The moon hung low over the outlaw-ridden settlement of Gravemire, its silver glow bathing cracked stones and wooden huts in a cold, eerie light. Smoke coiled from smoldering chimneys, and drunken laughter echoed through the streets — until the sound of footsteps silenced it all.
A girl stepped through the crooked gates.
Clad in a crimson-and-silver cloak, her blonde hair glinting under the moonlight, Astrid walked without fear. Her stride was steady, purposeful. In one hand, she gripped a gleaming obsidian spear, the tip adorned with runes that shimmered faintly red. In the other, she held a small golden scale, its twin plates suspended and glowing with soft, eerie light.
At her side trotted a thin, sharp-eyed horse, armored in black cloth, silent as death.
Bandits on the rooftop of a nearby tavern whispered.
"Who the hell’s that?"
"She’s not from around here."
"Hmmm maybe she’ll spend a night, if you get me ."
"Pretty... but look at that spear."
They never got to finish their sentence.
With a flick of her wrist, the spear spun once and launched from her hand, cutting through the air like a bolt of vengeance.
The two heads rolled from the rooftop before their bodies crumpled.
Gasps erupted around the village square. Doors slammed shut. Bandits ran for their weapons.
Astrid didn’t stop walking. "I’m not here for your weaklings," she said coldly. "I only need one thing. Your chief."
Then came a scream. The hut beside the largest fire pit burst open — two guards stumbled out, bloody and headless before they hit the ground. Astrid stepped over the bodies, flicked the blood from her spear, and kicked the door open.
Inside, a man with a gold-braided beard — the infamous Chief Vargan — stood with a dozen elite thugs.
"You think you can just barge in here?" he growled, slamming his war axe on the table.
Instead, she stepped into the room, lifted the Scale of Obedience, and held it out.
"Sit," she whispered.
Vargan sneered. "You think that little trinket can—"
The next moment, his knees slammed into the ground.
His men stared in horror. One rushed forward — and was impaled before he could blink. Astrid didn’t even turn to look. Her spear acted like it had a will of its own.
"Now," she said, eyes like winter. "Weigh your will."
The scale’s plates glowed once more. A ghostly shimmer of mana flowed between her and Vargan. His body shook violently. Sweat poured down his face.
"W-What... What is this?!"
"You are mine now," Astrid said, placing the scale gently on the floor. "Your men. Your weapons. Your village. Your life."
Vargan screamed — and then it stopped.
The light faded from his eyes. A mark glowed faintly over his heart — the seal of submission. The scale had judged him. His mana was weaker than hers.
She turned and walked out.
"Gather your army," she ordered as bandits stared, horrified, from behind corners. "Tell them their chains await. The Crimson Shroud rises."
And without another word, she vanished into the night — her spear dripping with judgment, her scale quiet in her grasp.