The sun was at its zenith, and with it, followed a breeze of an abominable stench, carrying the horrifying sight of uncountable corpses, laid across a grotesque distance of more than 30 km. The ravens and other scavengers revelled in that grim, necrophagous feast. Mother Nature herself was both disgusted and delighted in this making. On one hand, her beautiful and perfect body, cradle of this imperfect race called humankind, had been profaned. On the other, the ungrateful creatures we are, were finally in harmony with the commands of the Creator. For from dust man was made; and to dust he shall return—and in this divine cycle, Nature was content.
Humanity, ever immersed in hollow imperfection, had been shaped by endless folly, by greed unprecedented and insatiable.
A spectacle so vile that the gods themselves restrained their hands from intervention, watching silently as the world drowned in its own depravity. Yet, to those immortal beings, this chaos
was a source of unfathomable amusement; for though divine and eternal, they were still prey to ceaseless boredom, their immortality a prison of emptiness and longing.
The Fifth Century of the Maximillian Calendar was a decisive era, that of warring kingdoms. All kingdoms exposed their greed
and untameable desire for domination in broad daylight, without a gesture of noble subtlety, seeking to claim as much territories as possible. It was a battle of ego, honour, and might to those who waged this madness. But to those who had long studied the wisdom of the wild, this war was nothing more than the tantrum of children fighting over an inheritance written in no man's name.
In total victory resided the embers that would crown the ruler of the emerging kingdom with the most territories, an absolute monarch over these plague-ridden lands. Among the five leading armies that dominated the battlefields with fury and might, the army of Auronis stood out for its unwavering sense of conquest and murderous aggression, averaging over fifteen hundred victims per day.
They were said to rival a natural disaster, leaving no regard for any presence in the realm they traversed. Nothing survived nor grew in the vestiges of their footprints. In time, they earned a name that reinforced the terrifying myths whispered among their enemies : The Night Dreads. A calamity that destroyed by intent, not by accident; even in the blissful shine of morning, they brought an abysmal night, and with it, the songs of death and ruin.
Helios Strassfey, rumoured as the honoured warrior blessed
by the sun itself, commanded this formidable army. On the ninth night of their seventh campaign, while the army rested in the deep woods of the Lancaster Forest, a strategic haven offering both offensive and defensive urge against any foe, the supreme commander set out into the cold night like a lone wolf, for reasons known to none.
On a cliff, he gazed down upon the pile of corpses that marked his threshold to victory. Though this sight could have inspired countless tales, shaping his legend for generations, Helios felt no delight in the works of his mighty hands. Not from humility, but from an indifferent dissatisfaction, towards the sort of art an artist might label an immaculate masterpiece.
As the Creator affirmed, where the heart dwells, there dwells the treasure. If these sayings were indeed truthful, then Helios' heart at that moment did not belong to the battlefield. The warrior he was, remained confined within, captured by a mysterious inner conflict. By his side stood a companion, unrationed to the sons of men understanding, yet the most loyal and reliable presence he had known throughout these hard-fought campaigns: Bucephalus.
Majestic and black as a starless night, a beauty as enigmatic as it was lethal, a unique force of nature in battle.
With a gentle touch, Helios caressed the horse's topline, communicating gratitude without a single word.
The night stretched like a howling shadow, heavy with the traumas and evil of men. What should have been a moment of rest for prey, and respite for predator, became a reminder of the burdens the next day would bring. Even as a man among men, Helios knew his limits and recognized that what mortals saw as flaw could be a blessing in disguise for those transcending their nature.
With this truth in mind, the supreme commander called it a night, riding deep into the Lancaster's dark woods with his companion, to a depth that neither allies nor subordinates could uncover.
***
The crow of the rooster marked the tenth day of the seventh campaign, inaugurated in fury, painted in sweat and blood. As before, the Night Dreads displayed ruthless domination. Yet the army halted strategically, a restraint aimed at taming Belphegor and his insatiable urge for gluttony. Helios, great in might and opportunistic in conquest, remained just in pride and discerning in spirit. This pause allowed the Night Dreads to solidify control over newly conquered lands, while the supreme commander observed the fruits of his army's labour, finding no flaw, at least, for the moment.
Since the dawn of time, the Peregrine Falcon has reigned as a bird of prey. Yet, as the fastest creature ever to grace the animal kingdom with its magnificent gift, it was shaped through an ancient esoteric art to serve as a messenger beneath the crown of Auronis. Capable of reaching speeds between 320 and 350 miles per hour (mph) in dive, it could deliver messages across vast distances in the blink of an eye.
But this practice was esoteric for a reason. Under this rite, a Peregrine Falcon bound itself to a single being it would recognize as master until its final breath. And as a creature of majesty, it would submit only to one it deemed more majestic than itself.
The sun, ruthless as ever, loomed high when the cry of a Falco peregrinus stirred the resting Night Dreads. It was Apporion, Helios' eternal servant. With restrained grace, the bird descended toward its master, its lethal swiftness finally at rest. Bound to its leg was a scroll, small enough to be mistaken for one meant for a stoneborn. Upon it lay the royal seal of Auronis.
The supreme commander received Apporion upon his shoulder, patting it in quiet commendation as he made his way to his tent. Once inside, he offered food and water to his loyal companion before turning his attention to the scroll. Breaking the seal, he uncovered a coded message—one only he could decipher. This was no casual correspondence, but an order, meant to be carried out the moment it was received.
Before Helios could even digest the order, a man entered the tent. It was no ordinary visitor. He was the vice-commander of the Night Dreads, second only to Helios himself. Alexander Havenfoy was his name.
Alexander had not earned his rank through noble blood. He was born a peasant—one the aristocracy would have dismissed as the lowest filth. In an unjust world that offered him nothing, he possessed only a single gift granted by the heavens to
claw his way out of misery: overwhelming strength. With it, he shone like a diamond buried in mud, his dazzling potential impossible to ignore, inevitably drawing the attention of the crown of Auronis and its warlords.
Yet on this day, as he stepped into Helios' tent, he did not enter as a
subordinate. For beyond duty and homeland, beyond the battlefield and its carnage, the two were bound as brothers—inseparable, like a mortal and death itself.
A few steps inside, despite Helios' composed demeanour, Alexander sensed the unrest stirring within his brother-in-arms.
"What troubles you, brother?" Alexander asked. "Is our domination no longer to your liking? Or does Apporion's presence carry an ill omen?"
"I may be troubled in flesh," Helios replied calmly, folding his belongings, "but not in spirit."
"If you say so," Alexander said, watching him with quiet confusion. "Then where are you headed with your luggage?"
"The king has summoned me," Helios answered. "For reasons known only to him. Auronis lies a week from here—and I must reach it in five days."
"Any orders for the coming campaigns?" Alexander asked, watching Helios leave the tent with Apporion perched upon his right shoulder and his luggage in hand. Helios looked back at Alexander with a gaze steeped in nostalgia, as though this were the last time their eyes would ever meet.
Yet nostalgia was not the only thing reflected there—at least, not what Alexander perceived in that moment.
For as one who had known him since a tender age, he could sense the infinite resolve of his brother-in-arms, a resolve so deep that even the trenches of the ocean could not fathom it.
Instinctively grasping Alexander's unspoken understanding of that resolve, Helios approached him calmly, mindful of the weight carried in each step. Casting aside the might that drove terror into the souls of his enemies, he embraced his friend and whispered into his ear words that sounded like a farewell.
"Forgive me."
Those were the words of the supreme commander to his vice. Simple, yet powerful enough to freeze even a man as ferocious as Alexander.
Speechless, he watched Helios leave the tent. And before he could fully regain his senses—before his emotions could settle and the strangeness of the moment take form—Helios had already departed, a battalion by his side.
Alexander was left drenched in deep confusion. Yet as a warrior in heart, soul, and spirit, he soon understood that the winds of duty had shifted. In Helios' absence, he was now the acting supreme commander—a role that could be either solace or desolation, depending on how one read the signs written among the stars.
***
Two days had passed since Bucephalus carried the supreme commander, followed by his battalion, across countless lands. On the third day, they reached a region infamous as a source of misery and psychological torment to all who crossed it. Even its natives were said to live rooted to a single spot, unmoving and unchanged, having abandoned all hope of exploring the world beyond.
Sempervaris was the name of this chaotic region. It was known for its uncanny ability to reshape its landscapes each day, never appearing the same twice. Rumours claimed that the gods, burdened by their eternal boredom, took great delight in toying with the sons of men within these lands—an amusement that briefly filled their endless, hollow existence with ecstasy. For in the secret chambers of their so-called divine hearts, they were jealous of mortal men.
But the supreme commander was no novice, nor a man born of the last rain. In the past, he had already carved his name by taming this living calamity. On this day, Sempervaris revealed a paradisiacal guise: gardens heavy with edible fruits, clear streams winding like rivers of glass, healthy beasts roaming freely beneath a benevolent sun—everything a man might wish for in such a dark age.
The heavenly display was enough to seduce the battalion's caution. As the soldiers deemed it natural to serve themselves and savour the moment, the supreme commander purged this cancerous thought with a thunderous war cry.
"Remain still!"
Though the battalion immediately grasped their lapse in discipline, confusion lingered at Helios' reaction. After all, it was rare—almost unheard of—to encounter such miraculous lands in times of war. Perhaps they simply lacked the wisdom their leader bore. Sensing this, Helios spoke to clarify his reaction.
"Before Sempervaris was ever claimed as a homeland, it was a vast tomb for warriors. Do you follow me? It was once a stage for great wars. What you see around you is not real—only a projection of the desires and regrets of the fallen. A deception cast to ensnare those who still bear the same hearts they once carried: the hearts of warriors, carved by war and ruin."
Hearing this, a warrior of the battalion spoke cautiously, bending slightly in respect.
"My lord, forgive us for this flaw, one worthy of death. But how can you remain unaffected by this enchanting view, while bearing the heart of the greatest warrior?"
A gentle wind stirred as Helios allowed a profound silence to settle—a silence that would lend weight to his forthcoming words.
"These lands torment only those warriors who have yet to claim a life's goal for themselves. The aimless and wavering in heart will always fall prey to the fallen. As for me, from the very moment I became fully conscious of myself and my surroundings, my purpose has been crystal clear and unchanging. Before an untameable heart such as mine, the will of the fallen is as futile as my foe's capitulation."
Having expressed his unfiltered truth, Helios' vivid perception of Sempervaris became apparent. What appeared to his battalion as paradise was, in reality, a wretched land: painted in misery, haunted by forsaken ossuaries, and littered
with worthless instruments of battle.
The spiritually inexperienced soldiers could not yet comprehend their commander. Helios then commanded them to follow without deviation. By executing his orders with precision, the battalion crossed Sempervaris in a single day, emerging unscathed from the treacherous region.
***
The battalion had established a temporary camp for the night, positioned approximately twelve hours from the kingdom of Auronis. The reason this journey had once been considered a weeklong lay solely in the confusion Sempervaris sowed in the hearts of aimless warriors. By piercing through its deception, the
supreme commander not only preserved his battalion, but also saved enough time to hasten his arrival at his monarch's summons.
Yet within their flameless camp—designed to veil their presence beneath the night—Helios isolated himself, as he always did. He had long refused to mingle with his subordinates, abstaining from all forms of camaraderie, preserving his stature as an opaque and distant leader. But this was not mere discipline; there was more beneath it. Helios believed that if a wolf were to live among a
flock of sheep and grow accustomed to their ways, it would only be a matter of time before it began to believe itself one of them.
To the supreme commander, the gulf between himself and his subordinates was nodifferent from the vast expanse separating the sun from the earth. He deemed their spirits cancerous, their ways primitive—traits he considered dangerously contagious.
At dawn, as the battalion prepared to move, Apporion descended upon its master's forearm. The fearsome bird arrived with the rising sun; wings unfurled from a reconnaissance flight ordered the night before. Helios was a cautious man. Though the kingdom of Auronis was nearly impregnable, the supreme commander would not risk being followed. As one who took great pride in his mastery of
strategy, any lapse would have been a stain upon his honour.
Apporion conveyed its findings through a silent exchange understood only by its master. The esoteric bond that bound their souls allowed for such wordless communion. Assured that no enemy trailed them and that no ambush awaited, Helios signalled
the advance. The battalion surged forward toward its destination.
As they drew nearer to Auronis—an active force in the war, yet a homeland spared from the surrounding apocalypse—the soldiers felt something long lost: peace of mind.
The winds of Auronis carried a language that soothed their souls, easing spirits long burdened by vigilance. For the first time in countless nights, they no longer feared waking beneath an enemy's blade.
The war had now raged for ten years. Many among the battalion had spent those years severed from their families. Such reunions were all a normal man could long for. But they were never the same, for they had marched to war unbroken; they returned fractured—hearts hardened like stone; spirits scarred beyond repair.
Helios, however, did not belong to that same fate. The supreme commander was untouched by such tides of emotion, having long discarded them as burdens unfit for a warrior. He had raised his spirit above the realm of mortals, regarding himself—without irony—as a god among men.
After a long and tiresome voyage, the battalion had finally arrived. From the crest of a hill, they beheld—through a veil of distance—the majestic kingdom of Auronis. Only then did the stench of war that had long clung to Helios finally dissipate, giving way to a far more pleasing fragrance.
The supreme commander had been upon the battlefield since the very dawn of the war. Over these years of ruin and madness, he had risen from a mere soldier to supreme commander, proving himself time and again through bloodshed and iron resolve.
And for the first time in a decade, he could at last lay his gaze upon the very reason he had shed both blood and sweat for—the reason his blade had been tainted with the blood of those he deemed the dregs of humanity.
"Let us waste no more time," Helios commanded. "The king awaits me, and it is a crime to keep such a figure waiting."
His words snapped the battalion back to their sense of duty. With exceptional horsemanship, they descended the hill in perfect formation, their movements marked by both mastery and elegance, marching toward their final destination, the kingdom of Auronis.