The taste of ash lingered faintly in the air as Caelen stirred with a groan. The stone beneath him was warm, as if the ground itself had borne witness to whatever strange force had struck him down. His mind was a blur—a haze of words he didn't understand and eyes that flared like fire.
Then there she was again. Fileyele. She stood tall and poised, her silhouette backlit by a dancing red glow. As Caelen blinked his sight into focus, he saw her step forward and lift him effortlessly by the collar. Her touch was far from gentle. It was laced with disgust. The kind of disgust that didn't need words. "You just won't stay down, will you?" she muttered, her lips curling into something cold, then flashing into something fiery. In her hand, a blade of flame ignited with a sharp hiss—like the sigh of a volcano promising ruin. Caelen's eyes widened. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on! What exactly did I do?" Her expression twisted into something cruel and elegant—a devilish smirk made of spite and centuries-old wounds. She loomed over him, blade in hand, as though she were reciting a ritual she'd waited years to perform.
"You want to know why I should kill you?" she purred with the pleasure of revelation. "1. Because if anyone finds out I brought a human here, they'd rip my name from the wind. Worse yet, you know what you shouldn't—witches are not extinct. That lie kept us hidden for centuries."
She raised a finger. "2. Because I hate humans. Your kind burns forests to keep warm, buries magic to feel safe, and calls things 'monstrous' the moment they cannot own them. You're parasites."
"Okay," Caelen said, raising his hands in surrender. "Strong start. But I'm not like the others. I swear." "Words," Fileyele snapped. "We'll see what bleeds when I test them." The floor beneath him rumbled. A perfect circle of flame erupted around Caelen—far at first, just enough to sting his skin with heat. He looked around in panic. There was no way out. "You will answer everything I ask," she said. "Lie, and you burn. Refuse, and you roast. Scream, and I'll turn you into a cautionary tale." Caelen gulped. "Do you always do this with house guests?" Fileyele ignored him. She paced, slowly, deliberately, her eyes flicking between the dancing flame and the tattered book in her hand.
Elsewhere—across war-torn lands and cities silenced by the coming storm—the army of the Juggernaut Hero marched upon the gates of the Aetharion. Their drums shook the dirt. Their chants were thick with malice. Thousands of iron boots stomped to the rhythm of power, blades flashing under blood-stained banners. Aeltharion stood tall—but tense. Their queen, cloaked in a mantle of moon-silver and blood-red, paced the grand chamber of her keep. Her name was Queen Evelra of Darnhelm, and tonight, unease was her crown.
Within her throne room gathered commanders, generals, and tacticians—all barking fragments of strategies between clenched jaws. "We are not ready!" one general cried. "The Juggernaut will tear through us like parchment." "To retreat is to spit on every mile we've marched," growled the commander, fists clenched. "Our people have bled too much to turn back now." "Then give us a path to victory!" another demanded. "One that doesn't cost us every living soul!" The room descended into cacophony. Evelra's fingers twitched, then curled tightly on her armrest. "Enough," she said. Silence.
"If our knight hero refuses to appear in our time of need... then we will be our own heroes." A ripple of murmurs. "But your majesty—" "I know what the soldiers need," Evelra interrupted. "They don't need power. They need hope. If they believe their knight hero walks among them, then that belief alone will carry their blades forward." "But no one in this kingdom matches a hero's might!" a voice argued. "They don't need someone to match," Evelra said softly. "They only need a symbol." And so, the battalions assembled, torches burning like fireflies against the night, iron shields raised high, chants roaring into the dusk.
Across the battlefield, the army of the 3rd Kingdom stood waiting—mighty, mocking, and cruel. The Juggernaut Hero towered at their front. Massive. Unmoved. As the drums fell quiet, he stepped forward, raising his voice like a thunderclap.
"Is this it?" he scoffed. "No knight hero? No challenge? I'm insulted!" Two riders approached—one from each side. At the field's center, they exchanged barbed words and jabs. "Your knight fears death," the Juggernaut's soldier grinned. The soldier from the 4th hesitated. No words came. He turned and galloped back, shame clinging to his armor. When he returned, the Juggernaut's eyes narrowed. He marched forward, each step sinking into the soil like judgment. "I heard the knight hero is a coward," he shouted. "That he lied to win favor. That he drinks the blood of beasts for power. A monster in shining armor!" Laughter exploded from the ranks behind him. He stepped to the center and raised his voice again. "Knight Hero! Come face me!" But silence answered.
Then—a horn blew, not from the Juggernaut's side. From the 4th Kingdom. The soldiers turned. Torches lowered. A path cleared. And there, emerging from the shadows, came a figure in red armor. Knightly red armor. Each step echoed.
"Caelen! Caelen! Caelen!" the soldiers chanted, louder with every breath. The figure said nothing. He stopped just over two kilometers from the Juggernaut, hand resting on his blade. The Juggernaut laughed. "So... finally out of your house? Ready to die?" Still, silence. "Fine," the hero snarled. "Then I'll come to you." With a roar, he leapt—one tremendous bound that closed the distance in an instant, his axe raised high.
Back in Fileyele's sanctuary, the fire was now too close—licking Caelen's boots, searing tiny holes through his clothing. She loomed over him with a cold detachment, but her questions burned hotter than the flames. "What do you know about witches?" she demanded. "Rumors," Caelen coughed. "Stories. Tales—nothing real!" The fire crept closer. She asked again, sharper this time. His answers stayed the same. The flame surged, now inches from his skin.
Caelen began sweating—not just from heat, but from dread. "Last question," Fileyele said. Her voice was quiet now. Dangerous. "Answer it truthfully and you live. Lie, and you burn." The flames danced eagerly around him. "Where did you come from?" "I—I don't know," he said, voice barely a whisper. That wasn't good enough. Fileyele began her incantation, words crackling like thunder through her lips. The circle surged. But Caelen didn't cry out. He stood, eyes low, voice still. "...I don't know where I come from because I'm an orphan." The chant broke. The fire stilled. For the first time, Fileyele blinked—and flinched.
Behind her book, the jar she'd hidden shimmered with swirling colors. Sadness. Anger. Something raw. Her lips parted slightly. "...I see." The circle of flame faded. The chain of fire broke loose and vanished. Caelen fell to his knees, panting. "So... that means you believe me now?" Fileyele glanced at the jar, then at him. "I believe... the pain you carry." He looked up. "So I can go?" Fileyele tilted her head, a wicked smirk rising once more. "Go where?" He frowned. "You have nowhere to return to."
Caelen rose slowly, wiping the sweat from his brow. No fear in his eyes anymore. He stepped toward the window. Fileyele narrowed her gaze, unsure. Caelen looked out, and as he did... his grin widened. The world outside changed him. Something pulled his eyes outward—something he could not look away from. Fileyele tilted her head. "What are you smiling at?" But he said nothing. He simply stared. And he did not blink.