The battlefield was still smoldering when the last horn faded into silence. Broken banners lay scattered across the blood-soaked ground, their colors drowned in ash and fire. The night sky, painted red by lingering embers, seemed to mourn what had just transpired.
Rondan stood at the edge of the ruins, his blade dripping with the last traces of battle. His crimson eyes reflected the burning horizon, but his heart was heavy, weighed down by more than exhaustion.
From behind him came the sound of deliberate footsteps—measured, steady, almost ceremonial.
Leina appeared from the shadows, her gray cloak tattered, silver eyes sharp yet weary. She stopped beside him, her gaze scanning the destruction.
"Another victory," she said quietly, though her tone carried no triumph.
Rondan did not answer immediately. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon, the faint rune carved into his opponent's armor still fresh in his mind.
"They're not just soldiers anymore," he muttered. "Every one of them bears the mark. Every fight is a piece of their design."
Leina's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Crimson Shroud," she whispered, almost as if afraid the night itself might overhear.
Rondan turned to her sharply. "You've used that name before. What are they?"
Her gaze drifted to the sky, where the last sparks faded into the stars. "An order older than any kingdom. They exist in silence, weaving wars like threads in a tapestry. To them, armies are pawns, kings are distractions, and blood is a currency. The rune is their seal. The more it spreads, the closer they come to releasing the Forgotten Flame."
Rondan's jaw tightened, his voice low but firm.
"Then they'll have to cut through me to do it."
Before Leina could respond, a sudden gust of wind swept the battlefield. The flames bent, crackling as if bowing to a presence unseen. And then—a voice.
It rolled across the ruins like thunder, deep and distorted, yet unmistakably human.
> "Rondan of the Northern Plains… your defiance has carried long enough. The Shroud watches. The Shroud decides."
From the smoke, a figure emerged. Clad in black armor, face hidden beneath a helm carved with crimson sigils, he walked with the calm of one who had already claimed victory.
Leina's hand went to her dagger, but Rondan raised his arm, stopping her. His eyes locked on the figure, the weight of countless battles narrowing into this single moment.
The air trembled as silence fell, broken only by the crackling fire.
Rondan lifted his blade.
"Then let the Shroud see for themselves—whether I burn… or whether I rise."
The figure halted, lifting his hand, and the runes across his armor pulsed like beating hearts. The battlefield, already a graveyard, prepared to become something far worse.