The jagged cliffs loomed over them as Erebus and his men stood at the edge, their gazes fixed on the distant black line marking the borders of Alaksad. Faintly emerging through the mist, the high towers bore the infamous sigil of a grim reaper clutching a scythe—a warning to all who approached.
"Commander, we've reached the borders of Alaksad," a gruff voice announced from behind him.
Erebus did not immediately respond. His cold, calculating eyes studied the landscape, his expression unreadable beneath the black fur cloak draped over his shoulders. Beside him, one of his subordinates shifted uncomfortably.
"Master, do you believe the Lord of Alaksad will offer a fair price for our service?"
"He promised a substantial reward," Erebus said, his tone laced with skepticism. "But he's still just another cowardly noble who cowers behind that bastard Zavaikal rather than defending his own land."
A chuckle came from one of his men. "Your words are ever as venomous, Master. Even your lady wife was too flustered to converse with you because of your demeanor."
Erebus shot him a sidelong glance.
"But to think that this negligent lord has finally taken initiative for his suffering territory—perhaps we should thank your wife for—"
The war axe came swiftly, a blur of steel slicing through the air. The soldier barely ducked in time, the weapon whistling past his ear.
"There they go again," another soldier muttered, sighing as the rest of the company exchanged weary glances.
Before further words could be exchanged, a disturbance in the distance caught their attention.
"Commander!" A younger soldier, barely into his twenties, called out, his voice tense. "Something approaches. Sixty yards south and closing fast!"
Erebus turned sharply, his cloak shifting with the movement. His gaze swept the terrain.
"Wildlings?" he asked.
"Unclear," the scout replied.
Erebus pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and adjusted the black mask covering the lower half of his face. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and morning dew. Alaksad was fertile, its wealth evident in the verdant land stretching before them. That wealth was the only reason Erebus had agreed to this job.
Weapons slid from their sheaths as his men readied themselves, their hands calloused from years of battle.
"How many?" Erebus asked.
"Only one," came the reply.
Jafar, standing beside him, removed his spectacles, his red eyes glowing faintly as he scanned the approaching figure.
"Just a single rider," he confirmed. "Hardly a threat."
Erebus exhaled sharply. "Stand down. I'll handle this."
His men obeyed, stepping back as he moved toward the oncoming rider.
The sky above was painted in shades of pink and plum, the clouds tinged with pearl and orange. It was a sight he rarely saw. His own land, the Stygian Fortress, lay beneath an eternal shroud of grey, where the only colors were black, white, and the crimson stains of battle.
The rider came into view—a hunched figure draped in an orange robe and a white cloak, embroidered with silver filigree. His skin was pale and marred by deep scars, his bald scalp barely covered in flesh. Small horns protruded from his skull, and a long, thin tail flicked from beneath his robes. His teeth, jagged and rotten, gleamed in the dim light.
As Erebus prepared to strike, the man suddenly flailed, his voice cracking with panic.
"W-Wait!"
Erebus halted, his boot striking the earth with enough force to send a gust of wind sweeping through the meadow. The rider's mule shrieked, rearing back in terror, and the man tumbled to the ground.
Jafar landed beside him, his face obscured by a metal mask. "Not a wildling," he observed, noting the man's fine garments.
The fallen figure scrambled to his knees, bowing his head. "I am a messenger from Alaksad," he stammered. "Lord Mammon sent me to deliver a message regarding the wildlings."
Erebus's gaze darkened. "So the noble finds us so repugnant that he won't even meet us himself. Instead, he sends a scarred wretch with a piece of parchment."
The messenger flinched but held out a rolled map with a trembling, scalded hand. "My lord instructed me to guide you in his stead."
Jafar's eyes narrowed. "Why not meet Lord Mammon first?"
The messenger hesitated. "The lord is… preoccupied. He is entertaining guests from the Imperial City."
A heavy silence followed.
Erebus turned on his heel. "Then we have no business here. Let him grovel before his imperial guests while his lands fall to ruin."
The messenger's eyes widened. "Wait! This is my lord's command—"
"Tell your master the deal is off," Erebus interrupted coldly. "If he prefers to cower rather than face us himself, let him deal with the wildlings alone. Inform him that Lord Erebus Stygian wishes him well in his futile struggle."
Without another glance, he called to his men. They rose into the sky, their dark forms vanishing into the morning mist.
The messenger gasped, clenching his fists. "No… No, this was my one chance to prove myself!" His voice cracked in desperation. "He'll have me killed!"
Erebus and a few of his men finally halted, while the rest continued their ascent up the cliffside.
The messenger threw himself to the ground. "Mercy!"
Erebus regarded him with a chilling stare. "Do you think I care?" His voice was devoid of sympathy. "Your fate means nothing to me."
The mule, sensing his fury, reared again, tossing its rider back into the dirt.
The man sobbed, pressing his forehead to the grass. "Please!"
Erebus turned away. "We're leaving."
"As you command," Jafar replied.
Without another word, they disappeared into the sky, leaving the messenger kneeling in the damp earth, his fate already sealed.