Aeris woke to the smell of herbs and faint smoke. Her eyelids felt heavy, lashes sticking as she forced them open. Above her stretched a low ceiling of pale stone, lantern light flickering across its surface.
She lay on a simple cot draped in wool blankets, the mattress hard but steady under her. Around the room, shelves lined the walls, stacked with clay jars, bundles of dried plants, and stoppered vials of medicine. A faint metallic tang clung to the air—blood, though not hers alone.
A hand shifted at her side. Seraphine jolted upright, her chair scraping against the floor. Relief washed across her face like a wave breaking free.
"Aeris!" she exclaimed, eyes glassy with held-back tears. "Thank the gods, you’re awake."
Aeris swallowed, her throat raw. "The... tournament."
"Tournament?" Seraphine blinked, almost laughing through the tremble in her voice. "You won, Aeris. You defeated him."
Aeris exhaled, letting the words settle for only a breath before she pressed further. "The reinforcements. Did the King—"
Seraphine’s smile cracked. She wiped quickly at her cheek, trying to hide the tear that escaped. "The prince himself left with the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard. They marched with the army at dawn... they’re headed straight for Ashenhold."
Aeris tried to sit up, heart pounding at the thought of Edward fighting without her. But fire seared through her abdomen, sharp and blinding. She collapsed back onto the cot with a hiss, clutching her side.
Seraphine rushed forward, gently pressing her shoulder. "You can’t. The healer said you’ll need at least a week—maybe two—before you even think about standing. That wound nearly split you open. Moving now will tear it apart."
Aeris shut her eyes tight, biting down against the pain and her frustration.
"Don’t worry," Seraphine whispered. "The prince promised to take care of Ashenhold. And you..." she gave a trembling smile, "...you’ve already done more than anyone could ask. Your fight... it was breathtaking. The whole capital is still talking about it."
Aeris didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, lost in thought. Her mind had already left the room, reaching for the one person she couldn’t stop thinking about.
"Edward... how are you holding on?"
Edward:
Steel scraped against bone. Edward wrenched his blade free from the corpse at his feet, blood dripping down the length of the steel before vanishing into shadow. Around him, eight bodies lay in twisted heaps, armour split, throats torn open, faces frozen in terror.
Standing above them were his creations—dark figures of shifting shade, eyes burning faint violet. Behind their rank loomed two larger shapes: hulking shadow warriors, armour formed of solidified gloom, and at their flanks a shadow assassin, barely more than a ripple in the darkness, daggers glinting like fangs.
"Good gods," a voice muttered from behind.
A man in his forties stepped forward, coarse stubble across his jaw and soot staining his tunic. He paused at the sight of the shadow host before shaking his head with a crooked grin.
"I did what you asked, boss," Orson said with a proud grin, "Let those bastards burn!" he added with a chuckle as he glanced at the building burning in the distance.
Edward didn’t need to look. The glow of flames licked at the horizon—an entire government building was swallowed by fire.
"But boss..." Orson’s tone faltered, worry creeping in. "Auren just rallied every soldier he’s got. They’re moving on the outskirts. There are women and children out there."
"That’s why we told them to relocate," Edward said, voice clipped.
Orson hesitated. "So they won’t—"
"They won’t reach them," Edward cut in. His expression hardened. "Go. Help the others hold the lines."
Orson nodded, though unease lingered in his eyes as he hurried off into the night.
Edward looked back to the corpses, to the flames consuming stone and timber in the distance. In the last days, the Defiance had grown bolder. Families risked everything to rebel, striking at patrols, refusing the Crimson Oath’s demands. Enough that Auren’s men had resorted to smashing through doors, dragging innocents into the streets. Desperation made him reckless.
And desperation could be used.
Tonight, Edward would strike deeper than ever before. The church. The heart of the cult. Where pacts were made, where loyalty to the Crimson Oath was forged.
He moved swiftly through the alleys, cloak drawn tight, until the square spread open before him. The church rose at its centre, banners of crimson stitched with symbols of ash and bone, torches burning along its walls.
The air felt heavy, thick with incense and something fouler.
Edward scaled the stone silently, slipping through a high window. Shadows bent to his presence, cloaking his passage through narrow halls until the sound of voices drew him to the main chamber.
There, beneath the high rafters, recruits knelt in a wide circle. Hooded priests stood among them, chanting words that made the air shiver. At the altar, a robed figure lifted his hands, voice swelling.
Edward gave a single, quiet command.
The shadows moved.
They erupted into the chamber, cutting down recruits before the first scream left their lips. The assassin flickered from body to body, daggers plunging. The warriors smashed through lines like battering rams. Shadows wrapped throats, split arteries, tore men limb from limb.
Seventeen bodies hit the floor. The chanting stopped. Silence settled, broken only by the drip of blood soaking into the wooden boards.
Edward stepped forward, his boots creaking across the floor. His eyes scanned the carnage, cold and empty.
Then—
The sound of clapping split the silence.
The sound echoed through the chamber, followed by soft footsteps.
"Magnificent," a voice purred.
Edward turned sharply.
From the archway at the back, Auren emerged, his crimson cloak catching the torchlight. His smile was wide, feral, stretching across his face like a wound.
"Oh, if these weren’t my own men..." He chuckled, almost giddy. "Hell, even if they are—I can’t help but marvel. Such artistry. To slaughter so many, so swiftly. Tell me, Edward..." his head tilted. "You wouldn’t care to join us, would you?"
"Auren," Edward growled, disgust in his voice.
The man’s eyes glittered. "I had to see it for myself. My soldiers spoke of your... capabilities. But this? Oh, it exceeds even their trembling words. What a delight to see."
Edward narrowed his eyes. "Shouldn’t you be with your troops?"
Auren chuckled. "Ah... you mean in the outskirts... Or perhaps the forest where you’ve hidden the women and children?"
Edward froze, a chill racing down his spine.
Auren wagged a finger. "Relax, Edward. They’re alive... for now, at least. As for your little rebellion at the outskirts, well..." His smile sharpened. "Time will tell."
Edward’s fists clenched. "Do you not care for the deaths of your own people?"
"Of course not," Auren said simply, almost mockingly. "Why would I? Their deaths are only fuel."
Edward’s brow furrowed. "Fuel?"
"You really know so little," Auren sighed, his tone dripping with amusement. "We make pacts, yes. Deals with demons and spirits. But why stop there? Why settle for scraps when one can call back the feast itself?"
Edward’s grip on his sword tightened. "...What are you saying?"
Auren spread his arms, eyes burning with a fanatic gleam.
"What else, Edward? Summoning Ritual! Let us bring the Lord of Undead back to life together!"