The fire crackled in the clearing, casting flickering shadows across the bloodied leaves and broken branches. The half-conscious girl lay wrapped in a torn cloak, her pale face illuminated by the dying embers. Beside her, the half-beast warrior lay unconscious, his breath shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling in weak defiance of death.
Slazar stood motionless, his arms crossed as his gaze lingered on the girl.
He finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain.
"Is she going to be alright?"
A soft chuckle answered him.
Henrik sat lazily near the fire, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his gloves.
"Of course she will. I happen to be quite the expert in stitching up wounds, as you may remember," he said, flashing a grin.
"She'll be fine. Don't worry your demon heart about it."
Slazar looked back down at the girl, then let his gaze drift to the unconscious half-beast.
It was the first time he had seen one of their kind in person.
The Wolfkin—a tribe from the far north, deep within the snow-bound lands of the Beast Kingdoms. Known for their ferocity in battle and their unwavering loyalty, they were often hunted, enslaved, or used as living weapons by human kingdoms.
He had read about them in forbidden tomes… but seeing one here, bleeding in the southern woods of Esheland, was surreal.
His thoughts were broken by the soft sound of Henrik sitting beside him, holding out a small glass bottle.
"Here," Henrik said casually.
Slazar raised an eyebrow, taking the bottle and examining the liquid inside.
"What is it?"
Henrik winked.
"Water. Good for your health, you know."
Slazar scoffed, then laughed—a dry, broken laugh.
"Health? I'm a demon, remember? And you're a stitched-up doll of vengeance. I don't think either of us qualifies for wellness tips."
Before Henrik could reply with another sarcastic jab, something shimmered faintly at the girl's neck.
A soft blue glow—barely visible in the firelight.
Henrik leaned forward, his expression darkening immediately.
"Shit," he muttered.
"That's a rune. A tracking rune."
Slazar's eyes narrowed.
"You're serious? How didn't we notice?"
Henrik's face grew tense.
"It's an advanced one. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing. Which means..."
He didn't finish.
A gust of wind stirred the trees.
Slazar felt it before he saw it—a sudden shift in the air, a pulse of pressure behind him. He reached for his sword, but it was too late.
Three figures emerged from the darkness on horseback—each clad in the gleaming armor of Esheland's elite knights.
But there was a fourth.
She dismounted slowly, her steps controlled, deliberate.
Her armor was pure white, reflecting the firelight like a polished blade. She removed her helmet—and the firelight caught on her hair, which fell in shimmering silver waves down her shoulders. Her eyes, pitch black, stared straight at Rahig.
No—not Rahig.
At Slazar.
She stepped forward, her presence calm, terrifying in its silence.
And then she spoke, her voice like ice slicing through velvet.
"Of all people... I didn't expect you to be the one leading her, Rahigh?"
The world seemed to go still.
Henrik's smirk faltered. Slazar didn't speak.
That name.
Rahigh.
It wasn't the first time someone had called him that.
He glanced at Henrik, but his companion simply tilted his head in mild amusement.
The silver-haired knight narrowed her eyes.
"Tell me, demon... what lies are you feeding her? What are you planning with him?"
She gestured toward the unconscious half-beast, then at the girl.
The tension in the air turned razor-sharp.
Slazar slowly stepped forward, voice quiet, but filled with unease.
"I don't know who you are… but I think you're mistaken."
The knight laughed, cold and humorless.
"Oh, no. I remember you. I remember the screams you left in your wake… back when you wore a crown of bone and fire. When you were the Butcher of Veilmarch. When you were Rahigh?."
Slazar froze.
Behind him, the fire cracked again—spitting sparks into the night.
Henrik's eyes gleamed like a predator's.
"Well... this just got interesting," he muttered.
The white knight raised her blade—slender, silver, and etched with holy runes.
"By order of the High Church of the Crimson Throne... I, Seraphine of the White Fang, sentence you to death."
Then the forest screamed with steel.