The scent of death in Twilight Valley lacked creativity; it was a monotonous blend of rusted iron, scorched flesh, and the stench of entrails that had decided to take their first and last look at the world.
Kaelen sat perched on a jagged rock, leaning his weary back against the charred trunk of a tree. His full plate armor groaned under his weight. It wasn't a heroic groan; it was the screech of metal in desperate need of oil, a heavy reminder that he was past thirty-five and his knees weren't what they used to be at twenty.
He slowly raised an armored hand, wiping a smear of blood and grime from the visor of his Great Helm. Through that narrow slit, he looked at an "audience" that wasn't there—or perhaps was watching from behind the pages of this story.
"You see this?" he muttered, his voice rasping. The echo inside the helmet made him sound like he was speaking from within a metallic tomb. "Fifty knights of the 'Iron Lions.' Elite mercenaries. Men said to be invincible. And now? They're just decorative pieces scattered across the valley grass. They all died because the commander decided 'Honor' was more important than scouting the area. To hell with honor; it never bought me a decent cup of wine."
Kaelen turned his head toward the commander's corpse, lying a few meters away with a thick bolt buried in his right eye.
"Nice view, Commander. At least you died looking at the truth clearly for once."
The mission was "simple," as the Regional Governor had claimed: escort an unknown "package" to the Northern Fortress. No one told them the package was the reason for the continent's ruin, nor that the road passed through the stronghold of the Shadow Tribes.
Kaelen stood up heavily. He didn't survive because he was the hero, nor because fate chose him. He survived because when the arrows began to fall like rain, he didn't charge forward with stupid war cries; he dove behind the carcass of a dead horse and waited until the noise stopped. Logic dictated: The living can flee; the dead can do nothing but rot.
He walked with heavy strides, the clanking of his armor breaking the funeral silence of the valley, toward the wrecked carriage in the center. It was made of Celestial Ebony inlaid with silver—wood used not for transporting goods, but for carrying curses or miracles.
"Alright, little friend," Kaelen said, addressing the massive chest amidst the wreckage. "Your presence cost me my squad, my joints ache, and I'm starving. If you don't contain enough gold bars to buy a small kingdom, I'm going to piss on you and leave you for the crows."
He slowly drew his Greatsword. A heavy, unadorned blade, bearing the scars of violent use. He jammed the tip of the sword into the silver lock of the chest and, with one powerful wrench, shattered it.
A faint crimson light emanated from within, followed by a scent like ancient incense and rose petals dried in the shade.
Kaelen stepped back, raising his sword to a defensive guard, but he didn't expect what he saw.
Inside the chest, there was no gold, no legendary weapons. There was a woman.
But calling her a "woman" was an insult to reality. She wore a deep red dress woven as if from the blood of kings, her long blonde hair scattered in attractive disarray over silk pillows. And behind her back… were massive white wings, their feathers so pristine they looked alien in this filthy valley.
Elaria was asleep—or so it seemed—until her golden eyes suddenly snapped open.
She looked at Kaelen—or rather, at the metal helmet covering his face—and let out a long, bored sigh.
"Is the noise outside over?" she asked in a soft voice, yet one carrying an unmistakable tone of sovereignty. "I was dreaming of devouring clusters of grapes in the Gardens of Aether. Who are you? And why are you wearing that ugly metal furnace?"
Kaelen froze. For a moment, he recalled all the stories about "Heavenly Envoys" or "Higher Beings." In novels, the knight would immediately kneel and swear a blood oath of loyalty.
But Kaelen was no conventional hero.
He slowly lowered his sword, looked at the corpses around him, and then looked back at her.
"Me? I'm the man they paid fifty silver pieces to protect you," he said coldly. "And considering the amount of blood spilled here, I think I deserve at least a thousand percent bonus. As for the 'metal furnace,' it's the only thing keeping me from being like my comrades over there… cold slabs of meat."
Elaria sat up in the chest, stretching her great wings to shake off the dust, the force of the air pushing Kaelen back a few steps.
"You are rude," she said, touching her hair indifferently. "Do you not know who I am?"
"I don't care who you are," Kaelen replied, brushing dust off his pauldrons. "I only care if you can walk. The horses are dead, and the enemy will return soon to finish off survivors. Since I'm the only survivor, I plan to get as far from here as possible. So, will you get up, Lady of the Wing, or shall I leave you here to be 'celestial food' for bandits?"
Elaria stared at him in disbelief, as if she hadn't been treated this way in millennia. Then, with a sudden motion, she hopped out of the chest to stand directly before him. She was tall, her head nearly reaching the level of his helmet.
"I will come with you," she said with a mocking smile. "Not because I'm afraid, but because your metal face piques my curiosity. I want to see when this hard shell will finally break."
"You'll be waiting a long time," Kaelen muttered, turning to walk. "Now, move. And don't touch my back with your wings. The metal is cold, and I don't want feathers stuck in my joints."
They walked through the valley: the knight burdened by iron and worry, and the angel dragging her red dress over the dead with terrifying indifference.
The sun dipped toward the horizon with a provocative slowness, as if it too were affected by Elaria's overwhelming laziness. The sky over Twilight Valley wasn't blue; it was the color of an old bruise—a mix of dark purple and smoky gray.
Kaelen walked with measured steps, each one requiring mental effort to ignore the throbbing pain in his lower back. The armor that had been a means of survival hours ago was now a prison of hot metal. Sweat trickled behind his ears, and the itch beneath the padding was a torture epic poems never mentioned.
"In novels," Kaelen sighed audibly inside his helm, "the knight rides for days without needing to piss, without his armor rusting, and without his balls slowly cooking inside this iron tomb. To hell with authors; it seems they've never worn anything heavier than a silk shirt in their lives."
He stopped suddenly when he felt an additional weight on his left arm.
Elaria had decided, without warning, that "walking" was an activity far too strenuous for a celestial being. She wrapped her delicate hands around his armored arm and lazily leaned her head against his metal shoulder, her massive wings dragging behind her over the blood-stained grass like the train of a lavish gown indifferent to the filth.
"What are you doing, Lady of the Wing?" Kaelen asked, his voice carrying a sharpness he tried hard to suppress.
"I'm tired," she replied coldly, her golden eyes watching a beetle trying to climb his leg armor. "Walking on this hard earth feels like treading on nails. Besides, your armor, despite its ugliness, provides good support. Consider yourself a mobile 'Royal Pillar'."
"A pillar?" Kaelen let out a stifled laugh. "I'm not a pillar; I'm a mercenary trying to save his skin. And these wings of yours… they're gathering thorns and dust. If they get caught in a thicket, I won't stop to free you."
"Oh, you will," she said confidently, clinging tighter to his arm. "Because if you leave me, you'll never find anyone to tell you about the beauty of your face beneath this helmet—something I highly doubt even exists."
"You're annoying," Kaelen muttered, continuing to walk and dragging her along. "Are all 'Angels' like this? Or did I just get stuck with the most foolish and lazy of the lot?"
"We don't call ourselves angels," she corrected him, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the vibration of his armor. "We are the 'Sovereigns.' And I'm not foolish; I simply realize that the effort spent walking can be saved for more important things… like mocking you."
They reached the edge of the valley and began ascending a hill overlooking the abandoned trade road. From here, Kaelen could see smoke rising in the distance; a burned village, or perhaps an enemy camp. In the world of Aether, smoke isn't a sign of life—it's the signature of ruin.
Kaelen stopped at a large rock away from the path. He set his greatsword down with a resonant clang, then began unfastening the straps of his helmet. His fingers trembled slightly from the exertion. With a slow movement, he removed the Great Helm.
The rush of cold air that hit his sweaty face was better than any magical touch. His face was pale, sweat gluing strands of brown hair to his forehead. An old scar ran from his right temple, cutting through the edge of his eyebrow, and his hazel eyes gleamed with a logical exhaustion.
Elaria looked at him in silence for the first time. Her mocking smile faded slightly, replaced by a scrutinizing gaze.
"You… look very ordinary," she said finally, still holding onto his arm. "I thought a beast with sharp features or a knight with perfectly groomed hair hid beneath the iron. But you just look like someone who needs a bath and seven years of sleep."
"Thanks for the compliment," Kaelen said, wiping his face. "This is what reality does to humans. We age, we tire, and life leaves its marks on us. I'm not a painting, Elaria. I'm just a rusted cog."
Kaelen pulled a piece of hard bread and a chunk of dry cheese from his pack. He broke the bread and offered her half.
"Here. Heaven's gift won't help fill your stomach here."
She looked at the bread with visible disgust. "Eating this would scratch my throat."
"Then starve," Kaelen said, biting into his portion. "In this world, hunger is the first teacher. You'll soon find this hard bread tastier than 'Aether Nectar' once your stomach starts singing."
As they sat, a heavy silence fell. It wasn't a comfortable silence, but the one that precedes a storm. Kaelen felt a familiar prickle at the base of his neck—the soldier's instinct honed in a hundred battles.
He slowly placed his hand on the hilt of his sword without changing his posture.
"Elaria," he whispered in a barely audible voice. "Hide your wings… now."
"Why? Does my majesty bother you?"
"You fool," he hissed between his teeth. "We're being watched. The light reflecting off your feathers is screaming our location to every bounty hunter within a mile."
Elaria froze. For the first time, she saw in Kaelen's "ordinary" eyes that cold glint only possessed by those familiar with killing. With a strange, fluid motion, her wings folded behind her back until they vanished completely beneath the fabric of her crimson dress.
From the thick ferns below the hill, three shadows emerged. They weren't regular soldiers; they were "Corpse Collectors"—the scum of war who follow the scent of death to scavenge what remains. They carried short axes and hunting nets.
"Look what we found," one of them said in a sickening rasp. "A broken knight and a prize in crimson. You'll fetch a fine price in the Undermarket."
Kaelen stood up slowly. He didn't take a heroic stance; instead, he crouched slightly to minimize his profile. He slid his helmet back over his head and snapped the lock shut with a decisive metallic click.
"Fifty silver pieces," Kaelen said from behind the visor. "That's what they paid me for this mission. And now, it seems I'll have to butcher you for free. I really hate volunteer work."
He turned for a fraction of a second toward Elaria, who was watching with feigned boredom despite her pale face.
"Sit and watch," Kaelen said. "And you'll see why this 'Ordinary Knight' wears such an ugly suit of armor."
With an explosive movement, Kaelen lunged toward the three shadows—not like a flying arrow, but like a mountain of iron that had decided to crush everything in its path.