Year 400,
Thalen,
Duskrend
The light came thin and colorless, spreading over Thalen like a wound that refused to heal. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around the legs of the huts, swallowing sound. For a time, there was only the usual stillness — the faint creak of wood, the drip from an eave, the first hesitant stirrings of morning.
Then, beneath it, came the rhythm.
At first it was faint — a pulse buried in the wind. But the cadence was too steady to be wind. Too deliberate.
Boots.
A hen startled from under a wagon, feathers scattering. A man froze mid-swing with his axe, eyes fixed toward the dirt road. The sound carried through the still air, hollow and slow — the tread of discipline, of law, of the Covenant.
One by one, shutters cracked open. Faces appeared, half-hidden in the slats. No one spoke. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Takaya was already by the well. He had been awake before dawn, the kind of restlessness that no longer surprised him. He didn't turn when the sound came — just straightened, jaw tightening. The cold light caught in his hair, in the tired lines beneath his eyes.
He didn't need to see them to know.
The rhythm of boots, three sets by the sound, came rolling over the hill — slow, unhurried, certain. A patrol. Small, but not harmless.
He glanced down the narrow lane. Villagers stood frozen mid-motion — a woman still holding a loaf of bread half-wrapped, a boy with a bucket dangling from his hand. The whole village seemed carved from the same dread.
Takaya drew a slow breath through his nose. "It's them."
His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. Heads turned toward him, then to the road. Even the birds had gone silent.
The morning sun hadn't yet broken the treeline when the first glint of metal appeared beyond the rise — three figures, dust trailing their steps.
The Covenant had come to Thalen.
And everyone knew what that meant.
They came in without ceremony.
Three figures, armor dulled by road dust, crimson insignias cracked and fading — relics of an empire that no longer needed to shine to command fear. Their boots pressed into the dirt with the same slow inevitability as the sunrise, their pace unhurried, confident.
They were not captains, not officers — just men who had done this too many times to care. The kind of tired cruelty that didn't need orders anymore.
The first carried his helmet under one arm, revealing a gaunt, unshaven face; his eyes were dull, but sharp enough to wound. The second trailed just behind, spear loosely in hand, its haft tapping a lazy rhythm against his thigh. The third—shorter, broader—kept scanning the alleys, fingers brushing the small rune etched into his wrist like a nervous tic. A blink-runner, by the look of it.
They stopped at the center of the square, near the well. The lead soldier raised his voice — not shouting, just loud enough to make the silence feel like submission.
> "Where's the priest?"
No one moved.
The second soldier tilted his head, without a care in the world, as if this was his daily routine.
"Don't make us look for him."
A few villagers flinched. A mother pulled her child behind her, head bowed. Somewhere, a shutter slammed shut too fast.
Then, after a moment that seemed to stretch too long, the chapel door opened.
The priest stepped out, cloak hanging unevenly, breath already uneven. He looked smaller than he had the night before, as if dawn itself had taken something from him. His hands trembled, but he still tried to stand straight.
The lead soldier's gaze fixed on him immediately.
"A child is due," he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. "One from your register."
The priest's lips parted, but no sound came at first. He tried to speak again, words catching against a throat gone dry.
Around them, the villagers stared at the ground. No one dared to look at the soldiers, or at the priest. The air was heavy with the unspoken: not again.
Finally, the priest managed to answer — voice thin, shaking.
"Please… there's been—"
But the soldier's hand lifted, silencing him with a small gesture.
"Don't make excuses, old man. Just bring the child."
The priest's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward Takaya, just for an instant — a quiet, desperate plea that almost no one saw.
Takaya saw it.
And that was the moment the quiet began to fracture.
The priest's voice broke before his words did.
"Please," he said, stepping forward, palms open in front of him. "There are no more. The last taken was months ago."
It wasn't just pleading — it was exhaustion shaped into sound. His shoulders trembled, his eyes darting between the three soldiers, searching for even a flicker of mercy.
The lead soldier's head tilted slightly. A pause. Then the faintest curl of a smile — the kind that knew the shape of fear too well.
"Then perhaps," he drawled, glancing at his companions, "we take two. To make up the deficit."
The second soldier let out a low chuckle, tapping the butt of his spear against the ground. The third didn't laugh — he just started scanning faces.
The words rolled through the crowd like a sickness.
A child whimpered.
A mother clutched her son to her chest.
An old man muttered a prayer that no one could hear.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Takaya's jaw tightened. He felt the tension knotting in his chest, that slow, familiar burn that always came before something broke. His hand hovered near Solthar's hilt, not in threat, but instinct — a reflex buried deeper than thought.
The priest's eyes were wide now, shining with tears he couldn't stop.
"You can't— please, they're only children—"
The lead soldier stepped closer, boots grinding against loose gravel, and looked down at him as if studying a stubborn insect.
"You think the Covenant cares what you can't do?"
The words landed like blows.
Around them, the villagers shrank further back, as if their silence could hide them. The sound of wind against the chapel doors was the only thing that moved.
Takaya took a slow breath.
He'd seen this before.
He knew what came next.
And this time, he wasn't going to let it happen.
The air shifted — heavy, choking, full of the sound of leather and chain. The lead soldier's voice cut through the village square, rough and careless.
"If the priest has failed his quota,"
he said, drawing his blade just enough to glint in the morning haze,
"then he'll hang on the chapel's door. And the rest of you—your brats will pay his debt."
The words struck harder than any weapon.
Mothers pulled their children close; fathers stood frozen, knowing they were powerless. The priest's knees nearly buckled. His breath caught — half-prayer, half-sob.
"Please… there are no more children,"
he stammered,
"the last offering—was months ago—"
"Then the next comes early," the soldier interrupted, voice laced with cruel amusement.
He gestured lazily toward the chapel door.
Two others grabbed the priest by the arms, hauling him forward.
The village came alive in panicked whispers —
hands covering mouths, eyes darting toward the alleys where Takaya had hidden the children.
Aelna froze mid-step, one hand pressed to her chest, the other twitching as if to move — but Takaya's voice came low and sharp.
"Don't."
She looked at him — and saw it: not fear, but calculation.
He was watching everything.
Every bootstep, every grip, the priest's trembling stance.
The soldiers dragged the priest through the dirt, his sandals scraping stone. His voice broke —
"Please—please, not here, not before them—"
"Quiet," one soldier spat, backhanding him across the mouth.
Blood hit the ground in a neat red arc.
The villagers flinched but did not move.
No one dared.
The Covenant's mark gleamed on the soldiers' armor — not bright, but burned-in, a sigil that demanded submission.
It wasn't faith. It was fear branded into memory.
One of the soldiers spoke to the crowd:
"You've all been warned. The Covenant's mercy ends today."
He planted his spear into the soil beside the priest's head.
The sound echoed like a cracked bell.
Then — a voice broke through the air, rough and defiant.
"Enough."
The crowd shifted.
Leor stepped forward from the back of the square — dusty clothes, arms tense at his sides, eyes fixed on the priest.
He looked too young to challenge soldiers, too desperate not to.
"He's done enough for this village,"
Leor said, voice shaking but loud,
"if someone's to pay, then take me."
The soldiers laughed, short and sharp.
"A volunteer?"
the lead one sneered.
"Good. Saves us the trouble."
The priest shook his head violently, voice raw.
"No—Leor, don't—please—"
Leor didn't answer him.
His eyes stayed locked on the Covenant men —
and in that silence, something in the crowd began to stir.
The mothers' cries dulled.
The fathers stood a little straighter.
Even Aelna's breath caught — not in fear, but in disbelief.
Takaya's hand tightened slightly at his side.
He said nothing, but his eyes moved once to the horizon — then back to the soldiers.
The Veyl whispered faintly, like a breath through rusted steel:
"See, learn from the kid, man, grow some balls for yourself."
Takaya ignored it.
For now, the priest was still alive, the children still hidden — and Leor had just become the spark standing between order and chaos.
Aelna's voice cracked before the soldiers could even reply.
"Leor—no! Please!"
She stumbled forward, skirts brushing the dirt, her hands finding his arm like she could physically drag him back from the line he'd just crossed. Her grip trembled—not from weakness, but from the kind of fear that burns out all reason.
Leor didn't look at her. His jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the men in armor as if seeing anything else would undo his resolve.
"Aelna," he said, softly—too softly. "If someone doesn't—"
"Don't say it," she snapped, her voice breaking mid-word. "You think dying helps anyone? You think that's what they need?"
Takaya moved before she could say more. His hand caught her shoulder, not harsh, but final.
"Not now," he said, his tone low and unyielding. "Not like this."
Aelna froze. She turned toward him, eyes wide—shock, betrayal, desperation all mixing at once.
"You're just going to let them—"
"No," Takaya interrupted, his voice cold. "I'm going to make sure it doesn't end here."
For a moment, she saw something behind his calm—something hard and dangerous.
He wasn't hesitating. He was waiting.
The soldiers watched, amused by the scene. The lead one leaned on his sword, grinning through cracked teeth.
"Touching," he said. "You can all die together, if it helps. We're assigned dozens of villages burning this village will save us from walking for so long, for excuses and rarely any offerings."
Aelna's breath hitched. She wanted to scream, to fight, to throw herself in front of Leor—but Takaya's hand stayed firm on her shoulder.
He didn't look at her again. His eyes were already on the soldiers, studying every step, every gap in their stance, every shift in their weight.
The priest knelt in the dirt, head bowed, whispering prayers no one would answer.
The villagers stood frozen between terror and disbelief.
The fog rolled in again, thick and gray. Somewhere, a door slammed shut.
And in that stillness, Takaya's voice cut through—soft, deliberate.
"Step away from him."
The laughter died.
Even Aelna, trembling, could feel it: something in the air had changed.
The soldiers started forward, boots sinking into the wet earth. Their armor clinked softly, edges stained with travel and old blood.
Leor didn't move. He stood where he was, spine straight, trying to look taller than his fear would let him.
Then Takaya stepped in front of him.
No one spoke. The only sound was the faint creak of leather straps as Takaya adjusted his stance, his cloak swaying with the morning wind. Solthar hung at his hip, untouched, the black scabbard dull under the gray light.
The lead soldier stopped a few paces away, helmet tilted in disbelief.
"A farmer," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "With a relic blade, playing hero."
He scoffed, it came rough, unrestrained — the sound of someone who'd seen too many men try to be heroes.
"You think that thing makes you special?"
Takaya said nothing. His gaze didn't waver. The fog swirled at his boots, the air thick and electric.
He breathed — slow, even — and his thumb brushed Solthar's guard.
The soldiers shifted uneasily. Something about the motion felt wrong, rehearsed, deliberate.
"Move," the lead soldier ordered, impatience creeping in. "Or we'll cut you down with the rest."
Takaya's grip didn't tighten. He didn't even draw.
The Veyl's voice whispered like oil through his mind, soft and venomous:
"You should start teaching people how to act nonchalant while being scared shitless, you'll make millions from it. You're already a professional at it."
Takaya ignored it.
The second soldier stepped forward, sword raised, frustration breaking through the pretense of command.
"I said—"
He never finished.
The world blinked.
There was no flash, no burst of light. Just sound—a split second of air tearing open as Solthar's power released.
Before Takaya had even unsheathed the blade, the soldier's chest split open cleanly, the strike having already landed in the same breath he began to move.
The other two stumbled back, staring at their fallen comrade, at Takaya standing motionless, sword still sheathed.
The lead soldier's voice cracked in disbelief.
"What the hell—"
Takaya's eyes lifted to meet his, expression unreadable.
"Last warning," he said quietly.
The fog swallowed the words, but everyone heard them.
Even the Veyl fell silent, impressed.
And then it began.
It started with a single stone.
It struck the lead soldier's pauldron and bounced off harmlessly — but it made him turn.
That turn changed everything.
Another rock flew. Then a pitchfork. Then another.
From windows, from alleys, from behind wagons — villagers who had spent years pretending not to see, not to hear — finally moved.
Mothers clutching children hurled stones through tears.
Old men swung rusted tools.
A farmer smashed a lantern against a shield, fire spilling across the mud.
The soldiers' formation shattered instantly — three men against a mob too desperate to be afraid anymore.
"Stay back!" one of them barked, slashing the air.
No one listened. The air was thick with shouting, smoke, the crack of breaking wood.
Takaya stepped forward again, breath uneven. His strike had drained him — Solthar's once-sheathed blow left his arm trembling, his lungs burning from the backlash. He could barely raise the sword, but he didn't need to.
The second soldier — the one with blood soaking through his sleeve — stumbled backward, snarling. "Animals!" he spat. "You'll all—"
A pitchfork caught the edge of his armor and tore it loose. He fell to a knee.
The last soldier cursed, grabbed his comrade by the collar, and hauled him up. They backed toward the road, wild-eyed.
"We'll burn this shithole!" the lead one screamed. "All of it!"
The words hit like cold steel. Villagers froze mid-motion, fear returning as quickly as it had left.
Takaya took one step toward them — just one.
His expression was unreadable. His voice quiet enough that only those nearest heard:
"You won't."
The soldiers didn't look back. They staggered into the fog, their boots vanishing into the gray distance, leaving behind blood, mud, and silence.
The villagers stood motionless, breathing hard. The firelight flickered across their faces — a mix of terror, disbelief, and something else.
Not hope. Not yet. But the first shape of it.
The Veyl finally spoke, its voice curling through the quiet like a smirk made sound:
"Congratulations, kid. You've now made their doom inevitable."
Takaya didn't answer. He just stared at the priest's blood soaking into the dirt, dark and slow, the smell of smoke already thick on the wind.
The children clung to Aelna's skirts, silent — too silent — their small faces turned toward the horizon where the soldiers had gone.
Leor stood apart. His fists were still clenched, his breath still shaking. He looked at Takaya — not with gratitude, not even understanding — only that raw, hollow fear of someone who has seen death up close for the first time.
Takaya looked back once, then turned toward the road.
The dawn had broken fully now, pale light washing over the village — but it felt warmer than before.