel its eyes boring into him. It reached a hand up to its face and ran it over its head as if astonished at its own being.

A grunt of pain coming from the inside of the carriage made Huojin turn, only to see the traveler collapsed on his hands and knees, face pale and breathing strained. Huojin noticed he had removed the wrapping he used as a blindfold, and what he saw where the old man's right eye would be was flame. That same crimson flame was billowing from the man’s skull. The Prophet cursed under his breath. Whatever the hell was happening to the old man couldn’t have been good. Huojin turned to face the road once more, eyes wide in terror when all of the air in his lungs seemed to be forced out. He grasped his throat, drawing breathless breaths and turning to the Prophet where he could feel an ardent heat emanating. The Prophet had paled and his eyes were bulging, and the world seemed to halt as he turned to face the overwhelming presence that was coming from his right.

He was met with a helmet. The inside seemed empty at a first glance, but the longer he gazed into it, he could feel something gazing right back at him. The top of it was spiked in a formation that resembled a crown. The visor covered most of its face, with an oblong hole for what he assumed to be eyes. It was made of blackened material that flaked and cracked; embers floating off into the empty air before dissipating. The metal of the chest plate was lined in a ribcage-esque style with an emblem carved into the center that had been so burnt that neither Huojin nor the Prophet could tell what it used to depict. Chainmail covered what would be its neck and stomach.

Its arms were mostly covered in the same mail, with the gauntlets having pointed fingers and spiked knuckles. A pauldron adorned one of its shoulders, design similar to the chest plate. The edges spiked out, and the metal seemed both thin and incomparably strong. The figure had a cloth wrapped around its waist that, despite the flames flicking off of the thing, had only the edges singed. It glowed as if it were still burning, but the ember never moved. A scarf-esque cloth was wrapped around its neck, made of the same perpetually-singeing material. The legs were of the same dark, burnt metal that flaked off and seemed to become one with the emptiness around it.

The Prophet felt his heart drop as the thing reached towards him, the tips of its clawed fingers alight with blood-tinged flame when a form burst forth from the back of the carriage, landing in between Huojin and the Prophet. It was the old traveler. His once-covered eye opened, the flames clearing from it to reveal a dark void with an inferno swirling within.

His already slowed perception of time got slower as the Prophet watched a fist-sized dent twist its way into the chest of the armored thing before it was sent hurtling back, a dark sludge seeping from the wound. The traveler snapped his fingers, causing a spark that erupted into an orb of crimson fire the same size as the carriage they were fleeing in, and with a yell, he launched it at the armored figure.

“You're a Pyromancer?!” Huojin sputtered, mouth agape. “Fire magic is rare enough as is, but proper Pyromancy?” Huojin slumped back down into his seat, “I think I’ve had enough crazy shit happen to me in the past few minutes to last me till my next life,” He mumbled, running a hand through his short, dark hair, which like the rest of him was soaked; The Prophet agreed with a nod, the two somehow already disregarding the threat.

“I wounded him, but he won't be down for long. Stop the idle chat and focus on getting us out of here in one piece,” the Traveller growled, casting a wary glance to where the figure had been blasted off to before crouching down back into the carriage. The rain continued to pick up, soaking Huojin and the Prophet to the bone. Minutes that felt like hours passed in silence, save the crashes of thunder and wet splashing of hooves on the soft ground; the horses had calmed down, and there was no sign of their pursuer.

“Hey, Huojin, you see that?” The Prophet nudged Huojin with his arm, making him jump. “Huh, wha-, oh. I think so,” he responded, craning his neck to get a better look at the lights in the distance that the Prophet had pointed out.

“That’s… weird; there shouldn’t be any civilizations for miles…” Huojin said, squinting his eyes to get a better picture of the houses slowly coming into view. The Prophet began slowing the carriage as they approached, when a group of twenty or so men stepped out in front of them, blocking their path.

They held spears and appeared well-trained as they readied themselves to attack. The Prophet brought their carriage to a stop and gathered what he could about the situation they were in. These men couldn’t be bandits, they were far too coordinated, and their equipment was too high quality for simple farmers defending their village. Before he could get too deep in his thoughts, a tall figure stepped out from behind the men.

“Step from your cart calmly and walk to us with your hands raised and backs turned. Your cart will be searched and anything we deem dangerous will be confiscated. If we don't find you to be a threat, you’re free to leave the way you came,” The man said, his arms crossed behind his back.

The Prophet’s entire body tensed at the sound of the voice, and a fierce scowl dug into his expression as he shouted back. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” The Prophet let his disdain seep from his voice. He didn't need an answer, though. He recognized the voice.

The man straightened his back, and though his expression was hidden, the scowl on his face was evident from his voice. “Hello, Prophet.”

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