The morning after the Maaren raid broke differently over the kingdom of Rhyvann.
It rose not in gold, but in the bruised purple of a wound that refused to heal. The wind carried the iron scent of burned timber and stale blood, drifting over miles as though the land itself exhaled in pain. Forests whispered uneasily. Rivers ran murky with ash. Even the crows hesitated before landing to feast.
War had long been a slow rot eating at the edges of the realm, but what had happened in the night was not rot.
It was a warning.
A message carved in death.
Kaelira stood at the edge of Maaren's ruined outer wall—what was left of it—and let the wind lash her scarred cheek as she surveyed the devastation. Her armor, scratched and darkened with soot, caught almost no light. She looked carved from the same stone as the broken towers around her.
Leon approached quietly, though he carried no stealth in him naturally. His gentleness always betrayed him. Even the way he stepped around debris was tender, as if apologizing to the ground for disturbing it.
Kaelira did not turn when she said:
"You should have slept."
Leon stopped beside her, glancing over the ruins. "I couldn't. The villagers… the children… I keep seeing them."
Kaelira's jaw tightened. "Good."
Leon blinked. "Good?"
"If their screams follow you," Kaelira said, "you won't forget what you're protecting."
Leon looked at her, trying to understand. "Does it… does it follow you too?"
Kaelira did not answer.
Because the answer was always: Yes.
Because she heard every scream of every battle she had ever led.
But she had long ago learned that answering such a question only made people fear her more.
Instead, she pointed down the slope, where soldiers were recovering bodies.
"Help Vyrik. Identify the dead. Sort the wounded. There may still be survivors trapped."
Leon nodded, though the weight of her order was written across his face. He was still adjusting to the cruelty of real war.
Kaelira watched him descend the rubble-strewn hill.
She hated watching him walk into carnage.
Not because he wasn't capable—he had proved he could stand his ground.
But because she feared what scenes like these would carve out of him.
Gentleness was a rare thing in war.
Rarer still was the fragile hope it created.
She had never wanted to be the reason someone lost theirs.
---
1. The Surviving Flame
Leon moved between broken beams, smoldering thatch, and collapsed stone. The air was a heavy haze of smoke and memories. He dug through fallen roofs, lifting chunks of timber with bare hands when soldiers struggled.
More than once, Kaelira caught herself glancing toward him—habit, perhaps, or instinct.
Leon found the first survivor two hours after sunrise.
A girl, maybe twelve, curled beneath a stone hearth that had collapsed around her like a protective shell. Her small arm stuck out, trembling.
"Kaelira!" Leon shouted. "Here!"
Kaelira was at his side in seconds, sliding down the rubble. She knelt, brushing aside soot and ash carefully. The girl's eyes fluttered open—wide, terrified, uncomprehending.
"It's alright," Leon whispered, voice soft as a lullaby. "You're safe now."
Kaelira offered her water. The girl drank too fast, coughing. Kaelira steadied her head with a hand, murmuring something low and unintelligible.
Leon had never seen Kaelira's voice soften before.
Not like this.
Barely audible.
Barely real.
"Kaelira," Leon said quietly. "She needs a healer."
Kaelira nodded. "Vyrik!" she called, and her voice boomed across the ruins.
As soldiers rushed over, the girl clutched Leon's cloak.
"Don't… leave…" she whispered.
"I won't," he promised without thinking.
Kaelira's gaze flicked to him—measuring, warning, something else too.
Leon couldn't tell.
The girl was carried away. Leon watched until she vanished into the healer's tent.
After a moment, Kaelira said, "You want to save all of them."
Leon nodded. "Is that wrong?"
"No," Kaelira said. "It's impossible."
Leon turned to her, frustrated. "If we don't try, what's the point of any of this?"
Kaelira looked at him—really looked at him—with eyes like winter after a thaw. Something almost like grief flickered inside them.
"Trying isn't the problem," she said quietly. "It's the price."
Leon didn't understand the warning—not yet.
---
2. A Message from the Enemy
By noon, scouts returned with grim news.
The enemy left something behind deliberately—not a corpse, not a warning carved into wood.
A banner.
Its black cloth was soaked in blood, with a symbol painted in the center: a single crimson eye surrounded by jagged lines.
Leon frowned. "What does it mean?"
Kaelira's face hardened. "It's the mark of the Ashborn."
Leon had heard the name in rumors, whispers slipping between campfires. A forsaken army. Exiles. Mercenaries. Monsters who burned villages to ash even when victory gained them nothing. Some said they followed an ancient prophecy. Others said they followed only chaos.
"Why would they attack Maaren?" Leon asked. "There's nothing here."
Kaelira inhaled deeply, her armor rising with the breath. "Not nothing. Maaren is the closest route to the capital. If they're clearing a path—"
Leon froze. "They're marching toward the king?"
Kaelira nodded. "Or something beyond him."
Leon felt cold sink through him.
"But why leave a banner?" he asked.
Kaelira's voice dropped. "Because they know I'm here."
Leon stared. "You think this was meant for you?"
"Not for me," Kaelira said, eyeing the crimson symbol. "Against me."
Leon watched her. "Kaelira… who were you to them?"
Kaelira did not answer immediately. Wind howled between broken walls, carrying embers.
Finally, she said:
"Once, long ago, I turned them back in a battle that should have killed me. They lost many that day. They do not forget defeat."
Leon swallowed. "So they want revenge."
"No," Kaelira said, narrowing her eyes. "They want war. And I am the easiest spark."
Leon felt dread curl into his stomach. Kaelira stood straight, posture like steel hammered into human form.
"Prepare to move," she ordered. "We march before nightfall."
Leon stepped in front of her. "Wait."
Her eyes sharpened. "What is it?"
"You're pushing yourself too hard. You've barely rested since yesterday. You haven't eaten. And you're—"
"I'm what?" she demanded, voice icy.
Leon had never stood up to her before. But something in him—something stubborn and painfully sincere—refused to step aside.
"You're human," he said. "You can't carry this alone."
Kaelira went still.
Leon braced himself for her anger.
But she didn't shout. She didn't even glare.
Instead, her expression shifted in a way Leon had never seen—confusion, maybe? Or something trying not to be vulnerability.
"You don't understand what happens if I rest," she said. "If I stop, even for a moment… everything falls apart."
Leon shook his head. "That's not true. People trust you. They follow you. They'll keep going."
"You don't know them like I do," Kaelira said bitterly. "Strength is the only language soldiers respect."
"Then let them see your strength in choosing to breathe," Leon said softly. "Not in dying on your feet."
Kaelira froze.
Not because he was wrong.
But because he was right.
And she hated that.
---
3. Nightfall and Quiet Truths
Despite Leon's insistence, Kaelira gave no order to rest. The troops continued gathering supplies, tending to the wounded, and preparing horses.
But as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in the color of old blood, Kaelira found Leon sitting alone near the last standing portion of a burned barn.
He looked exhausted. Not physically—though he was that too—but morally, spiritually exhausted.
She approached quietly, stopping a few paces behind him.
"You argued with a general in front of her soldiers," she said. "You know that takes either bravery or stupidity."
Leon offered a tired half-smile. "I've been told I have a bit of both."
Kaelira lowered herself to sit beside him. Surprising him.
Surprising herself more.
They watched the embers glow in the ruined field.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Kaelira said, "Do you know why soldiers follow me?"
Leon shrugged lightly. "Because you're strong. Because you don't break."
"No," Kaelira said. "Because I already broke."
Leon turned.
Kaelira kept her eyes on the dying fire. "Years ago, before my scars, before any of this… I believed in mercy. In diplomacy. In compromise. I believed war could be… tamed."
Leon listened carefully, quiet, gentle.
"I tried to negotiate a treaty," Kaelira continued. "I trusted their envoys. I trusted promises that weren't real."
Leon saw her shoulders stiffen. "What happened?"
"They slaughtered my entire unit," Kaelira said, voice flat. "Forty-three soldiers who trusted me. They left me alive so I could hear them scream. They wanted me to carry the message."
Leon's breath caught.
Kaelira rarely spoke of her past. Parts of it were whispered legend, the rest swallowed by rumor.
Kaelira forced her next words out. "So I stopped believing in mercy. I stopped believing in softness."
Leon's gaze softened. "Kaelira…"
"Don't say you understand," she said sharply. "You don't."
Leon didn't flinch. "I wasn't going to say that."
Kaelira blinked.
"I was going to say… I'm sorry you went through that alone."
Kaelira's throat tightened. She didn't expect that. She wasn't prepared for gentleness. Kindness was harder for her to face than an enemy blade.
Leon continued quietly. "You think being strong means shutting every door. But that's just another kind of wound."
Kaelira looked away.
Leon reached for a piece of charcoal in the dust and drew a small sigil on a broken plank. "My mother used to make me draw this when I was a child."
Kaelira raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"A promise," Leon said. "A reminder that no matter how dark the world becomes, there is always something worth protecting."
Kaelira studied the symbol—a circle with two crossing lines. It was simple, humble, but strangely comforting.
"Do you still believe that?" she asked.
Leon hesitated. "I want to."
Kaelira exhaled slowly. The wind carried the scent of smoke and sorrow.
"You're different from the others," she murmured.
Leon chuckled softly. "You say that like it's a flaw."
"It is," Kaelira said. "In war."
Leon stared at her. "And to you?"
Kaelira did not answer.
Because she knew too well what gentleness did to her cold resolve.
And she feared she could not afford that weakness again.
---
4. The Captured Ashborn
Just before dawn, a scout sprinted toward camp, breathless.
"General Kaelira! Sir Leon! We found something in the rubble—a survivor. But not one of ours."
Kaelira stood immediately. "Show me."
The scout led them to a half-collapsed cellar. Torches flickered over a man bound in chains, his armor dark and patched with scorched leather. His eyes glowed faintly—an unnatural hue, almost ember-like.
Leon felt the hair on his neck rise.
Ashborn.
Kaelira crouched before the prisoner. "Name."
The man smiled through bloody teeth. "You know who I serve."
Kaelira's jaw tightened. "Why are your people marching here? What do you want in Rhyvann?"
The Ashborn spat blood at the ground. "You think we war for land? For crowns? For mortal trifles?"
Kaelira grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Answer."
The man grinned. "We want you, Iron Witch."
Leon tensed. "Iron… Witch?"
Kaelira released the prisoner sharply. Her face betrayed nothing.
The Ashborn laughed. "Your strength is the key. Your blood is the gate. Our leader has foreseen it for years."
Leon frowned. "Leader? Who?"
The prisoner whispered, voice echoing unnaturally:
"The One Who Burns Without Flame."
Leon felt a chill run through him.
Kaelira stood abruptly. "Kill him. Now."
Leon grabbed her arm. "Kaelira—wait!"
Her eyes flashed with warning. "He is dangerous. You saw his eyes."
"He's unarmed. He's a prisoner."
"He is Ashborn," Kaelira snapped. "They are not men—they are fanatics. They burn villages for prophecy."
Leon stepped between her and the prisoner. "Killing him won't give us answers."
Kaelira's expression darkened. "Mercy will cost us far more than his death."
"Let me try," Leon said. "Just one chance."
Kaelira clenched her fists. "Leon—"
"One," he insisted.
Kaelira exhaled sharply, fury battling restraint. But she stepped back.
Leon knelt beside the prisoner. "If your people want Kaelira, it means you're afraid of her. Why?"
The Ashborn's smile faltered.
Leon pressed, voice steady. "What is she to you?"
The man's gaze flickered toward Kaelira. "She is the one who survived the fire."
Kaelira stiffened.
Leon looked between them. "What fire?"
Before the prisoner could answer, his eyes rolled back—and his body convulsed violently.
Kaelira lunged forward, shouting, "Get back!"
Leon stumbled away as the man's skin cracked like burning wood. Smoke hissed through the fissures. His body spasmed—
Then ignited.
Not with flame.
With ash.
Grey dust poured from his mouth, his eyes, his chest—until he collapsed into a heap of still-warm ash.
Leon stared, horrified. "He killed himself?"
"No," Kaelira said, voice low. "He was killed remotely."
Leon looked at her sharply. "Killed… by who?"
Kaelira met his eyes. "Their leader. Whoever commands them."
Leon felt dread coil in his stomach again.
Kaelira turned to him, voice cold but a tremor hidden beneath.
"This is the price of mercy."
Leon opened his mouth to argue—then stopped.
Because she wasn't wrong.
Because the prisoner had chosen death with a smile.
Because some wars were not fought with swords.
Some were fought with belief.
And belief was harder to kill.
---
5. The Choice They Cannot Escape
By midday, the army prepared to march again. The wounded had been stabilized, survivors escorted safely toward the capital, and scouts ridden ahead.
Leon packed quietly.
Kaelira approached him, her shadow falling across his tent.
"You took a risk," she said. "It nearly cost you."
Leon straightened. "I'd make the same choice again."
Kaelira studied him. "I know."
Leon blinked. "That's… not the reaction I expected."
Kaelira sighed. "You're stubborn. Irritatingly so."
Leon smiled. "Some say it's my charm."
Kaelira's lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
But her voice dropped low. "You cannot keep trying to save everyone. War doesn't let us."
"Then I'll save who I can."
"And when you cannot?"
Leon hesitated. "Then I'll try harder."
Kaelira looked at him for a long time. "You will break."
Leon met her gaze steadily. "Then I'll learn to break better."
The wind fluttered the torn edges of her cloak. Kaelira's voice softened.
"You will lose yourself."
"Then I'll find a way back."
"And if there's no way?"
Leon's response was simple, quiet, unwavering.
"Then I'll make one."
Kaelira exhaled—not in frustration, but in something like resignation. Or acceptance.
"You are impossible."
"And you," Leon said gently, "are worth being impossible for."
Kaelira froze.
Leon immediately flushed with embarrassment. "I—I didn't mean— I mean, I meant, but not—"
Kaelira raised a hand to silence him.
Her voice was barely audible.
"Leon."
He looked at her—really looked—and saw something unguarded, fragile, buried deep beneath years of battle and bitterness.
Kaelira stepped closer, eyes searching his face.
"You cannot keep doing this to me," she whispered.
"Doing what?" he breathed.
"Making me feel."
Leon's heart thudded painfully.
Kaelira stepped back before he could answer, armor clinking softly.
"We march in ten minutes," she said. "Stay close to me."
Leon nodded, throat tight.
Kaelira turned away, but something in her posture—some tremble in her shoulders—betrayed the truth she couldn't say.
They walked together toward the main road, where soldiers waited, tense and ready.
Ahead of them, storm clouds were gathering—black, heavy, unnatural.
Leon whispered, "Another omen?"
Kaelira stared at the horizon.
"No," she said. "A promise."
Leon felt his chest tighten. "Of what?"
Kaelira's answer was quiet.
"War is coming for us, Leon. And we… we will have to choose what we're willing to lose."
Leon stepped beside her. "Whatever the choice is… we'll face it together."
Kaelira closed her eyes for a brief second.
"I hope," she whispered, "you can survive the cost."
The horns sounded.
The army marched.
And far away, atop a distant mountain, a figure cloaked in swirling ash smiled as the storm formed.
The game had begun.
And the gentle knight and the ruthless general were walking straight into the teeth of destiny.