Rorix felt his end not as the fading of his light, but as a violent, alchemical process. The last thing he saw, the silver-eyed crow circling above, descended upon him again. This time, metallic talons gripped his chest. Tightly. Almost tearing it off him. A searing, white-hot heat erupted from the point of contact, as if the construct-bird was branding his very soul. The depths of his being screamed, but no sound escaped his throat.
He felt his flesh burn, dissolve, and then reform. Metal filaments as hot as the bird's talons snaked through his veins, manipulating his insides. A foreign object—a cool, crystalline core—then incorporated itself with the rest of his sternum, anchoring itself to his being. The entire process was an agony beyond the hounds, perhaps beyond any pain a living man could comprehend. It was the pain of surgery for all body parts at the same time. Then, finally, stillness. Time to rest.
Rorix awoke to the warmth of sunlight on his face. He lay in a forest clearing he did not recognize, perhaps far from the blood-soaked stones of Ironthorne. He sat up with a gasp, his body stiff but… whole. He frantically checked himself for wounds. There were none. Not even a single scar from the spectral hounds. His clothes, though stained from that night's battle, were strangely intact.
A new sensation pulsed within him. It was a cool liquid presence deep in his gut, a second reservoir of vitality that felt like both an extension of his body and a parasite inhabiting it. What is happening to me? He touched his chest, where the memory of the searing heat was strongest. His fingers brushed against something that was not his skin.
He tore open his tunic. There, fused to the flesh over his heart, was perhaps the catalyst for his rebirth. Not a tattoo, but an erratic network of fine, silver-black metallic scribbles with a central, fingernail-sized crystal core at the bottom—an implant and Prime Conduit pairing. The pattern resembled a mouse standing on its hind legs. It was cold to the touch and as lifeless as stone, yet he could feel the cool energy within him connected to it and humming: a second heartbeat.
No matter where he looked and went, he was alone. The silver-eyed crow was gone.
Days bled into a week, then another. Rorix learned to survive. He fashioned a crude shelter near a stream, a bow from a branch, and traps for small game. His life became a primal routine of hunting, foraging, and trying to comprehend the impossible change within him. The cool liquid presence—his second well of stamina—he began to call mana.
Sometimes, he focused his will upon the implant on his chest, and he could feel his mana surge through him, heightening his senses and quickening his reflexes. It was a disquieting power, one he didn't understand and hadn't asked for. I would rather not know what else this thing could do.
He knew he had been given a second life, but for what purpose? Vengeance was a driving hunger, but revenge on whom? On Juris, for the betrayal? Or on the military, that had allowed it? His thoughts always circled back to Lyra. Was she safe? Did she believe him dead? Or worse, a deserter? The thoughts were as sharp a pain as any physical wound.
One afternoon, the forest's quietness was broken by the sharp snap of a twig. He was at the riverbank, preparing to fish, when the sound reached him. Instantly, he dropped to a crouch behind a thicket of ferns, nocking an arrow to his crude bow.
Two men in familiar military garb emerged from the trees. Their bows were superior, their leather armor well-maintained.
They carried themselves with military discipline as they moved cautiously, scanning the area. When they got close to the river, one of them knelt by the riverside to drink, and the other stood by and watched. The latter's eyes swept the forest and stopped, locking onto something behind Rorix's position. Rorix didn't need to look; he knew the soldier had seen his shelter.
The soldier prodded his companion, his expression a mixture of surprise and suspicion. A dwelling, here, so far from any known settlement? It demanded investigation.
They began to cross the river, hopping from stone to stone, their intentions clear. Any attempt to escape would reveal him instead. His makeshift bow was no match for their professional ones in a direct fight. Now what? As the soldiers drew closer, a primal fear gripped him, the same terror he'd felt when the hounds tore him apart.
I will not die a second death. Not today. Never again.
His will to survive screamed from within him, driving him to clutch his chest. At this, the implant flared to life. The cool mana in his gut erupted, surging throughout his being. He felt his body collapse inward, bones and flesh dissolving, turning to liquid shadow. The world warped, colors bleeding away into shades of black and grey.
Not again?! His mind roared in fear. At the same time, a part of him—his Conduit perhaps speaking to him—told him that he has nothing to fear.
His form elongated, becoming a spindly, pitch-black creature of impossible angles. He was nearly weightless, a living shadow clinging to the ground. His limbs were now long, sharp tendrils. His senses perceived the world not through sight, but as a map of darkness and life force. He saw the two soldiers not as men, but as bright, warm flickers against the cool backdrop of the forest.
One soldier raised his bow, an arrow aimed at where Rorix had been hiding. But Rorix was already moving. He shot forward, a black blur skimming across the ground at a speed no man could match. Before the archer could release his arrow, a spindly, razor-sharp limb pierced his throat. The man collapsed without a sound.
The second soldier spun, his eyes wide with terror at the impossible creature before him. He fumbled for a weapon, but it was too late. Rorix's shadow form was on him, a whirlwind of black tendrils that tore through armor and flesh with unnatural ease.
The fight was over in heartbeats. When it was done, the violent surge of power receded. His body reformed, bones painfully snapping back into their rightful places, leaving him gasping on the ground, nauseous and trembling from the unfamiliar strain.
Somehow, I know what that form can do and how to move while in that form, Rorix thought while resting.
He staggered over to the bodies. He stripped them of their leather armor and equipment—two sturdy longbows, quivers full of straight arrows, and sharp steel daggers. He also found their waterskins and a small pouch of dried rations. Then, tucked inside one soldier's armor, he found two folded pieces of parchment.
One was a hand-drawn map. An 'X' was marked on it with the word explore. Far below it, a triangle was labeled camp. And from the camp, an arrow pointed westward, with two simple words written beneath it: To Harrowdale.
The map came with a kill order, whose wax seal—the unmistakable crest of the Archon Magnus Valerius—was already broken.
"So it's you who wanted me dead in the first place," Rorix hissed, as if he was facing the Archon.
Rorix put on leather armor and strapped his new gear to his person. He was headed home. "Time to find out why."