The world was in ruins—a desolate wasteland scarred by war. Craters pockmarked the landscape, vast gouges carved into the earth as if by the hands of giants. Thousands of bodies lay scattered, twisted and broken, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. In the center of it all, a river of thick, crimson liquid sluggishly crawled through the remains, carrying the stench of death with it.
Near the river, something heavy dragged against the ground, carving deep, jagged lines into the dirt. A colossal sword—its blade chipped, its edge dulled by countless battles—was being pulled forward by a man in battered, bloodstained armor.
His every step was a struggle, his body battered and torn, blood seeping from the gaps between the dented metal plates. His face was lost beneath layers of dirt and gore, his features indistinguishable, only the labored rise and fall of his chest proving he was still alive.
Above, the sky was starved of light, thick clouds hanging low, pregnant with the weight of an unspoken horror. Yet even the ruin of the battlefield paled in comparison to what loomed ahead.
A monolith of black wood towered over the land, standing upright like a grave marker for the fallen. It was no simple box—it was a coffin, but nothing meant for a man. It was tens of meters high, its surface old and dust-ridden, as if it had existed for centuries untouched.
Enormous, rusted chains wrapped around it, dozens of them, their links thick as tree trunks, anchoring the coffin to the ground as if restraining something that should never be freed. The chains pulsed with an eerie stillness, their presence unnatural.
The man halted, breath ragged, his blurred vision straining to comprehend the impossible thing before him. He swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a whisper as he muttered:
"…What the hell even are you?"
His legs gave out. The sword slipped from his grasp, embedding itself into the blood-soaked earth. And then, he collapsed, surrendering to his wounds, his eyes grew heavy, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, he couldn't help but mumble, How did I end up here? It all happened so fast… I can't even remember.
Then, like a blade slicing through his fading consciousness, a female voice—furious, wounded, and unmistakably familiar—echoed in his mind.
"Anazor… how could you? How could you betray us?"
The voice hit him like a hammer to the skull, and with it came a torrent of fragmented memories, flooding his mind all at once. Flashes of the past, scattered and chaotic, overwhelmed him:
"I will kill you."
"I love you."
"I'm sorry… it had to be this way."
"Thank you, Lord."
"Damn you, Lord."
"You're evil and emotionless, just like your damned mother."
The memories clashed and overlapped, he exhaled sharply, his thoughts spinning. So that's what they mean when they say your life flashes before your eyes… But as he drifted further into the abyss, a question clawed at his fading consciousness.
When did it all start?
When was I cursed with this fate?
Desperately, he searched through the chaos of his past, grasping for the moment where everything began. And then, he found it. The memory that made him stop searching.
If I ever had to choose… this must be the closest thing to the beginning of my story.
***
It was twenty years ago. And I still remember that day.
I still remember the first words I heard that morning.
"This place feels so much better with that old witch gone."
The words cut through the silence like a blade—sharp, intentional.
I didn't flinch.
I just sat there, elbows on my knees, chin resting on clasped hands, staring out from the wide stone windowsill of my room. Below me, the tribe stretched out endlessly. Wooden houses, towers, and halls clung to the cliffs like veins on an open palm. Carved into hillsides, stacked atop terraces, spilling into every corner of the valley.
We weren't some forgotten tribe scraping by.
We were Varak-Kai. One of the three great tribes of the Maridain lands. A city-sized stronghold nestled beneath the shadow of the To'Kal Mountains. Our banners whipped in the wind. War horns cried at every sunrise. Warriors trained until their knuckles bled.
It was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful. Dangerous in the way silence is.
It should've made me feel proud.
All I felt was tired.
Another laugh echoed just outside my door.
"Haha, I can't agree more."
They weren't whispering. They wanted me to hear.
"But that boy… Anazor."
I kept my eyes on the valley. Smoke rose from cookfires. Warriors sparred in the dirt. Children shouted in the training circles. Another black banner went up.
The world moved on like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
"I just hope he stays away from us," one of them said, dripping fake sympathy. "Of course he'll be like her. That kind of evil runs in the blood."
"Don't worry," the other replied with a snort. "I heard even his father doesn't want him. No way he'll ever take her place as lord of the castle."
Still, I didn't move.
Months had passed since the funeral. Since they dragged her body through the tribe square and burned it in front of the altar like a sacrifice.
The infamous villainess. The madwoman. The one who made war on enemies and allies alike. Who spilled blood and broke bones and shattered laws.
All to make me chief.
I remember the crowd's faces. That look in their eyes—like they could breathe again. Like a storm had passed.
Even he didn't mourn her. The Chief. My father.
No words. No grief. Just a silent nod and a stone face.
And me?
I stumbled forward like a fool, sobbing, screaming, begging for someone—anyone—to care.
But he just stared at me like I was a stranger.
The window blurred in front of me. I blinked, swallowed.
Then a voice—clear, sharp.
Not mine.
"What did you just say?"
The laughter outside died instantly.
"L-Lady Nisrin, we—"
"How dare you speak that way about the lords of this castle?" Her voice was cold. No trace of the warmth I knew. "Should I report this?"
Footsteps. Scrambling. Silence.
That silence felt better than the words.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Then—knock knock knock.
Firm. Sharp. No patience behind it.
I didn't answer right away.
"…Enter."
The door opened.
Nisrin stepped in.
She looked like a shadow given shape—tall for a woman, wrapped in black leather, and with long black hair and rounded face. Her golden brown eyes scanned the room. Then landed on me.
And just like that… there it was.
That flicker of warmth. The only warmth I'd known since my mother died.
After the funeral, the Chief—ever so generous—put her in charge of me. "Until he's of age," he said. Like I was some wild thing that needed managing. Not his son.
But Nisrin never treated me like a task.
She treated me like a person.
I didn't speak at first. Just looked at her. Then at the band on her arm. Deep red with three golden stripes—mark of a Fang. A second-phase warrior.
Strong enough to take on thirty men.
Strong enough to stand alone on the front lines.
In Varak-Kai, few earned that title before the age of thirty.
Nisrin had earned it at twenty-five.
Her golden eyes studied me like they always did—gentle, unreadable.
"Today is the Rite of Embers," she said.
Just like that. No build-up, no warning. Just a sentence that made my chest tighten.
"Get ready."
I turned to the mirror. And I stared.
Brown hair. Dark eyes. A forgettable face. Too boring for a villain's son. Too plain for a leader. Maybe too plain for anything at all.
I pulled on the ceremonial tunic. Every fold felt heavier than the last. Like wearing expectations I didn't ask for.
Behind me, Nisrin waited silently. She was good at that.
___
The house of the Chief wasn't just big. It was loudly big—towering walls carved from obsidian stone, lined with banners dyed in the deep reds and burned golds of our tribe. The floors were covered in rugs stitched with the tribe's crest—a serpent coiled around flame. And the air? It always smelled faintly of smoke and incense, like the place had been burning for centuries but never quite turned to ash.
I walked through those halls with my head up and my heart... well, somewhere much lower.
Tribal masks lined the walls—ancient faces of old warriors, snarling or grinning or screaming, all cast in dark wood and bone. There were weapons too: spears, curved blades, shields with cracks that told stories no one wanted to retell.
As I reached the stairs, I heard them.
Leather boots against stone. Confident. Slow. The rhythm of men who believed the world was theirs to command.
From the opposite staircase, they descended.
My father—Varum, Chieftain of the tribe. Still built like a wall, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak dyed in tribal reds, a bone necklace resting against his chest. His face was all sharp edges—high cheekbones, a square jaw dusted with greying stubble, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. Deep scars crossed his cheek and brow like forgotten war stories. His body hadn't aged the way others did; he still looked like he could snap a man's spine with one arm. And his eyes—those were carved from iron, unflinching and cold.
And beside him, Lucas. The golden son. Braids perfect, clothes spotless and marked with patterns reserved for warriors—he even wore a ceremonial sash I hadn't seen before. Probably something he earned just for breathing with purpose. His face was annoyingly symmetrical: smooth skin, sharp jaw, golden hair that caught every stray beam of sunlight like it was doing it a favor.
He had that effortless kind of handsome that made people forgive anything unlike me.
I forced a smile, because that's what I'd trained myself to do.
"Good morning, Lucas."
His eyes flicked toward me. Just for a second.
"Hmph."
That was it. Not even a proper grunt.
But it was enough. The hatred was there, clear as day now that no one was around to force him to pretend. When my mother was alive, he wore a mask—one of charm and civility. But masks crack. Especially when the one holding them up is gone.
I didn't blame him. Not really.
The truth had unfolded in pieces after her death. Whispers became stories. Stories became accusations. They said my mother had tortured Lucas—punished him for every bit of talent he dared to show. All because she feared he'd take my place.
Funny thing was… I never had a place.
I'd never trained. Never fought. I didn't even know Lucas had been adopted until after the funeral, when suddenly everyone thought it was safe to talk.
I turned to my father, hoping this time might be different.
"Good morning, Father."
His eyes didn't even twitch.
"If you're ready, let's go."
No warmth. No recognition. Just an instruction. I wasn't a son—I was a piece of cargo he had to deliver.
We walked in silence through the final corridor and stepped outside, where the cold morning wind slapped my face like even the air had an opinion.
A large black carriage waited at the gates, pulled by two beasts with horns like tree branches and hooves that cracked the stone. It looked more like a war chariot than a transport.
Nisrin was already there, waiting like a shadow that refused to leave. Her face unreadable as ever.
I climbed in beside her, with Lucas and Varum taking the opposite seats. The door shut, and the carriage began to move.
Silence.
As usual, I tried to break it.
"Did anyone see the sunrise today? Looked like the sky was bleeding."
Lucas looked out the window. Varum didn't even blink. Nisrin said nothing.
Right. Should've expected that.
So I sat there. Pretending the silence didn't bite.
We rode for what felt like forever, the world shifting from crowded stone to open wilds. The trees grew darker, the path narrower, and the air heavier.
Eventually, the carriage stopped.
We had arrived.
The Vahl Cave.
Set into the bones of To'Kal Mountain like a wound in the earth, its mouth wide and waiting. Hundreds of children stood in lines, all dressed in ceremonial garb, each flanked by an escort. Some wore nervousness like a cloak. Others, pride.
And here I was, stepping out of the carriage with three of the most powerful people in the tribe and feeling like the most irrelevant one in the dirt.
I straightened my back, feeling their eyes. I didn't know if they looked at me because I was the chief's son… or because they were wondering what the hell I was doing there.
Honestly?
Same.