The moon was a pale, watchful eye in a sky veiled with clouds, casting a cold silver sheen over the frost-laced countryside. The wind howled through the leafless trees like the wail of a mourning widow, and the roads ahead were little more than frozen mud and ice-crusted ruts. But Arasha did not slow.
Her stallion, a black warhorse bred for battle and trained to endure the void between worlds, thundered across the plains with relentless purpose. Armor stripped and cloak drawn close against the cold, she rode alone—no knights, no guards, no banners to announce her rank. Only silence and hoof beats and the weight of death on her shoulders.
Not the orc king's.
Her knights.
Those eighteen.
Their names were etched in her mind like blade marks on old bone. She repeated them with every breath she took as she rode, a silent litany.
Sir Calen. Dame Yvra. Twin brothers Bram and Berel. Fireborn Thain. Soft-voiced Captain Merrin. The others…
She reached the first homestead just before dawn, where the sky bled pale orange over distant hills. Smoke curled from a modest chimney. A dog barked once, then fell silent as the warhorse stopped at the gate. She dismounted quietly, her joints stiff, her eyes weary than the frost-bitten leather she wore.
An old woman answered the door, bundled in wool and lined with years of waiting.
Arasha bowed her head low.
"I am here for Sir Calen," she said, voice raw. "May I come in?"
There were no guards to announce her. No trumpets to soften the blow. Just her, the cold, and the letter she handed over—a scroll wrapped in black silk, bearing the Scion Order's seal and Calen's last words written in her own hand.
Within hours, she was on the road again.
She did not sleep.
She did not eat.
From one farmhouse to the next, from city hovel to merchant estate, she came like a shadow at sunrise, uninvited but never unwelcome.
Mothers,
Fathers,
Wives,
Husbands,
Siblings,
Children too young to understand why their father/mother would not return.
Only that the tall, pale warrior in dark leathers knelt in their parlor and gave them a heavy purse, a scroll, and an apology spoken not from duty—but from a place deeper and older than blood.
"I led them," she said, again and again, eyes never blinking. "And I did not bring them all back. But they died to stop something that would have devoured cities. You may curse my name, but never doubt their sacrifice."
Some wept and embraced her. Some screamed and slammed the door. One woman struck her across the face.
Arasha accepted it all.
At the last house, high in the mountain pass where snow fell even in spring, she knelt before a small shrine—freshly built, humble stonework surrounded by tiny footprints in the snow. The child was there. Merrin's daughter. Only six.
Arasha offered no letter here, only a wooden carving—Merrin's keepsake, salvaged from the orc king's burning camp. The little girl took it in silence, then looked up at the lady who knelt before her like a supplicant.
"Are you a knight, too?"
Arasha hesitated.
"No," she said softly. "I am what knights become when they survive too long."
The girl didn't understand. She just nodded and hugged the carving close.
Arasha stood, eyes burning, and turned back toward the horizon.
***
The wind howled once more across the snow-choked fields as she rode away alone, vanishing into the grey—sorrow trailing behind her like a tattered cloak, and duty still calling from the dark places where monsters wait.
The fortress of the Scion Order rose from the cliffs like a forgotten relic of some ancient god's wrath—its obsidian walls blackened by dragonfire, its towers clawing at the sky through a shroud of snow and mist. No banners flew, no music played. Only the sound of the wind shrieking over the ramparts, and the soft thud of hooves as Arasha crossed the stone bridge that spanned the chasm into the heart of the keep.
The iron gates creaked open without a command, as if the fortress itself knew its commander had returned.
She entered slowly, her warhorse walking with heavy, deliberate steps across the courtyard stones, each one carved with the names of the fallen. The torchlight flickered along her armorless form—her cloak frozen at the hem, face pale from wind and grief, hands clenched around reins as if to stop them from shaking.
The knights of the Scion Order lined the walls and walkways in silence. No salutes. No cheers. Only bowed heads and solemn gazes, eyes shadowed with fatigue and sorrow. They'd heard. Of course they had. Word always moved faster than the rider.
A figure descended the stairs from the upper keep—broad-shouldered, with a hawkish face and a scar that split his jaw like a crack in old stone. Sir Garran, her second-in-command. He walked to her with grim purpose, stopping only when they stood face to face, eye to weary eye.
He looked her over once, noting the sleeplessness etched in her face, the blood that still stained the edge of her sleeve, dried and dark.
"Commander," he said, voice low. "You shouldn't have gone alone."
"I know," she said. And she meant it. But her voice was devoid of apology.
He glanced past her, to the stable-hands now leading the warhorse away, its flanks trembling from the journey. Then back to her.
"We would've delivered the news. The Order has a protocol for this. It doesn't have to be your burden alone."
Arasha closed her eyes. Just for a moment. When they opened again, they burned—not with fire, but with something harder. More enduring. A pain that had been sharpened into purpose.
"No," she said quietly. "This part must be mine."
Garran's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. She took a slow step forward, her breath misting in the cold air between them.
"They died following my orders," she continued. "They trusted me with their lives. And now their families must live without them… because I made a choice. However justified—however necessary—it was still my command that sealed their fate."
Garran looked away, jaw clenched.
"I know what you'll say. That it's war. That it's duty. That they knew what they were risking." She shook her head, her voice hardening. "But I will not delegate grief like a scribe filing reports. If I allow myself that distance, if I turn sorrow into paperwork, I become something less than human. And if I lose that… then I have no right to lead them."
Garran was silent for a long moment. Snow began to fall, thin and slow, catching in his dark chestnut hair. Finally, he nodded—grudgingly, with a ghost of respect deep beneath the steel of his posture.
"You carry more than you should, Commander."
"I carry only what I must," she replied. "That is the weight of command. And the cost of survival."
He stepped aside to let her pass.
She walked forward into the heart of the keep, flanked by silent knights, her boots echoing over the cold stone. The doors to her chambers opened ahead, torchlight spilling onto the worn flagstones. Her sanctuary. Her prison.
The knights of the Scion Order watched her go—each one knowing that their commander bore the grief of eighteen souls alone, not because she sought to suffer… but because she refused to forget what their sacrifice truly meant.
And in that, they trusted her more than any crown or creed.
That was why the knights kept the sorrow of their Commander in their minds not wanting to make the same mistake of the Crow unit. By helping they brought more sorrow to their commander.
It was the Crow unit of the Scion Order, the unit of the eighteen knights that died was a part of, who were assigned to only scout the Orc camp and be on stand by until Commander Arasha arrives. The Crow unit leader, Merrin, wanted not only to scout the orc camp but capture the Orc King which wasn't part of Arasha's command.
But, wanting to lighten the burden of the commander, they instead tried to subdue the Orc King and use him to threaten the royals and the nobles who keep cornering their beloved Commander.
They succeed but at the cost of their lives.
They went ahead and bite more than they can chew.
Their beloved commander, arrived late and only manages to save a few of the Crow unit to her sorrow.
A heavy price paid by the one they sought to unburden.
***
The door to Arasha's private quarters shut with a dull, echoing thud, sealing her away from the world once more.
She did not bother lighting the lanterns. The fading fire in the hearth cast enough glow to paint the room in shades of amber and shadow. It was a spartan space—stone walls bare, a battered writing desk, a single cabinet, and a high-backed chair by the hearth where she always ended her nights, alone.
She stepped toward it slowly, as if her own armor still weighed her down, though it had long been shed. The silence stretched, suffocating, until she collapsed into the chair and finally let the tremor seize her body.
Her gloved hands covered her face, fingers digging into her temples, as if sheer will could stop the tears that threatened to spill.
Eighteen knights. Gone.
Their families had smiled through their tears. Thanked her. Blessed her.
And she hated herself for letting them.
A choked breath escaped her lips, but she bit it back—no sound, no sob, just the hollow rhythm of someone who has cried too often and still refuses to let it break them again.
And then, as always, the memories came.
She was five.
The palace gardens had been her world, endless fields of jasmine and marigold where her father would lift her high above his head, spinning until her laughter filled the sky. He smelled of cedar and sweat, the scent of worn leather and oiled steel. A living legend—Sir Allain, Swordmaster of the Sacred Luxfire, brother to the former king, but known more for his kindness than his titles.
He would kiss her brow and say, "You've got fire in you, little star. Brighter than any crown."
Then the sky tore open.
Anomalies—twisted beasts of impossible geometry and howling hunger—descended on the palace without warning. Screams tore through the courtyards. Blood soaked the marble steps.
She remembered hiding under the orchard's root altar, her mother whispering to her in their foreign tongue, wrapping her in healing light to still the wound that bled from her thigh where a creature's claw had grazed her.
Be strong, my sweet lovely little star.
Her mother loving whispered with tears streaming down her cheeks as she kissed Arasha's forehead and immediately goes to heal other people amidst the chaos.
MAMA! MAMA—MAAAAAAA!
Arasha screamed through her tears—her small hands outstretched wanting to grab her mother but her mother silhouette already a blur.
And through the haze of pain, she saw her father—cutting through the chaos, blade wreathed in fire, his body already broken, bleeding from gashes too deep to heal.
He turned to her once, eyes full of love, and shouted, "Stay strong my baby darling. You'll be a mighty star in no time! Take care for Mama and Papa, okay?"
Then he was gone.
She saw her mother—so far away.
Her mother stayed behind to heal her father. To heal the others. The last thing she saw as knights dragged her to safety was her mother's hands glowing with golden light—then swallowed by the monstrous tide.
LET ME GO! MAMA! PAPA!
After that came the cold.
The royal court, with its silken smiles and poisoned tongues. Nobles who never let her forget she was a child of scandal—the daughter of a "tainted" foreign bride, birthed not from the king's line but his warrior brother. She bore her mother's amber eyes and curling obsidian-black hair, and for that they called her witchspawn.Half-blood.Pretender.
Look at those ominous black hair!
My, I didn't know her would be so dark like that of a raven! Truly a witchspawn.
Those eyes are so creepy, I bet they glow at night time!
Arasha ignored every insult because she love her hair and her eyes, it was something that reminds her of her mom.
And then, the Blessing.
The same divine mark gifted only once every generation, said to come from the gods themselves—glowing across her palm like living flame during a royal ceremony she hadn't even been allowed to attend until the last moment. It should've changed everything. It did.
But not how she hoped.
The whispers grew louder. The hatred sharpened. Even the king—her uncle—looked upon her then not with pride, but wary calculation.
Why her? She's tainted with foreign blood!
Her very existence is blasphemy! A blessing? What if she actually used witchcraft to get it?
A blessing? what if she misuse it? is there a way to transfer the blessing?
They feared her.
And so she gave them what they wanted: Distance. Obedience. Silence.
She volunteer to be part of Scion Order at the young age of twelve and immediately assigned to battle unknown anomalies. The royals and nobles hoping she would die by doing so.
Yet, silence turned into steel, and obedience became the command of death.
Back in the chair, Arasha slowly pulled her hands from her face. Her breath had steadied, but the tears still rimmed her eyes, unshed. She looked into the fire, and for a moment, her reflection shimmered in the metal of the sword propped by the hearth—the same one her father once wielded.
"You told me to stay strong," she whispered, her voice cracking like a branch under frost. "But you never said how hard it would be to live."
The fire popped.
Outside, the wind howled over the high towers. Inside, Arasha sat alone, beneath the weight of memory and sorrow.
And still—she remains unbroken.
The warmth of the hearth had long died, and with it, any illusions of peace.
Arasha stood alone in the cold glow of early dawn, wrapped in her long black coat, the inner seams still frayed from her last mission. The frost clawed at the windowpanes, but her office was lit not by the sun, but by flickering rune-lamps that cast sharp shadows against the shelves of maps, reports, and war-scarred weapons that lined the stone walls. Her desk was buried beneath a growing mountain of missives, field scrolls, and sealed documents—none of which she touched.
She had only just returned. Her body begged for more rest. But her heart had long been trained to ignore such things.
A knock broke the silence—sharp, urgent.
"Enter."
Sir Garran stepped in, not bothering with ceremony. His face was grim, his gloves wet from frost, a sealed scroll in his hand.
"A messenger hawk arrived minutes ago from Camp Yulen, base five located at the edge of Duke's Lionel of the North's boundary" he said without preamble. "The sky tore open near the northern ice shelf. The scouts say they've never seen anything like it—raptures big enough to swallow fortresses. Reality's unraveling. They're asking for immediate reinforcement."
She was already moving before he finished speaking.
"Details?" she asked, striding past him toward the war table.
Garran followed. "Seven rifts. Two stable, five fluctuating. Deep violet with red fractures—same pattern we saw at Black Hollow, but amplified. One of the camps was pulled into the rift before they could even evacuate."
She cursed under her breath. Her fingers flew across the map as she drew pins and marked movement paths. "Survivors?"
"A few. One knight made it back—burned, incoherent. They say something's crawling through—something that could corrupt the mind."
That stopped her, but only for a second. Her eyes sharpened. Cold fire returned to her voice.
"Prepare my armor. Call the Raven Wing and Ash-fall units—ten knights only. I want elite scouts, mages with tether wards, and two banner healers. We move within the hour."
Garran stepped forward, blocking her path for just a breath. "You don't have to go yourself. Let me lead this. You're still recovering—"
She turned her gaze to him, and though her voice was calm, it carried the weight of a blade being drawn.
"If this breach is worse than Black Hollow, then no one else is ready for it. Not yet. You saw what happened there. You saw what I had to become to stop it."
Garran clenched his jaw. "And what if you don't come back this time?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her hand reached for the sword hanging behind her desk—her father's blade, reforged with primordial glass along the spine. It pulsed faintly, as if it too sensed the coming storm.
Then she looked back at him.
"Then you lead what's left. Hold the other fronts. Keep the line intact."
He was silent for a long breath, then gave a single, tight nod.
"I'll reinforce the eastern watch and alert the southern camps. Supplies and reserve squads will be ready in case it spreads."
She nodded once, then placed a hand on his shoulder—not as a commander, but as someone who trusted him more than any other soul alive.
"Thank you, Garran. I leave this place in your hands."
And then she was gone—her long coat swirling behind her, boots echoing against the stone floors as she descended into the armory.
Below, her knights were already assembling—tall, grim warriors marked with silver sigils and hardened eyes, their armor engraved with runes to resist madness and time-tears. They stood straight when they saw her, not because she demanded it, but because she had earned it.
"Mount up," she ordered. "We're riding into the abyss. If any of you feel unready—speak now."
None did.
The gate chains groaned open.
And Arasha, blazing with purpose and grief forged into steel, rode once more into the unknown—where the world itself bled, and monsters born of unmaking waited to devour what little light remained.
We'll survive. We have too.