The moon is black as pitch, hidden behind thick clouds that swallow every shred of light. I slip out of the inn just past midnight, moving through the village like a shadow—feet silent on the dirt roads, breathing steady and controlled. Cael is asleep in the next room; I left a note telling him not to follow, not to look for me. Marta and the other villagers are tucked away in their homes, safe and unaware of what's about to happen in the woods beyond their borders.
Tarrama's information is folded tight in my pocket—she found their camp three miles north, hidden in a ravine where the trees grow so thick even the wind can't find its way through. Twenty men total, she'd said. Armed with swords, axes, and a few crude bows. They think they're safe. They think they can threaten this village and walk away unpunished.
They have no idea who they're dealing with.
I don't carry a sword—not the kind most men would use. Instead, I've strapped two short blades to my forearms, hidden under the long sleeves of my dark tunic. They're the same kind I used back in Custodian—light, sharp enough to slice through leather and bone alike, designed for close-quarters killing where speed is more important than strength. I'd had them forged in secret before leaving Callibean, never thinking I'd actually need to use them. Now, my hands itch to feel them against flesh.
As I reach the edge of the woods, something shifts inside me. The kindness I've shown since waking up in Vernom's body—the patience, the hope, the desire to build something better—snaps like a dry twig and goes dark. In its place rises the soldier I used to be, cold and efficient and utterly without mercy. My eyes adjust to the darkness, picking out paths through the trees that no ordinary man would see. My muscles tense and relax in perfect rhythm, every movement calculated, every breath measured. This is what I was trained for. This is what I am.
They called you The Reaper, a voice whispers in the back of my mind—my own voice, but rougher, harder, stained with blood and years of violence. Because death follows wherever you go.
I find the ravine easily, following the faint trail of broken branches and trampled grass that the bandits leave behind. The camp is built at the bottom, hidden by rocks and thick undergrowth. Fires flicker in metal pits, casting dancing shadows across crude tents and wooden crates filled with stolen goods. I count seventeen men visible—three are on watch, pacing back and forth along the edge of the ravine, the rest are either drinking around the fires or sleeping in their tents.
I wait until one of the sentries turns his back, then move. I cover the distance between us in three silent strides, my hand clamping over his mouth before he can make a sound. One blade slides across his throat, quick and clean—he drops without a whisper, his body hidden behind a cluster of boulders before he hits the ground.
The second sentry is further along, leaning against a tree and staring up at the dark sky. I approach from above, dropping silently from a low branch onto his shoulders. My arm wraps around his neck, cutting off his air as my blade finds the gap between his armor plates and his spine. He convulses once, then goes limp. I lower him gently to the ground, wiping my blades clean on his tunic.
The third watchman is talking to someone inside the largest tent—their leader, the man with the scar across his cheek. I can hear his voice carrying on the still air, thick with arrogance.
"…the village will be ours by week's end. They showed their teeth today—we'll show them what happens when you cross us. Take their food, take their women, burn what's left. Teach them to respect those who are stronger than them."
I move forward, stepping into the circle of firelight as if I belong there. The bandits around the fire look up, frowning in confusion—they don't recognize me in the darkness, don't see the blood on my hands or the cold fury in my eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them slurs, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. "You lost, farmer?"
I don't answer. Instead, I draw both blades in a single fluid motion, the steel catching the firelight and glinting like ice. The bandit freezes, his drunken haze clearing as he sees the way I hold myself—shoulders squared, feet planted just so, eyes fixed on every man in the camp.
"Get him!" someone shouts, reaching for a sword.
That's when the killing starts.
I move like water, flowing through the group with impossible speed. One blade slices open a man's throat before he can even draw his weapon. Another dodges left, but I'm already there—my other blade plunging into his gut, twisting before I pull it free. A third swings an axe at my head; I duck under it, spinning and slashing across his knees, bringing him down before finishing him with a thrust to the heart.
Blood sprays across my face, warm and metallic. I taste it on my lips and something primal awakens inside me—something I thought I'd buried forever. I laugh—a low, harsh sound that makes the remaining bandits stumble backward in fear. They've never seen anything like this—one man moving through their ranks like a force of nature, leaving nothing but death in his wake.
The leader bursts out of the tent, sword drawn and face twisted with rage. "You!" he snarls, recognizing me now. "The little hero from the road! I'll tear you apart with my bare hands!"
He charges, swinging his sword in wide, powerful arcs. I meet him halfway, parrying his strikes with ease—his strength is great, but his technique is sloppy, learned on the streets rather than in a training yard. I let him wear himself out, dodging and weaving, letting his blows glance off my blades or miss entirely. When he finally stumbles, his breath coming in ragged gasps, I move in for the kill.
But instead of finishing him quickly, I slow down. I want him to see who he's dealing with. I want him to understand exactly why they called me The Reaper back in Custodian.
I disarm him with a flick of my wrist, sending his sword flying into the darkness. He stares at me, his eyes wide with terror as I circle him slowly, blades held at my sides.
"Who are you?" he whispers, backing away until he hits a crate of stolen grain. "What are you?"
I stop in front of him, leaning in close so he can see the emptiness in my eyes—the same emptiness that used to stare back at me from the mirror every morning after a mission.
"I'm the thing you should have been afraid of," I say, my voice low and cold as winter stone. "I'm the one who comes for men who prey on the weak. I'm the end of the line for people like you."
I slice across his chest first, then his arms, making sure he feels every cut. He screams and begs, but I don't hear him—not really. All I can hear is the sound of steel cutting through flesh, the smell of blood and fear, the rush of adrenaline that used to be the only thing that made me feel alive. When I finally drive a blade through his heart, it's almost a relief—for both of us.
I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, looking out at the carnage I've created. Bodies litter the ground around me, blood seeping into the dirt. The fires are still burning, casting dancing shadows that make the scene look like something out of a nightmare. For a second, I don't recognize myself—this man covered in blood, holding blades that drip with red, standing in the middle of a massacre he's just committed.
Then I remember the young boy from the road, his face pale with fear. I remember the farmer's pleas, the way his wife had held her son close. I remember the promise I made to protect this village, to keep violence from touching the people who live here.
I wipe my blades clean on the leader's tunic, then slip them back into their hidden sheaths. I move through the camp, checking each body to make sure there are no survivors—no one left to threaten Mear village ever again. I gather the stolen goods and pile them near the edge of the ravine, where the villagers can find them come morning. I leave no trace of myself behind—no footprints that can be followed, no weapons that can be traced back to me, no clues as to who exactly it was that wiped out the bandit camp in a single night.
As I make my way back through the woods, the sun begins to rise in the east, painting the sky shades of red and gold. The soldier inside me begins to fade, leaving Vernom exhausted and hollow in his place. The kindness doesn't come back—not yet—but the rage has cooled to something colder, harder, more controlled.
I reach the village just as the first roosters begin to crow, slipping back into the inn and up to my room without being seen. I strip off my blood-soaked clothes and bury them deep in the woods behind the inn before washing myself clean in cold water. By the time Cael wakes up and knocks on my door, I'm sitting on the bed, bandages still on my ribs from the beating I took days ago, looking like nothing more than a man who's been resting and healing.
"Good morning, Your Highness," Cael says, pushing the door open and carrying a tray of bread and tea. "You look better today. Marta says breakfast will be ready soon—she's making porridge with honey and dried fruit."
I force a smile, though it feels foreign on my face. "That sounds good. Thank you, Cael."
He sets the tray down, then pauses, looking at me carefully. "Are you alright? You look… different somehow."
"I'm fine," I say, picking up a piece of bread and breaking it in half. "Just thinking about things. About what needs to be done to keep this place safe."
Cael nods, but I can tell he doesn't believe me. He's known me long enough to sense when something is wrong, when the man he serves isn't quite himself. But he doesn't push—he never does. He just nods and says, "Well, whatever you're thinking about, I'm here to help. Always."
After he leaves, I look out the window at the village waking up below—smoke rising from chimneys, doors opening, people beginning their day as if nothing has changed. And as far as they know, nothing has. They'll find the stolen goods by the road later today, hear rumors of the bandit camp being wiped out by someone or something, but they'll never know it was me. They'll never know that the kind man who plays with their children and helps with their crops is the same one who slaughtered twenty men in a single night, moving through their camp like death itself.
They called you The Reaper, the voice whispers again. And they were right.
I close my eyes and let the weight of it all wash over me. I don't know if I'll ever be able to fully escape the soldier I used to be, if the kindness I've found since waking up as Vernom is real or just a mask I wear to hide the darkness inside. But I do know one thing—if anyone ever threatens this village again, if anyone ever tries to hurt the people who've shown me what peace can be like, The Reaper will return. And next time, he won't be so quick to disappear into the shadows....
Madness is scary. It creeps up on you when you least expect it, hides behind smiles and kind words until the moment it's ready to strike. I act normal when I face people—laugh with Cael, help Ben weave baskets, play tag with Lila and the other children in the square—but when I'm alone, the facade crumbles. My hands won't stop trembling, shaking so badly I can barely hold a cup of tea without spilling it all over myself. The ghost of steel in my grip lingers, the weight of blades I no longer wear heavy on my forearms.
Last night's killing spree replays in my mind on an endless loop—each slash, each thrust, each moment of cold, calculated violence burned into my memory like a brand. I see their faces when they realized what I was, the fear in their eyes before the light went out. I can still smell the blood, thick and coppery in the air, still feel it warm against my skin as it sprayed across my face.
I thought I was doing good. For the past month, I've tried to be the prince Callibean needs me to be—listening to people's troubles, helping them find ways to survive under Ardias's rule, planning for a future where kingdoms can stand together instead of fighting each other. The Callibean people have shown me nothing but kindness—Father welcomed me with open arms, Vonce and Rondolf accepted me as their brother, even Cael, who knows something is different about me, has never once questioned my place here.
But still, the beast lives inside me.
I sit by the window of my room as the sun climbs high in the sky, watching the village go about its day. Marta is hanging laundry in the yard behind the inn, humming a song I've heard her sing before. Ben is loading baskets onto a cart—probably taking them to the next village over, using the routes we'd discussed. Lila runs past with her wooden bird clutched in her hand, chasing after Tom and Anna. They're laughing, carefree, their lives untouched by the darkness that lives in my bones.
My hands shake harder, and I clench them into fists until my knuckles turn white. I thought I could be like everyone else here—raised with compassion, guided by justice, built from the goodness that flows through Callibean's people. But I was wrong. I am not like them. There is something different about me, something dark and sharp that I cannot explain.
I am afraid of Ardias, yes. His cruelty knows no bounds, his ambition no limits. He's willing to sacrifice anyone and anything to achieve his goal of ruling over all the kingdoms. But I should be just as afraid of myself. Callibean does not foster monsters—our lands do not raise men who find pleasure in violence. My family, my people, they are good and kind. I am the exception. I am different.
A knock on the door makes me jump, and I quickly wipe at my eyes—when did I start crying?
"Your Highness? It's Tarrama."
I clear my throat and call out, "Come in."
She pushes the door open and steps inside, carrying a small leather bag of herbs. Her eyes scan my face, and I know she can see the turmoil I'm trying so hard to hide. She sets the bag on the table and pulls out a small vial of clear liquid.
"Drink this," she says, pouring some into a cup. "It will help calm your hands, steady your nerves. You've been through a lot—anyone would be shaken after what you did last night."
I take the cup and drink it down, wincing at the bitter taste. "How much do you know?"
"Enough," she replies quietly, sitting down across from me. "I found the camp this morning. Twenty men, all dead. Clean work—efficient, precise. The kind of killing only someone who moves with… unnatural skill could do. I didn't need to ask who was responsible."
I look away, staring out the window again. "They were going to hurt the village. They were going to take their food, their homes, their lives. I had to stop them."
"I know," Tarrama says gently. "And what you did—you saved lives. But that doesn't mean it doesn't cost you something. Every life taken leaves a mark, whether you're doing it for good or for evil."
"I need you to understand something," I say suddenly, my voice tight with effort as I choose my words carefully. "Callibean did not make me this way. My father did not raise me to be a killer, my brothers did not teach me to move through darkness like I belong there. This… this is me. Something in me is broken, twisted. When I was moving through their camp last night—when steel met flesh and blood ran hot—I felt a rush of something I can only describe as pure madness. It was wrong, and I knew it was wrong, but for a moment… it made me feel alive in a way nothing else ever has."
Tarrama is quiet for a long moment, and I expect her to pull away, to look at me with fear or disgust. But when she speaks, her voice is calm and steady.
"I won't pretend to understand what you're feeling," she says. "But I know this—Callibean's people see you as a beacon of hope. They trust you, they believe in you. Whatever darkness lives inside you, it hasn't consumed the good parts of who you are. I've seen how you care for this village, how you fight for what's right. That's not the work of a monster."
"But the madness—" I start, my voice breaking. "What if it takes over completely? What if one day I can't tell the difference between protecting people and hurting them?"
"Fear is not a weakness," she says, reaching across the table to place her hand on mine. Her touch is warm, steady, and slowly, my trembling begins to ease. "It means you're still fighting to stay in control. You don't have to be perfect—none of us are. But you can choose to let your better nature guide you, to use whatever strength you have to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
She stands up and moves toward the door, then pauses and turns back to look at me.
"Ardias uses his cruelty to gain power, to make people afraid of him. But you—even with whatever darkness lives inside you—you use your strength to lift people up. That's the difference between you and him. Not in what you're capable of, but in what you choose to stand for."
When she leaves, I sit alone in the quiet room, her words echoing in my mind. She's right—I cannot change what I am, cannot explain why I move and think the way I do. But I can choose what to do with it. I can let the madness consume me, or I can learn to master it, to make it serve something greater than itself.
I look down at my hands—they're still slightly shaky, but the worst of it has passed. Outside, the village continues to move forward, peaceful and bright. And somewhere in the distance, Ardias is planning his next move, gathering his armies, preparing to spread his tyranny further across the land.
I stand up and walk to the mirror on the wall, looking at the face that stares back at me—the face of a Callibean prince, marked by something no one else can see. I may be different from my people, may carry darkness they will never understand. But I will not let that darkness stain the name of my kingdom.
I take a deep breath and make a promise to myself, to the village, to every soul who calls Callibean home. I will not let the madness win. I will not become like Ardias. But I will not hesitate to use every part of myself—light and dark alike—to protect the people I love.
I may be different. I may carry monsters in my heart. But I am still a prince of Callibean, and I will make sure my actions bring honor to my home—not shame.