I walked.
Slow, steady steps through the dark.
The cave walls felt tighter now, like they were closing in, like they knew what I had done. What I had become.
Every step felt heavy, but my body wasn't weak. If anything, I felt stronger than ever.
But that was the problem, wasn't it?
Because if I let myself believe that, if I let this power justify itself, then what stopped me from taking more?
From becoming something worse?
I had killed Rikard.
I told myself it was the only choice. The right choice.
But would that always be the case?
Could I keep walking forward, pretending this was for the greater good?
Could I keep telling myself that I am not a monster?
The cold air hit my skin before I even realized I had reached the entrance.
And then—I froze.
So did they.
A wall of soldiers stood before me, fully armored, fully armed, their swords and spears raised, ready to storm inside. Their polished plate gleamed under the faint light, their crests and banners barely shifting in the still air.
They had come prepared for war.
But now, they stood motionless.
Not because of me.
Because of what was in my hand.
The Mother's severed head.
Its grotesque, elongated features were still twisted in a frozen snarl, its lifeless, milky eyes staring at nothing. Blood—black and thick—dripped from the ragged cut at its neck, staining my fingers, pooling at my feet.
The soldiers said nothing.
They just stared.
At the head.
At me.
From behind the wall of armored soldiers, a voice rang out.
"What's stopping you lot?"
It was calm. Unbothered. As if none of this—not me, not the blood, not the impossible thing in my hands—was worth hesitating over.
The soldiers parted.
And from their ranks, he stepped forward.
Sieg Brandt.
The man was immediately different.
Where the others were wrapped in steel, drowning in heavy plate, he wore nothing but a simple black tunic and loose combat trousers, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. No armor. No sigils. Nothing but pure, unshakable confidence.
His tanned skin bore the marks of countless battles—scars etched across his arms, his knuckles calloused from years of war. His physique was built not for show, but for function—lean, honed, and packed with raw strength, the kind forged in the fires of real combat, not training.
And at his hip—his sabre.
It wasn't like any steel I had ever seen. Darker. Heavier. It didn't reflect light—it devoured it. The blade looked like a tear in reality itself, an edge meant not just to cut flesh, but to erase it.
But more than his weapon, more than his presence—
It was his eyes.
Cold. Sharp. Predatory.
A man who didn't just see you—he measured you.
In a single glance, he could tell how you fought, how you died, and whether or not you were worth killing.
And that was why—even though he didn't say a word to me—
I kneeled.
Without hesitation, without question, my knee hit the ground.
I lowered my head.
And with both hands, I presented The Mother's severed head to him.
"Ah, very good, soldier."
Sieg's voice was smooth, level, carrying no weight of surprise, as if he had expected this outcome all along.
"Saving us from the hassle." He tilted his head slightly, examining The Mother's severed head with the same casual interest one might give a dull blade. "With her death, our kingdom will finally have peace at last."
There was no ceremony in his words. No grand speech about victory or honor. Just a simple, matter-of-fact statement.
Then, his gaze shifted back to me.
"But you may go back to the palace."
My breath hitched.
"Pretty sure the King will like to have a word with you."
His tone remained calm, but something in it made my grip on the head tighten.
"Also—protect that head with your life." He gestured toward it lazily. "That's your only proof that you were the hero of Valkenheim. Your only proof to get whatever you want from the King."
He let that linger for a moment before adding, almost amused,
"Pretty sure lots of people would be willing to kill you if they had the chance."
I swallowed hard.
I didn't doubt it.
Then, Sieg exhaled, shaking his head.
"Stand up, will ya?" His voice carried a slight edge of impatience.
I blinked.
"Someone who managed to kill The Mother is not someone beneath me."
For a moment, I hesitated.
Then, slowly, I rose to my feet.
I forced myself to meet his gaze.
His sharp, unreadable eyes locked onto mine.
For a second, I thought I could hold it—thought I could prove, even if just for a moment, that I wasn't the same weak soldier I had been before.
But it didn't last.
I looked away first.
Because even now, even with all the power coursing through me—I knew.
I still wasn't his equal.
"What's your name?" Sieg asked.
I straightened, gripping the severed head a little tighter. "Erik."
Sieg didn't react at first.
He just stood there, silent, waiting.
I hesitated. Then, I forced the words out.
"Erik Voller."
The name felt strange on my tongue, heavier than it should have been.
Sieg gave a slow nod, as if weighing it in his mind. Then, after a brief pause, he spoke again.
"Thank you, Erik." His voice was steady. "You are a hero."
Something in my chest tightened.
Not because I believed him.
But because I wasn't sure if I did.
"Now, off with you," he continued, turning toward the cave entrance. "We will clear out the rest of those creatures and check the cave ourselves."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Perhaps there's something useful in there."
And with that, he raised a hand, motioning the soldiers forward.
Without hesitation, they obeyed, their armor clanking as they followed him into the dark.
Leaving me alone.
I walked.
The jungle wilderness stretched endlessly ahead, thick trees twisting like skeletal fingers, their bark darkened by time and war.
Beneath my feet, the ground was a graveyard.
Corpses littered the path—soldiers in torn armor, their bodies broken, lifeless stares locked onto nothing. The creatures lay beside them, their twisted forms frozen in death, mouths still open in silent snarls.
The smell of blood and damp earth clung to the air, thick and heavy.
I barely noticed it.
My thoughts lingered elsewhere.
On Sieg.
On Rikard.
Would Sieg find out about my power?
He was sharp—too sharp. It wouldn't take much for him to notice the cracks.
And what about Rikard?
If he had seen me like this—walking through a battlefield, holding The Mother's severed head like a trophy, while his own body lay cold in that cave, somewhere—would he have hated me?
I shook the thought from my head.
I closed my eyes and focused.
Not on the battlefield.
Not on his death.
But on the nights we trained together—just us.
The barracks asleep, the torches long burned out, our bodies bruised and exhausted, but neither of us willing to call it quits.
We had laughed then. We had cursed at each other. Pushed each other.
Those were the memories I reached for.
And then—he appeared.
Rikard stood beside me.
Still solid, yet ghostly, his form both here and not.
The same broad shoulders. The same stance. The same way he held his sword—firm, unshakable.
But his eyes.
Those weren't his.
They were Eindva's.
Empty. Bottomless. Stripped of everything that made him Rikard.
I exhaled. "Glad to know I can just call you out anytime I want."
I looked ahead at the path stretching before me.
"Walk with me, will ya?"
I glanced at Rikard, at the way he walked beside me—silent, unwavering, ever-present.
"I'm not the one who killed The Mother, you know," I muttered. "Technically—and literally—it was you."
No response.
Not even a flicker of recognition.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "But I don't think you should show up in front of the King like this." I eyed him, his void-black gaze, the way his presence felt both familiar and entirely wrong. "Pretty sure he won't accept you."
Still, nothing.
Just silence.
The jungle around us began to change.
The deeper I walked, the less the land looked like a battlefield. The corpses thinned out, the thick, knotted trees growing taller, stretching toward the sky. The air was still heavy with damp earth and rot, but now, faint traces of mist curled between the roots, winding like pale fingers through the undergrowth.
And through it all, Rikard was there.
Just walking.
Just existing.
He didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge anything I said.
But I didn't care.
Because he was here.
Not gone. Not lost forever.