The Camp – Midnight
The sky was heavy with clouds, the half-moon veiled behind their dark shroud. The camp had finally settled after a long day of drills, yet scattered sounds still broke the silence: a muffled whisper, a gasp torn from a nightmare, the dry cough of someone who hadn't slept in days.
Kaizlan sat by the fire, adjusting the strap on his wooden sword. His mind wasn't on tomorrow's sparring, but on the words the prisoner had spoken before dying: "My daughter." Every time the memory returned, it pressed on his chest like a weight he couldn't lift.
Milo sat beside him, staring into the flames. In his hand was a burnt piece of meat he hadn't touched. At last he muttered:
— "Every time I raise my hand to eat… I see his face."
Kaizlan didn't reply, but his gaze lingered on the fire.
Not far away, Ilda traced numbers in the dirt with her fingers, whispering:
— "One… two… three…"
Serin caught the murmur and said coolly:
— "Even the night is just numbers to you."
Ilda gave a faint smile and kept counting.
Hark had placed a torch dangerously close to his bedding, checking it every few minutes. Bartol muttered aloud, as if speaking only to himself:
— "Fire doesn't protect us… it only fools the fear in our chests."
Torn chuckled under his breath.
— "If you keep talking to yourself like that, we'll think you've lost your mind."
But Bartol did not answer.
The Capital – A Small Council Chamber
In a quiet chamber inside the palace, advisors debated the latest reports from the west. One unrolled a parchment across the table:
— "Caravans burned. Corpses left behind. And always the same mark: half a wooden talisman, split clean. We don't know its meaning, but it's there every time."
The room fell into silence until Lady Lorenval, who had joined the meeting, spoke:
— "The mark itself doesn't concern me… What concerns me is that someone dares to use it as a signature."
A man from House Korval frowned:
— "A signature?"
She gave a pale smile:
— "When a killer leaves a trace, it isn't because he fears being known. It's because he wants to be known."
Back at the Camp
Heavy boots struck the ground. Commander Raun entered with measured steps, his eyes sweeping across the weary faces. He raised a parchment sealed in red wax.
— "A new order from the capital."
The trainees straightened, unease flashing in their eyes.
Raun continued:
— "From tomorrow… the trials will no longer be individual. You will fight as teams. Those who fail… have no place here."
He tore the seal and tossed the parchment into the fire. The flames devoured the ink, the smoke rising slowly as if to smother words none of them would ever read.
Milo whispered to Kaizlan:
— "Direct orders… from the capital itself? Why would they care about our training?"
Kaizlan gave no answer. But deep inside, he knew: this was no longer training. They were now pawns in a larger game whose board they couldn't yet see.
The East – House Vaizant
In a chamber glittering with gold, Miral Vaizant traced the routes of trade across a map.
— "The west fortifies its camps. The south conspires toward an alliance. The north drowns in whispers of the Silent General. And while they scheme, we… hold the gold."
Her advisor hesitated:
— "But if a banished family truly rises again… the Darkveil…"
She shut the map with a snap, her eyes gleaming.
— "Ghosts don't frighten me. What frightens me… is when people start believing in them."
That night, as the trainees drifted into uneasy sleep by the faint glow of the fire, Raun's words gnawed at them still: "Those who fail have no place here."
And far away, in a forgotten hall of the capital, a crumbling statue bore an ancient carving, barely legible beneath the dust:
Darkveil… blood does not vanish.