Dodging the massive blow, Zigmo staggered to his feet. His hands trembled, and he couldn't tell what caused it.
Was it the overwhelming bloodlust?
The sharp, choking scent of poison?
Or the way his body screamed in heightened panic?
"Wooaahh—ahaa—haha! This ain't like ya, Zigi!" Rynor roared with a thunderous, mocking laugh.
"You were never this much of a coward."
A throwing blade cut the air. Zigmo reached for it, but the weapon suddenly yanked back, slicing across his cheek.
It wasn't just a throwing knife—it was a rope dart.
This doesn't make sense.
Back then, he never used anything but his fists.
So how—?
Another slice came for his throat. Zigmo bent his body backward, firing an arrow through his legs.
It slammed into Rynor's chest plate. Three more arrows followed immediately, forcing Rynor to block as his vision blurred.
Zigmo didn't waste the opening. He fired three explosive arrows in quick succession, the temple walls echoing with the blasts. Using the distraction, he sprinted, running up the wall before launching himself straight toward Rynor—dagger drawn.
But before the blade could fall, Rynor flicked his fingers.
A shadow split the air above Zigmo.
Syla's dagger came screaming down. Zigmo barely raised his bow in time to block, but the Vaelith blade scraped his arm.
Pain flared instantly—skin crawling, nerves shrieking—like an old, unwanted friend returning.
Just like then.
His mind slipped back to the past.
That small, cold house.
The day the orc general returned his father's sword… and his bloody boots.
The way the general kept his head low, ashamed of what he'd helped do.
Ephilia collapsed on the floor, her heart breaking into pieces you could almost hear. She screamed the truth—he had been targeted—but the messengers were already gone.
Zigmo stood there, frozen. He had noticed over the years: more scars on his father, more missing pieces of him, more injuries that never healed. But the man always smiled. Always went when called to war.
He was chosen—always chosen—and Zigmo knew why.
But he couldn't prove it. And there was no one to prove it to. They were all part of it.
Days passed in suffocating silence, until a loud BANG shook the house. The Imperial Army.
"Your husband was tried for treason—"
Keurghh! The soldier choked on the words as Ephilia's dagger flashed.
"—and therefore, his family will be imprisoned, as decreed by the Elders."
"What? No—no, get away from here!"
Two high-ranking knights slammed Zigmo into the wall, holding him with a contempt that burned in their eyes.
"Hey there, Zigs," Rynor whispered into his ear. "Looks like someone's been bad."
Syla leaned close, his voice a venomous hiss. "Look how far you've fallen—having a traitor for a father."
They took his mother first.
He never saw where they dragged her—only the way the orcs leered and grinned.
He screamed until his voice broke, but the only answer was a hammerfist to the skull.
When he woke hours later, he was in a reinforced cell.
He hurled himself against the bars, desperate, calling for her. Hoping she'd call back.
The door creaked open.
Zigmo stumbled out—and there they were.
Rynor, grinning.
Syla, smiling that smile that never reached his closed eyes.
Zigmo staggered upright, blood pounding in his ears. With a guttural roar, he hurled himself forward, swinging a massive overhand strike meant to crush Rynor's skull.
But Rynor slid aside like smoke, his counterstrike snapping Zigmo's head back. A barrage followed—each blow thunderous, bone-jarring, the earth groaning beneath them. The final punch slammed him into the ground, carving out a crater and shaking the battlefield in a rumbling quake.
"Alright, calm down, Ryn," Syla's voice cut through the chaos—gentle, but threaded with unshakable authority.
He crouched to meet Zigmo's eye. His face was unreadable, a mask of cool detachment.
"We're going to let you go."
"WHAT!? After all this? After all the planning to drag him here—you want to just let him walk?" Rynor's protest shook with outrage.
Syla raised one hand. The gesture alone silenced Rynor. It was the motion of a man born to command.
"Now."
SLASH!
The poison blade flashed, its edge kissing Zigmo's throat. Agony tore from him in a raw scream, his vision splintering. A sick, crawling sensation spread under his skin, his limbs seizing. His sight dulled, clouded by a storm of dark violet, and in that haze he saw faces—strangers with twisted grins and eyes that judged, condemned, mocked.
"You've got one hour," Syla said, almost casually. "A head start. Don't waste it."
He waved a dismissive hand and turned his back.