Chapter 4: King Of Chaos

The moon hovered like a silver scar across the sky, pale light rippling against the surface of the spring as Kota rested in the water, hair slicked back, his arms stretched along the edge, body soaking in silence.

'—What the hell even is my life now?'

His thoughts slanted inward, slow and heavy like dragging chains through old mud.

'I was just some guy. Some washed-up kid with bruised knuckles and a wooden shack in the trees, training against ghosts that weren't even chasing me. And now I'm bonded to a Cupid—a real one. A damn myth with a bow made of flame and a voice that could lull gods to sleep. I'd only ever heard stories… travelers whispering about star-born beauties who guide love and wield impossible magic. Never thought I'd meet one, let alone bleed beside her.'

Kota sank deeper in the water, letting it reach his chin.

'She kissed me to seal the bond. The first kiss I ever got… and it had to be from someone who legally isn't even allowed to fall in love. How messed up is that?'

He snorted. 'I felt it—that twist in my chest like a hook caught in the ribs. Dumbass emotions. Like I was fourteen again, hearing someone say my name the right way for the first time. I almost fell for her right then and there. Like a damn fool. But it's just a contract. Just a bond. Nothing else. She said it herself—Cupid law. Love's not an option. So why even bother thinking about it?'

He stared up at the sky.

'Still… no one's ever held me like that.'

Meanwhile, atop a steep hill shrouded by flowering vines and glowing spores, Lyzelle stood barefoot beneath the stars, her blindfold folded neatly on a nearby stone. She was cloaked in living silk—threaded from emotion and spell light, it shimmered across her form like moonlight stitched with breath. Every note she sang caused it to react—tightening, loosening, trembling.

She lifted her hands, and her voice broke the quiet with layered, glassy harmony. Magic spun from her throat, painting the air with invisible sigils.

"O heart adrift on unsung tides,

Where silence keeps what fate confides.

Sleep, my god, within your shell,

Your name unspoken keeps you well…"

The air itself hummed in sympathy. Her silk dress twisted like it had memory, clinging and blooming with the rhythm.

"Dreams in wombs of silver root,

Lulled by flutes no hands can flute—wait, no, that's not right…"

She paused.

"Flutes no hands can flute? What the hell does that even mean?!"

She grumbled, poking her own forehead. "It was something poetic… 'flutes that know no hand' or—ugh, forget it, restart from the bridge."

She inhaled again and continued.

"Let no flame wake what stars still hide,

Let longing sing where gods reside.

Sleep, my god, in love's delay—

Till mortals beg you come, not stay…"

Soft silver energy pulsed from her, wrapping the hill in a divine calm.

Later, at camp, Kota sat cross-legged, firelight dancing across his face as he ate grilled meat from earlier. Silence reigned. Lyzelle sat across from him, arms folded, her nose tilted upward as if offended by the existence of gravity. She sighed. Loudly.

Kota glanced up, blinked, then kept chewing.

She sighed again—even louder.

Another bite. Another sip of water.

SSIIIIIGHHHHHHHHHH.

Kota squinted. "…You okay?"

Lyzelle turned, lips puckered dramatically. "Nothing, it's fine."

"Oh. Okay—"

"I just think it's funny," she cut in, with venomous sarcasm. "How you didn't even TRY to take a peek."

Kota choked hard on his meat, coughing and turning red. "W-What?!"

'She wanted me to take a look at her?! Fuck! Why didn't I?! All because I was trying to be a gentleman! Shit! Shit! Shit! I could've got lucky! What if she's just teasing me? Then I look dumb?'

Lyzelle leaned forward, elbows on her knees, a toothy grin pulling at her lips. "Men would kill for a glimpse of this. Even at home I had whole celestial warlocks constructing scrying mirrors."

"I-I'm not like that!" Kota threw his hands up. "I'm not just some perv who—who peeps on bathing women! I got respect!"

She raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying you didn't think about it?"

His silence betrayed him. His face turned a deeper shade of red.

"…Maybe a little," he muttered.

"HA! I knew it."

Then there was a pause.

Then Kota turned to her, his voice more serious. "Hey… did you really get lost from your home? That floating tree place, Il'Vaemel?"

Lyzelle blinked. For a moment, her usual chaotic sparkle dulled.

She gave a soft gasp—small, almost swallowed by the fire's crackle. Lyzelle sighed, fingers toying with a charred twig, her face half-lit by the fire.

"…I can't stand the rules sometimes," she murmured, not looking at him. "The way Cupids are raised. Expected. I mean—maybe I didn't accidentally get lost. Maybe I… sneakily, mischievously, possibly on-purpose slipped out."

She smirked weakly, but it didn't hold. Her voice softened.

"My family's probably losing their star-damned minds looking for me. I—I wanna go back. I really do. This world? It's overwhelming. I'm not like the other Cupids, the veterans. They come down all the time—hunt witches, steal their stones, leave with that smug 'peacekeeper' grin. I never left home before this. Not once."

She hugged her knees, eyes distant.

"Back there… it was beautiful. Floating groves. Astral winds humming through glass-petaled trees. But I always felt trapped. There's so many rules. So many boundaries. And I get it—we need 'em. They keep us alive. But it's like… like no one trusts me. Like because I'm 20 years young, I can't possibly make good decisions." Her voice cracked a little. "I hate admitting this, but sometimes I get why the witches do what they do. Not the murder or the corruption—gods no. But the… rebellion. That desperate clawing for freedom. I feel that. In my mind. My body. My soul. Like I'm wrapped up in silk that's too tight, no matter how pretty it looks."

Then she stopped.

She gasped, blinking rapidly as if waking from a trance. She stood up fast, brushing imaginary dirt from her legs.

"Forget everything I just said! Cupid orders!" She declared, pointing dramatically at Kota.

Kota blinked. "Uh. No?"

"You said what…?" She whined, lunging at him. "You weren't supposed to hear any of that!"

He started laughing as she tried to tackle him. "You monologued! What was I supposed to do—cover my ears and hum?!"

They wrestled in the grass, her wings flapping wildly as she tried to squish his face, and him laughing through choked half-struggles.

"Okay, okay!" Kota said, breathless. "I won't bring it up again."

"You better not," she huffed, standing and brushing herself off. "Or I'll shoot an arrow into your dreams."

Without warning, she launched herself into the air, flipping once with dramatic flair. Her wings curled around her like a feathered cocoon, suspended mid-air just above camp. A shimmer of pale pink starlight sparkled off her skin.

Inside her silken shell, Lyzelle lay curled, her heart pounding softer now.

'Why did I say all that? I never tell anyone those things. Not other Cupids. Not even my mother. I'd be laughed at. Or worse—pity-stared into silence. But with Kota… it just came out. Was it because I saw him back there, bleeding admitting his own thoughts to that witch? He didn't hide anything from Yuniper or anyone else around. Not his anger. Not his pain. Maybe… maybe that made me feel like I could too. I got too comfortable. I can't let myself become that vulnerable to a human again…'

Her breathing slowed. And for the first time in a long while—she fell into a deep, real sleep.

—

Kota lay on his makeshift bedding, hands behind his head, eyes on the floating Cupid above him.

"…The way she sleeps is so weird," he muttered with a lopsided grin.

He looked back to the stars. Silent.

"…Shit."

'I wonder what comes next after this. Fighting more witches? Me learning more about the Cupid? Who even knows. I never thought this would be how the day goes. Why am I even going along with this? For the power? Maybe my own purpose will come along the way? Maybe even true happiness? I just gotta find out.'

Capital Varr-Khaed of the Ironbone Kingdom

Varr-Khaed, the bone-crowned capital of the Ironbone Kingdom, shimmered under the ash-silver light of twin moons. Tall ironwood towers jutted into the night like ribs of a fossilized giant, adorned in bone-etched banners that fluttered with ghost wind. Lanterns burned a green fire—soul flame—fueled by penitents' offerings. The streets were jagged veins of dark stone, carved with the names of the dead and the guilty. Every citizen bore a bone-inscribed armlet: pale rings of guilt that recorded their bloodlines' sins, glowing faintly when watched by the Forgiveness Watchers.

Forgiveness was illegal. Guilt was power. Shame was heritage.

The city never truly slept. At night, Varr-Khaed hummed with confession duels, guilt-merchants trading for ancestral crimes, and execution poets reciting sins beneath carved gallows. Even the soldiers patrolling the streets wore guilt-etched plate—black steel kissed with ivory marrow inlays. They moved like specters, clanking softly, blades curved inward, not to kill—but to extract regret.

Over the city loomed the Palace of the Martyr-King, a fortress-palace built from bone mortar and fossil glass, its towers shaped like twisted spines. The main keep, Skelneth Spire, gleamed with ambient sorrowlight—harvested from the tears of saints long forgotten.

Within the upper chambers, shadows flickered against walls carved with bleeding cherubs and murals of war saints devoured by their own armies.

And there, in a bed carved from fused thighbones of giants, King Rellka reigned over the night in his own fashion.

The chamber was heated by caged flamewisps, casting rippling gold and blood-red hues on the walls. Silk drapes, embroidered with sin-chronicles, flowed from ceiling hooks like ghost banners. He lounged among five women—dancers, nobles, spies—each of them marked with pleasure charms that shimmered faintly across their skin. Their movements were choreographed, like an ancient dance of dominion and worship. Rellka, ever the conductor, moved with calculated dominance—he was not just a king, but an executioner of desire.

His fingers left golden trails across skin. His mouth bit gently, then harsh. There was rhythm, there was elegance, there was war in the way he claimed them. A king's love was never gentle—it was a test of endurance, a negotiation of screams and surrender. They didn't seek kindness. They sought favor. Legacy. And Rellka gave them both pain and euphoria like a crown of fire.

King Rellka commanded the chamber as the five women surrounded him on his massive bed. The raven-haired beauty moved first, positioning herself on top of him while the blonde gripped his shoulders from behind. The copper-haired woman watched with hooded eyes, hands sliding down her own body as she waited her turn. He entered the first woman with firm, measured strokes, guiding her hips as she rode him while the caramel-skinned beauty pressed herself against his back.

The blonde woman's lips crashed against his while the redhead's tongue traced down his chest. Hands groped and squeezed everywhere - fingers digging into soft flesh, palms kneading breasts, mouths latching onto sensitive spots. The raven-haired beauty's tongue wrestled with his as the others took turns sharing deep, probing kisses. Their hands never stopped roaming, mapping every curve and valley while tongues explored and tasted.

The king moved between them with tireless energy, taking each woman in turn. The copper-haired beauty wrapped her legs around him as he drove into her, while the others writhed against each other in anticipation. The caramel-skinned woman mounted the raven-haired beauty while Rellka took her from behind, the bed creaking beneath their vigorous movements. They switched positions fluidly - some riding, others being taken from different angles as the king demonstrated his stamina. Hours passed in their shared pleasure until they lay across his massive bed, bodies glistening with exertion. Rellka surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction before summoning his attendants to escort them out.

He whispered names he'd never remember, kissed skin he'd never feel again. But he always wore the same grin. That tired, menacing grin.

Until—a knock.

Silence followed. The women froze, eyes darting. Rellka's head tilted.

He sighed.

Donning his gold-trimmed robe, embroidered with eagle skulls and fire serpents, he walked barefoot to the massive bone door and opened it.

Two armored knights stood there, iron halos of sin around their helms. One bowed.

"Sire, we—"

"I thought I said—no interruptions," Rellka said. Calm. Velvety. Deathly.

The knights stammered apologies.

Then Rellka smiled. "Ahh… it's okay."

The knights relaxed—only for Rellka to press a single finger to one of their breastplates.

With a sickening crack, a pulse of invisible force crushed the knight backward through the stone wall, bones splintering, armor crumpling like parchment. Blood spidered across the corridor wall in slow rivulets.

The knight lived—but barely. He twitched like a dying beetle.

Rellka stepped over the broken body. "Speak."

The remaining knight, visibly shaking, swallowed hard. "Scouts returned from the village of Dorrveth, milord. Names Brell and Drenna. A witch appeared. But—she was killed… by a Cupid. One who made a contract… with a human boy."

Rellka's grin widened. His orange eyes narrowed like daggers.

"…A Cupid…" he repeated, voice soft and hollow.

The silence dragged.

The knight stood frozen. The shadows twisted around Rellka, making him look more beast than man.

"…Perfect," he said.

And without another word, he turned—robe trailing, gold feathers trembling with every step—and made his way down the bloodlit hall toward the Throne of Wrathbone.

Rellka's golden robe dragged behind him as he strode through the obsidian-clad halls of Varr-Khaed, each footstep echoing with a low, metallic weight. The air was cool with night, but the torches lining the bone-inlaid walls flickered with a ghostly, reddish flame—sourced not from oil, but a mixture of guiltfire and crushed repentance stones. Every flame in the Ironbone Palace fed off sins unsaid.

As the double doors of the throne room creaked open, two figures immediately dropped to their knees. Brell and Drenna, armored in polished blacksteel etched with the names of their ancestors' crimes, bowed their heads low. Their breathing was shallow. Everyone else present—scribes, historians, even the torchbearers—stood at silent attention, tension bleeding into the cold marble beneath their boots.

The throne room itself was cathedral-like in size, its vaulted ceiling webbed with ivory chandeliers shaped like weeping skulls. Massive pillars rose like petrified bones, each engraved with generations of sins from every noble family who had ever ruled. But all of it—every mural, every burnished artifact—paled compared to the throne.

And she who sat on it.

Rellka's daughter.

Or what was left of her.

A blackened skeleton clothed in violet velvet and silver-trimmed lace sat regally at the top of the stone dais. Her long hair, perfectly preserved, tumbled down the back of the throne in lifeless waves. From her hollow sockets bloomed two blood-dyed roses, eternally fresh, their petals full and wet, as if crying red. A crown of thorns circled her brow. She had not moved in years, yet no dust dared settle on her bones.

Rellka's voice broke the silence.

"Speak."

Brell, still kneeling, replied with restrained caution. "The Cupid made a contract with the boy. Together… they slayed a witch. A high-ranking one. Her soul fractured and became a weapon."

Drenna continued, "We'd known about the woman—Yuniper. We were keeping her in Dorrveth. Letting her walk free. She was bait. We hoped a Cupid might catch her scent. Though, she was responsible for many deaths that occurred during her time there. But we felt the sacrifice was worth it."

Rellka stepped forward slowly. "You did well. And sacrifice is necessary…to catch the strong."

"Thank y—"

"—I..did not ask for gratitude."

Silence blanketed the hall like snowfall. Not even a cough dared pierce it.

Then Rellka climbed the steps to the throne and knelt before the skeleton, his fingers gently brushing the hem of her dress. He didn't speak for a long while. When he did, it was a low murmur, thick with fatigue and fury.

"I placed the roses in her eyes… because even in death, I wanted her to see beauty. The kind this world rips from us."

He stood, voice rising, echoing. "This kingdom was not built on forgiveness. It was built on sin. On grief. Every stone of this kingdom is mortared with guilt. And still… I could not stop her."

His fingers curled into a fist. "She fell in love with a boy from Cevanth. An enemy kingdom that thrives on war, creating kids in war and bloodshed. Those involved with the kingdom's hierarchy were not noto invest in feelings with another until they've killed 1000 soldiers. They murdered the boy once they discovered he fell for my daughter. And I—I was ready to bring my daughter home, punish her for possibly causing a war, yes, but protect her too. I waited."

He turned, pacing, emotions boiling beneath the surface. "But she didn't return. She fled, heart shattered. Found the coven. Found the Witch Queen. She took up a name not hers. Ravaged the border. Painted the enemy kingdoms' villages in revenge. And then…"

He stared up at the throne again.

"A Cupid came. Slaughtered the coven before they could attack the capital of Cevanth. Slaughtered her. I arrived too late. She didn't even get a trial. Not a word. Only that Cupid's blindfold… etched in pink flame."

Rellka exhaled sharply.

"They say Cupids act in balance. That they stop gods from birthing too early. But to me? They are cowards. Striking from blind justice. Denying a father's voice."

Suddenly, red light pooled around his feet. Rellka's body glowed faintly as a burning crown of crimson petals rose into the air above his head, orbiting like divine rings.

"I offered my soul to five flowers of the gods," he said. "5 times there was a high chance I would die and not have my soul returned, but I was blessed. With fire, shadow, marrow, silence, and wrath. I do not pray. I do not kneel. But I will find a Cupid…"

He jabbed a finger at the throne. "And I will place their severed head here, in her lap."

His eyes turned back to the crowd. "Gather the knights. They haven't gone far. They'll need shelter. They've likely set camp by now."

Before the command could ripple out, a soft voice echoed down the hall.

"…Daddy?"

Rellka did not turn.

The child padded barefoot into the room in a long nightgown. Her hair, thick and curled with streaks of white at the ends, was disheveled. She rubbed her golden eyes with balled fists.

"Daddy, I can't sleep…"

Rellka inhaled. His jaw twitched.

"Little one," he said with a gentleness that strained against his fury, "you must rest. I have important work."

She stepped forward. "But I can't sleep when you're not here."

He stood frozen.

The image of his first daughter—how he always said he'd talk to her tomorrow, how he put kingdom before kin—rose in his mind like bile.

His knuckles cracked. His teeth clenched.

"…You should be resting," he said again, softly this time. "But… I will stay."

The crown above him flickered, then dissolved like ash on the wind.

He turned to the assembly. "Ready the knights. Ride for the dungeons. The edges of the Northkin Mountains. There will be a hunt. Take the scroll with you. I've prepared for moments like these just in case." And then, slowly, he knelt and lifted his younger daughter into his arms. "I got you, dear."

As the knights filed out, not one dared breathe too loudly.

….

Nighttime in Varr-Khaed was not quiet.

The great capital of the Ironbone Kingdom—its towers needle-like against the crimson moon—buzzed with whispers as thunderous galloping echoed through the stone streets. Citizens, bone-armlets clinking, peeked through narrow windows and curtain slits, murmuring with suspicion and awe.

"Knights?" one woman asked, clutching her child.

"They only ride for cursed beasts, enemy invasions, and negotiations" said another.

"Ora flock of witches. But that's for the Hunters…"

"Did something reach the capital?"

Thirty knights thundered through the streets on plated destriers, their armor glinting in silver and coal-black. The curved horns on their helms resembled antlers, each carved with runes representing their family's greatest sins. Their capes were ashen red, trimmed with glyph-thread that shimmered faintly in motion.

At the front rode Sir Halven, captain of the knights, with his messy blonde hair in a ponytail, bushy blonde beard and blue eyes, his blade resting sheathed against his back—its runes glowing dimly, etched in ancient light-blue script. Behind him, the formation stayed tight, riding in disciplined silence for a while… until one voice spoke.

"You really believe what Brell and Drenna said?" asked a gruff knight, his voice muffled beneath his helm.

Halven replied, "They watched the boy and Cupid slay a high-ranked witch. Her soul turned into a weapon. I believe it."

Another muttered, "Said they went west. Toward the old ridgelands."

"If that's true," said a third, "then the dungeons will need to empty fast. Get trackers, scouts. Anyone useful."

Suddenly—screeEEAAUGH!

From the left, a nearby building exploded outward in a cascade of bone shards and black bile. From it emerged a cursed beast—a grotesque mass of twisted limbs and flesh-bone armor. It stood three stories tall, with a crown of antlers fused into its skull. Its mouth opened vertically, from throat to forehead, as it roared, black mist spraying across the stones. It radiated rot and myth—a forgotten creature once sacred, now drenched in darkness.

"I got this." Halven shouted. "…How disgusting."

Halven stood in his stirrups, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. The light-blue runes along its edge flared brightly as he galloped straight toward the monstrosity. His horse didn't slow. The beast lunged down.

And then—FLASH.

One horizontal arc, glowing blue. Wind split. Light bled.

The cursed beast paused mid-lunge… then split open diagonally. Black ichor steamed from the wound. The blue aura surged through its limbs—and then, it combusted, disintegrating into a cloud of ash and shrieking crows that vanished into shadow.

The city held its breath. Then the knights kept riding.

They reached the dungeons by the moon's highest point.

The Prison of Korr-Marg stood like a forgotten mountain at the edge of the kingdom. Four tiers stacked atop one another, each carved from blackstone and bone-reinforced steel. Towering watchtowers flanked it, and bridges of pale iron linked its outer and inner rings. Runic pylons crackled at each gate—symbols pulsing faintly, warding off spirits and escape attempts alike.

Inside, the lower ward was a massive gathering yard, lined with jagged stone and bleached gravel. Dozens of prisoners in ragged white tunics—each branded with their family's crest in faded ink—were forced to kneel or sit in rows. The ground was grimy, the walls damp with history and bloodstains.

Some prisoners argued with guards. Others jeered at one another.

"Oi, what's this about?" one man with a shattered nose barked, standing before being smacked back down.

"They ever bring knights here?" another asked, chewing a rotten apple core.

"They don't unless we're all about to die," said a bald woman with no teeth.

One lanky man with a tattoo of a weeping tree on his scalp laughed hysterically, slapping his knees. "Maybe they're finally letting us out! A witch wedding!"

"Shut it," someone growled, throwing a bone.

In the center of the group stood two quiet figures.

One was a man with long black dreadlocks, ink stains under both of his pale eyes. His nails were blackened, and he kept to himself, head tilted in mild curiosity. He wore the same white uniform, though his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing veins like ink lines and strange spiral scars.

Beside him stood a taller man, built like a pillar. Dark red beard, light brown hair slicked back, and deep red eyes. A scar ran from the corner of his brow across his cheek like a lightning bolt. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Neither of them spoke. But they watched.

The knights stood before the prisoners, forming a line like statues. Sir Halven stepped forward and unraveled a scroll sealed with a crimson glyph—King Rellka's personal decree.

A hush fell over the entire dungeon. Even the madman with the weeping tree tattoo stopped laughing.

Halven took a breath.

'Already eager. This should reach their ears nicely..'

The parchment glowed faintly in his hands.

He began to speak.

The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the yard as Sir Halven unrolled the glowing scroll, its crimson glyph smoldering softly under moonlight dripping through the dungeon's barred ceiling. Every prisoner grew quiet—silent, save for the low crackle of magical energy hissing from the collars affixed tightly to their necks, thin needles pricking just enough to keep pain constant and magic locked away.

Halven's voice boomed through the congregation:

"By decree of His Majesty, King Rellka of the Ironbone Kingdom, ruler of Varr-Khaed and wielder of the Five Affinities—

A Cupid has breached our soil. She is accompanied by a bonded mortal.

They are considered enemies of the kingdom.

They have slain a high-ranked witch—her soul turned to weapon, as witnessed by loyal scouts.

They are to be hunted.

A hundred of you will be selected.

Should you bring the head of the Cupid to His Majesty… and should the bonded boy fall as well…

You will be freed."

For a moment—absolute stillness.

Then—chaos.

The dungeon erupted into a frenzy of shouting, laughter, and disbelief.

"WE'RE GETTIN' OUT!"

"I'LL SKULL THAT CUPID MYSELF!"

"I got kids! I'm comin' home, gods-dammit!"

"You believe this? Ain't no Cupid stronger than me!"

"They're sending us to die, fools!"

One inmate—a toothless woman with cracks in her skin like tree bark—screamed with laughter. A younger one did backflips on cracked stone while another tried to pickpocket a knight and got a spear butt in the stomach.

Halven raised his gauntleted hand and slammed the butt of his sword against the ground. "SILENCE!"

It worked.

Another knight stepped forward, voice low and sharp:

"Those selected will be escorted into the woodlands west of Dorrveth, near the base of the Northkin Mountains.

Your collars will be removed before drop-off.

Attempting to flee will result in immediate death.

If you return without the Cupid's head—

You'll come back in pieces.

No second chances."

From within the crowd, two prisoners stood side by side, silent amid the madness.

Sen —the one with long black dreadlocks, pale skin, and black ink stained beneath his sharp eyes—licked his lower lip with a venomous smile. His nails tapped against each other thoughtfully, already calculating.

Vexxen, the red-eyed man beside him, arms crossed, muttered like gravel underfoot. "A hundred to one. Odds are better than last time."

Sen turned his head, but not fully. "Hunting a Cupid. That's cute. I think I'm in love already."

"..Child's play.."

"Aww. Don't gotta be so broody in times like this, right?" Sen said with venom. "We're about to be free."

"…Mm."

The knights began calling names. One by one, prisoners stepped forward, dragged by guards or marching on their own with mad grins and clenched fists.

"Darrick Redgore."

"Salai the Flamevein."

"Mak of House Briam."

"Sen."

"Vexxen."

Sen let out a chuckle. "About time," he hissed.

The two stepped from the crowd.

As the group was escorted out of the yard to where massive iron-clawed griffons waited, tethered and armoured in silverplate, a desperate voice behind them roared in fury:

"NO! NO—NOT HIM!"

A burly prisoner surged forward. He had a massive chest, thick arms, and a beard full of bones. His tunic was torn and scrawled with prayers. "I HAVE A WIFE! I'M THE ONE WHO DESERVES TO LEAVE! NOT THAT RAT!"

He lunged at Sen, hands out to choke the life from him.

Sen didn't even flinch.

With casual malice, Sen's arm snaked backward, his body barely twisting, his head hadn't even turned, as he grabbed the inmate's face mid-scream. Then, like a serpent striking, he spun and smashed the back of the man's skull into the stone floor—crack. Stone shattered, dust lifted. The man lay twitching, unconscious, blood trailing from the corners of his mouth.

The crowd of inmates went wild.

"HAH!"

"DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

"SEN'S A GODDAMN MONSTER!"

"LEAVE HIM DEAD! LEAVE HIM DEAD!"

Sen wiped his hand off on the man's tunic and crouched low beside him. His voice was a whisper dipped in poison:

"Repeat what you said?"

The man didn't move.

Sen stood up and walked away, grinning ear to ear.

Outside, knights stood in formation near a long table where prisoners were lined up. One by one, the magical collars were removed—ripped from the neck with a sharp, glowing rune knife. Each removal left a deep sting and a bloody ring across the skin.

"ARGH—DAMN!"

"Is it supposed to hurt this much?!"

"My neck's BLEEDIN'!"

"Freedom always stings," one knight muttered. "If you don't die trying to get it, haha."

Sen and Vexxen stepped into line, their collars removed with clean slices.

Then, the prisoners were ushered into the massive griffons, each beast capable of carrying twenty men. Their wings were wide as rooftops, feathers a mix of rusted gold and pale grey, their beaks hooked like battleaxes. Chain harnesses strapped prisoners in. Knights mounted side perches to keep them controlled.

Soon, five great griffons rose into the night, with five more behind them, each carrying twenty condemned souls into the sky—a hundred total, wings spread like war banners.

Beneath them, the woodlands of Thálgrimr loomed—silent, cold, and full of things older than men.