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Chapter 3 - Chapter 3:”The past of the Grey”

The banners of the Rakshas Empire snapped in the cold wind — black cloth embroidered with the snarling face of a beast that had no name in human tongues. Beneath them, fifty thousand warriors advanced in perfect, pounding rhythm. The ground shuddered under the weight of their march, the iron-shod hooves of their horses striking like war drums.

At their head rode a man draped in a cloak of wolf pelts, his chest bare save for the heavy chain of polished skulls that clattered against his ribs. Each skull had been cleaned to a bone-white sheen, the jawbones bound shut with blackened bronze.

His name was Ke'dil'cho, the Butcher of the Northern Reaches — a name whispered in villages like a curse, a name that froze the air in the lungs of soldiers.

Ke'dil'cho's eyes were the color of blood left too long in the sun, his skin tattooed with jagged runes that told of the thousands he had killed. He did not carry a sword at his side — only a massive obsidian axe strapped to his back, its edge chipped in places from bone.

 

The gates of Rajabs, once the proud eastern jewel of the Boomi Empire, lay smashed open. Smoke coiled upward from burning watchtowers, turning the dawn sky a bruised gray. The city streets, paved with pale stone, now ran with darker stains.

Ke'dil'cho strode through the central square, his boots leaving crimson prints. The warriors fanned out, rounding up survivors with spears at their backs. The wails of women and the cries of children filled the air like a dirge.

Upon the marble steps of the palace, the local king knelt, bound and bleeding. His crown lay discarded in the dirt, half-buried in ash.

Ke'dil'cho's voice was low and guttural, yet it carried to every corner of the square. "For defiance against the might of Naraga… for refusing to kneel… your name will be swallowed by the earth."

Without ceremony, he seized the king by the hair, lifted him to his feet, and with a single, brutal motion, drove his axe into the man's neck. The blade sang against bone; the crowd gasped, then went silent.

Ke'dil'cho caught the severed head in one hand. For a moment, he regarded it almost thoughtfully — then raised it high, tilting it back as his lips met the lifeless throat.

The act was not hunger, but ritual. Thick rivulets of blood ran down his jaw, staining his teeth. The Rakshas warriors roared in unison, striking their weapons against their shields.

 

As the fires consumed the last strongholds of Rajabs, Ke'dil'cho mounted his black warhorse. The beast was armored in overlapping plates of dark steel, each engraved with the fangs of a serpent.

He pointed south. "The Valley of Dand will fall within the week. Leave no field unburnt. Leave no child alive."

The army surged forward like a tide of iron and flesh.

Behind them, the city of Rajabs smoldered — a ruin swallowed by the smoke of its own funeral pyre. Ahead, the lush heart of the Boomi Empire awaited, unaware of the shadow that now moved to claim it.

he sun had dipped low over the Valley of Dand, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. Vid sat cross-legged on a flat stone, tearing small pieces of bread and dipping them into a bowl of thin stew. Across from him, Paras crouched near the fire, the old archer's shadow stretching long in the fading light.

"You said you were from the west," Paras prompted, his voice calm, yet sharp with curiosity. "How far from here?"

Vid hesitated, chewing slowly before answering.

"About one hundred and twenty kilometers. It… it feels like another lifetime now. It's been five days since I left."

Paras nodded silently, waiting. The crackle of the fire filled the pause.

 

Vid's gaze dropped to the dirt.

"My father is… was… one of the wealthiest men in our town. Land, cattle, even a small garrison of guards. But wealth there does not buy kindness. The town is divided — higher caste at the top, lower caste at the bottom, and those at the bottom…"

He swallowed hard, the bitterness in his voice clear.

"They were treated worse than the animals we kept. Beaten, underfed, used for labor from sunrise to dark. My father didn't question it — he enforced it."

Paras's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"My elder brother had just turned eighteen," Vid continued. "That meant it was time for him to marry. And not just anyone — the daughter of another high-caste family. A perfect alliance, my father called it. I called it a prison."

 

Vid's hands tightened around the wooden bowl.

"The day before the ceremony, the whole house was filled with music and colors. Silk banners, tables stacked with sweets, jewelry so bright you'd think the gods themselves had blessed the union."

He paused, his voice lowering.

"But I saw the bride's eyes. She didn't smile. She didn't laugh. She didn't want this. Her family was poor, lower caste once, but my father lifted them to 'respectability' in exchange for her hand. It wasn't love — it was ownership."

The fire popped, sending a small spray of embers into the air.

"I spoke up," Vid said, his voice trembling. "I told my father it was wrong. That no one should be forced to marry. He struck me. Told me I was too young to understand, too foolish to speak against the ways of our blood."

 

Paras leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And then?"

Vid stared into the fire, his tone darkening.

"Then… the Rakshas came."

The village of Vaarith had always been a quiet place — a cluster of sunburnt houses, clay walls, and smoke curling lazily from cooking fires. But on that day, the air did not smell of food.

It reeked of ash, iron, and the stench of fear.

Ke'dil'cho came at dawn.

They didn't sneak in.

They didn't hide in the treeline.

They walked straight through the northern gate — armor catching the pale light, boots crushing the dry earth — and behind them came the roar of their war horns.

The first arrow fell like lightning.

A farmer died where he stood, wheat spilling from his hands.

Then another, and another, until the dirt turned black with shadows and red with blood.

The people ran, but there was nowhere to go.

It didn't matter what caste they belonged to, what prayers they had whispered the night before — they all bled the same blood.

Merchants, warriors, priests, and children — no one was spared.

I saw my mother run toward me.

Her eyes were wild, her hands reaching for my face.

Before she could speak, the steel point of a spear erupted from her chest.

Her mouth opened in shock, not pain — and then she was gone.

Just gone.

Something in me snapped.

I wanted to fight, to burn their banners, to take their lives as they had taken hers.

I had always admired the great archers of the Boomi Empire.

Especially Leo Dawnson — Master of Vick'belson, the demi-god of the bow.

I dreamed of joining the greatest archer academy, to stand among legends.

But my father never let me.

"Your place is here," he'd say.

Now my father was gone too, cut down before my eyes.

I was left with nothing — no family, no home, no dream.

Only the smell of blood and the sound of the dying.

When the fires died and the screams faded, I found Paras sitting quietly beside me.

He watched the smoke drift into the night.

"It is not their fault," he said softly, "nor is it yours. This is fate."

His voice was calm, too calm for the ruin around us.

"Fate?" I spat the word. "Fate tore my family apart. Fate burned my home. Fate made me watch."

Paras looked at me then, his gaze heavy but not unkind.

"So why," he asked, "are you searching for a god? Do you think a god will fix what men have broken?"

I had no answer — only the weight of his question lingering in the silence, as the embers cooled in the dust.

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