It was some time after Killian’s third defeat at the hands of the sorcerer - Old Town skirmish, twenty-two injured, fifteen dead - that he decided he hated them.

Before that moment, Killian knew he didn't like sorcerers, but he'd taken down every one he'd faced.

Not that there’d been many of them. Sorcerers were rare.

But this latest sorcerer, Krupin, had brought them wriggling out of the ground and creeping in from far-flung lands.

It was not like it had been easy in the past, taking sorcerers down, but with the right team - Killian’s old handpicked team - it’d been possible. Capture the sorcerer, and execute them. Slay them in the heat of combat (that was the easiest). Cut out their tongues, if they were so powerful they could potentially give out a death curse upon their demise (that was the hardest).

But he’d done it. Twelve times over he'd done it. The royals had loved him for it.

He’d been their go-to. Put Killian in charge, had been their mantra, and it’s guaranteed success. If you want something done, and done efficiently, get Killian. Go to Killian for advice, for special jobs, for impossible odds.

Until he’d come up against the sorcerer Krupin.

It had been Krupin at the battle of Henn Villiage, Krupin’s lackies at Dierne City, and Krupin’s apprentice at Mount Tha. And it had been Krupin who’d turned it personal when he’d taken Killian’s family.

And Killian knew this should’ve given him a cold, hard edge - a burning desire for revenge.

But, while he still had that cool calmness, that decisiveness, that rippling undercurrent of ruthlessness that pulsed deep down, it was all blanketed by something else now. Something horrible. Something that absolutely was not revenge, or burning, or cold and hard-edged, and that settled deep into his chest and refused to budge. Working through it was getting harder. At night, when trying to sleep, Killian could barely breathe through it.

So, now Killian was getting consistently beaten by sorcerers.

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Krupin, finally pressed out of the kingdom borders in a huge effort from the kingdom’s army, was an inspiration to them, it seemed. They appeared to be pushing for one last hurrah, wreaking mindless destruction in Dierne city and surrounding towns.

Killian couldn’t stop them. He was losing soldiers, losing civilians, and he was sick of it.

That day - the Old Town skirmish - had been bleak. It had led to another demotion.

Not that it’d been called that. He’d been redistributed. To an area of greater need, and utilised his skills. Baldwin Auguste, Lismere’s most cold-blooded king on record, hadn’t taken no for an answer.

‘It’s my fault,’ Baldwin had said, his hand on Killian’s shoulder, and silvery hair braided away from his face. ‘I started you too young. Pushed you too hard. You clearly need to, ah, recover.’

‘No,’ Killian had said. ‘Sir, it’s fine. I’m fine. I can do the work.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Killian.’

Killian could’ve fallen to his knees and wept and pleaded, and Baldwin would still have looked at him with the same inscrutable expression and politely walked him out the door.

But, to be honest, there was an exhausted and hidden part of Killian that was relieved. If it took Killian out of the path of more sorcerers, he’d take the demotion and run with it.

Now, instead of being the Major of the kingdom’s field team that specialised in sorcerers, he was in charge of one of the many military leagues that collected and protected magical and valuable objects for safekeeping for the crown. Sometimes creatures and unregistered mages. The pay had the potential to be better. Much better.

The calibre of soldier was worse.

Treasure League, they were officially called.

Privateer leagues, they were called behind the Augustes’ backs.

Criminals, they were called behind Killian’s.

They had a point.

But, they had no idea who they were dealing with. One night of drowning his sorrows. That was it. Then, he'd whip those crappy soldiers into shape, get a tonne of commission from his findings, pay off his debt to the crown, make the kingdom of Lismere safer, and never think the word sorcerer again.

At least, that had been the plan.

It took only two weeks in his new position for Killian to discover Krupin was somehow reaching his bony fingers back into Lismere. Krupin didn’t do any of the dirty work himself. It was all done through agents and an underground group of remaining followers.

Krupin had somehow gotten those bastards on a rebirth loop. You’d kill one, and then, bam - they’d come back, sometimes immediately, sometimes weeks later. Sometimes in a different body, sometimes as themselves, only pale and pissed.

One follower was emerging, worse than the rest. The Dark Sorcerer, Wilde. And his sorcerer lapdog that everyone only ever talked about in hushed whispers - the one who’d been one of Lismere’s own, whose betrayal cut deep - D’Oncray.

And, after some months working in the treasure league, Killian realised they were consistently going after some of the same things.