I remember it vividly, the day i almost killed the one person in the world whom i loved more than myself, for whom i was about to raze marrowind to ashes, for whom i would kill primus, for whom i would burn the world down, my brother whom i loved so much, and the irony was it that i saw him get butchered and didn't do a thing about it.

  It was a windy day, and the sun hung bright in a sky that still held its color—for now. Uphill, the world burst with life. Green grass rolled across the terrain in waves. Sunflowers stood tall, their golden faces turned in devoted worship toward the heavens, as if praying for deliverance or damnation, it mattered not which. Butterflies drifted between blooms, painting the air with movement and fragile grace, until one landed on the blade of a longsword held by steady hands.

  Sable stood with the sword resting before him, his posture that of a man calculating angles and distances. Gone was the smile from the execution square—that unsettling, defiant grin. In its place lived a predator's focus, the terrible clarity of someone who had measured the cost of what was coming and found it acceptable. His black eyes tracked the horizon, reading the wind, reading the approaching storm of dust and footsteps.

  To his right, sitting on a stone with deliberate casualness that belied the tension coiled through his frame, was Varaxis. The trap master of the Brotherhood. A man in his mid-thirties with a brown beard kept neat and tidy, hair cut with the same precision he applied to his craft. Sweat beaded on his forehead and neck—not from fear but from labor. Placing traps in a sunny battlefield required the kind of work that drained a man, that demanded absolute focus and physical endurance. His hands moved with the same proficiency that marked his swordsmanship, each motion economical and purposeful.

  On Varaxis's right stood Lanze, his hammer resting across his broad shoulders like a burden he had long since learned to carry with pride. The weapon shone as if emitting its own light, catching the sun and holding it captive. His posture was that of a man who had never doubted his own strength, who carried confidence not as arrogance but as simple fact. He was a hammer, and hammers did not question their purpose.

  And to the left of Sable stood Lucius.

  Black hair. Black eyes. And hands that trembled.

  He did not hide it. There was no attempt at concealment, no effort to present a facade of control. His hands shook visibly, tremors that ran from wrist to fingertip, a physical manifestation of something churning beneath his skin. Some of the Brotherhood members noticed it more than others. Varaxis glanced at it, then away, his attention returning to the traps. Lanze seemed not to see it at all, his focus locked on the horizon. But it was there, impossible to ignore—the trembling of a man holding something back, something vast and terrible and desperate to be released.

  Behind them all, completing the formation, stood Chyros.

  The white-haired warrior was in his late thirties, but his hair was not the white of age—it was the white of something burned away, something that had experienced extremes and emerged altered. His green eyes held the weight of someone who had seen too much and survived it anyway. He stood with the ease of a man who had made peace with his own mortality, or perhaps had transcended it entirely.

  Sable turned to address his gathered brothers, his voice steady and clear. He outlined the formation, the positioning, the strategy that would be employed when the tide came. But when he spoke of positions, when he named each warrior and their role, he did not mention Lucius's place.

  He did not need to.

  Everyone understood.

  As Sable finished speaking, the sky darkened. The clouds that had been gathering on the horizon finally arrived in earnest, massive and towering, blotting out the sun. The light dimmed, and suddenly the sunflowers seemed to lose their faith, their golden faces turning away from a sky that no longer offered warmth.

  Then came the sound.

  Thumping. Rhythmic. Relentless. The ground itself seemed to shake with each impact—the marching of men, hundreds of feet moving in synchronized purpose. One hundred soldiers. A flank force meant to turn the tide of the war, to sweep around the defenders and destroy Marrowind's army from the side.

  In the distance, the battle raged. Marrowind's forces clashed with Glain's conglomerate in a grinding, desperate struggle. Blood already stained the earth. Steel already sang its terrible song. But this flank—these one hundred men—could break everything. They could sweep through and turn a stalemate into a rout, a defense into a massacre.

  All that stood between them and chaos was five men.

  Five men standing in a sunflower field as the light died and the sound of marching grew louder, closer, more inevitable. Five men who had trained together, bled together, survived together. five men who understood that some moments do not offer the luxury of retreat or hesitation.

  The wind picked up, scattering petals like snow.

  And Lucius's hands continued to tremble.

  The hands kept trembling.

  Varaxis's eyes fixed on them, tracking the increasing violence of the motion. He shifted his weight on the stone, his trap-master's mind calculating probabilities and risks. When he spoke, his voice carried the pragmatism of a man who had learned that sentiment could get soldiers killed.

  "Are you sure he can do this?" Varaxis asked, directing the question to Sable but keeping his gaze on Lucius. "His hands have been trembling quite a bit now. The trembling keeps getting more violent with each mission we carry out. This time, I think he won't be able to wield his sword."

  He paused, letting the weight of the observation settle.

  "This trembling doesn't seem to be due to excitement. It's more like he's restraining himself. And on the battlefield, hesitation claims lives. You know it better than anyone, Sable. Better than any of us."

  Sable said nothing.

  He turned his head slowly, his calculated gaze shifting from the horizon to Lucius's trembling hands. He studied them for a long moment—the shaking fingers, the tension coiled through the arms, the barely contained violence barely held in check. Then his eyes moved to Varaxis, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but absolute.

  "You know why I keep two of you on my right?" Sable asked. It was not truly a question. "My right hand is my dominant hand. I can never be defeated by my right side—you know that well, don't you? But my left..." He paused, and in that pause lived an entire history of vulnerability and trust. "My left is vulnerable. Even after these many years of practicing my skills, I sometimes completely forget my left side exists. I still trust him for my vulnerable side. So don't worry. He won't let harm get in our way. You have my word."

  Varaxis nodded slowly, a grudging acceptance settling across his features. But doubt still lingered in his eyes, and he voiced it one final time, his tone carrying the weight of pragmatism and hard truth.

  "You know if he hesitates today, there won't be any other choice left, right? You know that, don't you?"

  Sable nodded. His jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing more. He turned his full attention back to the horizon, to the approaching thunder of marching feet, to the wall of one hundred soldiers that grew closer with each passing moment. His mind cleared. The conversation faded. The doubt was acknowledged and then deliberately, methodically, set aside.

  There was only the enemy ahead now.

  Only the battle waiting.

  Only the five of them standing between chaos and order, between slaughter and survival.

  The trembling in Lucius's hands continued, but Sable did not look at them again. His faith, once given, would not be withdrawn. Not today. Not when it mattered most.

  The ground shook with the approaching footsteps.

  The flank battalion approached the marked point—invisible to their eyes, but burning in the Brotherhood's awareness like a beacon.

  Sable gave the signal. His hand rose, steady and commanding. He glanced at Varaxis, and the trap master's grin widened before Sable could even speak.

  "They work wonders, don't you give that look to me now," Varaxis said, his eyes already tracking the approaching soldiers.

  The first file stepped into the trap.

  The snap was catastrophic. Metal teeth closed with such violent force that three legs simply detached from their bodies and flew through the air like terrible birds. The limbs arced across the sunflower field, landing in the grass, in the flowers, painting the golden petals with red.

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  The battalion faltered.

  For a moment, confusion rippled through their ranks. They had not seen the Brotherhood. They did not understand what had happened. They thought this was simply a lucky trap, a misfortune, nothing more. Their commander barked orders, and the men pushed forward, driven by fear of punishment more than courage.

  With each step, more limbs flew.

  Men screamed. The traps Varaxis had laid with meticulous precision throughout the field snapped and released their terrible judgment. Fingers. Hands. Feet. Legs. Each trap a surgeon's precision applied to the architecture of human bodies. The battalion's advance became a nightmare of constant mutilation, constant loss.

  Varaxis's grin kept widening.

  "These babies never disappoint," he called to Sable, his eyes never leaving the carnage, "and the best part is you can't guess where the next one is!"

  By the time all the traps had been triggered, half the battalion lay scattered across the field—dead, dying, or too broken to continue fighting. Fifty men remained. Still enough to break a normal defense. Still enough to turn the tide of war.

  But the Brotherhood was not a normal defense.

  The fifty survivors reached the narrow pass uphill where the Brotherhood waited. Chaos erupted.

  Lanze moved to the opening first, his hammer raised like a prayer answered in violence. When he brought it down, the sound was not a sound—it was the end of sound itself. Thump. Clank. Metal meeting bone, bone giving way to force. Cries of mercy erupted, shrieks of pain split the air, but the hammer did not stop. It rose and fell in a rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with purpose.

  Varaxis charged down the narrow pass with his shortsword drawn, his body moving with the grace of a man who had practiced this dance ten thousand times. Every vital point was his target—throat, groin, heart, eyes. He was not just efficient; he was an artist painting with blood.

  As the battle intensified, Sable and Chyros joined the fray. They moved through the enemy soldiers like death itself had taken physical form, cutting men down with surgical precision. No wasted effort. No unnecessary movement. Just the cold mathematics of survival applied with blade and will.

  And Lucius stood motionless.

  His hands trembled, but he did not unsheathe his katana. He simply stood there, eyes closed, making peace with his god. Because he did not want to kill anymore. This was supposed to be his last run with the Brotherhood. Only Sable knew that. Only Sable understood that Lucius had come here to lay down his sword, not to wield it one final time.

  Then a sword came from the far left.

  It was aimed at Sable, a perfect killing strike from an angle he could not defend. Sable's hands were already committed to another man, his sword lodged deep in the guts of a soldier he had engaged. There was no way to dodge. No way to block. Everyone's hands were full.

  The blade was going to find Sable's back.

  Lucius opened his eyes.

  In that moment, the man who had made peace with his god ceased to exist. In his place came something else—something that had been restrained for so long that its release was like breaking a dam that held back an ocean.

  He lunged forward.

  The Brotherhood members—all of them—backed away instinctively. Not from tactical consideration but from pure, primal fear. Because what entered the battle was not a man anymore. It was a massacre given flesh.

  The trembling hands became serrated daggers, and the katana sang.

  Limbs were not flying now. Half-bodies flew through the air, their guts trailing behind them like terrible ribbons. A soldier attempted to strike Lucius from above while he was executing a vertical slash. Lucius altered his sword's trajectory mid-motion, shifting the blade upward with such speed that it split the man from bottom to top, his body flopping to both sides like a grotesque flower blooming in the wrong season.

  The surrounding soldiers tried to run.

  Lucius swung his sword in a clean, powerful arc that seemed to contain all the restraint he had ever held in check, all the fury he had ever suppressed. Six heads flew through the air like fruit falling from a tree, their eyes still open, their expressions still frozen in shock. The blood spilled across the sunflowers, across the faces of the Brotherhood members, mixing with the dew and the pollen until the field was no longer golden but crimson.

  It was a wolf unleashed in a sheep pen.

  Sable had thought the narrow pass would be his advantage—fewer enemies, more control. But Lucius was now deep in the enemy formation, moving through the soldiers like a force of nature, like something that could not be stopped or reasoned with. There was no sign that he was going to stop. No indication that he understood mercy or restraint anymore.

  Varaxis watched the arc swing that claimed six heads. His face went pale beneath the blood already spattered there.

  "What the fuck is this?" he gasped, his voice cracking with a fear that had nothing to do with the enemy soldiers. "It was supposed to be a battle, not a massacre! He's lost it! Sable, stop him! If you don't stop him now, he'll be too far gone! He won't come back!"

  Sable said nothing.

  He simply stood and watched. Watched the beast tear through men like they were made of paper. Watched the sunflowers drink blood. Watched the last restraint shatter in the form of a man he thought he knew.

  And in his silence lived a terrible understanding: Lucius had not come here to lay down his sword.

  He had come here to finally, fully, let it sing.

  Sable's expression remained calm on the surface—a warrior's mask, practiced and perfect. But deep within, he understood a terrible truth: Lucius had mastered the sword to an extent that rivaled the gods themselves. No one could match him. Not with blade, not with arrow, not with any weapon forged by mortal hands. And now, with his rage finally unleashed, with the restraint shattered like glass, there was no force in the world that could stop him.

  Ten men remained alive.

  Twenty lay dead—or what passed for dead. Their bodies were scattered across the pass like broken dolls, pieces separated from wholes, a landscape of devastation that defied the mathematics of human fragility. Lucius stood amid it all, drenched in red so complete that he looked less like a man and more like a manifestation of blood given form. His sword shone silver and magenta beneath the gore, still hungry, still singing its terrible song.

  He looked back at Sable.

  For just a moment, their eyes met. Lucius's chest heaved as he drew a deep breath before continuing his hunt toward the runners—the soldiers who had turned to flee, who had finally understood that this was not a battle but an execution.

  Sable sheathed his sword and closed his eyes.

  A memory came unbidden—vivid and painful in its clarity. His parents. His mother and father. Faces he could no longer quite remember, features that had begun to fade with time, but the feeling remained. The warmth of their presence. How they treated Lucius and him when they were young. How no matter how angry Lucius became, how wild his fury burned, they would calm him down with nothing but a smile. A simple smile that contained entire worlds of peace.

  "Don't interfere," Sable said quietly, and the words carried a weight that made Varaxis and Chyros both turn to look at him.

  Then Sable began moving toward the man who seemed gone.

  As he approached the still-slashing Lucius, he stopped a few steps back. Pure fear choked through him—not the fear of death, but something deeper. The bloodlust pouring from Lucius was suffocating, almost alive itself, pressing against Sable's chest like a physical thing. This was not the Lucius he knew. This was something else entirely.

  Lucius slaughtered the last soldier.

  The body fell, and suddenly there was nothing left to kill. The silence that followed was more deafening than any scream. Lucius stood breathing hard, his entire body heaving with exertion and adrenaline, his face hidden beneath the mask of blood. He stood motionless, his back toward Sable, a predator that had exhausted its prey and was now simply... waiting.

  Sable gathered every ounce of courage he possessed.

  He approached slowly, each step deliberate, each movement calculated to show no threat. When he reached out, his hand trembling slightly despite all his training, he placed it on Lucius's shoulder.

  In that split second, the blade sang.

  The katana rose with devastating speed, ready to deliver another melody of death, ready to add one more body to the mountain of corpses. But midway through the strike, recognition bloomed. The blade stopped mid-song, suspended in air, trembling with barely contained violence.

  Lucius saw who it was.

  Sable thought his legs might give out. Thought the fear might simply collapse him where he stood. But he endured. He held his ground and met those black eyes—eyes that were beginning, slowly, to return from whatever distant place they had traveled.

  Lucius came to his senses.

  The realization hit him all at once—the drenching of red that covered every inch of him, the coppery smell that filled the air, the weight of what he had done. His hand opened, and the blade fell from his fingers, clattering against stone. When he looked down at the pass, at the bodies, at the blood painting everything in shades of crimson, something broke inside him.

  "I don't know what happened," he said, his voice barely recognizable, cracked and raw. "It was just... I saw the sword was going to strike you, and I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't—"

  He stopped, gathering himself with visible effort. His hands had begun to tremble again, but this time it was different. Not the trembling of restraint, but the trembling of someone who had glimpsed what he was truly capable of and was horrified by the reflection.

  He collected the fallen katana and sheathed it with reverent care, as if the blade itself was something sacred that had been corrupted by his use of it. Then he turned and made his way back toward the uphill, moving like a man walking through a dream.

  As he emerged in front of the others, the sky opened.

  Rain began to fall—heavy, cleansing, absolute. It fell like judgment and mercy intertwined. The sunflowers, which had been stained with blood, began to glow yellow again as the rain washed them clean. Nature reasserting itself. Life reclaiming what death had tried to take.

  But Lucius remained red.

  So much blood covered him, so much death had soaked into his clothes and skin, that even the heavy downpour could not immediately cleanse him. The rain ran from his feet in streams of diluted red, and with each drop that fell away, he could see more clearly what he had done. How many lives he had taken. How many souls he had sent to whatever gods waited beyond.

  The sunflowers bloomed yellow around him.

  And Lucius stood in the rain, drenched in red, finally understanding what he truly was.

  It was the moment I truly knew what I was capable of even in my mortality, it was like having a power so enormous that you know it can devour you, but the worst part is it will devour everything and everyone with you. It wasn't something you would get by giving sacrifice or offerings to the gods, it was something that I had learned how to wield without my conscience and that was a mistake I couldn't revert. This was another curse I carried with me.

  You shall tame the beast not put it in a cage,

  Because retaliation always ends with a fit of rage.