Sienna had once believed the world was kind.
Her earliest memories were filled with the scent of fresh bread, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, and the sound of her mother's laughter. They had lived humbly, tucked away in a quiet village where the only real dangers were winter storms and the occasional wolf sighting. Her mother, Mirielle, worked tirelessly at the local tavern, The Copper Hen, serving warm meals and soft smiles to weary travelers.
They had little in the way of luxury, but they had each other, and for Sienna, that had always been enough.
But kindness had not saved her mother.
It had not saved their home, either.
She remembered the way the men came, faceless behind their helmets, the Imperial crest glinting in the firelight as they set the tavern ablaze. She remembered her mother's screams as they cut her down, the coppery scent of blood overwhelming the smell of burning wood. She had fought—gods, had she fought—but she had only been fourteen, and the men who took her had been full-grown warriors.
She had been dragged away, too weak to fight, too small to resist. They had locked her in a fortress without the sun, a cold abyss where the sky did not exist. Days blurred together in the suffocating dark, her world reduced to stone walls and flickering torchlight. Hunger gnawed at her ribs, the stench of mold filled her lungs, and she waited. Waited for her moment. Waited to escape.
And then she did.
Now, she was running, her body frail but driven by sheer will. They were chasing her—she could hear their shouts, their boots crashing through the undergrowth. She was losing strength. If they caught her, she would not escape again.
There, in the dark, she had waited. She did not know for what—death, perhaps. Or rescue, though she had long stopped believing in miracles.
Sienna ran.
Her bare feet pounded against the cold, unyielding earth, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she tore through the thick underbrush. The scent of damp moss and pine filled her nose, but beneath it, she could still smell blood. Her mother's blood. The acrid stench of burning wood still clung to her tattered clothes, remnants of the place she once called home.
The trees of Noctharis's Forest loomed like twisted sentinels, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. Her bare feet pounded against the damp earth, breath coming in ragged gasps as she pushed herself forward. The wounds on her arms and legs throbbed, fresh from the desperate climb over jagged stone and iron bars.
She could still hear them behind her.
The relentless pounding of boots, the sharp bark of commands. The hunters had no intention of letting their prey slip through their fingers.
Sienna gritted her teeth and forced herself to move faster. She would not be taken again. She would rather die here, beneath the dark canopy of the woods, than return to the lightless prison they had built for her.
A branch caught at her arm, slicing her skin, but she did not slow. The pain was inconsequential. Only survival mattered.
Then, the world exploded.
A deafening boom cracked through the night, shaking the very air. Fire erupted in the distance, a crimson glow illuminating the forest like a second sun. The sheer force of the explosion sent a shockwave through the trees, rattling her bones. She stumbled, hands scraping against rough bark as she caught herself. The fortress. Someone was attacking the fortress.
The chaos drew her pursuers away, their shouts growing frantic. Sienna used the distraction to scramble forward, weaving through the trees toward the light.
And then she saw him.
A red-haired knight stood amidst the carnage, his broad-shouldered frame gleaming with blood under the flickering firelight. His crimson hair was wild, matted with sweat and the splatter of fresh kills. He fought with reckless abandon, his blade a blur of steel as he moved like a predator set loose among prey.
He was not a soldier. Soldiers killed with efficiency, with duty. This man fought with unrestrained glee.
He howled as he brought his sword down, cleaving into an Imperial knight's shoulder, the sickening crunch of bone lost beneath his booming laughter. Another lunged at him with a spear—Raiden caught it with his bare hand, twisting it with a sharp, brutal yank that sent the soldier sprawling with a cry of agony, his arm grotesquely dislocated. Blood coated Raiden's gauntlets, smeared across his cheek in crimson war paint. And he was grinning.
Sienna stood frozen, watching him carve through men as though their armor was paper, his every move dripping with raw, unfiltered delight. There was no hesitation, no fear—only the exultation of carnage. And gods, it was beautiful.
A strange sensation coiled in her chest, something beyond awe, beyond admiration. Her heart pounded, but not in terror. It was excitement. Fascination. A glint of something deeper—something dark and obsessive—flashed in her wide eyes.
She had known fear. She had known despair. But standing in the presence of that red-haired warrior, drenched in blood and laughing as the world burned, she felt something entirely new.
She felt alive.
And she never wanted to look away.