Who's Who (So Far)
The Protagonist
The village "rat girl." Now just the girl. My village is gone, and I'm following a walking natural disaster and his quiet sidekick because I've got nowhere else to go. Apparently, I can do light magic. I can't actually do anything with it, but it's something.
Arden
The one who pulled me out of the fire. He doesn't talk much, but he doesn't need to. He can pull potions from thin air and turn trained knights into red mist without batting an eye. They call him "The Ghost." I don't know why he saved me. I'm not sure he knows either.
Sora
Travels with Arden. She's quiet, smiles a lot, and looks at him like he hung the moon. There's something... off about her. Not in a bad way, just in a "you're-too-pretty-and-calm-to-be-normal" way. She's nicer to me than almost anyone's ever been, which is honestly the weirdest part of all this.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sky was on fire, flames screaming up into the clouds, turning the night into a false, angry dawn. Smoke poured out in thick, choking waves, and the air stank of everything I knew burning into nothing.
Around me was chaos. People ran. Voices I recognized screamed names that were swallowed by the roar of the fire. But I wasn't running away from it. My feet were carrying me forward, into the heart of the smoke and noise.
The memory surfaced, sharp and clear: the rough shove into the cellar's darkness. My father's face, pale with a fear I'd never seen before. "Stay down here and don't come out!" The door slamming shut, plunging me into blackness.
I didn't stay. I never could.
I bolted up the steps and into a different kind of dark. The air outside was hot and thick, heavy with a wrongness that made my skin crawl. Somewhere in the distance, I heard my mother's voice, calling my name, but it was warped and fading, like she was being pulled underwater.
I stumbled onto the warped wooden street, but they weren't there. They were supposed to be right there.
And then I saw them.
Standing at the far end of the road, perfectly still. My mother and father. They were calm. Unnaturally calm, as if the world wasn't ending around them.
"Mom! Dad!" I shouted, my voice cracking as I ran, my heart hammering against my ribs.
They turned.
They wore their faces, but the eyes were wrong. Glassy. Hollow. Empty windows looking out from a house where no one lived anymore.
My steps faltered. The world seemed to slow. "Mom?" I whispered. Then, softer, "Dad?"
Their blank stares offered nothing. No recognition. No love. No fear.
And then the street in front of them erupted.
The heat hit me like a physical wall, smashing me to the ground. The world shattered into noise and light, and then into nothing.
When the feeling returned, the village was gone. Not just my first village, but the second one too. The one with the butcher's wife and Old Man Harrod.
All of it was just… ash. Empty, silent ruins. I was a ghost picking through the bones of both my lives, the old, sticky whispers clinging to me. Thief. Rat. The one who gets left behind.
Then, like a cruel joke, I saw them again. My parents. Flickering at the end of a road that shouldn't exist. A desperate, broken part of me surged forward.
"Mom! Dad!" I cried, my voice raw, running as if my sheer need could pull them back from the void.
The smoke, the road and their hollow faces all collapsed, the dream dissolving into nothing before it could even end properly.
Then a hand was on my shoulder, shaking me gently. "Hey. Wake up."
The voice was soft, not the one I was braced for. I groaned and tried to swat the hand away, my irritation sharp before my brain caught up. It was just Sora.
I cracked an eye open. She was leaning over the bed, her golden hair haloed by the morning light slipping through the window. Her grey eyes were wide with concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice quiet. "You were groaning in your sleep."
I pushed myself up, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a weird dream." The words felt hollow. I could still feel the ghost of it, the heat, the crushing silence of a world emptied out.
But then, my fingers came away wet as I retracted my hand.
I'd been crying.
A hot flush of embarrassment went through me and I quickly wiped my face on my sleeve, trying to act like it was nothing.
Sora didn't say anything. She just pulled a small, clean handkerchief from a pocket and held it out to me.
I took it with a grunt of thanks, dabbing at my eyes more properly. The details were already gone, leaving behind only a cold, hollow feeling in my chest, like I'd been mourning something all over again.
Snap.
The sound was sharp and impatient, coming from the other side of the room. I looked over. Arden stood by the window, arms crossed. He didn't look at me, just stared out the glass.
Snap.
He did it again, the sound cutting through the quiet room. Then again. A continuous, rhythmic snapping of his fingers that was somehow more annoying than any poke could ever be. It was a demand, pure and simple. Get up. Now.
I groaned again, this time with full, dramatic force, and shoved the blankets back. The room was the same as always: the creaky chair, the desk that looked one sneeze away from collapse. Comfortable, if your definition of comfort included not trusting the furniture.
That old ache crept back into my limbs. Not from the bed, but from memory, and the fading traces of a dream I would have rather stayed lost. Specifically, from a bath-related incident I would be pretending did not happen until the day I died. I made a conscious effort not to look at Arden, in case eye contact jogged his memory and mine.
He stood by the window like a statue, his posture somehow both casual and foreboding. Then he gave the glass a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Look.
So I did.
Outside, the town was waking up. Shopkeepers were setting up their stalls, kids were yelling, someone was already shouting about overpriced carrots. Just another normal morning.
But past the rooftops, something was wrong.
Something massive was crawling over the horizon. Bigger than any cart or carriage had any right to be. A huge slab of metal and armor, gliding forward like it owned the ground beneath it. It wasn't being pulled or pushed. It moved on its own, and the earth just seemed to shift out of its way as it was replaced with metal contraptions, like the land itself knew not to argue.
"What is that?" I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
Arden leaned against the wall, looking as relaxed as if he were watching clouds drift by. "A Magi-Train."
"The Dalthun Empire's greatest invention," Sora added softly, her voice careful, like she was repeating something important she'd been told.
I blinked. "Wait. Dalthun? The desert empire with all the strange machines?"
They both nodded.
I turned back to the window, my heart finding its way into my throat. "So that's a moving fortress? One that makes its own road?"
"Yes," Arden said, his voice calm and flat.
"They only bring it out for imperial business," he added. "When the Emperor needs to make a point."
My stomach turned as the thing came closer. Sleek metal glinting in the sun, looking too clean and too perfect, like it had never encountered anything that could slow it down.
A Magi-Train. An imperial statement that didn't need roads.
And it was heading right for us.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My mouth felt dry. If they only brought that thing out when the Emperor himself had business here...
Then what kind of business had found us?
The closer it got, the more wrong it felt. It wasn't just big—it was monstrous. Rows of segmented compartments stretched back like some armored metal snake, each one covered in thick steel that shone too brightly in the sun. There was no dirt, no wear, just polished menace rolling forward on wheels that didn't even disturb the dust.
But the size wasn't the worst part.
It was the weapons.
Rows of strange tubes lined its sides, each one carved with glowing runes that pulsed with a cold blue light. Some were long and thin like hunting spears, others were short and wide like miniature cannons. All of them hummed softly, like they were just waiting for a reason to wake up.
"Are those...?" I started.
"Magi-Guns," Arden said, not even looking.
Sora nodded. "They use compressed magical energy. Like potion vials, but... not for healing."
"More accurate than firearms. Stronger than a longbow. Made for war," Arden finished, like he was reading from a manual.
A cold weight settled in my stomach. I'd heard traders tell stories about Dalthun's magical technology, but this wasn't a story anymore. This was real.
I looked toward the gates. A crowd had gathered—locals, merchants, travelers who probably wished they were somewhere else. Nobody looked curious. Nobody was whispering excitedly.
They were afraid.
Even the guards looked nervous. They stood stiff at their posts, hands clenched around weapons that suddenly seemed useless. Their eyes darted from the machine to each other, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
But nobody moved.
A sudden rush of wind tore from the machine as it ground to a halt just beyond the gates. When the sound faded, a heavy, dreadful stillness was all that remained.
Then the doors creaked open.
A chill spilled out, sharp as steel and biting cold, carrying the scent of sparks and something harsher underneath. My every instinct screamed to run.
But I stayed and watched.
But I stayed and watched.
Two guards in dark, heavy armor emerged first. Their movements were sharp and synchronized, every step measured. The strange weapons in their hands hummed with a soft, cold light, their eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's focus. These weren't ordinary soldiers; they were the sharp edge of whatever was to come.
Behind them, the third figure appeared.
A man.
Tall and completely at ease, he carried a kind of quiet power that made the very ground seem to shrink beneath his boots. His white shirt was open at the chest, too casual for an imperial visit. A gold chain glinted against his skin, proud and expensive. His hair was a wild shock of red, like he'd wrestled a storm and won.
He moved as if the town already bowed to him. And from the way the crowd reacted, maybe it did. A mother pulled her child behind her skirts. A few locals muttered darkly, their fear curdling into resentment, while the town guards arrived, their faces pale as they tried to look vigilant without being provocative. This was Veridiana, a neighbor to the empire, and that giant metal serpent on our doorstep was a not-so-subtle reminder of how quickly a border could become a battlefield.
With a long, lazy yawn, the man stretched like he'd just woken from the best sleep of his life. "Ahhh," he sighed, grinning like a man who'd found an oasis. "This air's not half bad. Better than that choking desert dust."
No one made a sound.
Then his eyes landed on us, and his grin widened.
"Arden!" he called, arms spread wide as if for an embrace. "Been too long!"
Arden didn't flinch, nor blink. He simply took an imperceptible step back.
But the redhead didn't seem to mind. He stepped forward, his guards flowing into place behind him like shadows. "And these must be the fine ladies keeping you company," he said, his smirk landing on Sora and me. "Honestly, Arden, with your looks, you could do better."
I blinked. Sora shifted uneasily beside me, her usual calm replaced by a wariness I'd only seen when things were about to go very wrong.
Arden stayed silent, as always.
The man laughed. "Still no bite? You're as dull as ever." He looked at me, his gaze sharp and playful. "And you are...?"
"Someone who doesn't know you," I said carefully.
He clutched his chest in mock offense. "Oh? Don't know me?" He flashed a brilliant, dangerous grin. "Radames Antoun. Emperor of the Dalthun Empire. But really, just call me Radames. Titles are so dull."
The name hit me like a physical blow. Radames. The man who forged an empire from desert sand and ancient magic. The architect of the war machines we'd just been staring at. He was just a story, a name traders used to warn about the power shifting beyond our borders. And here he was, in the flesh, grinning like we were old friends.
"Anyway," he said, snapping his fingers. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk." He turned and started back toward the rumbling iron serpent. "Come along. I'm not one to sink my teeth in without a word. If I meant to tear this place down," he added with a glance over his shoulder, "you'd know by now."
I didn't trust him. Not even a little. But there was no mistaking it… this wasn't an invitation.
Steeling myself, I took a slow breath and stepped forward. Sora slipped beside me, hesitant but loyal. Arden brought up the rear, a silent shadow.
The train's great doors towered ahead, and that same cold shiver crept under my skin, the quiet dread twisting low in my chest, telling me nothing would ever be the same again.
The inside of the train was… nothing like I'd pictured. Then again, I wasn't really sure what I expected. Maybe rows of stiff benches hammered into cold steel floors, soldiers stomping about, barking orders. Something strict and efficient, filled with faces that wouldn't spare a glance for someone like me.
But this?
This was a rolling throne room built for one man's ego. Thick velvet drapes, deep crimson and silver, hung from the walls. The Dalthun seal was stamped everywhere, like the room needed constant reminding of its own importance. Between the crests, glass cases showed off polished weapons and old war medals, all bolted down tight so they wouldn't fly around.
But the luxury couldn't hide the threat. Near the doors, magi-guns were mounted in plain sight, their dark barrels gleaming in the low light. Smaller, nastier-looking tools waited in the shadows. This wasn't a place for comfort. It was a display of power, and we were the audience.
Radames lounged in the middle of it all like a cat in a sunbeam, perfectly at home in the smell of oil and expensive magic. His coat fell open just enough to show gold stitching inside, and the ruby at his throat caught the light like a secret smile aimed right at me.
"Come in, come in," he said, his voice all smooth and sweet. "We're no savages here. Not in this room, at least."
I stepped in, mostly because I couldn't think of a single thing to say. The seat was cushioned, but it forced my back straight, like it was designed to keep visitors in their place. Sora slipped in after me, her hands nervously smoothing her skirt, her eyes darting around like the walls might bite.
Arden came last. He moved like he'd been here before, like he knew every bolt and weak point in the walls. He didn't say a word, just sank into the seat across from Radames like this was a boring errand.
Once we were settled, Radames cut straight to the point.
"I need your help."
No pretense. No sugarcoating. Just a sharp jab thrown right into the room, as if we were meant to catch it and be grateful for the sting.
I just stared, my brain struggling to keep up with the whirlwind my life had become. Sora shifted nervously beside me. Even Arden glanced up from whatever void he was usually contemplating.
"It's the cultists," Radames said, swirling his wine with a bored flick of his wrist. "Usually, they're just pathetic fools playing with shadows. But this lot… they've graduated. They're not mere troublemakers. They might actually be servants of something that should have stayed forgotten."
The words settled in the room, heavy and cold. Why would the emperor's son, a man who commanded armies and magi-trains, need our help? My thoughts were a tangled mess. Sora had gone rigid, her knuckles white where she gripped her skirt. I saw Arden lean forward almost imperceptibly, his hand coming up to rub thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw.
Radames' playful tone vanished, replaced by a chilling focus. He looked directly at Arden. "They're trying to bring back the Demon Lord."
The air vanished from my lungs. That wasn't a legend. It was a historical nightmare.
"But… the Demon Lord was slain," I managed, my voice a dry rasp. "Decades ago. By the Seven Heroes of Veridia." It was the story every child was told. A safe, comforting lie.
Radames gave a sharp, knowing grin. "Is that the story they tell in the villages?" He took a slow sip, his eyes locked on Arden. "The bards love a committee. Makes for better songs. And better statues." He set his glass down with a soft, final click. "The truth is much simpler."
His gaze never left Arden. "And, if I recall, the last time things got this… theatrically dire, you were the one I sent to clean up the mess on the southern continent. Some things, it seems, don't stay cleaned."
My eyes darted to Arden. He'd gone still again, but his fingers now rested against his neck, a quiet gesture that made it clear he wasn't ignoring the statement, but was weighing it. He offered no confirmation, no denial. He was just processing, a quiet anchor in the storm Radames was unleashing.
Radames let the silence hang in the air between us. "Our quiet friend here," he said, nodding at Arden, "did not just fight in that war. He ended it. He walked into the heart of the abyss alone and put the Demon Lord down. For good."
The floor might as well have vanished beneath my feet.
The Seven Heroes were a lie.
Arden. The man who bought me street food. The man who'd looked genuinely flustered after walking in on my bath. He was the one who had killed the Demon Lord.
My mind reeled, trying to force the two images to overlap. The legendary god slayer and the quiet man who let Sora sit in his lap. They didn't fit. It was like trying to pour an ocean into a thimble.
I stared at Arden, truly seeing him for the first time. His quiet wasn't just quiet. It was the silence left in the wake of an avalanche. His calm wasn't just calm. It was the stillness of a deep-sea trench. Those glasses weren't a fashion choice; they were a shield.
Every impossible thing I'd seen him do suddenly clicked into a terrifying, new understanding.
Radames watched the dawning horror on my face, his smile widening. "Oh? He never told you?" He let out a low chuckle. "Of course not, he's too humble. Or maybe," his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "he knows some truths are too heavy for most people to carry."
I wanted to speak, to ask how or why, but my throat was locked shut. All I could do was look at the man who had saved me and realize I knew nothing about him at all.
He was not just a powerful mage.
He was a living myth. And I was living in his shadow.
"Anyway, that's the real reason I'm here," Radames said, like it wasn't a big deal. "If anyone can snuff this out before it becomes a real problem, it's Arden. Again."
He made it sound so casual, like asking a neighbor to put out a small fire. But beneath the lazy grin, I could see the calculation in his eyes.
The charm was a tool. His jokes were misdirection. And I was starting to see through it.
He reached over and spread a map on the low table. It wasn't parchment, but a smooth metal plate etched with faint, glowing lines that seemed to shift and writhe if you looked at them from the corner of your eye.
He pointed to a red mark stuck in jagged hills. "Here. The Western Ruins. Far off, quiet. A good place to hide old spells and darker things. If trouble's brewing, that's where it's stirring."
Sora's voice came, soft and unsure, but curious all the same. "Why not send your soldiers?"
Radames looked at her like she'd asked why he didn't smash a fly with a hammer. "If I send the whole army, they'll catch wind and scatter like field mice. Send a small band, and they'll be cut down before they know what hit 'em. But you…" he waved a hand at Arden and Sora, then flicked it at me like I was an afterthought, "…you're just right. Strong enough to hold your own, small enough to slip in quiet."
I didn't know whether to feel proud or put out.
Then Arden spoke, his tone as steady as ever. "She's coming with us."
It took me a second to realize he meant me.
Radames raised an eyebrow, his grin turning deeply amused. "Oh? The tagalong is joining the main event?"
I bristled, but it wasn't cruel… it was the kind of look you give a puppy trying to growl.
Arden was already rising to his feet. "We will leave in the morning."
No fuss, no argument. Just a quiet sort of telling, like he'd been thinking it over for days. Like it wasn't the first time someone had dropped "resurrected Demon Lord" at his feet and expected him to deal with it.
I blinked. "Wait, really?" The words fell out of my mouth, all clumsy and weak. I wasn't even asking anyone, just sort of throwing the question at the room.
Of course, Arden didn't answer. He was already at the door, his cloak swinging behind him like it was bored of this conversation.
Radames just laughed, leaning back like he was watching his favorite play. "Still as cold as ice," he said, his voice dripping with amusement.
And that was all. There was no grand speech, no moment to reconsider the insanity of it. A simple nod was all it took to send us into forgotten ruins on a mission to stop the world from ending. He made it sound as mundane as fetching water.
My mind spun with the sheer scale of it. Cultists, a Demon Lord everyone thought was dead, ancient maps that pulsed with a light of their own. And Arden, the quiet and unreadable man I traveled with, was apparently the legendary hero who had ended the first war, discussing it all with his usual calm.
And me? I was still here. Still trailing after him. Still pretending I had the slightest clue what I was doing.
But I guessed that was fine. It had to be. Because when Arden made up his mind, the rest of the world just had to fall in line.