War Begins

Sylva's POV

Sylva sat in the dimly lit room, her back against the cold stone wall, knees drawn up to her chest. The candle on the desk flickered, casting shadows that danced across the ceiling. The rhythmic sound of Leon's breathing filled the silence, steady and even. He was asleep.

She envied that.

Sleep was a luxury she had long since abandoned. Even now, in the quiet of the room, exhaustion tugged at her limbs, but closing her eyes meant facing them—the ghosts of her past.

The masters. The chains. The pain.

Her fingers instinctively brushed against her neck where the iron collar once sat, a phantom weight still pressing down on her skin. Even though it was gone, it had never truly left her. The iron had long since rusted away, but the memory of it remained, like an echo in her bones.

She had stopped questioning when exactly she had broken. When the screams had stopped leaving her throat, when the beatings had ceased to matter, when hope had become a foreign concept. There was no single moment—just a gradual descent into something less than human.

So why?

Why was Leon making everything hurt again?

Her eyes flicked toward him, his face relaxed in sleep, his hands still curled into fists even in unconsciousness. He had called her human. Said that it pained him to see her treated like trash.

Lies.

It had to be.

She had seen the way people looked at her. Had heard their words. 'Slaves aren't people.' 'They exist to serve.' 'They have no worth.' She had swallowed those words, let them settle deep in her bones until they became truth. If you lived like an object, you didn't feel pain. You didn't suffer.

But Leon had looked at her differently. Spoken to her differently. And that terrified her.

Because if he was right—if she was human—then everything she had endured mattered. Then all the things she had told herself, all the ways she had buried the agony, were nothing more than a lie she had clung to in order to survive.

Her hands clenched into fists. No. She couldn't allow that. She couldn't afford to believe in him.

But why did it feel so different?

Other masters had touched her with cruelty, with possession. Leon hadn't touched her at all.

Other masters had spoken to her in commands, in demands. Leon had asked her for her name.

Other masters had wanted obedience. Leon… didn't seem to want anything from her at all.

It made no sense. It was wrong. And yet…

Something inside her stirred, something buried so deep she almost didn't recognize it. A flicker of something that had died long ago. Something dangerous. Hope.

She forced her head back against the stone, squeezing her eyes shut. It didn't matter. None of it did. The world was cruel, and Leon was no different. He was a hero, a warrior, a tool of the kingdom. He was meant to fight, to kill, to serve his own purposes. He was not her savior.

He couldn't be.

Her body tensed as memories resurfaced, clawing their way to the forefront of her mind.

The first master—kind at first, patient, gentle. Until she had made a mistake. Until patience turned to punishment.

The second—cold and indifferent, using her only when necessary, discarding her when inconvenient. A tool to be set aside when not needed.

The third—the worst—who had relished in breaking things. And she had been his favourite thing to break.

A shudder ran down her spine. She had survived by becoming hollow. By making herself small, by being quiet, by surrendering. That was how you lived.

So why was Leon making her feel like she wanted to fight?

Her breath came faster, panic rising as the room seemed to close in on her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She had spent years convincing herself she was nothing, and now—

A shift in the bed.

Leon stirred but did not wake, his brow furrowing slightly. He looked troubled even in sleep. It was strange. He had power, authority, yet he carried himself as if he bore the weight of the world. As if something inside him was breaking, too.

The realization struck her like a slap to the face.

He was hurting.

The hero. The warrior. The man with the unbreakable sword—he was breaking.

And that realization unsettled her more than anything else.

A war was coming. Death was coming. She had always been prepared to die. But what of Leon? The thought of him dying sent a sharp pang through her chest, and she hated it.

Why did she care? Why did she feel anything at all?

She forced herself to breathe. To push the thoughts away. To remind herself that people like her did not get to care.

And yet, despite her resistance, something deep inside her whispered the words she feared most.

Maybe she wasn't broken beyond repair.

Maybe… she could be human again.

But if she let herself believe that, if she let herself care—

Then she could be hurt again.

The fear was suffocating. She clenched her fists tighter, nails digging into her skin. She didn't want to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope could be crushed. Hope could be used against her.

But then she thought of Leon's voice, raw and honest.

"I still see you as a human being."

For a moment, she let herself believe in those words. Just for a moment.

The thought terrified her more than anything else.

*

*

*

The battlefield stretched before him.

Flames licked at the edges of Solmaria's once-pristine white walls, staining them with soot and ruin. The divine banners, golden and pure, now hung in tatters, fluttering like dying breaths in the wind. Smoke curled through the sky, blotting out the rising sun.

And beyond the shattered gates—the enemy waited.

Leon tightened his grip on his katana. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the distant screams of the wounded, the shouted commands of knights scrambling to hold the line.

This was real.

It wasn't a training session in Eldoria. It wasn't a sparring match against Sir Alden.

This was war.

And he was expected to be the hero who would turn the tide.

A monstrous howl split the air, dragging him back into the moment.

Leon's gaze snapped toward the incoming wave of demons.

They surged forward like a living tide—snarling, twisting things with gnarled claws and glowing, predatory eyes. Some bore the grotesque forms of beasts—horned hounds, winged fiends, slithering abominations—while others walked like men, their bodies warped by dark magic, their hands curled around crude, bloodstained weapons.

And leading them—

A commander-class demon.

It towered above the rest, standing nearly twice the height of a man. Its obsidian-black armour pulsed with a sickly crimson glow, cracks spreading across its surface like veins filled with molten hate. Two pairs of curved horns crowned its monstrous skull, and from its back stretched leathery wings that blotted out the light.

When it spoke, its voice reverberated through the air, thick with hunger and malice.

"You will die here, hero."

Leon's breath hitched.

The weight of the title, of the expectation, crushed against him like a vice.

His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword. Move. Do something.

Then—

"Leon!"

A voice—sharp and urgent—yanked him out of his spiralling thoughts.

He turned just in time to see Darius rush past him, greatsword gleaming as he met the first wave of demons head-on.

The rest of The Crimson Vow followed.

Gaius slammed his massive shield into the ground, forming a barrier that absorbed the force of an incoming charge. Lyra flickered between shadows, daggers flashing as she severed tendons and throats with surgical precision. Selene stood further back, hands raised, arcane symbols burning in the air around her as she unleashed torrents of fire and lightning.

Iris moved swiftly between them, her healing magic weaving through the chaos like golden threads of salvation.

They fought without hesitation.

Leon was hesitating.

He was still standing there.

Move.

MOVE.

A demon lunged at him, its serrated blade arcing toward his throat.

Leon barely reacted in time—his katana flashed, intercepting the strike in a shower of sparks. The force sent a tremor through his arms, and for a brief, humiliating second, he stumbled.

The demon grinned—jagged teeth flashing—and pressed forward.

It was stronger than him. Faster. He wasn't used to the raw brutality of it. This wasn't like fighting a human opponent. There were no feints, no flourishes—just sheer, savage violence.

Leon gritted his teeth. No choice, then.

He pivoted sharply, adjusting his grip. His katana sang as he slashed through the demon's midsection, the blade's obsidian sheen glinting with unnatural light.

A perfect cut.

The demon gurgled, its body splitting in two before crumbling into ash.

Leon exhaled shakily. The first kill was the hardest.

There would be many more.

He turned just as another demon lunged for him.

This time, he was ready.

His blade met flesh—once, twice. He ducked under a wild swing, his instincts screaming at him to keep moving. He let his body take over, let the hours of brutal training under Alden guide him.

One step. One strike. Kill.

He felt it now—the rhythm of battle.

His pulse slowed. His vision narrowed. The battlefield became clearer.

And then—

A shadow fell over him.

Leon barely had time to react before a massive fist collided with his side, sending him hurtling backward.

The world spun.

He crashed against the stone-paved ground, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Stars exploded in his vision, pain lancing through his ribs.

Leon gasped, pushing himself up—just in time to see the commander-class demon looming over him.

"You are weak," it sneered. "How disappointing."

Leon's fingers clenched around his katana, his heart hammering.

The demon raised its massive blade—

And brought it down.

Leon twisted, rolling to the side as the sword cleaved into the earth, carving a deep gash into the stone. He barely had time to breathe before the demon was on him again, relentless, unyielding.

He parried once. Twice. The force of each strike sent shockwaves through his arms. His katana wasn't heavy, but against this kind of raw power, it felt like he was trying to cut through a mountain with a piece of glass.

I can't win this.

The thought slammed into him like a physical blow.

It was too strong.

It was too fast.

Leon gritted his teeth. His mind raced. He needed to think, to adapt, to—

A blur of movement. A flicker of silver.

And then—

A dagger sank into the demon's exposed joint, right where the armour didn't cover.

The beast roared, staggering back.

Leon snapped his head to the side—and there she was.

Sylva.

She stood poised, another dagger already in hand, her golden-brown eyes sharp and calculating.

She had saved him.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

The demon recovered fast.

Leon forced himself to his feet, tightening his grip on his katana. The weight of it no longer felt so heavy.

His pulse steadied.

He took one deep breath.

And then, he moved.

Lightning-fast, he closed the distance, his katana arcing upward in a perfect, seamless strike.

The demon raised its arm to block—

Too late.

The blade sang.

A crimson arc of light exploded from its edge, cutting through armour, through bone—

The demon's head hit the ground before its body did.

Silence stretched.

Then—the battlefield roared.

The demons hesitated. Their commander was dead. Their certainty shattered.

The humans pressed forward, striking while their enemy faltered.

Leon stood among the carnage, breathing hard, his katana dripping with black ichor.

He had done it.

His first real war.

His first real kill against something that truly wanted him dead.

He turned, his gaze locking onto Sylva.

She studied him, unreadable.

But for just a second, he thought he saw something new in her eyes.

Not pity. Not scorn.

Something else.

Something that almost looked like…

Respect.

Leon exhaled, gripping his sword tighter.

This was only the beginning.