The cold wind sliced through the barren plains as Rahigh and Henrik rode side by side, their horses' hooves pounding rhythmically against the cracked earth. The distant spires of Vaimariel, the crimson capital of Esheland, loomed faintly on the horizon—an ominous silhouette against a twilight sky smeared with bruised purples and greys.
Rahigh's voice broke the heavy silence as he urged his mount forward.
"We have to find a way inside the city. There's no other choice," he said, his tone sharp and resolute.
Henrik snorted with bitter amusement, a cruel grin twisting his lips.
"Oh, of course," he replied mockingly. "Because sneaking past the blood-stained gates of Vaimariel is just so simple. Maybe you think we can just stroll in like honored guests?"
Rahigh lanced sideways at him, his eyes flickering with a mix of annoyance and faint hope.
"Maybe luck will grant us an opening," he said, eyes drifting upwards to the swirling clouds overhead.
"Perhaps fate will favor us."
The two men pressed on, their horses now threading carefully into the dense, shadow-haunted forest that bordered the capital. The thick canopy swallowed the last of the dying light, turning the world into a cathedral of dark limbs and whispering leaves.
Suddenly, a sharp, desperate cry shattered the stillness—a high-pitched wail that echoed like a broken prayer.
From the undergrowth burst a figure: a wild man, his body covered in coarse fur and scarred with tribal markings. Atop his head sat a crown of twisted bone and feathers—the mark of the Wolf's Ear.
His cheeks bore strange symbols, black as the night itself.
Slung across his back was a young woman, limp and pale, her breath shallow and ragged. A cruel arrow protruded from her side, blood seeping slowly into the fabric of her tunic.
"Please... help us..." the man gasped, his voice cracking as consciousness slipped away.
Rahigh and Henrik exchanged a quick glance as they halted, the horses snorting and stamping nervously.
A sudden thunder of hooves behind them announced the arrival of others—the banners of the kingdom fluttered through the trees, bearing the sigil of Esheland. Mounted knights, their armor gleaming faintly in the dying light, surrounded the pair.
Henrik let out a dry laugh, his eyes cold and calculating as he looked at the wild man and the fainting girl.
"What a tragic little romance," he sneered. "The savage half-beast and his fragile servant."
A captain rode forward, his voice sharp as a blade.
"Surrender the traitor!" he commanded, eyes fixed on Rahigh.
Henrik gave a sly smile, nudging Rahigh.
"How can we refuse a plea for help, brother?" he whispered.
Before the captain could respond, a cold splash of blood suddenly spattered his face.
His eyes widened in shock as he turned to his side—his closest comrade lay on the ground, head severed clean from his shoulders.
Henrik held the gruesome trophy aloft, a silent warning.
The captain screamed, lunging to stab Henrik, but his arm was severed mid-swing by an unseen force. His body convulsed violently, bones snapping and ribs cracking as he fell, broken and helpless.
From the shadows, the clatter of stone grinding against steel rang out—the sharp, haunting sound of Rahigh's blade. The air thickened with the bitter scent of death.
Rahig's eyes glimmered with something almost lost to him—a heavy shame.
"Again," he muttered darkly. "I must kill… just like before."
He turned to Henrik, his voice low but steady.
"It's not normal for the kingdom to send elite knights after mere traitors, unless…"
Henrik laughed, dark and knowing.
"They're connected to that old fool Grayson," he said, the words tasting like poison.
Rahigh looked back toward the capital, the fires of Vaimariel burning bright and cruel in the distance.
"This war… it's far from over."