Ahrden awoke to the frenzied banging on his front door. This was a rare thing, so he couldn't guess what could be the reason behind it. He sat up in his bed and focused on his senses; he could feel a person by the door, but only one person and only at the door. The individual was too small to be a man, even to be a grown woman. When he got up, he did so feeling tired and drained, but he began for the door anyway.
Once he was in the living room, he could make out the weak shouting of his name: "Ahrden, Ahrden…" This made him feel troubled, which caused him to quicken his steps. As he reached the door, he quickly unlocked it with a spell and swung it open.
Sophia stood on the other side of it with eyes red from crying and bags under them from the lack of sleep. It was the middle of the night, and thick snow covered everything. She was dressed a lot lighter than what the weather required of her, and even those few clothes were just hanging from her as if she were running from somewhere. It was strange for Ahrden to look upon someone who had once meant so much to him, but now he couldn't even recognize her from the other side of the door. This was the first time she had come to him in such a manner, and that told Ahrden that the trouble she brought was a dire one.
"Ahrden, you need to help them. You need to help them! They will die if you don't."
"Who? Who will die?"
"There is no time," Sophia said as she pushed past him to enter the house. "My father and several other platoons of soldiers were sent off to destroy the Velintenal outpost, which was set up in our nation's territory. They have been spying on us, exploiting our weaknesses to prepare an attack on our capital. The Evil King wants to destroy us, Ahrden! He wants our nation too!"
"I understand, and what of this situation?"
"They built an outpost in the forest for their soldiers and spies, and our scouts have only found out about it recently. Now Kirthen is determined to do everything to destroy it, but he knows that it is well fortified and difficult to overtake, especially with these conditions outside. Still, instead of waiting to plan the best course of action, he has sent enough men to make victory a certainty, no matter the number of casualties."
"Throwing bodies at it until he gets what he wants? That is something that bastard would do."
"Ahrden, you need to help them. You can use your power like you had before. You can do magic, and you can save the many soldiers marching there."
"They are already marching?"
"They are almost there! You need to hurry; there isn't much time."
Sophia pulled out a rolled-up map from under her light coat and placed it on the table. Ahrden helped her unroll it and pin down the edges. On top of the map itself, Ahrden could see the faint markings near the borders of Velintenal and their own nation, but certainly within their own territory. A squiggly line led from the marking toward their capital, connecting the two.
"This is where the outpost is, and this line shows the path our soldiers are taking. They are probably around here," Sophie said, pointing to a spot on the line which was indeed not far away from the outpost.
"How come you only come to me now?"
"I have been working on getting you involved officially, but the council doesn't wish to ask for your aid, so I had to steal a map and mark what my father had told me about this mission."
"You know I could have helped you with the map…"
"I could manage that part. What I'm asking from you is to help me where I can't manage."
Ahrden stood up from hunching over the map and looked at Sophie, who was more desperate than he had ever seen her. Ahrden knew that Kirthen would not spare the soldiers' lives to achieve what he wanted and that he could probably prevent countless deaths from happening if he intervened.
"I'll help."
"You must go now! Please hurry—jump to them or fly to them or whatever you do, just please hurry!"
"Sophia, calm down. I need you to leave so I can prepare for the coming conflict on my own."
"But there is no time…"
"There is if what you told me is true."
"I might have miscalculated their marching. They might already be there. Ahrden, you have to go now!"
Sophie was too concerned with her father's well-being to be able to judge the situation accurately. Ahrden could not make her leave, nor could he make her see reason, and although there was probably still time, not a second could be wasted. He cast a spell, and in the next second, she fell on the couch, sleeping peacefully.
Ahrden looked at the map again; he knew the area—he had been there many times before—and indeed it was an excellent place to establish a reliable outpost for the Velintenal nation. One of the primary reasons was that they could have a well-protected supply chain leading to that spot, one that could provide the outpost with resources while the cargo remained under natural cover as it traveled the short distance within Polenteus territory. It was late at night, with dawn just around the corner, and Ahrden didn't feel ready to face what he needed to, but choosing not to would mean many unnecessary deaths that his involvement could prevent.
He changed into light but warm combat gear and put a large cloak around himself. He strapped Duskedge to his belt and sat on the floor to meditate a little. When he did, he readied his body and mind for the coming conflict, and once he was done, he felt much more prepared. Before leaving, he carried Sophie outside and locked the door behind him with the same spell. He woke Sophie up in his arms, who had been quietly sleeping in a dreamless slumber. He placed her feet on the floor, and before she could say anything, he was gone.
The fresh snow squeaked under Ahrden's boots as he walked in the dead-silent forest. Nothing moved; nothing let out a single sound. The sun was beginning to rise, but the lighting was still dim, almost completely dark. The snow had stopped falling some time ago, but it was slowly restarting, with a few large flakes tiredly drifting down from the sky.
As Ahrden walked, he had his senses heightened to their limits, extending them as far as they could reach. Outwardly nothing was visible, but he felt, saw, and heard everything. He could not yet see the encampment but could feel it not far away—precisely where Sophie had marked it on the map. Ahrden noticed rogues hidden between the trees, silently running off at the sight of him. None tried to ambush him; none tried to make him stop. They just left to deliver the news of his arrival. Ahrden knew that he would be expected, but that would do little for the enemy to prevent what he was planning to unleash on the outpost.
Ahrden could not detect the soldiers coming from his capital, so they must have been still some distance away from him. If what Sophie said was right, they were coming in numbers that would ensure their victory. They all probably knew this, along with how many lives such a siege usually claimed. They had the numbers, so they had to succeed, but winning would come at a very large cost. Ahrden could only imagine what they all must have been going through, but he wasn't going to let them die when he alone could bear their burden.
The path that Ahrden walked was a solitary one, but it was a path that could take him to heights no other class had the potential to reach. This only served to alienate him even more from the rest and solidify his solitude, but it also allowed him to shape history in a way only the names in stories could. Having to walk this path alone came with many hardships—never being certain when the right time was to act or even what he needed to do—but Ahrden was prepared to do what felt necessary and right.
When he first felt the fortified walls of the military encampment, he knew that this was a task for those who trod the path he was on. A lonely job, but one made for him—or for an army of the other classes.
When Ahrden first saw the walls, he was amazed at how tall and sturdy they were despite being erected in secrecy and in such a short amount of time. The wall was made of tightly packed, long, and wide logs embedded into the ground and sharpened on their other ends. The two-winged, wide doors were imposing—almost unnecessarily large—and tightly shut at the moment.
Ahrden saw soldiers standing on top of the wall behind the logs, which told him they had also built a structure around the inner wall that allowed the archers to walk around the perfectly circular encampment and peek out between the sharpened logs. At the moment, soldiers stood between every gap with their drawn bows, nocked with arrows and aimed at Ahrden.
The structure behind the door was even higher, rising above the rest of the wall while still protecting the soldiers who stood behind it. One soldier stood out from the many on this elevated structure; based on where he stood and what Ahrden could see from his armor, it was the commander of the encampment, standing right above the gates. When Ahrden got within earshot, the soldier standing next to the commander raised his arm and let it fall. Ahrden saw and felt an arrow fly toward him but knew right after it was released that it wasn't going to hit him—especially since it wasn't meant to. Not wanting to use his abilities yet, he let the arrow plant itself deep into the frozen ground right next to where he had just placed his foot for his next step.
Ahrden paid no mind to the warning shot. He didn't look at it, didn't react to it; he just kept slowly walking toward the wall. He liked the large cloak he wore—its color was a deep purple, it covered his entire body, and some of it even swept the ground behind him. The hood covered his face, keeping it in shadow, while the cloak as a whole kept him warm despite the freezing cold.
"Stop where you are," shouted the same soldier who had given the order for the warning shot.
Ahrden just kept walking, not paying the slightest mind to anything happening around him. The soldier raised his hand again, and Ahrden could see and feel all the archers on the walls tensing in anticipation. When the soldier's arm fell and the order was given, every archer let their arrows loose, sending them toward Ahrden—this time aiming to kill.
Ahrden teleported and materialized a few strides ahead, which was enough to make all the highly accurate arrows miss him. A brief shock traveled through the soldiers on the wall, but they must have been prepared because it didn't last long. As Ahrden calmly kept walking, another round of arrows was nocked in each of the bows, but every Velintenal archer pulled the string back futilely because, in the next second, they all lost sight of their target.
Ahrden walked silently along the wall with his hand on the thick logs as he murmured the spell he had been preparing. As he started chanting, the hand he was dragging along the bark of the logs began leaving a trail of smoke and a black line of burnt coal until the logs started actually catching fire. The wall around the encampment was a perfect circle, and Ahrden walked silently right at its base, making it hard for them to notice him since, at first, no one expected him to be this close.
Ahrden could hear shouting on top of the wall as orders were given to search for him. He kept his head down, focusing on the spell he was casting. A soldier somewhere behind Ahrden must have looked over the wall and seen the light smoke rising because suddenly Ahrden felt heads popping up everywhere. When a soldier leaned over the wall above where he was walking, he made the mistake of letting the others know that he had found him by shouting before sending an arrow toward him. Ahrden, of course, could have blocked the arrow had he not been warned beforehand, but it would have forced him to stop the incantation. Instead, he simply teleported to another side of the circle, where he continued dragging his hand along the logs, leaving behind a solid line of fire.
By this time, the Velintenal soldiers had realized what Ahrden was doing, and because they couldn't do anything to stop the fire from spreading, they focused on neutralizing the threat. Archers with nocked and drawn bows started appearing on all sides of the wall, so Ahrden could not keep walking for more than a few seconds before needing to teleport away after sensing an arrow coming toward him.
When Ahrden felt that the outside of the wall was sufficiently lit on fire at its base, he reached out with his power to get some notion of what lay within the encampment. Once he had a basic understanding of the structure inside, he teleported to its center. It was as if everyone there noticed his arrival the moment it happened. For a heartbeat, silence fell upon all, the cracking of the fire being the only sound, and in the next second, everything erupted again. Warriors charged at Ahrden from all directions while the archers on the wall already took aim at him. Orders were shouted, but no instructions were needed for the soldiers to do what had to be done.
Ahrden held his two hands by his sides, keeping them a bit away from his body, preparing to cast his next spell. His mind was overclocking, focusing on everything happening around him. He began his incantation, and fireballs started forming in his palms. They weren't huge, but they were more than mere fire. They burned vividly and fiercer than any natural flame could. The spell didn't even come close to mimicking Inferno, but it was still far deadlier than any of its natural cousins.
The middle of the encampment had nothing in it, but tents and makeshift houses had been erected along the wall. Ahrden teleported to the other side of the clearing, getting behind those who charged at him while escaping the arrows that dug into the ground after he vanished. When he materialized, he threw the fireballs at the nearest buildings before teleporting to another location. There he repeated the same thing and then moved to a third part of the clearing. None of the soldiers could follow his movements, and not even the archers had time to hit him with a single arrow. Ahrden harmed no soldier in the encampment, but in seconds, he had set everything ablaze within it.
Satisfied with his work, he teleported out of the military encampment and onto the road he had used to approach it. From there, he looked up at the sturdy wooden walls as they blazed with unnatural arcane fire. The whole forest around the military base was lit up in the still dim dawn, and the heat from the fire felt warm and comforting.
Ahrden stood on the road facing the doors, which were still closed. He reached up and threw his hood back from his face. The cold came rushing in from all directions, which wasn't pleasant, but the way his senses were freed from their prison was welcome. He undid the clasp that kept the cloak around him and let it fall to the ground behind him. He felt the cold assail him again but paid no mind to it. He undid the strap fastening the scabbard to his belt and let it fall to the ground too. The leather cover slid soundlessly off Duskedge, which he kept levitating by his side as he freed the majestic weapon. He then wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and marveled at the feeling of how well it received the power he was feeding into it. The runes flared up one after another until the missing part started forming from arcane energy again, and the sword became whole once more.
A soft wind blew the powdered snow around Ahrden on the white road in the forest, and he could hear the soldiers starting to remove the wooden beams that held the doors closed. He took a deep breath and let it all out of his lungs. Thick mist formed from his breath, but it was gone in a second—just in time for Ahrden to focus on the two-winged massive doors as they swung open. Weapons raised, spirits high, orders given. Everyone charged at Ahrden, limited only by the width of the door.
Everyone wanted to do what Ahrden could. Yet, he opposed the small army alone.
Using the spell he'd learned from the Book of Knowledge he got from Kadelinas, Ahrden enchanted the sword so that it would stay in the same position he was holding it without any further aid required from him. The runes kept flaring, and the blade was still whole as he left it behind, ready to be called upon later. Ahrden started walking toward the charging soldiers. The archers didn't have a vantage point from which to shoot at him, so he didn't have to deal with the constant harry of arrows. He reached out with his open palms and lifted them toward the sky.
The sky crackled at his command, and lightning struck the ground beside the soldier leading the charge. One warrior was so startled by it that he fell across the road, causing many to trip over him. Ahrden was still not accurate in commanding the bolts of lightning, but when the target was a small army, he didn't need to be.
More and more thunderbolts hit the ground around the charging soldiers, but they were prepared now—fearless and unfaltering. The sound was deafening but not as alive as the screams of the first soldiers struck by it. More screams followed from left and right as warriors dropped dead along the way, but the onrush kept coming.
Ahrden lowered his hands, and the lightning stopped coming down from the milky sky. As he walked, he cast his own spell, covering the area around him in a thick white fog, which further lowered the already poor visibility caused by the churned-up snow powder from the light breeze and the tramping soldiers. Ahrden fed as much power into his spell as he could, forcing the first soldier to slow as he entered the fog-shrouded area where he could barely see the end of his own sword. Ahrden was the only one who welcomed the obscuring mist. Unlike the soldiers, he could clearly see the enemy ahead of him. He could feel their hesitation and disbelief at how much slower they had become. Ahrden could sense the approaching soldiers' fear as they remembered the stories of those who had lived to tell what this fog meant.
As the first of the furious warriors neared Ahrden, he reached backward with his right hand and called the blade to him. Without looking back, the hilt embedded itself firmly into his palm as if it had been waiting for him to finally call upon it. The surging powers amplified both in him and in the sword as he raised it high and met the first soldier.
Time lost all meaning in there. Ahrden's focus was divine, and that was all that kept him alive. He killed all who came at him as fast as he could—dodging, blocking, countering, attacking. He slashed through armor and flesh as if they were nothing but cloth. He teleported away when he sensed too many attacks coming. He used small bursts of potent arcane power when he needed to get out of deadly situations. He was a precise killing machine in that fog, which kept everything from the outside world locked out that wasn't essential for him.
The cries of the soldiers were short but desperate. Blood colored the snow everywhere, and the cooling bodies made everyone's footing harder. There was no mercy there; each mistake cost a life. It was a battle for survival, and everyone knew who they had to kill to survive—for the small army: Ahrden; for Ahrden: the small army.
Duskedge and Ahrden were one. They formed the perfect union. The sword felt light in his hand, and he maneuvered it with deadly precision, empowered by the runes etched into it that allowed him to harness the instincts of those who had once wielded it with mastery. The metal part of the blade was impossibly sharp and could not be dulled, while the arcane part of it was something beyond even that.
Ahrden had no idea how much time had passed when he first felt a slash of pain run across his arm. He didn't have time to look at it, but he recognized his mistake in leaving that side of his body open. The feeling of steel cutting through flesh was something he had experienced before, but the pain always came as a new sensation. Ahrden didn't slow, nor did the enemy—they just kept coming, and he kept killing them. He fed as much power into his spell as he could while using everything else against the oncoming soldiers.
Ahrden sliced through the handle of a spear that was thrust toward him and cut down the soldier holding it before teleporting behind another who came at him from the side. When he materialized, however, he suffered another cut in the process. This one ran across his thigh, and based on how fast he received it, it must have come from an arrow. He didn't know how any hunter could aim in such fog with him moving as fast as he was, without worrying about hitting their own men—but he hoped he wouldn't have to look out for arrows from now on. Some time passed before he got his third cut, but the following two came right after that one. Despite his best efforts, he felt his body weakening, which only made him double his efforts.
Everywhere Ahrden moved or teleported within the fog was drenched in blood; not one area preserved the innocent white of the snow. The air was cold and sharp as steel, but that was on no one's mind at that moment. No wind blew, and besides the sounds of battle, only the cracking of the fire consuming the rogue outpost could be heard—but despite how loud it was, it could barely penetrate the arcane fog.
When Ahrden first felt the flow of enemy soldiers lessen, he pushed his rising desperation down and felt excitement building inside him. When he let that happen, his focus wavered, if only for a fraction of a second, which allowed a battle axe to slice through his right thigh and forced him to drop onto one knee. Ahrden made no sound as he stood again and continued battling the oncoming soldiers.
Amid everything, he felt an arrow coming at his head through the fog—something that still escaped his understanding of how it was possible. He slowed the arrow and caught it with his hand when it was close enough. Multiple warriors had converged on him by then, so he teleported away—first ending the archer, then moving on to his next target.
Ahrden felt his consciousness oozing away as his body began to resist his will. He reached out with his senses through the fog to see how many soldiers remained, and to his surprise, he could only feel three. He brought his sword up, deflecting the first strike, then leapt onto the warrior who was not expecting him to close the distance with one jump. Ahrden quickly pulled the sword free from the armoured body and, with the same sweeping motion, ended the third soldier who came at him from the side.
With only one soldier remaining, Ahrden turned toward where he felt the movement coming from, though every motion sent jolts of pain through his aching body. The last soldier leapt at Ahrden from the side with his two daggers raised above his head, fully committing to this one attack. Ahrden would have prepared his sword to block the strike, but he felt an arrow entering the fog from beyond it. The last soldier had chosen to leap at him from an angle almost in the path of the flying arrow, so all Ahrden had to do was nudge it slightly—and it pierced the rogue's helmet with ease, killing him instantly.
Ahrden stepped aside, avoiding the falling body, and with a motion of his wrist made the fog vanish into nothing. The number of dead bodies that lay everywhere around him was something he had not expected. The otherwise crystal-white forest took on a reddish hue from the raging fire consuming the encampment, but what surrounded Ahrden had no white in it. Bloody bodies covered every bit of space on the ground, and one could not walk down the road without stepping over piles of the dead. He had seen death before, but never anything like this.
After tearing his gaze from the fallen, the intensely burning, destroyed encampment filled his vision—with the lone archer in front of it preparing to shoot his next arrow. But he too was taken aback when the aftermath of the battle became visible with the disappearance of the fog. Ahrden admired the hunter for staying and fighting when it was so clear that a small army could not defeat him. As the hunter called upon the knowledge of all who had taught him, he aimed his next shot. Ahrden willed his suffering body to obey and welcomed the aid of all who had taught him through the many books he had read.
Ahrden brought Duskedge before him, with the arcane part right before his face as the hunter loosed the arrow. It was accurate and powerful, but it did little against a force it was never meant to meet. The metal head of the arrow melted and burned up upon impact with the humming arcane blade, followed by the rest of it. When it was gone, Ahrden stepped forward, drew the sword back, then threw it toward the hunter.
Its flight was unnaturally curved, but the archer didn't even regard it; all he cared about was sending the next arrow at Ahrden. The arrow had just left the string when Duskedge embedded itself in the soldier's chest, hilt-deep, and sent him flying backward until he was pinned to the still-intact left wing of the door. Ahrden simply leaned away from the arrow he felt coming.
On the brink of collapse, Ahrden heard something loud and turned to see what was behind him. The Polenteus army had marched up and now stood watching the aftermath of the battle they should have fought. Ahrden had long forgotten about them, but now that they were here, they looked pathetic—like children whose one task had been taken from them because everyone knew they couldn't handle it.
The fire behind Ahrden gave out a pleasant crackling sound as one of the warriors in the front row collapsed with an arrow poking out from his helmet. Ahrden had leaned away from the last arrow, which had cost the life of one of his own.
Ahrden started walking toward the stationary army, stepping over the countless dead bodies he still couldn't comprehend. He soon realized he could not pass through the graveyard without walking on the fallen soldiers, and he had no intention of doing something so dishonourable. He teleported beyond the area once covered in his fog and now covered in bodies. When he materialized, he continued walking toward his own army.
Ferdan, the general of the Polenteus nation, led the march. He dismounted his horse and started toward Ahrden. A few other soldiers flanked him, but Ahrden could not distinguish them as his vision blurred while he walked.
Everything Ahrden did was painful; his entire garb was soaking wet with a mixture of sweat, his own blood, and others'. Adrenaline and arcane energy had kept him standing this long, but now both were leaving his body. Under the bloodstains, his face was white as the snow, and his mouth felt dry. He stumbled on something but regained his footing before he fell. When he reached his cloak, which he had dropped before the fight, he brought it up with a spell and put it around his shoulders, the hood falling over his head and covering his face in shadow. He immediately felt it growing soaked, dark stains spreading across it.
Ahrden reached back with his hand and called Duskedge to him. It eagerly obeyed, flying out of the log and across the distance in an instant. When Ahrden closed his fingers around its hilt, he pointed it toward the ground, holding it at an angle to his body, with the flat of it facing Ferdan and the army.
The small group approaching him slowed as they saw the shining blade fly through the air. When they understood how the sword was moving, Ahrden's walk became even more imposing. They all recognized Duskedge, having seen it often in battle and on their late general's side. Seeing the legendary sword—broken yet complete, with flaring arcane light—took everyone's breath away.
When the small group got close enough to speak, Ahrden saw Ferdan open his mouth, but he was faster. He materialized in Felinda's workshop, where she stood behind the counter covered in a dozen different flasks and jars.
"I had been expecting you."
Ahrden smiled, but it caused him to double over in pain. He could not recover from the posture, so he remained leaning on the floor. He heard Felinda rush to him with the necessary equipment and elixirs already prepared, but Ahrden could not even hold himself up before she reached him. He fell further, spreading out on the floor like a shot animal—and once he stopped moving, his life was once again in the skilful hands of Felinda.