Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fatigued Daemos finally collapsed to the ground, his body sagging under the weight of exhaustion. He adjusted himself into a tabletop position, his hands planted firmly beneath his shoulders and his knees braced under his hips. Pierce, sword still in hand, stood in front of him, observing with impassive eyes. His student’s form wavered, and slowly, the yellow Daemos bent his arms, his forehead eventually resting against his hands as he let out an exasperated breath. The sound of his heavy, labored panting echoed through the quiet space, the only noise breaking the stillness of the training field.

The broad man retracted his sword, sliding it to the side of his hip, neither stance making a difference. His stance didn’t shift. The yellow boy hadn’t once managed to land a blow on him. Pierce had been training him for two hours now, and there had been little to no progress. He had hoped for more since their last session, but he couldn’t blame the boy. Well, he was more man than boy, but Pierce could only think of him as the latter.

The yellow Daemos was only a few years behind him, both in age and training, but his appearance made him seem far younger than he truly was. Pierce remembered the first day of training, nearly mistaking him for a lost servant, so unassuming did he seem. Even now, there was something about him that made Pierce see him through the lens of youth, a child in need of guidance. And today, his frustration was growing.

“You may rest once you have defeated me,” Pierce mandated.

The boy groaned and swallowed hard, trying to gather the energy to push forward. “I know! I know…” His breath came out in a heavy huff. “Just give me a moment, Pierce.”

Pierce’s thoughts darkened for just a moment, a flicker of disappointment fueling the older Daemos' sense of resolve. He wouldn’t afford to give in to the boy’s fatigue. "No," Pierce replied firmly. "In battle, a moment is a luxury you cannot afford, Noi ."

Noi’s breathing began to quieten, gradually. He finally sat up, no longer slumped over, but sitting on his knees. The daggers he had been training with lay forgotten on the ground between them. Wiping sweat from his forehead with his free hand, he stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped in defeat. His eyes flicked up to Pierce, but he didn’t see anything encouraging in the cold, blue gaze that met him. He felt his own desperation rising, a silent plea for sympathy that would not be answered. Noi was begging for sympathy at a wall. 

Sighing, Noi lowered his head as his gaze locked on his soiled palms. "What’s the point? I can’t defeat you. They won’t even send a weak Daemos like me to fight in battle," he muttered, clenching his fists tightly. The dust clung to his skin as he squeezed, the minerals scraping against his fingers.

Pierce watched him carefully before switching to look at the boy’s fallen head. Noi’s light brown hair covered his face, and with Pierce being a tall man, he couldn’t see his face. The blue broad couldn’t read his mind and he wasn’t particularly fluent in reading many strong emotions. But he knew the next few words would be critical to Noi’s motivation and growth. The next few words he spoke could either make or break the boy’s resolve. As a mentor to many soldiers, moreover a General to each royal soldier, Pierce had a job to instil into the new soldiers of not just tomorrow, but the future of Daemos kind.

Stepping forward, Pierce’s boots crunched lightly against the earth. The sound broke the silence as he approached Noi, whose attention flickered upward at the movement. Pierce stopped directly in front of him, meeting his eyes, the space between them heavy with unspoken words.

“Yes,” Pierce said bluntly. “You can’t defeat me, and you are quite weak.”

Noi’s face twisted in surprise, and he let out a bitter scoff, his shoulders slumping even further. “Wow, real motivating,” he muttered with a flat tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Pierce nodded. “And I don’t have time to indulge you with pity,” he continued, his tone flat but firm. “What I have time for is making strong, capable soldiers.”

He squatted down, bringing himself closer to the younger Daemos, placing his hands on his thighs. The sudden shift in his posture made the air feel heavier. "Think about becoming better, rather than wallowing in self-pity. Others will only encourage you to quit if they sense your vulnerability. Do not prove them right."

With a swift motion, Pierce reached down and grabbed Noi’s daggers from the ground. The boy’s hands, still trembling slightly, were open in front of him. Pierce handed the daggers back to him, the rubber handles cool against his palms. Noi’s fingers closed around the hilt, and for a moment, he just held them, staring down at them as if searching for some sort of answer. His mind seemed far away.

Pierce watched with a careful eye as Noi’s expression shifted, a subtle but noticeable spark of new determination in his features. He wasn’t sure if it was the same fire he’d seen in other soldiers before, but something was different now. Noi’s smile, while faint, hinted at a shift—one that Pierce couldn't fully read, but could sense all the same.

“I don’t think you’ve said that many words before, Pierce,” Noi observed, his voice light but with an undercurrent of something more. Pierce blinked slowly, processing the comment as he straightened up.

"Are you done crying now?" Pierce asked flatly, the familiar coldness in his tone as he began backing away from Noi, his posture neutral, yet watchful. The words were pointed, designed to provoke, and Pierce knew it would either drive the boy to stand taller or crumble further.

Noi, still trying to regain his balance, didn’t immediately respond. He was in the process of rising, focusing on his posture, when the sound of rapid footsteps filled the air. Pierce didn’t wait, his sword slicing through the air in a sharp, fluid movement.

The younger Daemos reacted just in time, instinctively raising both daggers to absorb the force of the blow. The strike was harder than Noi had anticipated, his body shaking with the effort to block it. His arms quivered as the metal of Pierce’s sword met the rubber of his daggers, the tension in the air palpable.

Pierce’s strike pushed Noi back, and with a grunt of exertion, the yellow Daemos used all his strength to shove Pierce off. He side-stepped quickly to regain some distance, narrowly avoiding another direct attack. His breath was heavy, but his resolve seemed stronger. Pierce’s quick, almost merciless attack had surprised him, but in that moment, Noi realized something.

Pierce was right. If he wanted to be seen as capable, if he wanted to be sent into battle, then he had to become better. He had to prove he wasn’t the weak, inexperienced soldier everyone thought him to be.

Noi’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he steadied himself, positioning his daggers in front of him. His eyes, determined now, locked onto his trainer’s figure. With a deep breath, he lifted his chin and said, “I will defeat you. Even if it takes me all day.”

“I am afraid that will have to be a different time, young man.”

From the shadows of the hallway, a figure emerged, stepping into the light with a fluid, almost predatory grace. The dark Daemos was a stark contrast to the others in the room. His presence was commanding yet understated, as if he belonged to the night itself. He wore dark, form-fitting clothing that seemed to absorb the light around him rather than reflect it. The material was sleek, with sharp, angular cuts that gave the impression of someone always ready to move, to strike, or to vanish into the shadows.

What caught the eye, however, were the accents. Unlike the lighter hues Pierce was accustomed to, his attire bore a deep, almost unnatural blue—an eerie shade that glowed faintly in the dim light, a hue that felt colder, more detached from the warmth of the usual Daemos royal blue. His clothing was not just functional, but purposeful, designed to blend into the shadows while standing out just enough to mark his distinction.

The Daemos’ eyes, the same cold shade of blue as the accents on his clothing, were piercing and unsettling. There was something almost otherworldly about the way they gleamed, like the light caught in a mirror reflecting something deep and unknowable

His expression was unreadable, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he regarded the scene before him, as though he were both part of it and yet entirely apart from it.

Every movement of his seemed deliberate, calculated—each step carrying the weight of someone who had mastered the art of being unnoticed when needed, but never forgotten when it mattered.

He moved with deliberate, measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back as he slowly closed the distance between himself and the two men. His pace was unhurried, almost languid, as if he were savoring the moment before addressing them. He stopped just beside Pierce, his posture relaxed but still commanding, as if the very air around him thickened with his presence.

"Pierce," Rhys greeted briefly, his voice low and calm, yet carrying an unmistakable authority. Pierce nodded in response, his expression neutral, though the recognition between them was clear. Rhys’s gaze shifted then, turning toward the younger Daemos who stood a few steps away from them. His smile was small, but it wasn’t a kind one. It was something else—knowing, perhaps even a little amused, as if he could sense the unspoken tension that hung in the air.

Among the three men, Pierce was clearly the tallest, but the height difference didn’t matter. To Noi, the younger soldier, it was irrelevant. His mentor’s size, imposing though it was, paled in comparison to the sheer presence of the dark Daemos who stood beside him. There was something about Rhys—something intangible—that made Pierce’s height feel small in comparison. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, though that was part of it. Rhys’s aura, his very energy, seemed to wrap around them like a cloak, suffusing the space in a way that felt both subtle and overpowering.

Noi, standing a few steps away, felt it most keenly. The hum of magic in the air, the way the world seemed to hold its breath when Rhys was near—it was unlike anything Noi had ever encountered. His heart raced, and his chest tightened, though he tried his best to mask it. He knew of Rhys’s reputation, of course. The tales of his power, his mastery over magic, painted a picture of someone untouchable, someone who didn’t walk through the world—they controlled it.

But to stand before him now, to feel the weight of that power firsthand, was something else entirely. Rhys was no myth or distant figure in a story. He was real, and the weight of that reality pressed down on Noi in a way that was almost suffocating. It was an undeniable presence, far more potent than even Pierce’s intimidating stature or his own commanding aura. Noi could sense it in the way the air seemed to hum with energy, and it filled him with awe—yet also a deep sense of insignificance.

Noi was acutely aware of his place in the hierarchy, not just as a soldier but as someone who had spent years hearing of the might of Asch’s personal mage . Stories could never quite capture the essence of someone like Rhys. Meeting him in person was like stepping into the presence of a living legend—and it was all Noi could do to keep himself composed, to not let the excitement and nervousness bubble over.

Even Pierce, for all his stoic composure, was aware of Noi’s struggle. He had seen the younger soldier’s outbursts before—the wide-eyed enthusiasm that often spilled over into uncontrollable excitement. It was something that could either endear Noi to others or embarrass him, and Pierce knew just how hard it could be to rein in his reactions in the face of someone as formidable as Rhys. The older Daemos could only hope that, this time, his young companion would manage to hold his ground.

“Run along now, little soldier. I require Pierce’s attention,” Rhys said with a dismissive wave, his tone casual but commanding. Noi, caught off guard and flustered by the sharpness in Rhys’s voice, could only manage a nervous nod. His attempt at a bow, though clearly meant to show respect, came off as awkward and overly exaggerated, making him feel even more out of place. Without a word, he quickly scurried away, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Pierce watched the young soldier for a moment, his gaze lingering just long enough to take in Noi’s retreating figure. It was a fleeting glance, but it held an understanding—a silent acknowledgment of the awkwardness that often accompanied youth. His attention, however, was soon drawn back to Rhys, the dark Daemos who stood beside him, seemingly unaffected by the moment.

Pierce crossed his arms, the familiar action a shield against the irritability that simmered beneath the surface. He puffed out his chest in a subconscious attempt to assert some sense of control, but Rhys was quick to dismiss him with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m not paid to entertain the lesser ranks. That’s what your job is for-”

“Rhys,” he said sharply, his voice low, a growl that silenced the moment.

Rhys let out a resigned sigh, his posture stiffening, though he softened the tone just slightly.  “His majesty wants us in the war room. It is urgent.” He didn’t pause for any more words, already turning on his heel and heading back into the dark hallway.

Without waiting for a response, Rhys turned on his heel and started toward the dark hallway, his footsteps purposeful and quick, leaving Pierce to follow behind. There was no need for further explanation. Rhys was already on his way, and Pierce knew that if he wanted to remain in the loop, he had little choice but to catch up.

Pierce stood for a moment, a brief flash of irritation crossing his face as he rubbed his temple. The headache that had plagued him since leaving the training grounds was growing more insistent. He sighed, shaking it off as best he could. Get through the day, he reminded himself. His tasks awaited, and no amount of discomfort could slow him down now.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Getting through the day is one of the simplest things any person could do. Pierce could agree with the statement. But today was proving to be more challenging. As much as he would love to cast a spell to quickly resolve his head problems, to perform it in the war room currently wasn’t the smartest choice. Not with the Prince, whose rage could be unleashed by one wrong action or word; his mage, who’d berate him for wasting magic on meaningless things; and that stupid black cat on the table in the same room as him. All he could do was wait until this meeting was over.

A sharp bang echoed through the room as someone slammed their hands against the table, sending a tremor through the scattered items atop it. Papers fluttered, glasses wobbled precariously, and the low murmur of conversation died instantly. The other Daemos men around the table turned their attention to the black-haired figure at its head. Yet none of them so much as flinched, their stoic expressions unbroken. The only exception was the cat perched nearby. Its grooming paused mid-lick, one paw frozen in the air as its wide eyes flicked to the source of the disturbance. After a brief, disdainful stare, it resumed licking as though nothing had happened.

To say they were accustomed to the Prince's tempestuous outbursts would have been a gross understatement. It wasn’t fear or respect that kept them still, but sheer familiarity. This was the Prince in his element: loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

“ Pierce. ” he raised his voice as the cat meowed softly. “Are you even fucking listening to a word of this?”

The Prince was no stranger to using crude words at anyone. Something he most likely picked up from his brother and father.

The broad Daemos opened his eyes, meeting his majesty’s red eyes from across the table. The Prince stood out from the other Daemos men in the war room. That much was obvious to Pierce or everyone else. Not only in his royal status, but in appearance. The red accents in his clothes and armour complemented with the white wrist bands and a side white cape idly on his shoulder. He was the only one to wear golden jewellery. Expensive golden jewellery. With golden cuffs and earrings that really set his difference from his subjects. Unlike Rhys.

Pierce’s silence must have been the wrong action.

“Yes, Prince Asch ,” Pierce responded. The Prince huffed.

”You should be. I can’t have both of you slacking off!” He shouted again.

Some days, Pierce wondered who Prince Asch thought he was competing against. His shouting matches were always one-sided affairs, his fiery temper burning unchecked and no one was stupid enough to battle his hotheadedness. Even with Rhys and his silver tongue, he’d have to have Lord Irene by his side.

“Prince Asch, if I may ask about the mission?” Rhys stepped forward from between Pierce and Asch. The Prince stood up right, leaning off the table.

"What, Rhys?" Asch snapped, his tone laced with bitterness.

"If we’re to suspect foul play in the human villages, what evidence do we have to support it?" Rhys asked, his tone measured but probing.

Meow.

Prince Asch exhaled sharply, the weight of his words dragging like an anchor. “For weeks now, there’s been nothing from the Captains stationed in the villages. No messages, no updates—just silence.” His gaze hardened as he continued. “Before the quiet, their last communiques spoke of unrest among the villagers, claiming they were growing... agitated.” He scoffed, his tone laced with disdain. “Cryptic nonsense, as if that helps us divine the truth.”

Pierce’s gaze shifted from the cat to the mage’s thoughtful expression. Rhys was muttering quietly to himself, the broad man could barely hear.

“How bizarre… If reports have been missing for weeks, surely soldiers would’ve been sent to these villages.”

Asch scoffed. “Spare me your muttering. Of course soldiers were dispatched to assess the situation.” He gestured sharply to the map spread across the table, jabbing his finger at the marked villages, each denoted by small wooden planks.

It was a map depicting the extent of Daemos's dominion, with the palace situated at its centre. The city surrounding the palace was arranged in an oval shape. Outside the kingdom, there were few areas, such as the human villages, scattered around. In total, there were 28 human villages, half of them going unoccupied due to the decreasing number of humans. On numerous visits, Pierce had gone to a handful of these villages. All for the same reason.

The 3 villages in question were mainly located towards the west of the kingdom. Naturally, the cause had to rely on any problems residing in the west then, Rhys thought.

“Whatever it is, you are to go down there, investigate and report back to me immediately with your findings,” Asch ordered. “Bring evidence to the assumptions brought around this matter.”

“What kind of assumptions?” Rhys raised his eyebrow as Pierce tightened his arms folded against each other.

“There were two that were discussed by the lords, one being more dangerous than the other. A human revolution was first considered as mishaps always happen. It is more than possible that the humans transpired and fought against the Daemos soldiers.” Prince Asch smirked. “Though, it makes me laugh that they could pull something like that.”

“And the second?” Pierce questioned, his voice steady but his narrowed eyes betraying that flicker of unease.

The room grew still as the Prince shifted his gaze toward his general, his expression suddenly more somber. He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, it was Rhys who broke the silence, stepping forward to the map. “ Wolves attacked the villages.” his voice low, moving towards the map.

He pointed to the line of wooden planks around the west of the palace. “The villages that were attacked are the closest to their territory. An attack from them is more plausible than anything else. If that’s true then-”

“They will not stop in attacking the other villages and taking the humans,” Asch interrupted.

Meow.

From Pierce’s memory, a village could host around 100 humans on average, making 300 humans then lost to the Wolves. With the kingdom, a single human soul could restore a Daemos’ magic for a few months, maybe years if preserved right. Though, the estimation was rather generous. It would be more dangerous if the Wolves had taken them. But what were the chances?

“The Wolves are still there.” Asch and Rhys quickly looked at Pierce with confused looks. Even the cat stopped licking its belly and stared at him.

“No soldiers would be dispatched then go rogue with humans afterwards. That means within the past few weeks, the Wolves have been setting camp and controlling them,” Pierce explained.

“Then it is settled,” Asch chimed quickly after the broad man spoke. “Tomorrow morning, you are to find these Wolves. Bring back their leader, dead or alive .”

With no hesitation, Pierce nodded. That was Pierce after all: never questioning his orders. Besides, his headache had tenfold, mentally telling himself to stop rubbing his forehead.

Rhys leaned off the table. “Your majesty, with all due respect, what if it happens to be of a different matter? Considering this is only speculation.” Asch’s own mage had his own questions.

“Then you will handle it accordingly ,” Asch enunciated slowly. Pierce watched the back of Rhys’ head as the mage still hadn’t stopped looking at the Prince. 

The Prince broke eye contact from Rhys and sighed heavily. Instead, his eyes shifted to Pierce. “Pierce, you are dismissed.”

Pierce bowed nimbly to him before heading towards the exit. It wasn’t in his position to wonder about the Prince’s private conversations. The blue Daemos cared very little about it. Rhys would fill him in later on a bit of their discussion. Pierce understood enough that there were matters only to a Prince and his right hand man.

He stepped out of his war room, feeling the impalpable weight on his chest lifted. As the door closed behind him, Pierce pulled his hair back, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand. Now, he could continue the rest of the day in peace. And get rid of the damn-

Meow.

He paused in his steps, slowly turning around. On the ground, sitting so perfectly was Zex . That stupid black cat. It followed him out the door. 

“No.” Pierce turned away. But he couldn’t even take a step before a face leaned too close to his personal bubble.  

“ Mee-ow, ” his deep voice whispered as he gave a toothy grin. “Relax, Pierce. I am only bidding you a farewell.”

Backing up first with a grunt, Pierce moved deliberately around the other man. The slick, green-eyed spirit, Zex, stood as composed and impenetrable as ever, a loyal servant of the Daemos Royal Family yet one who exuded an air of disdain for those not bearing royal blood. Though their ranks were comparable in the Queen’s hierarchy, their exchanges outside the sphere of duty were scarce and often strained. Pierce harbored little admiration for Zex, whose unyielding formality and sharp demeanor left no room for camaraderie.

Zex, true to his word, didn’t impede Pierce’s progress, stepping aside with a controlled precision that spoke volumes of his calculated nature. As usual, Pierce felt no need to spar with words or engage in thinly veiled barbs; the weight of his exhaustion was far too great to entertain such diversions. Instead, he strode past the spirit, his boots echoing softly against the polished floors of the hallway.

The thought of his bed became a beacon, pulling him forward with a quiet insistence. Every muscle in his body seemed to ache, his energy drained not just from the day’s battles but from the endless demands of his station.

At last, he could retreat to the quiet sanctuary of his room, where even the shadows felt less oppressive. His bed awaited—a promise of rest and the fleeting solace of sleep.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔

His memory of the right incantation was failing him, and it was embarrassing Pierce. Such a simple spell and he couldn’t remember the right words. So instead of going to his room in the castle, a blessed space provided to him by the late King, he was marching through the common streets of Daemos. He should’ve just waited for Rhys after the meeting.

However, with one scenario brought to Pierce’s mind, he immediately rejected that idea to maintain his pride. Although the blue broad man would return back to the castle, that would happen later rather than sooner. For now, Pierce would suck it up and put on his blank face.

The sky was always stuck on the one gloomy cycle: night. No matter the time, the overhead abyss-like sky never changed. A weird natural phenomenon that only surrounded the Daemos land, with the exception of a few stretched-out places. This occurrence wouldn’t prevent Daemos from remaining indoors, though it would attract many wrongful actions to occur.

Pierce walked briskly through the plaza, his presence drawing inevitable glances from the scattering of Daemos out for an evening’s revelry. A few drunken men slouched outside the open bars, their voices slurring together with laughter loud enough to pierce the cool night air. The pungent tang of spilled ale mixed with the earthy aroma of the plaza, and it all conspired to intensify his already-throbbing headache.

“Pierce!”

The familiar voice cut through the cacophony, and Pierce’s brow furrowed. He didn’t need to glance toward the open bar to confirm his suspicion, but he did anyway. Sure enough, there he was, as he stood from his chair and pushed it back with a scrape loud enough to set Pierce’s teeth on edge.

He heard the heavy footfalls behind him, deliberate and unhurried. Pierce didn’t break stride.

“ Leif ,” he acknowledged, his voice flat, barely glancing over his shoulder.

The man with silver hair huffed a response as he caught up, falling into step beside him. “You look like shit,” he said with characteristic bluntness, the words carrying no malice but plenty of snarkiness. His sharp green eyes scanned Pierce’s tired expression, his smirk widening. “What kind of errands has the Queen been making you run this time?”

“Nothing,” Pierce replied curtly, his tone clipped. “I don’t work for the Queen.”

He paused mid-step, his expression twisting into one of bemused confusion. Pierce stopped then, meeting his friend’s gaze with a dry look. “I work for the Prince.”

Like the clank of gears catching, Leif’s brow lifted, the realization dawning.

“What’s the difference, anyway?” he said with a shrug, his voice light with amusement. “They’re practically the same person. Either way, it must be a headache working for royalty.”

Pierce let out a low, gruff grunt, his manner brusque as usual. In the back of his mind, however, he took quiet stock of their surroundings, a soldier’s instinct honed over years of duty. The bustling plaza with its rowdy patrons and warm light was now behind them, replaced by the quieter, more secluded neighborhoods. The cobblestones underfoot gave way to uneven paths as Pierce led them into a narrow alleyway. 

The passage was just wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side, yet narrow enough that the streetlights no longer reached them. Darkness enveloped the alley, broken only by faint glimmers of light spilling through the curtained windows of the homes they passed. Shadows danced across the walls with every flicker of movement inside, creating an uneasy atmosphere that didn’t bother Pierce but left the silver-haired man fidgeting slightly.  

“But seriously,” Leif broke the silence, his voice light but insistent. “What little task has he got you doing now?”

The broad finally turned his head, just enough to give his companion a pointed look. One eyebrow arched higher than the other, his skepticism clear. “If you care so much about what I do, maybe you should’ve been a knight.” 

Leif snorted, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disdain. “Work for Asch? Puh -lease!” The words dripped with scorn, his tone biting.  

Pierce’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before returning to the path ahead. This wasn’t the Leif he once knew. The friend he had grown up with had been steadfast, driven by a dream to don armor and serve with honor. That Leif had spoken endlessly of knighthood, his ambition as unshakable as the mountains. But the man walking beside him now was far removed from that boy.  

Somewhere along the way, Leif’s aspirations  were replaced by a biting cynicism that the broad Daemos couldn’t fully understand. Together with this hatred he somewhere manifested for the Prince—a loathing that burned beneath every dismissive word he spoke of Asch. It hadn’t escaped the blue man notice, but the root of it eluded him.

Pierce’s short response, laden with unspoken judgment, was brushed aside by Leif with the same nonchalance he applied to most things now. The moon-haired Daemos gave no further explanation, leaving the broad man with more questions than answers as they walked deeper into the dim, winding alleyway. The quiet between them felt heavier, punctuated only by the muffled sounds of life from the houses they passed.

As Leif was about to speak again, Pierce abruptly veered off the cobblestone path, his boots clicking sharply against the rough wood of a nearby set of steps. His sudden departure from the familiar route caught his friend's attention, and he could hear the query forming in his friend’s voice, though Pierce was already several paces ahead.

“I am visiting Philomena ,” Pierce finally muttered, his voice low, as though the words themselves were a rare admission.

Leif blinked slowly at the revelation. A name he hadn’t thought about for quite a while, stirring uncertain feelings. He wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or intrigued. His surprise, however, was tempered by the indifference with which Pierce had spoken - no emotion, no hint of warmth, just a matter-of-fact statement. “ Mena ?” Leif ventured, his voice softer now as the name hung in the air. His gaze followed Pierce’s movements as his friend ascended the last of the steps.

The door opened with a creak, releasing a warm, golden light that spilled out into the cool, dark street. Pierce barely flinched as the light illuminated the alleyway, his focus unwavering. On the other side of the wooden doorway stood a woman. Her appearance was striking—unassuming in her simple frock that fell past her knees, yet there was something undeniably regal about her presence. The faint purple hue of her horns mirrored Pierce’s, though they were more pronounced towards the ends, curving with a subtle elegance.

But it was her eyes that caught Leif’s attention most of all— tired eyes that were identical to Pierce’s in both shape and shade, a mirrored reflection of the man beside her.

Her initial expression was flummoxed, but it quickly morphed into something warmer, more genuine. Her face brightened as she smiled, a light that seemed to warm the night air around them.

“Brother!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying the unmistakable joy of someone caught off guard by a pleasant visitor. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

Pierce nodded slowly in acknowledgment as she beckoned him inside. With a swift motion, she gestured for him to follow, her warm smile still lingering on her face as she disappeared further into the house. “Come in! You mustn’t be quiet, Thea is still awake,” she called out over her shoulder.

Pierce glanced back at Leif, who was standing still in the same spot, his attention unwavering as he observed his friend with a quiet intensity. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, a shared understanding passing between them without words. It was as though Pierce had known Leif would remain here. Caught between curiosity and hesitation, unwilling to simply turn away and walk back to the plaza.

The blue broad took a slow step forward, pushing the door wider with one hand. The faint creak of the door as it moved further open seemed to break the stillness, and Leif’s eyes gaped at the door, startled by the shift. His hesitation was palpable, though his feet remained rooted in place. If the silver-haired Daemos wasn’t truly interested, he might have turned on his heel and walked away. Surely to return to the chaotic noise of the plaza and its drunken revelry. But here he stood. Fidgeting, his eyes flickering back to Pierce, then to the door as if caught between two worlds.

Pierce didn’t wait for him to make up his mind. With another step, he entered the house, leaving the door open just enough for Leif to decide whether or not to follow. The silence hung in the air, and the soft sounds of movement inside - the soft shuffle of footsteps, the murmur of a voice—brought a warmth to the otherwise cold night. Pierce’s sister was already busy, no doubt preparing something for him, or perhaps just waiting patiently for his return.

When their parents had passed away, the responsibility of the house fell squarely onto Pierce’s shoulders. As the eldest, he inherited ownership of their home, along with all that remained inside—memories, belongings, and the weight of guardianship over his younger sister, Philomena . At the time, he was old enough to shoulder the burden, and so he did, never once considering altering the house or its contents. It had always been their family’s home, a constant in a world that seemed to change too often. Pierce never felt the need to change anything. The house, in his eyes, was already as it should be, a silent monument to the past.

Years passed, and as Philomena grew, she too assumed more responsibility, but Pierce remained the protector, the one who kept the house standing steady, unbothered by the passage of time. He rarely thought to alter anything - after all, why would he? It had always been enough, just as it was.

But when Philomena took over the ownership of the house, the broad found himself taken aback by the changes she made. They weren’t drastic, not by any means, but there was a subtle shift in the air, a freshness that hadn’t been there before. The rooms, once stagnant with the weight of years, began to take on a lighter, more lived-in feel.

Once frozen in time by his reluctance to disturb it, the house felt more like a home again. A place reflecting the lives of the people who lived within it. He would have never made such decisions himself, but Philomena had a way of transforming things without erasing their essence—she brought something new without losing what had been. Pierce had to admit that the new changes might have been for the better.

A wave of warmth hit his body after stepping into the common room. A contrast to the cool air outside. The rustic chandelier in the middle provided sufficient light to see Philomena clean up. Though, the chandelier looked newer than the rust on the ceiling. Hunched over the table was a little child sitting on the carpet, drawing away even as Pierce entered.

Philomena turned to him moments after she returned from the kitchen. “A bit of forewarning would have been appreciated, brother. I would have left out more supper had we not already cleared the table,” she replied, a hint of exasperation threading through her voice, as Philomena slowly advanced to her brother. She slid the back of her hand onto his head before Pierce could utter a word. He made no effort to stop her, his only response to her earlier remark being an irritable sigh.

Philomena frowned, her expression taut with displeasure. “Again, Pierce?” she asked with a weighty sigh. “Truly, is it so difficult to recall an alleviating spell?”

But she didn’t linger to hear his answer, fully aware that none would be forthcoming. Instead, her focus shifted, her hand resting firmly on his forehead before sliding to cradle both sides of his head. The warmth of her touch carried a calm reassurance, a promise unspoken yet deeply understood. Pierce’s gaze flickered to his sister, watching as her lips moved silently, shaping the words of a spell with practiced ease.

A faint glow began to emanate from her hands, soft and pulsing, as though alive with intent. It wasn’t just light - it was warmth, a soothing energy that seeped through his temples and coursed through his mind like a gentle river, washing away the sharp edges of his pain. The oppressive weight that had clouded his thoughts lifted, dissipating like mist under the morning sun.

The ache that had been gnawing at his skull faded. His breathing steadied, his muscles loosened, and a sense of himself returned - whole, unburdened once again. By the time her hands dimmed, the headache was gone, leaving only the quiet hum of her spell echoing faintly in his mind.

Philomena dropped her hands to her sides, the blue hue surrounding her palms dissipating in a quiet swoosh. Her concern still etched in her gaze. “Better?” she tilted her head to the side a bit.

“Yes,” he softly spoke. Her frown gone, slowly reverting back to that familiar smile. 

Heavy footsteps followed from the front entrance. Philomena looked behind Pierce, as the light in her eyes twinkled. Her smile still fixed to her lips as their eyes met. “Leif!”

His hair glistened from the chandelier’s light as he entered. Leif’s eyes set on Philomena’s figure, approaching him steadfast. The Daemos only had a few seconds before she closed the gap and gave him a hug. Philomena did not seem to do much upon hugging him, only throwing her arms around his shoulders.

Pierce slowly turned around, observing the exchange with a slightly puzzled expression. Leif froze for a moment, his body stiffening at the sudden closeness. After a beat, his hands gently grasped Philomena’s shoulders, pulling her back just enough to create some distance. His face was a mix of awkwardness and surprise, though he masked it with a strained chuckle.

“Too close, Phil ,” Leif said, his voice light but with a hint of discomfort. “But, it’s good to see you looking well.”

Philomena blinked, her smile briefly faltering before it returned with a playful glint in her eyes. “Showing up every blue moon isn’t exactly winning you any prizes. Perhaps try twice a year?” she teased.

The silver-haired Daemos took a step back, clearing his throat. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide the awkwardness in his posture.

“You’re still too soft. You’ve got to stop with these surprise attacks.” He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he avoided looking directly at her. “I’m a busy man.”

Philomena laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she leaned slightly to one side. “Oh, Leif, I’d never catch you off guard if I didn’t try. Besides, I hardly see you anymore, and we miss having you around.” She smiled warmly, her gaze lingering on him just a bit longer than needed.

Leif shifted again, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as his usual confident demeanor faltered just slightly. “Yeah, well... there’s a lot to do. Can’t always be here for you, Phil,” he said, but there was a quiet warmth in his tone that he couldn’t quite hide.

Pierce, who had been silently observing the exchange, suddenly felt a small tug on cloak. When it persisted, his gaze shifted from Leif and his sister to the little dark blue girl now standing by his side.

The first thing the broad noticed was her toothy grin, unabashed and brimming with innocent delight. Her dark blue eyes sparkled as she bounced on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating with excitement. Her bundle of wildness was what caught his attention.

“ Bubba !” she exclaimed, her voice rising in a high, joyful pitch, full of anticipation. “Look!”

She held up a piece of parchment toward him, her glee practically tangible. On it was a crude drawing of three stick figures - herself, her mother, and her uncle - standing side by side with exaggerated smiles and arms reaching out awkwardly. The proportions were funnily off, but the enthusiasm behind each jagged line was unmistakable.

“It’s us!” she declared, holding the parchment up triumphantly and beaming at him with expectant eyes.

Pierce studied the drawing with his usual neutrality, his sharp features betraying little emotion. “Yes,” he murmured with a small nod. His response had an instant effect: a wild giggle erupted from her as she swayed with uncontainable joy.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he repeated, his even tone contrasting with her bubbling laughter. This time, her giggles turned into outright squeals, her little frame shaking with amusement. 

Pierce observed her behaviour quietly. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed this peculiar reaction. He started noticing this about a year ago. She had begun giggling every time he uttered the word “yes.” Though Pierce found it puzzling, he had never asked why. There was no need to. The broad just chalked it up as one of the whimsical quirks of childhood. 

Still, a faint trace of warmth flickered in his chest as he watched her unabashed delight.

“ Evanthia , it is well past time for bed,” Philomena said firmly as she approached, lifting her into her arms and holding her against her chest. Expectantly, though not to Leif, the response came in the form of wails. Pierce remained unbothered as her he had gotten accustomed to her outbursts.

“But Bubba is here!” Evanthia whined, her lips curling into an exaggerated pout as she looked up at her mother..

Philomena offered her an apologetic smile. “Your uncle and I have important things to talk about, sweetlings. He won’t have time to-”

Pierce stepped forward. “I can tuck her in.” He interrupted, his voice steady but softer than usual. His words were so much a suggestion as a quiet offer.

Philomena paused, turning to him in spellbound. Her lips parted to object, but Pierce raised his arms, leaving no room to negotiate. His eyes followed Philomena’s as hers searched for any answers to his actions. Pierce had tucked Evanthia into bed before, it was however infrequent enough to catch her off guard. Still, the older woman was always grateful when he did.

Evanthia’s bellyaching vanished instantly, replaced by a bright, toothy smile. Now, she seemed excited to go to bed. Philomena nodded her assent, passing the girl onto Pierce. Evanthia wrapped herself around him, her tiny arms encircling his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her horns were too small to give her uncle any discomfort on his neck.

The broad Daemos was quick to adjust her weight before turning towards the stairs at the back of the house.  His gaze flicked briefly to the silver-haired man who had somehow tagged along to their house, noting the mix of confusion and mild surprise etched on his face.

“Will you read me a story?” Evanthia asked, her voice soft and hopeful, peeking her head up at him.

Her question brought Pierce’s attention back to her, his reply flat but without malice. “... No.”

The door creaked slightly as Pierce stepped into the room. Pierce merely paused on the doorway before his gaze found the small wooden bed tucked neatly in the corner. Just hiding underneath the stretched curtains that covered the darkness outside. Only a few candles burned.

The broad man took long strides, the soft thud of his boots breaking the stillness.

“Bubba?” Evanthia piped.

Pierce had gently thrown the neatly-made bed sheets aside. He lowered her onto the mattress with care as he sat on the side of the bed. Half his focus on settling her in, the other half only loosely catching her words.

“Hm?” He murmured, pulling the sheets up to her shoulders. Her tiny fingers peeked from under the blanket, clutching its edge.

He glanced down when her head tilted, her dark blue eyes locking onto his. “Who was that green mister?” she asked.

Pierce’s eyebrow arched. “Green mister?” he echoed in a flat tone, his expression unchanging. It finally dawned on him that Evanthia had never met the silver-haired Daemos before. The last time Leif had visited, Evanthia was merely a newborn baby.

She nodded, her small hands tightening on the blanket’s edge. “He looked scary. He has a big scar on his face.” Her voice grew quieter, almost like a whisper. Though Pierce’s gaze remained unphased, he caught the tone in her voice shifting. A faint tremor of fear that didn’t seem to sit right in his mind.

“Who is he?” she asked again.

Her uncle let a moment of silence linger before he raised his hand. Slowly, he rested it atop her head, his fingers ruffling her hair in a comforting gesture. In a slow but gentle motion.

“A friend,” he spoke, his tone softening just slightly. “Your mother and I have known him our whole lives. So rest assured, he may look scary but he is a good Daemos.”

Evanthia’s eyes, still wide from curiosity, gleamed beneath the soft light filtering in from the hallway. The shadows in the room cast a glow across her face, softening her features in the dimness. The blue broad watched as she processed his words, her expression shifting slowly.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, the childish innocence in her gaze mingling with something more thoughtful. Or perhaps, she wasn’t thinking of anything. Then, as if a puzzle had finally clicked into place, her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, her small hands clutching the blanket tighter.

“Your friend is still scary,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a hush. Her tone was filled with a kind of gentle humor, as if she feared that speaking any louder would summon the very scary friend she had just mentioned. Like the mere act of acknowledging his presence might pull him through the door.

“Yes,” Pierce replied, his voice soothing yet firm, like he was sharing a secret only the two of them understood. “But scary friends are a good thing.”

Evanthia giggled softly, the sound bright and unrestrained, a light that chased away the last shadows of her fear. At least he could try to soothe her nerves before bed.

“You’re silly, Bubba. How can scary friends be a good thing?” Evanthia asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.

The warmth of the room contrasted with the cold, hard edges of his usual self. “Sometimes, Daemos who seem scary are the ones you trust the most.”

Evanthia’s gaze softened, though her expression was still puzzled. Her small hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, her dark blue eyes watching him intently, as if trying to peel away the layers of meaning in his words.

The blue Daemos hesitated for a moment before continuing to brush her hair, his voice dropping slightly, as if offering a piece of truth only for her ears. “There is more than just a horrifying face. There is loyalty and that matters the most.”

Her brow furrowed, her mind processing the weight of his words. Sometimes, Pierce forgets just how young her niece is. When he looks at her, he sees traces of his sister in her. The girl he took care of for so many years. There was so much of Philomena in her daughter. For a brief second, the little girl seemed older than her years, as though she'd caught a glimpse of something deeper in the world.

Evanthia’s face brightened with a shy smile. “Like you?” she asked, her voice filled with trust.

Pierce’s heart tightened, though he quickly masked it with a smile that just tugged on the side of his lip. “Like me.”

Evanthia’s giggle bubbled up again, this time more freely, and the older Daemos couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Even in his silence, he felt satisfied to comfort her.

Pierce stopped petting her hair, pulling his hand and rising from the bed. As the blue broad straightened, he pulled the blanket up to her chin, smoothing out the wrinkles with a practiced hand. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice returning to its usual clipped tone, though there was an underlying softness to it.

The room grew quiet, the only sound the gentle rustle of the sheets as Evanthia shifted beneath them. Pierce turned towards the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. He hesitated there for a moment, his eyes drifting to the soft glow of the candles spilling around, casting shadows across the room.

“Bubba?”

The soft voice caught his attention, and Pierce paused. His fingers tightened on the doorknob as Evanthia’s small voice continued.

“Was my Dada a scary friend?”

The question struck Pierce like a cold gust of wind. He froze, his chest tightening. His fingers around the doorknob, his grip rigid. He remained silent, unsure how to respond, the weight of the question pressing on him like a thousand unspoken words.

For a long moment, Pierce said nothing. His jaw tightened as he struggled with the discomfort that twisted inside him. The room was still, too still, the air thick with expectation. At least for the broad, that’s how it felt.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, though it was carefully guarded, his words measured. “Rest easy, Evanthia. Tomorrow is a new day.” His gaze avoided hers. The darkness was enough to cover his face for Evanthia to properly see. But not for Pierce. Her shy little face peeking from above the covers.

The little girl was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “Okay...” The little girl sounded less convinced, but she didn’t press him further, and Pierce was relieved. She shifted a little, clutching her blanket as if trying to comfort herself with the warmth.

Pierce lingered at the door, his hand still on the knob. He took a breath, steadying himself. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it felt right. He left the room quickly, the door clicking softly behind him. As he made his way down the hall, the weight of his silence followed him.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Leif watched Philomena observantly, one brow arched and his chin resting on his hand, elbow propped on the edge of the table. “Uh, what are you doing?” he asked, breaking the odd silence that had settled over the room.

Philomena turned to meet his gaze. From the perch on a step ladder, she held a few old cloths in both hands, her expression a mix of distraction and slight defensiveness. For the past several minutes, she had been busily tidying up the common room - gathering toys and drawings into neat piles, wiping dust from forgotten surfaces, and brushing crumbs off the furniture.

“Whatever do you mean?” Philomena replied, her tone light but her movements careful as she climbed down the ladder. She approached the kitchen with such slow grace.

The silver-haired man gestured loosely with a flick of his finger, his expression skeptical. “All… this. The rags, the sorting.” He waved a hand vaguely at the now-spotless room.

Then, Lief leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes in a way that he cracked the case. “Did you run out of magic?”

Philomena blinked at him as though he’d suggested the most absurd thing imaginable. “What?” She laughed softly, a chuckle laced with faint disbelief. “No, Leif, I did not run out of magic.”

“You have to have run out of magic,” Leif insisted, his tone dripping with incredulity. “Why else would you stoop to manual labor?” He added a dramatic shudder like it was a crime. As though the very idea offended him to his core.

Philomena rolled her eyes as she turned away. She dropped the rags into the sink with a soft clatter before moving around the kitchen. Leif’s sharp gaze followed her every movement, though he remained comfortably seated, chin still propped on his hand.

She picked up an old iron kettle, its surface well-worn with age, and carried it to the fireplace tucked into the corner of the kitchen. The fire, already crackling gently, cast a warm orange glow over her figure as she crouched to set the kettle on the iron grate. Her focus shifted to the far side of the room, where a small jug of water sat untouched. With a simple flick of her hand, the water lifted into the air, curling in a graceful arc before pouring itself neatly into the kettle. The liquid streamed over her guest’s head on its way, but he didn’t so much as blink.

“I try not to overuse magic if I can help it,” Philomena said, her voice soft but matter-of-fact as she adjusted the kettle’s position over the fire. “It is something I’ve practiced ever since I gave birth to Thea.”

Leif tilted his head, leaning back in his chair until it balanced precariously on two legs. His emerald eyes didn’t waver as he asked, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Philomena turned to face him fully, resting her hands briefly on the back of her chair before sighing. Her expression softened, though there was a touch of wry amusement in her eyes. “You may not realize this,” she began, her tone light but pointed, “but having a child takes up an enormous amount of energy and time. More than you’d think, in fact.”

Leif raised an eyebrow at her as if silently challenging the claim. Undeterred, she slid into her seat across from him, folding her hands neatly on the table. A small smile curved her lips as she added, “not that I’d expect you to know anything about that, of course.”

Her words prompted a small cackle from Leif, his chair dropping back onto all four legs with a soft thud. “You’re right,” he said, the grin on his face as unapologetic as ever. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Philomena shook her head with a soft chuckle. “Of course you would,” she replied, her tone light and teasing, but with a touch of sincerity beneath it. “However, I’ve found cleaning and these little physical tasks to have their own kind of charm. They’re oddly grounding.”

Her guest snorted, his disbelief clear as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Grounding? Phil, you’re not serious? You’re telling me you enjoy scrubbing floors and wiping down furniture?”

She shrugged, unfazed by his tone. “When we revolve ourselves around our ability to perform, sometimes the mundane can feel refreshing. There’s a quiet satisfaction in it, even if it seems small.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if trying to catch her in a joke. “So, what? You’re saying you would rather do chores than snap your fingers and be done with it?”

Philomena smiled, a hint of pride in her eyes. She stood up and walked back to the fireplace. “Not always, but sometimes, yes. Not everything needs to be solved with magic, Leif.”

As Leif spoke, Philomena had turned her attention to the kettle, lifting the lid to check on the water. The steam that rose from the kettle was a soft, comforting presence in the room. With a quick motion, she reached for a fire poker, pushing the wood in the hearth to stir the embers and create more sparks. The fire crackled louder, sending warmth through the room.

She laughed at that, a genuine, melodic sound. “Believe what you wish, Leif. But this is how I’ve truly found value in my life.”

His gaze went over her, opening his mouth to speak his mind. However, no words came out initially. He bit his tongue before thinking twice. Instead, the silver-haired man smirked, shaking his head. “I’ve got better things to do than find meaning in chores.”

Before Philomena could reply, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the top of the stairs, steadily descending. The rhythm was deliberate, each step a quiet declaration of approach. Both Daemos turned their heads as Pierce entered the room, his stoic presence filling the space effortlessly.

Leif leaned back in his chair, raising a hand to gesture toward Philomena as if presenting evidence in an argument. “Did you know about this?” he asked, a tinge of disbelief in his voice, pointing vaguely toward the kettle and the stirred hearth behind her.

Pierce’s cold blue eyes flicked from Leif to Philomena, his expression unreadable as he paused by the wide kitchen entrance. “Know what?” he asked, his tone as neutral and unyielding as ever.

“Phil is here dusting cabinets and boiling water like a Daemos without magic. She is perfectly capable of using her magic to get the job done. Can you believe that?” he claimed, gesturing more emphatically now at the common room she had previously cleaned.

Philomena raised an eyebrow at Leif’s exaggerated performance but didn’t interrupt, curious as to how her brother would respond. Pierce’s gaze shifted to her for a moment, his sharp features softening just barely, before returning to Leif. “Yes,” he stated simply. “I have watched her clean before. I see no issue.”

Leif threw up his hands in mock defeat. “Of course, the great General Pierce doesn’t see an issue.”

Philomena, with her back still turned to the two men, allowed herself a small, hidden grin. The steam rose gently from the kettle as she poured the hot water into a teapot, her movements deliberate and calm. “It’s not a phase, Leif. You might want to try it sometime. What if you find yourself in a situation where you run out of magic?” 

The silver-haired Daemos let out a derisive snort, leaning back in his chair. “That will never happen,” he declared, his tone sharp and certain. “I’d never run out of magic.”

The broad man, who had been silently observing the exchange, finally stepped forward. His heavy boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as he moved to the table. Without a word, he pulled out the chair between Leif and Philomena and sat down, his imposing presence making the air feel heavier.

Leif glanced at Pierce as if looking for support but was met with his usual inscrutable expression. Pierce slowly rested his forearm on the table as he finally addressed his friend. “I actually agree with Philomena,” he said, his tone even but firm.

The silver-haired man scoffed, his scowl deepening as he straightened in his seat. “That’s easy for you to say. Some of us don’t have the luxury of relying on brute strength and the Prince’s army when things get tough.”

Philomena approached them at the table, the teapot in one hand and a small stack of cups balanced in the other. Leif’s attention was suddenly caught by the teapot itself. His green eyes narrowed as he watched the steam curling out from the spout, the gentle clink as she set it down, seeming unusually loud in the quiet room.

“And what happens when brute strength or magic aren’t enough?” she asked, her voice calm but probing. Philomena placed the teapot on the table with a quiet clink, pouring the steaming liquid into three cups. He tilted his head, watching the liquid swirl and settle, his brows knitting in confusion.

“What are you doing now?” he questioned abruptly, gesturing toward the teapot.

Philomena blinked, placing Pierce’s cup in front of him whilst staring at her guest. “Tea,” she said, her tone puzzled by his question. “Surely you’ve had tea before.”

Leif’s gaze shifted between her and the cups. “Tea?” he repeated, the words sounding almost foreign to him. He leaned forward slightly, his forearms on the table as he squinted at the teapot. “Looks more like swamp water.”

Pierce reached for his cup without hesitation, his movements steady and practiced. He glanced briefly at Leif, who still hadn’t touched his cup. “It’s not poison,” Pierce said dryly, bringing the cup to his lips.

His sister couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped her lips. “It is not ‘swamp water.’ It’s brewed leaves with flavor and benefits.” She slid a cup toward him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Try it.”

Her guest eyed the cup warily, like it might bite him. “Pass,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t trust things that look like a witch brewed them.”

“And yet, you’ll drink whatever concoction someone offers you at the taverns,” she joked, shaking her head. Philomena softly chuckled escaped her lips as she sat in her own seat. Her brother remained quiet, merely listening and sipping the well-made tea. Still, he couldn’t help letting the twitch on the side of his lip happen after her joke.

“That’s different,” Leif said defensively. “Tavern drinks don’t look like this.” He lifted the cup to his nose, sniffing it before quickly pulling back. “Or smell like this.”

Philomena bit back a grin, watching his obvious discomfort. Leif finally met her gaze, seeing the way her softened eyes were harmlessly gesturing to his cup. With a resigned huff, he started taking the tiniest of sips, his expression immediately twisting into one of sheer distaste. “Ugh,” he groaned, setting the cup down firmly. “You drink this on purpose?”

Philomena burst into laughter, the sound melodic yet restrained. Knowing well her little girl was already asleep upstairs. “You’ll acquire the taste,” she said between giggles. “Or maybe you won’t. Either way, it’s good for you.”

Pierce watched Leif for a moment, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in amusement as the silver-haired Daemos frantically tried to cool the inside of his mouth. Leif waved his hand in front of his face, coughing lightly as though the tea had personally offended him. The sight was almost enough to pull a rare smile from his stoic demeanor. Almost.

Instead, Pierce’s gaze shifted as it fell on Philomena. She sat beside him, her posture relaxed as she cradled her tea with both hands. The faint steam rising from her cup framed her face, softening the tired lines around her doe-like eyes. She looked more at ease than he had seen her in years.

His sister had always carried herself with a quiet strength, even after Evanthia was born. But the aftermath had taken its toll on her. Pierce could still recall the hollow look in her eyes, the fragile way her smiles never quite reached her lips. Back then, he had thought that he might never see her truly whole again. Yet here she was. Still tired, yes, but there was a warmth to her now, a quiet resilience that made her seem more like the sister he remembered.

“Pierce?” Philomena’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked, realizing with some realisation that he had been staring. Her head tilted slightly, a faint crease of concern forming between her brows. “Do you not hear me?”

He gave a brief shake of his head, as if to dislodge the weight of his distraction, and straightened in his chair. His expression smoothed into its familiar, stoic mask. “Apologies. I have a lot on my mind,” he said, his voice low and measured, betraying nothing of the unease that had momentarily slipped through.

Philomena, however, didn’t let him retreat so easily. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Certainly, whatever it is must be the reason for your headache,” she said lightly, her tone teasing yet pointed.

Pierce’s eyes met her gaze with a hint of wariness. Philomena’s ability to see through him, to draw out truths he would rather bury, was an old habit of hers. One he had never quite grown used to.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table, the smile still tugging at her lips. “After all, you only make unannounced visits when you need to speak with me about something important.”

Pierce was never one to speak true to his mind a lot. There was a certain solace in the quiet of his own mind, a sense of control that came from sorting through his emotions on his own terms. Words, spoken aloud, felt vulnerable - loose threads that others might tug on, unraveling the careful composure he worked so hard to maintain.

Even with the people closest to him - his sister and his childhood friend - he kept a deliberate distance. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for them. In truth, they were perhaps the only ones he truly cared for. But his love was a quiet thing, shown through action rather than confession. Through presence rather than words. To Pierce, keeping them at arm’s length was less about pushing them away and more about holding himself together.

They knew this about him, in their own ways. With her sharp intuition, Philomena had long stopped pressing for answers he wasn’t ready to give. For all his boisterousness, Lief rarely pried deeper than Pierce allowed. It was an unspoken understanding, a balance struck between affection and restraint.

But there are times. Times that are rare and fleeting. Times where even Pierce needs to come out of his mind.

Pierce sighed, a prelude to breaking the stillness.

“There is a possibility that Wolves have been spotted near the kingdom,” he declared at last, his voice steady yet carrying the undercurrent of unease that the statement demanded.

Philomena’s hand paused mid-motion, her fingers hovering over her teacup as her expression dropped. “Wolves?” she repeated softly, the word seeming heavier than it should have been.

His silver-haired friend, still nursing his too-hot tea with exaggerated caution, set his cup down with a muted clink. His gaze sharpened, losing its earlier playful edge. “Wolves as in Wolves ,” he clarified, “or is this another rumor about Wild Daemos from the outskirts?”

Pierce’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his jaw tightening as he nodded. “Reports on the human settlements have gone absent for weeks now. Every unit we’ve sent to investigate hasn’t returned.” He exhaled heavily, the weight of his words seeming to settle in the air around them.

Philomena’s brow furrowed, her teacup now forgotten in her hands. “No return?” she echoed softly, her voice carrying a note of disbelief. “No word at all?”

Pierce shook his head, his gaze distant, as though replaying each failed effort in his mind. He leaned back as if bracing himself for her reaction. “There is no evidence yet. Tomorrow, I am to travel west to handle the situation. To investigate before it escalates further.” 

Leif had been uncharacteristically quiet. “Alone?” he asked, suspicion laced in his tone.

“The fewer who go, the better. Sending another squad could lead to more lives lost,” Pierce spoke with a clear voice.

Philomena’s heart sank at his words. “But if no one else has returned...” she started, her voice faltering as she tried to find the right words.

Pierce held up a hand, stopping her. “That’s why I have to go. If it is Wolves, they’ll recognize the patterns of a group. Fewer Daemos men stand a better chance of uncovering the truth - and surviving it.”

Leif scoffed lightly. Though the sound carried no amusement. “That’s a noble thought, Pierce. But Wolves aren’t known for sparing lone prey either.”

Pierce’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.

Philomena reached out, her hand trembling as it brushed against the table’s edge. “There must be another way,” she urged. “Can’t the Queen do something? Send more royal soldiers in bigger groups?”

“The number of soldiers have already stretched thin,” Pierce replied, his voice firm but not unkind. “It is not wise to send a full battalion to only a few human villages. I have doubts the Queen would want to bring panic to the kingdom as well.”

Philomena, though visibly troubled, met her brother’s gaze with a quiet determination. “So, what will you do?”

Pierce’s eyes softened ever so slightly as he looked at her, though his voice remained steady. “What must be done,” he replied.

Philomena’s hands tightened around her teacup as if anchoring herself. She didn’t press further, but the worry etched in her expression spoke volumes. In that moment, the three of them were united in the shared weight of the looming threat, though each carried it differently - Philomena with quiet apprehension, Leif with a guarded curiosity, and Pierce with the resolve of someone already bracing for the storm ahead.

The room fell silent again, the weight of Pierce’s mission settling like a heavy fog. The crackle of the fire behind Pierce and Leif seemed distant, muted under the tension. Philomena finally looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for any trace of reassurance. “Then promise me one thing,” she said softly.

Pierce turned to her, his gaze softening just slightly.

“Come back,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

The sky was painted in muted hues of dawn as two Daemos emerged from the spell’s pull. The teleportation left a brief hum in the air before fading. The ground beneath them became solid once more. The world around them settled in a calm stillness, save for the gentle rustle of the trees swaying in the early morning breeze.

Rhys had teleported them outside the village in question, the dense tree lines masking them from view. Pierce swept his gaze over their surroundings - an uneven forest floor covered in damp leaves, the faint scent of wet bark clinging to the air. The village was still quite a walk ahead, barely visible between the gaps in the trees. A deliberate choice . Appearing too close would be reckless; enemies could be lingering, waiting. Perhaps worse. It was always best to attempt a cautious approach.

The quiet crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot filled the silence between them. Rhys let out a sharp exhale, straightening his long coat before casting a glance at Pierce. “Let’s be quick so we can return back to the castle,” he muttered, walking past him and towards their first destination.

Pierce didn’t respond. He rarely did, and Rhys never expected him to. But this time, his silence carried a different meaning even he couldn’t quite place. His feet moved, falling into step behind Rhys, yet his thoughts drifted elsewhere, drawn to something he hadn’t meant to carry with him.

Come back.

There was no corner of his mind he could escape to. The words had settled in, uninvited. They had followed him since he left Philomena’s house last night, echoing like a presence just out of reach. Strange how such a simple plea had taken root. Small, fleeting, but persistent.

Philomena had spoken of her woes before, on previous missions that were too dangerous on paper. However this time was different. This time, her worry had stayed with him. There was something weighty in her voice, something that left an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. Unsettling.

“Pierce.”

He looked up, meeting Rhys’ sharp, heavy gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes carried their usual intensity, like they were assessing his. As soon as their eyes locked, Rhys turned away, back down to the path with steady deliberate strides.

The darker Daemos moved through the tangled roots and uneven ground with ease, a faint shimmer of magic flickering around him as he stepped over the thick undergrowth. “Whatever is on your mind, set it aside,” Rhys said, his tone edged with quiet disapproval. “I need you focused.”

The scent of the damp earth lingered as they walked, their boots pressing softly into the soil. It left shallow imprints behind. Pierce barely spared a glance at the ground, but he certainly caught the way Rhys muttered a quiet curse, glaring at the dirt that clung to the hem of his coat. A man so meticulous and menacing, yet acted like a royal child as he trekked through the mud. It was a wonder how someone like him had become one of the highest-ranked Daemos.

The stillness of the forest wasn’t unnatural to him - no distant voices and no rustling. Only the occasional snap of a twig beneath their steps. Pierce liked the quiet, shocker.

Rhys, however, broke it first. “Prince Asch isn’t pleased,” he stated. The statement carried some implications, though Pierce already assumed as much. This conversation must have followed after yesterday’s meeting.

“I still hope the soldiers stationed in these villages were merely slow to report back. That perhaps they were dealing with something minor.” He exhaled sharply, like even he hadn’t truly believed that. “But after this long without a single report?” Rhys scoffed. “His majesty will not wait any longer.”

Pierce’s gaze remained forward, his eyes fixed on the back of Rhys’ head. “Do you still believe it isn’t werewolves?”

The mage shot him a look as he opened his mouth, as if about to argue, but something in his own thoughts must have held him back. Instead, he sighed, continuing his pace. “I do not assume. I calculate.” He adjusted his handle on his purple staff. “However, if it is them, this is a problem far greater than a few missing humans.”

The blue broad considered Rhys’ words, taking them in without breaking stride. Rhys continued. “You must have noticed it too - how sudden this is. They aren’t just hunting. If it were, there would have been signs before now.” His voice dropped slightly, a rare hint of unease lacing his words. “They are claiming. And if that is the case, it could mean one thing.”

Pierce didn’t ask, he didn’t need to. He already knew what Rhys meant. Territory.

The thought settled over them like a heavy fog. If the neighbouring werewolves were thinking to claim land, it wasn’t a matter of missing humans - it could spark an act of war. 

The realisation sent a slow wave of heat through his chest, the kind that spurred action. His grip on his unsheathed sword tightened. “We deal with it,” he said flatly.

Rhys stopped walking. He turned fully to face Pierce, his expression unreadable, save for the flicker of seriousness in his cold blue eyes. “We do not even know if it is werewolves yet.”

Even though Rhys had stopped in his tracks, it didn’t mean Pierce would too. “Then we find out.”

Rhys let out an exasperated sigh, treading beside him now. “And if we storm in blindly and it is something else? You’d have us making enemies before we know what we are dealing with?”

“Does it matter? They would be taking land that isn’t theirs,” he questioned.

“It matters if we want to come out of this alive,” the mage said, his eyes bored into Pierce’s, cold and assessing. “Strategy, not reckless sword-swinging, will lead us to a better outcome.”

The general turned slightly. “And waiting gets our people killed too.”

Rhys inhaled quietly, but whatever argument he had brewing was cut short. When he smelled it. A shift in the air - sharp and acrid - had made them stop and turn their heads. 

Smoke. A thick column of it curled into the sky just above the trees.

Rhys swore under his breath. “Perfect timing,” he muttered. Pierce, on the other hand, was already moving.

“Less talking, more running,” he called over his shoulder. Rhys didn’t hesitate to follow, his face set in grim determination.

Pierce was quick to arrive at the village, emerging from behind the bushes. The acrid stench of charred wood and flesh burned his nostrils as he surveyed the wreckage. Smoldering embers glowed beneath the collapsed husks of houses, their skeletal remains casting jagged shadows against the gray haze that hung over the village.

The fire had done its work well. A bit too well. The scene before him painted a story that aged long past its moment of urgency. The embers were fading, the smoke that had seemed fresh was already beginning to dissipate. They were too late.

The blue broad Daemos could hear Rhys arrive moments later, his steps crunching over the blackened debris. He moved slower, eyes scanning the ruins as Pierce surveyed the area closeby.

“The fire spread fast,” he noted.

Pierce grunted. “Too fast,” he commented, stepping over a fallen beam. The remains of Daemos soldiers lay scattered across the streets - some burned beyond recognition, others left twisted in unnatural ways. The sight was expected but it gnawed at him regardless.

Rhys knelt beside the fallen men who had escaped the fire, searching for patterns in their deaths, while Pierce swept his gaze over the empty roads.

“No humans,” Pierce muttered.

Aside from the soldiers, there were no human bodies. No survivors. No blood trails that they could follow. Just absence.

Rhys shifted over to one of the Daemos corpses, crouching to examine it. He flexed his fingers before hovering over the deep gash along the man’s chest. “These wounds…” he trailed off, studying the edges. “Not werewolves.”

The broad man turned. “What?”

Rhys glanced up, his expression remaining firm. “These are not claw marks. They are clean. Sharp.” He gestured towards the wound. “A blade did this.”

Pierce held his gaze for a moment before kneeling beside another fallen Daemos, one who had collapsed face-first onto the ground. He rolled the body over with one hand. Beneath the burns, a wound similar to the one Rhys had found stretched across the soldier’s ribs. It was precise and intentional.

Rhys rose to his feet, brushing the soot and ash off his hands and sleeves. “If this was the work of humans, they executed it well.” His gaze flickered across the ruins. “No discarded belongings, no tracks. Nothing.”

Slowly, Pierce stood, his eyes still on the fallen man. “There is no such thing as nothing,” he said quietly. He’d seen his own share of settlements - there was always something left behind.

Rhys glanced at him, but Pierce continued. “These humans are not built to fight and win. It is too perfect for a revolt. Why fight now?” Pierce’s fingers curled into a fist. “And why burn everything?”

The mage didn’t answer right away. Pierce’s gaze locked onto the remnants of a nearby house, its door left slightly ajar. He stepped forward, nudging the barely-hinged wood open to reveal the interior. Inside, the destruction was just as thorough. A table lay overturned, its wooden leg charred black. A few personal things scattered about. A pot, a torn cloth and a child’s doll half-buried under debris. 

Signs of life. No sign of life.

The mage stood by the entrance. He remained silent, his eyes tracking Pierce’s movement by the table. 

Rhys exhaled quietly. “Let us not waste time.” His shoulders squared as he stepped away from the house. “There is nothing more here.”

Pierce watched him for a moment before he too exited onto the streets. “I will signal the Captains.”

With a flick of his wrist, a faint blue light glinted at his fingertips. A swirling pulse of energy shot into the sky - a distress signal. 

As the light faded, Pierce spoke again. “You think the other villages are like this?”

Rhys looked over the ruins once more before shaking his head. “I expect the worst from here on out,” he admitted.

Pierce’s expression hardened, as he cracked his knuckles. Deep inside, he agreed with Rhys.

The transition between spaces was instantaneous. One moment, Pierce’s vision was filled with the ruins of an abandoned village. The next, the dense woodland swallowed them whole once more. The rush of the spell came with a brief notion of dizziness as he staggered slightly. He exhaled sharply, allowing himself a moment to breathe. Not that he’d ever admit it, but teleportation had a way of making his stomach turn at times.

They arrived farther from the village this time, where the treelines were thicker, more twisted as the branches wove together like grasping fingers. Somehow, they landed just outside a creeping fog that laced through the underbrush, clinging to the air with a damp stillness. Rhys straightened beside him, scowling at the soil that clung once again to his clothes before flicking his wrist, dimming the glow of his staff.

Pierce rolled his shoulders. “Further than before.” It wasn’t a question.

Rhys didn’t bother to look at him, too focused on adjusting the fastenings on his wrists and sleeves. “Teleportation is not an exact science.” His gaze then changed towards the village in the distance, partially obscured by the morning haze. “Would you rather we land in the middle of a massacre?”

Pierce grunted but said nothing. He had a point. And considering the way his gut twisted, the worst was still ahead of them.

They strode forward, the fog thickening around them as they stepped deeper into the unknown. Shadows stretched long between the trees, shifting with the mist, like something unseen moved beyond their sight. The silence between them settled like a weight, heavy but unspoken.

“You were looking for something back there,” Rhys finally said.

Pierce frowned, turning his head slightly. “What?”

“Back at the village.” Rhys used his magic again to step easily over a gnarled root. “You were expecting them, didn’t you?”

Pierce had his reservations. He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, and yet, he’d been searching for a specific answer, hadn’t he? His exhale was quiet, but sharp. Barely noticeable. The destruction, the precision, the missing humans - it didn’t match what he knew of werewolves. Yet it still felt familiar.

His shoulders tensed. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low, almost reluctant. “It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

Rhys hummed, a neutral sound. Not in agreement, nor in denial. “And yet, it was them you wanted proof of.”

He halted mid-step, his stance shifting. He kept his expression neutral but there was a stiffness to the way he held himself. “And you didn’t?”

The mage met his gaze, measured and unyielding. “I wanted proof of anything,” he said, his tone calm and composed. Then, after a beat, he added. “Unlike you, I do not search for an answer I have already decided on.”

A flicker of something passed through Pierce’s expression - subtle, restrained but present. His fingers twitched at his side, though he didn’t bristle at the words. He didn’t grunt in irritation, nor let the comment provoke him.

“You speak like I am looking in the wrong direction,” he said evenly.

Rhys inclined his head slightly, his tone unreadable. “Hardly. I am merely saying that you are looking at only one.” His voice remained careful, but there was an edge of something keen beneath it. “Werewolves from the west may be one of Daemos’ greatest foes, but they are not the only ones capable of burning villages.”

The general held his gaze, the tension between them stretched just enough to be felt. Rhys spoke as if he were being the irrational one, and Pierce didn’t like it. He was not a Daemos blinded by rage - he worked with reason, with instinct. But his instincts weren’t always logical.

This time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were heading towards something far worse than just a village of missing humans.

A scream tore through the silence. 

Pierce’s head snapped toward the sound, his body already tensing before he even processed it. It came from the village ahead. It was raw and full of terror, cutting through the stillness of the fog like a blade. He didn’t think. His body just moved, his feet crunching against the forest floor as he surged ahead.

A firm grip caught his arm “Wait.”

Rhys’ voice was insistent, his fingers tightening just enough to force restraint. He gestured with a subtle flick of his free hand - a silent action to slow down.

Pierce took a moment before forcing himself to still. He hated waiting, but he wasn’t unreasonable. With a small nod, he pulled his arm free and continued onwards with more caution, stepping lighter, eyes sharper.

The forest thinned, revealing the first traces of the village. Crooked rooftops barely peaked through the haze, more skeletal structures standing against the morning fog. Then came the scent - smoke. It was stronger, clinging to the air. Unlike the last village, actual fire burned lower, smothered by the thick fog curling through the streets.

It was eerily similar. The same destruction. The same burn patterns. 

The fog had concealed much of the damage, making it difficult to tell just how long the village had been in ruins. Pierce pushed forward, used to the scent, used to the sight of devastation. They crept closer, moving between the remnants of collapsed homes.

Then, past the broken structures, Pierce saw them.

There, huddled together, was a group of humans inside the remains of a large house. One wall was broken and cracked wide open for the two Daemos to clearly see the humans. Their faces paled with fear. At least more than a dozen were crammed as more were being pushed inside. If Rhys had estimated, there were a total of fifty humans. Alive humans, but guarded. 

Like seeing ghosts, the same kind of soldiers were scattered around the streets. Most bodies scorched and the others twisted. And looming between the corpses and the humans, half-hidden by the low fog, new shapes took form. Hulking bodies, the glint of sharp claws, the slow purposeful movements of predators

Werewolves. 

A small group, no more than five of them, stood around the large house.  They weren’t loitering - they were keeping watch, standing sentry in a loose formation. A few of them were in charge of the humans while the others stood outside the entrance.

The two Daemos hid behind a collapsed wall, crouched down as they peeked over the structure. Rhys was silent, his gaze fixed on the scene before them with wide eyes - until he caught the look Pierce was giving him.

Pierce didn’t say a word, but the gleam in his eyes and the smirk threatening at the corner of his lips said plenty. Told you.

Rhys merely scorned, his expression turning sour. His jaw tensed. “What, you want a round of applause?” he mocked quietly.

Pierce didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. But the hint of subtle glee in his eyes lingered before he turned back to their problem.

Rhys’ gaze changed too. “They are keeping them alive,” he murmured under his breath. “That’s… new.”

Werewolves from the west were unlike any lone pack. They weren’t raiders, nor did they act with careful strategy. Their attacks were wild and merciless, leaving a mess in their wake. They didn’t take prisoners - there had never been a reason to in the past. To them, humans were nothing more than prey.

But these werewolves - whether they hailed from the west or not - were behaving differently. The humans weren’t dead, obviously. They weren’t corpses strewn among the streets. They were alive, herded like cattle.

Pierce’s frown deepened. This wasn’t the instinctive, bloodthirsty rampage of a feral pack. It had a purpose. A method. That unsettled him more than the mindless carnage he had come to expect from them. 

A low growl rumbled from one of them. The largest of the group, standing closest to the collapsed wall of the large house, turned its head slightly as its ears flicked. His nostrils flaring as if scenting something in the air. The movement was subtle, but it sent a ripple of awareness through the others. One of the smaller werewolves shifted its stance, claws flexing against the dirt.

Pierce and Rhys crouched lower, pressing themselves  against the ruined wall, the damp stone cool beneath their fingers. The fog coiled around the village, veiling them in a layer of murky cover. The werewolves were alert, but not yet alarmed. They had to keep it that way.

Pierce’s voice barely carried over the distance between them. “We take them out quietly.”

Rhys’ grip on his staff tightened, his fingers steady despite the faint crackle of his magic building around the center of the rune. A thin pulse of energy flickered before dying down with restraint. “I’ll handle the ones further out.”

The broad Daemos nodded. No need for grand displays of power. No wasted motion. Precision, speed and silence were what mattered in the next coming moments.

Then, they moved.

Pierce slowly drew his sword, the steel catching only the dimmest glint of light before the fog swallowed it whole.  His grip was steady. His movement controlled, each step measured as he kept his breathing to a minimum. He was a shadow. Moving between the darkness of every wall and ruined home - a predator slipping through the fog.

The first werewolf stood a few paces away, its attention fixed on the large house, its stance relaxed. A mistake.

Its fur bristled slightly in the cold air, ears twitching. Pierce glided behind it, watching, waiting - till he saw the moment its weight shifted forward. Then he struck.

It reacted too late. In a swift, precise motion, he drove his sword deep between the werewolf’s ribs, straight through its heart. The creature tensed, a strangled breath catching in its throat. It shuddered before the tension drained from its form. Pierce was quick to catch its weight before it collapsed, seizing the limp body and dragging it behind. Where no one could find it. He lowered it gently to the ground, careful not to disturb the earth. No sound. No evidence left.

A soft, almost imperceptible crackle of energy hummed through the air. From his vantage point, Rhys lifted his staff, the gem pulsing with a soft blue glow. His eyes gleamed with the same eerie light as he uttered the spell.

A shimmer of energy flared. Just for an instant before vanishing like a breath in the wind. Across the clearing, another werewolf stiffened mid-step. Its mouth parted as it tried to sound an alarm, but no noise came. Its body locked, unmoving. It collapsed, lifeless before it even hit the ground.

A spell. A clean kill.

Two down. Three remained.

Then, movement.

The largest of the remaining wolves turned its head slightly. A shift in posture, an almost instinctual reaction. Its ears twitched. Nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of something unnatural in the air. Then it froze. Recognition. 

Its ears pinned back. Muscles tensed.

Pierce cursed under his breath. He moved.

Too late.

The werewolf let out a snarl, spinning towards Pierce’s location.

The last two turned as well, alerted by the sudden shift in energy. Their claws flexed, and for a split second, there was silence. Then one lunged straight for Pierce. He met it head-on.

His sword clashed with claws as he ducked low, sidestepping the first swipe. The werewolf’s claws scraped against the stone ruins, kicking up debris, but Pierce was already countering. He pivoted, bringing his sword up in a sharp arc - cutting deep. The werewolf choked on its own breath, staggering back.

Rhys was already handling the other, his staff whirling in controlled motions, the rune glowing as his magic surged. The air crackled, and before the werewolf could even fully react, a force slammed into its chest, crashing it against the crumbling remains of a beam.

That left one. The largest.

It didn’t attack. It didn’t snarl or bare its fangs in defense. Instead, it watched, its predatory eyes flickering between Pierce and Rhys with eerily deliberate.

Then its lips curled upwards into a toothy grin. A glint of amusement flashed in its eyes before it did something neither expected.

A low, guttural chuckle rumbled from its throat, deep and unshaken. The sound slithered through the fog, vibrating in the air. It started slow, almost restrained, but then it grew - richer, fuller - until it became something disturbingly genuine. A laugh.

Pierce stepped forward, his stance unwavering. His sword was still slick with the blood of the werewolf’s fallen kin. Yet the laughter continued, thickly.

However, Rhys was the one to speak. “Where did you come from?”

The werewolf only grinned wider, stretching unnaturally across its face. Rhys narrowed his eyes, his fingers shifting as the magic pulsed faintly at his fingertips. “Why are you keeping them alive?” His head tilted toward the trapped humans. “Who do you serve?”

Still, nothing. The werewolf only stared, first at Rhys then at Pierce - measuring, calculating. As if waiting.

The silence tightened around them in a cold suffocating atmosphere.

Before Rhys could press further, a rustling came from behind them - heavy and fast-moving footsteps approached from the treeline behind them. Pierce turned sharply as he raised his sword, his body coiling for a strike. His grip tightened, only to exhale when his eyes caught the sigils on the approaching figures’ armour.

Daemos soldiers.

They emerged from the treeline in disciplined formation, their weapons drawn as they filled the scene. Reinforcements. The captain of the group spared a brief glance to Pierce before his focus locked on the large werewolf.

“Hold your fire!” Rhys commanded, his eyes still trained on their enemy.

The werewolf chuckled again, softer this time, as if indulging in some private joke. Its eyes gleamed with some unreadable mirth. It looked at Rhys before settling on Pierce once more.

“You can’t stop this,” it murmured, its husky voice thick with mockery. In such a way that the answer was so obvious.

Rhys stiffened, his magic sparking faintly between the space of his staff and fingers. He took a measured step forward, his voice controlled. “What do you mean?”

The werewolf took a long, drawn out sigh. “No room for poetry in your minds, is there?” It tilted its head. “You see a fire and assume it’s the start of the blaze. But what if the embers were smoldering long before you noticed?”

Pierce’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his sword did. “It enjoys talking in circles.”

Its grin only widened. “Circles are lovely. Everything comes back around. It’s rather beautiful.”

Rhys’ brow furrowed. “Who’s behind this?”

As if it genuinely considered the question, the werewolf hummed. Before it laughed again. “Ah… but what is behind something? A shadow cast from a brighter light? A hand unseen but always reaching?” It sighed dreamily. “You could look behind, but what is in front of you is so much more interesting, don’t you think?”

The silence following afterwards was almost deafening to the two Daemos, and the reinforcements that surrounded the werewolf were just as quiet. The werewolf seemed pleased, grinning almost too delightful, its fangs were revealed. “It’s all very beautiful, really. The way things unfold. How one thing leads to another,” it said before its eyes stuck to Rhys. “Do you know how a crack forms in stone? It starts small, almost invisible. But then, a little pressure, the right amount of weight and suddenly-”

It snapped its fingers. “- it shatters.” 

And for one of them, that was enough.

As the werewolf turned its head towards the imprisoned humans, Pierce moved. A swift, decisive motion. His sword cut through the air with a deadly whistle. The steel sliced cleaned through flesh and bone.

The werewolf barely had time to react. Its grin never faltered, even as its head severed from its body. Its body crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud, its lifeless eyes still wide with that mirth.

Pierce stood over its fallen form, watching as the last remnants of life drained from his enemy’s eyes. His grip on his sword remained firm, his eyes cold.

If the werewolf’s rambling held any meaning, it had taken the truth with it - leaving behind fragments of nonsense.

Rhys stared at the body, his breath caught in his throat. The eerie smile remained too frozen on its face, as if it had taken some secret amusement to the grave. Without warning, he turned on Pierce, anger simmering beneath the controlled edge of his voice. “What was that for?” His words were sharp, his grip on his staff loosening though his posture remained tense.

“It was never going to talk truth,” he said, swiping the blood off his sword in a quick motion.

Rhys wasn’t satisfied with that. He moved, closing the distance in two steps. His hand shot out, grabbing Pierce’s shoulder with enough aggression to turn him roughly. The general didn’t resist, but his expression remained frustratingly blank as he met Rhys’ glare. Clearly, Pierce’s action wasn’t sitting well with him.

“We don’t know that,” he snapped, his tone dangerously low. “It was talking. It was toying with us, yes, but that doesn’t mean it had nothing left to say.”

“It was playing a game,” Pierce replied coldly. “I won.”

“You ended any chance we had at getting real answers,” Rhys bit out. “Answers we could have provided to the kingdom. To Prince Asch.”

Pierce’s gaze did not waver. “His majesty would not tolerate useless answers. Nor precious time.” Without waiting for Rhys’ reply , he turned away and stepped over the werewolf’s body without a second glance. 

The mage scoffed bitterly, shaking his head before walking away rather abruptly. A moment to regain his composure. His eyes flicked back to the corpse. The werewolf’s words echoed in his mind - cryptic, nonsensical but unsettling.

A crack in stone. A shadow in the light.

He hated to admit it, but a part of him felt that whatever it was hinting at… it had to have meant something. Now, they might never know.

Rhys swallowed his frustration. There was no point in arguing any further; Pierce’s rash decision was made and the damage was done.

The general, meanwhile, had already made his way towards the large broken house, the house that held their resources. Stepping through the gaping hole in the wall, he surveyed the captives. Exhausted and frightened, their expressions didn’t soften upon his arrival. If anything, his presence seemed to agitate them further. In the brief moment their gazes met, many looked away, pressing closer together as though shielding themselves from him.

Pierce heard the heavy footsteps behind him, followed by the clear voice of the captain. “Shall we transport the humans to another village, General?”

Pierce scanned the frightened crowd again. “Not until we know what happened to the rest of them. Take account for all of them.”

The captain nodded briskly, immediately moving to command his men, calm the burning fires of the houses and secure the perimeter. Approaching quietly, Rhys joined Pierce’s side. With practiced ease, he cleared his throat and faced the humans, offering a reassuring smile.

“Greetings, everyone. You have nothing to fear now. Your safety is assured for another time,” he spoke warmly, the familiar comforting tone Pierce had seen calm countless others. It was this same tone that often drew trust, making Rhys a beacon of hope in dire times.

A few hesitant glances were exchanged among the humans - expressions caught somewhere between uncertainty and cautious relief. That’s what Pierce deduced. Rhys gently pressed forward, “We see that many among you are missing. Perhaps family or friends. Does anyone here know where they were taken?”

A tense silence settled over the wide group. After a moment, an older woman raised her trembling hand. “They took some away quickly,” she said weakly. “I didn’t hear exactly where, only that they had to move fast.”

Opposite her, a younger man hesitantly added, “they mentioned returning back, but nothing clearer than that.”

Rhys nodded attentively to each response, his calm demeanor unwavering. These answers were sparse, but they confirmed their suspicions: these werewolves were indeed claiming and transporting them, possibly back towards their own territory.

He leaned slightly towards Pierce, voice lowered but steady. “If they are transporting humans slowly westward, their leader may still be nearby.”

Pierce grunted softly, agreement evident. But before either could voice anything further, a voice emerged from the back of the crowd, urgent and strained.

“Is that them?”

Pierce’s gaze sharpened, observing as villagers were gently pushed aside by a thin man, his clothing ragged and his movements full of urgency. Unlike the rest, his eyes brightened with relief at seeing them. His hurried steps brought him quickly to the front.

“Please, you must help me!” the man pleaded, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “My daughter - they took her. When they attacked our village, we were separated. They took her somewhere else, I heard them mentioning another village.”

Pierce and Rhys exchanged wary glances, surprise mingling with suspicion at the man’s abrupt arrival. Rhys stepped forward, examining him. “Did you see their leader when they attacked?”

“Yes, yes!” The father nodded fervently, eyes wide with anxious sincerity. “He wasn’t like the others. He gave orders clearly. He looked… different, somehow. 

Rhys narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing around at the gathered humans. “Did anyone else see this leader?”

Several humans exchanged subtle, uneasy glances. A few slowly nodded, their eyes darting briefly towards the thin man before quickly looking away. One woman timidly spoke up, voice low and uncertain. “We saw him. He was different, dangerous.”

The thin man stepped closer. “Please, let me come with you. I must save my daughter.” 

The mage fought not to show his discomfort openly. Something about the man’s ragged, dirt-covered appearance unsettled him, though he masked it behind a composed expression. He turned to Pierce, clearly hesitant. “Bringing a human along serves no benefit to our mission. He will only slow us down.”

The man pressed forward again, his voice trembling. “She’s my only family left - please! Surely, you wouldn’t let another child lose her father, would you?”

Something gnawed painfully in Pierce’s chest at those words, as if struck suddenly by a blow. The weight in his chest grew heavier. He barely realised the way his breath caught, or how his fingers twitched at his sides. He knew better than to let emotion cloud judgment. But the way the man spoke made him uneasy and retreated back to his thoughts, Philomena’s voice whispering through his mind.

Come back.

In the back of his mind, it never truly left him. It pierced through his resolve, shaking his usual detachment. But his thoughts weren’t just about his sister. Another voice, more clear and husk. Another memory - gravelly, hoarse, yet filled with that unknowing knowledge of what was to come.

I will come back.

That voice.

For the longest time, Pierce remained quiet, while Rhys continued speaking. Words that barely registered. The man’s pleading echoed faintly around him, persistent and desperate.

“Fine,” Pierce finally interrupted.

Rhys turned sharply, confusion evident on his face but Pierce didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he looked at the father, his expression unwavering. “You may come with us.”

The man’s shoulders sagged in relief, his worry melting into something almost grateful. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice reverent.

Pierce turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the captain, who was preoccupied with securing the remaining houses.

Rhys flashed the back of Pierce’s head a frustrated look as he bit back a sigh. He shot one last look at the father, his lip twitching slightly.

“Come along, human,” he gestured, his voice clipped as he turned to follow Pierce’s path.

The thin man hesitated only a fraction before stepping forward, falling in line behind the mage.

The cold settled into their clothes, clinging to the breath of one walking through another mist-covered forest. The morning sun had already risen, only to be swallowed by thick clouds that dimmed the light. The wind whispered between the trees. This time, their path wasn’t obscured by thick foliage, but a well-worn dirt road littered with loose stones and scattered rubble.

Rhys had teleported them close to the third village - the final village on their mission. They were so close to getting the answers they needed. The answers that would bring an end to this disaster. Pierce was just relieved the teleportation hadn’t left him disoriented this time.

A quiet, shuddering breath broke the silence. 

He wrapped his arms around himself, closing in on his posture as though he were trying to disappear entirely. “I-It’s freezing….” the father muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “How far are we?” 

Rhys barely spared him a glance. “Not far,” he answered curtly. “But keep up.”

Then he turned, his stride unfaltering as he disappeared deeper into the mist.

The man flinched slightly at the mage’s blunt response, shrinking slightly. But he complied, saying nothing.

“What does your daughter look like?” Pierce asked, his voice low but even. He, who had observed the exchange quietly, fell into step beside him. 

The man hesitated, as if the question caught him off guard. “She’s small,” he murmured before clearing his throat. “Brown hair. Green eyes… like her mother.”

Pierce studied him more closely.

The man was thin, his ragged clothes hanging loosely on his frame, making him seem smaller than he actually was. Yet beneath the worn fabric, there was a quiet strength in how his shoulders sat, the way his arms - though lean - held a hint of muscle.

His jaw was strong, sharp despite the exhaustion carved into his features. The kind of face that might have once been handsome under better circumstances.

Pierce’s gaze flickered over him, assessing.

Not as fragile as he looks.

The thought passed him by as he gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Silence settled between them as they walked. The quiet crunch of dirt and stone underfoot filled the space around them.

“I want to get to my daughter.” His voice was quieter this time, barely above a breath. “That’s all I care about.”

Pierce’s gaze remained ahead, but the words settled somewhere deep within him. For a fleeting moment, another image surfaced. A man, polished and determined. A promise, spoken with such certainty, it almost felt tragic. A father on his own mission .

He pushed that image aside, feeling the tightening of his chest again. 

“We’ll find your daughter,” he offered, his voice softer than before.

Rhys had moved ahead, his silhouette disappearing into the fog. But it wasn’t distance that gave him an advantage - it was intent. Now, appearing as if he had only just fallen back into step, he observed them, catching more of the conversation than either realised.

The human father let out a quiet exhale, almost relieved. Though, there was a hesitance there too, like someone who wanted to say more but didn’t know how. If Pierce’s assumption was right. 

“I know,” he murmured, voice cautious. “If anything, I’d rather she live her life entrapped than be… food to them.”

Pierce’s brow arched slightly. The man met his confused expression and continued. “Come on… You Daemos take humans and place them in villages. You harvest us until it’s our time, right?” His voice wasn’t accusing. Merely stating a fact.

“At least she’ll live a long, peaceful life. If the werewolves had taken her, who knows what her fate would be?”

Pierce didn’t immediately respond. The man wasn’t wrong.

Rhys remained silent, though his gaze had shifted to Pierce, watching the back of his head like it was his front.

The man glanced downward, his eyes darkening. “I’ve heard rumours that werewolves can turn humans into their own kind.”

The wind whistled through the trees, their skeletal branches groaning under the shifting weight of the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, the call of a lone bird echoed, fleeting before it was swallowed by the vast quiet that followed. Pierce should know, there was no response to its call.

His grip on his sword tightened - not noticeably, not even deliberately. Rather, it was by instinct.

“They’re ruthless, wild monsters.”

The shift was small, almost imperceptible. But Pierce noticed.

The human’s foot hesitated mid-step, his weight shifting just a moment too late, almost unnatural. Rhys saw it too.

However he recovered. The man relaxed his shoulders. Pierce let the moment pass, exhaling slowly before shifting arms.

“They won’t take a child in,” Pierce said.

The man let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “I guess that’s why I should be grateful for your kind, then,” he muttered quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Even if we’re just… a power source.”

His tone registered to Pierce as one of sorrow and accepting a defeat that was inevitable. The relation between humans and Daemos are non-existent. There was nothing warm or gentle, just order and logic. One that Pierce willingly accepted. Even Rhys, for all his warm announcements and gentle tones, was merely a show.

“The royal family is merciful,” Pierce said. “Not savages.”

Yet… why was he smoothing over Daemos’ actions? Why speak in a way that could calm the father’s worrying thoughts?

The man hummed. After a thoughtful pause, he asked. “And you? You command. You lead them like… a ruler?”

Pierce shook his head. “A general.”

“You serve them by choice?”

“Yes.”

Rhys’ steps slowed briefly, his jaw tightening as he processed what he overheard. He had tolerated a lot today. Pierce killing their only lead. Pierce letting a human come with them. Pierce showing more patience for this man than was warranted.

But this?

He closed in quickly. His hand shot out, latching onto Pierce’s wrist with controlled force. Not enough to be hostile, but enough to demand his attention. 

Pierce barely reacted, his brow only raising as he turned his head to meet Rhys’.

“What are you doing?” Rhys queried with a hushed tone. The type of voice that cut beneath armour.

Pierce blinked. “Walking.”

Rhys’ grip tightened before pulling away, exhaling hard through his nose. “You’re talking ,” he spat, his tone cracked at the edge, reining itself back in. “And not just idle chatter. You are answering questions. Questions nobody has any business with.”

“Basic knowledge,” Pierce replied, his tone maddeningly even.

Rhys scoffed under his breath, stepping just slightly into Pierce’s space. “Basic knowledge,” he echoed, incredulous. “You’re telling him about the royals. About your role. Our structure. What next? Do you plan on giving him a map of the palace, and inviting him for tea with the Queen?”

Pierce’s face didn’t shift, though his silence was heavier than any other words. Perhaps calm, but there was something beneath it. He had to look in control, Pierce was in control. 

“He’s harmless,” he said finally.

“You don’t know that,” Rhys snapped, his voice dropping even lower as he leaned in, his words meant only for his associate. “You speak with such certainty, but I have been watching him since you agreed. His body does not move like a starving man. He is too careful.”

Pierce turned his gaze ahead, towards the figure walking just a few paces in front of them. “He is looking for his daughter. That’s all.”

“No,” Rhys countered, quieter this time but deadlier. “That’s what you want him to be doing. You didn’t take him with us because he is useful.”

Pierce’s gaze darkened slightly. His patience was thin but not gone, evident by how his fingers curled into fists. Rhys, however, wasn’t afraid to hold his stare. That was all the confirmation he needed.

He took a step closer, his voice now a soft blade pressed to the truth. “You’re not thinking like a general right now. You’re thinking like a brother .

The general’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “We will be careful.”

But the mage met his gaze, unflinching. “Being careful is not good enough-”

“Then find a better offer,” Pierce snapped, just under his breath. “Because that is all you’re getting.”

They held each other’s stares, tension thick between them. Rhys finally clicked his tongue in frustration as his expression softened, as though the sound released its grip on his face. Though it didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t argue, not this time.

“Fine,” he muttered, turning forward once more. “But I will handle him if he steps out of line.”

Pierce gave the barest nod. They may not have agreed to everything, but it was enough. And usually it was enough for the pair to continue forward. Rhys exhaled sharply, falling back into step ahead, but his mind remained alert. Taking the middle position, he watched the human more closely, his fingers twitching slightly at his side.

For the first time today, it did not smell anymore of fires and burned wood, no acrid smoke choked the air. Their final destination, the third village, appeared through the thinning mist ahead, and it gave Rhys a somewhat sense of relief in his chest. He led the group quickly out of the forest.

The village remained intact, untouched by the chaos they had seen before. As they emerged out of the canopy, they spotted several men moving around, taking the villagers into sizable groups. Pierce’s men. The soldiers established clear boundaries along the village’s perimeter. 

Soldiers moved swiftly but calmly, guiding villagers gently into secure clusters and setting boundaries along its perimeter. Their armor gleamed faintly under the muted daylight, a reassuring sight of order.

Pierce was the first to approach, his speed going to a group of soldiers near the village center. Among them stood a figure he recognised instantly - an authoritative stance, the distinctly green-tinted hair catching even the faintest sunlight. The soldiers’ captain was facing away, delivering orders with a certain tone.

Pierce continued closer just as the captain turned, promptly halting mid-step upon seeing him. The Daemos pivoted sharply, immediately straightening his posture further at Pierce’s arrival. “General Pierce,” he acknowledged respectfully. “The village is secure, sir. There are no signs of wolves or missing humans so far.”

He offered a brisk nod to him. “Keep your men alert, Captain Alaric. No room for complacency. Not yet.”

“Understood, sir,” Alaric replied without hesitation, relaying  his command to the nearby squad. As he departed, Pierce’s eyes roamed across the village.

Everything looked normal. Not a single rooftop was scorched, no smoke billowed, no broken doors or shattered windows to suggest an attack.  The villagers, thought understandably nervous, were unharmed and now huddled together as they glanced uncertainly toward them.

This should have been reassuring. A win for Daemos. Yet, a disquieting unease stirred within him. If the village had always been intact and the humans were safe, where were the soldiers? The original Daemos guards who had been stationed here, trained to hold and defend their assigned location? The streets bore no marks of struggle, no bloodshed, no indication of abandonment or retreat. It was as if they had vanished entirely.

Pierce shifted his attention quickly, scanning around until he spotted Rhys standing apart, observing the villagers and soldiers alike. The mage’s expression was carefully neutral, analytical - but as their eyes met, the blue broad recognised the subtle tension lurking behind his measured gaze. In that distant silent exchange, understanding passed clearly between them: they shared the same suspicion. This situation was far from normal.

Pierce opened his mouth to call him over, but before he could speak, the quick approach of footsteps drew his attention sharply aside. 

A young Daemos soldier approached. Practically radiating enthusiasm, his eyes were bright and strided eagerly, shining through the haze like sunlight piercing a veil of clouds. Pierce stared momentarily, caught slightly off guard.

“Noi?” his tone softened involuntarily, surprised but not displeased by the familiar face.

The young soldier broke into a wide, exuberant grin, offering a salute that was a little too enthusiastic. “Surprised to see me, General Pierce?” he beamed. “Captain Alaric ordered for extra support after receiving your distress signal.”

Noi’s positivity - though limitless and can at times bother him - gave a wave of small comfort amidst the tension of the day to Pierce. “I see,” he responded, his tone almost betraying a warmth. “Your swift action helped secure this village. Good work.”

The boy straightened proudly, his face glowing with restrained but unmistakable pride. “Thank you, sir! Just doing what you trained me for.”

Then, Pierce heard a sharp, panicked voice cut through the air, louder than the calm orders and conversations between everyone. Immediately, he turned toward the commotion, feeling the comfort of Noi’s brightness fade back into the reality of their situation.

The human man was now hastily weaving through the clusters of villagers. His green eyes darted frantically from one human child to another, growing increasingly desperate with each passing second.

“She should be here,” he muttered anxiously, his voice raw and strained. “Where is she?!”

Rhys approached beside Pierce, studying the man’s escalating distress. Pierce shot him a brief glance of caution before walking deliberately towards the father. He reached out and grasped the human firmly by the shoulder, halting his descent into panic.

“Calm yourself, human,” Pierce instructed gently. “She is here, somewhere.”

Yet the father shook his head, a tremor edging into his voice. “But- But where? She can’t be-”

Abruptly, his words cut short. His gaze locked onto a figure standing quietly among a small cluster of villagers. A woman in a worn dress and simple straw hat. Recognition flashed instantly across their faces. Pierce caught the unmistakable exchange between them, letting his hand drop as the man rushed forward, gripping the woman’s arms with controlled desperation.

“Lillian. My little angel, where is she?” he pleaded.

Pierce moved closer, eyes narrowing as the woman hesitated briefly. “They were here. The werewolves.”

Pierce’s eyes widened slightly, his breath caught in his throat quietly. His suspicions had been correct. He sensed Rhys stepping closer, listening intently.

“They took some away… to another village.”

The cold dread surged and coiled through his gut. A fourth village? This was worse than anything they had anticipated - though perhaps, he thought bitterly, he should have seen it coming. The werewolves had already been unpredictable enough; now it seemed their plan was only progressing.

He was quick to push past the father, confronting the woman directly. Her frail blue eyes widened fearfully under the weight of his stare. “Where are the other soldiers? The ones that guarded you all here?” he demanded sharply, leaving no room for misunderstanding or warmth.

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered. “Everything happened so fast- it was all a blur.” Her words dissolved into confused murmurs, barely coherent as her distress overwhelmed her.

Rhys moved immediately beside Pierce, his voice low and urgent, meant only for his ears. “Pierce, the closest village to this lies near the Daemos border.”

“I am aware,” Pierce responded tersely.

The border was notorious - a frontier location, wild and unpredictable, far beyond the clear order and safety of the villages closer to the kingdom. Pierce had spent enough days and night patrolling its edges to know just how dangerous and chaotic it could become. Many captains had already struggled with unrest there. If the werewolves had set their sights on it, it meant they were planning to head back soon.

As the woman was led gently back to the other humans, the father stepped firmly into Rhys and Pierce’s sight. Urgency laced every movement, every trembling breath. “We can still catch them. If we hurry now, we might reach the village before it is too late.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes, suspicion subtly hardening his features. He turned back to Pierce. “I warned you earlier. Something is wrong here, and it’s standing right in front of us,” he whispered urgently, edged with restrained anger.

He met Rhys’ eyes, the tension thickening between them, raw and unresolved. But the urgency of the moment overshadowed their earlier disagreement. It forced Pierce to push aside any doubt.

“You may be right,” Pierce admitted grudgingly. “But we cannot afford to lose this chance. We have to move Rhys.”

“You are making a dangerous gamble,” he exhaled sharply, his tone flat - but his eyes betrayed the storm beneath.

“Then it is mine to bare,” Pierce replied quietly, already turning away.

Pierce turned sharply toward Captain Alaric, calling out with authority. “Captain, reinforce the village perimeter. Double your patrols. Keep these villagers secure. We will need a few of your best soldiers to accompany us.”

Alaric swiftly inclined his head. Without hesitation, he barked new commands to his men, who immediately began taking positions along the village boundaries.

A few soldiers fell into step behind the general without hesitation. Pierce caught sight of Noi with the other soldiers guarding the humans. Good. He wasn’t ready to venture out that far from the comforts of Daemos. That was certain to Pierce.

Standing nearby, Pierce turned to face the human man, his eyes wide with mingled hope and fear.

“Stay close,” the blue broad commanded, no room for question.

The man’s expression instantly flooded with relief. “Thank you-”

Rhys stepped in quickly. “One wrong move, just one, and you can forget seeing your daughter.”

“I know,” he said, holding Rhys’ cold gaze steadily. “I understand.”

With one last cautious glance, Pierce gestured forward. “Move out.”

As they departed, Pierce felt the tension coil tighter inside his chest - a heaviness he couldn’t shake. The sudden revelation of a fourth village - especially one cast so close to the border - gave a shadow of doubt over their mission. It was an unpredictable region, a place where enemies would mix and match. It almost felt as if their enemy had planned this deliberately, eluding their grasp.

Beside him, Rhys remained silent, fixed sharply on the winding path ahead, though he noticed the mage repeatedly casting wary glances towards the human man. Pierce couldn’t fault Rhys for his caution - he knew the mage’s instinct had merit. Still, they had little choice but to press forward, with only a handful of soldiers accompanying them and time running dangerously thin.

The general lifted his gaze forward, feeling a familiar ache seep quietly into his thoughts. Memories of Philomena’s tired eyes. Of Evanthia’s small, hopeful smile waiting patiently for a father’s return.

I will come back.

A father who had never returned home. Now, another child might be waiting for one who wouldn't. Pierce promised long ago and he vowed to keep it, even till now. That Philomena would never watch someone she loved walk away again. That Evanthia would never know that pain.

Whatever awaited them at the village, Pierce was ready.

Chapter Text

Do not fail me. Do not test the limits of my patience. I assure you, the flames of your punishment will burn brighter and longer than the fires you've already endured to earn your place at my side.

Rhys was accustomed to efficiency. It was, after all, part of his identity, something cultivated through years of careful discipline. Having access to slightly more magic than the average Daemos had instilled in him an ever-present responsibility not to squander such a precious advantage. Each spell he cast was weighed meticulously, evaluated for necessity and purpose. Nothing wasted, nothing trivial. Yet this morning, efficiency felt like a distant dream slipping further away with each passing hour.

The march was long.

Not unbearable, but quiet in a way that stretched thin, like the world itself was waiting for something to snap.  The path twisted gently through cold morning light, stone and dirt crunching beneath their feet. The trees were thinning now. What little shade they gave only added to the dull greyness of the sky. It didn’t feel like they were nearing the edge of the kingdom. It felt like they were walking off it.

His mind, usually sharp and comfortably quicker than those of the soldiers behind him, now felt like a restless cold flame trapped behind glass, flickering rapidly but contained, restrained. The men showed no sign of exhaustion or slowing down, whilst Pierce led at the front. 

They hadn't spoken for a while. Not since the village.

As usual, the General’s expression was unreadable. Rhys followed a short distance behind, then their quiet human guest behind him. The man had been silent since they left. Head down. Posture tight.

But Rhys hadn’t stopped watching him.

Eventually, he quickened his pace to match Pierce’s steps.

“What is it like?” Rhys asked softly, like the question wasn’t meant to be answered.

Pierce glanced at him once, confused at first. Not because of what he asked, but because Rhys asked it out loud.

“The village by the border,” Rhys clarified. “I’ve only read reports from numerous captains.”

He looked ahead again, though his grip shifted slightly on the hilt at his side.

“All that has been reported,” he said quietly. “It’s true.”

The silence stretched, long enough that Pierce spoke again without needing to be prompted. “Attacked every week. Sometimes twice. The humans there, most are weak to handle them. They stay inside most days to protect what little life they have left.”

His voice stayed even. Not cold. Just matter-of-fact.

“All soldiers that survive get rotated out. Sent back to Daemos.” He paused, eyes forward. “They come back different. Bitter. Jaded. Some stay angry. Most go quiet.”

He didn’t finish the thought.

Pierce’s jaw shifted slightly - not clenched, just enough tension to feel the muscle twitch. Like his teeth wanted to do something more than hold words back. “I have seen enough of them to die,” he added. “To humans. To wolves. Sometimes to each other.”

Rhys blinked. It wasn’t much, but in him, it was a tell. His eyes widened, the quiet kind of reaction that slipped out before instinct caught it.

He knew what Pierce meant. Reports of Daemos becoming wild, losing themselves to soul overdose. He had the mishap of seeing one firsthand long ago

“They’re that prominent in the west too?” he queried quietly, like he dreaded the answer already.

Pierce didn’t answer, not directly. His boots crunched steadily against the dirt, pace unchanged.

Behind them, the human’s voice floated forward. Careful. Thin. “I… I’m sorry,” he said. “To each other? What do you mean?”

Rhys didn’t turn around. Just kept his eyes on the trees ahead, suddenly unreadable. Pierce didn’t seem surprised by the question. His steps didn’t slow but he turned his head just enough for the man to know he was being heard.

“You humans call it insanity. This is our version of it.”

That was all. Then he looked forward again and didn’t say anything else.

The man didn’t push. He nodded once, maybe to Pierce or himself, but said no more. Just let the silence stretch.

Whatever weight hadn’t settled on them before, it did now. Thick and heavy. Like a stone settling in their chests, or like walking into a room where someone had just been crying and tried to pretend they weren’t.

They continued in that uneasy weight. The road curved and the terrain began to change. The trees that lined the path grew twisted and sparse. The moss thinned. The grass began to die in patches, crunched dry beneath their steps. Then the signs began to show.

Piece slowed first. “Hold.”

The others stopped as he continued.

The first was a rock, large and jagged, sitting just off the path, half-buried in the dirt. A symbol had been carved into it. A spiral of some sort, broken at the edge and filled in with harsh, angular lines that looked more like wounds than markings. It pulsed faintly with residual magic, like something had burned through it recently.

Pierce stopped. His hand slowly approached near the heat, though he didn’t draw it. Not yet. His brows drew low, gaze fixed on the spiral.

Rhys stepped beside him, frowning at the pulse shimmered once beneath the fog. “Wolves?”

The blue broad studied the edge of the carving, noting how the stone fractured outward, like it was rejecting the magic. He gave a single shake of his head before continuing forward. The rest followed, though one of the younger soldiers faltered. His steps slowed when he spotted the next mark. Black streaks painted in twisted lines down the length of a nearby tree. Stains that surely weren’t natural. 

Another appeared on a rock just past it. Then another, each one fresh. Each one deliberately scarred or burned into place.

Bark. Stone. The cracked arm of an abandoned signpost long since stripped of words, now branded with the same spiral, the same violent lines. Like someone had swept through the forest with a need to be known. The further they went, the more the marks appeared. Like a trail. Or a warning.

Then came the stench.

The scent of rot started to bleed into the air. A creeping rot that clung to the back of their throats: acrid and wrong. It filled their lungs with every breath, the kind of scent that didn’t just signal death, but desecration.

Pierce’s eyes narrowed slightly. He’d known this smell before. Not just once and not from any battlefield. From the aftermath of something unnatural. Or hidden deep in the forest where they lurked.

The mage was the first to spot it. He stopped, lowering his staff as his gaze landed on the path ahead.

A Daemos lay sprawled across the dirt road. His limbs twisted unnaturally, bent at the spine in a way that no body should bend. His mouth was frozen open in a silent scream, and his eyes and horns were pitch black. Veins raised and rigid against pale, graying skin. His skin looked burnt from the inside out, charred from the chest outward. Like fire had bloomed beneath his ribs and devoured from the heart.

Pierce approached the corpse, but said nothing. He didn’t even flinch. 

Because he had seen this before. Too many times to react.

A few paces ahead, the trail grew worse. More corpses. Another Daemos, this one slumped against a rock, his chest torn open in a mess of ash and blood. But what caught everyone’s attention were the others. The wolves, three to be exact.  Slashed, gutted, and left to rot. One had been cut nearly in half. Another’s face had been burned off entirely, the bone beneath still producing smoke. The ground under them was soaked deep in red, thick and still fresh. The branches were bent under the weight of struggle. Trees marked with claw and flame.

One could look and see this as a message. Pierce saw it as another fight gone wrong. A tragedy.

One soldier choked, taking a step back. Another cursed and turned away, pressing a sleeve to his mouth as his stomach twisted. Even the older men shifted, uncomfortable with the stillness, with the stench. With the knowledge that both sides could brutally do this to one another.

Even Rhys stood still longer than usual. His lips pressed into a tight line, eyes narrowed, jaw firm but unsettled. “This wasn’t a battle,” he murmured. “It was a slaughter.”

From behind, the human had stopped walking, his shoulder going rigid. His green eyes were locked on one of the corpses. One of the werewolves. Its ears still matted with blood, jaw frozen mid-snarl. He stared too long. Far too long.

Pierce turned, noticing his stiff posture.

The man’s shoulders were tense and unmoving. Like his breath had been caught in his throat. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white from strain. There was something in his face that Pierce couldn’t pinpoint. Perhaps horror or disbelief. It looked like grief, maybe. Something dangerously close to it.

“You alright?” Pierce asked, stepping closer

The man flinched at his touch “Yes.” His voice came out rougher than intended. “I just… I’ve never seen anything like this.

Pierce didn’t reply. At least, not in the moment.

No point in offering false comfort or softening the reality of what they were seeing. Not with blood still soaking the soil and entrails tangled in bramble like discarded rope. Words wouldn’t settle the sight. It wouldn’t erase the smell. No soft lie could undo what had happened here.

Instead, he observed. He took in the way the man’s jaw tightened, the way his hands curled inwards as if resisting the urge to reach out. The way his gaze refused to wander from the chaos, as though seeing the violence was some kind of penance.

Rhys was also watching from a distance, lingering a few steps away. His brows were slightly knit, his expression unchanged in the low light. He said nothing but his eyes stared at the human for too long. He turned away before either could see.

The man finally broke the silence. “Is this what you and the mage meant about insanity?” the man asked, his voice steady now. 

Pierce nodded once. “The surplus of souls all at once…” He let his words trail off as his gaze returned to the Daemos slumped against the rock. “It burns us from the inside. Our mind goes first. Then control. Then everything.”

He paused, his voice thinning into something quieter, more measured. “We call them wild because they lose the will to think. They only feel hunger. Rage. It takes over until there’s nothing left to save.”

He frowned, looking almost like empathy. “So what happened here, then?” he asked.

Pierce met his gaze evenly. “They were ambushed.” he said. “By Wild Daemos .”

The man looked briefly at one of the werewolf corpses, his throat shifting with a swallow. Pierce didn’t miss the way his eyes twitched. Or how he didn’t ask for clarification.

Pierce continued. “They fought. Fought each other. But none of them lasted long after. The Daemos burned out. The wolves were torn apart.”

“Wild Daemos,” the man repeated, and Pierce heard genuine interest beneath the fear. “How do you recognise them? I mean how do you know when one of your own has turned?”

A reasonable question from someone worried about encountering more danger. But Pierce took note how the man’s eyes sharpened when he answered, how he seemed to file away every detail.

“General,” one of the soldiers called from ahead, his voice carefully restrained. “The trail continues. It’s clearer now.”

Pierce nodded before looking at the man one final time. “You’ll reunite with your daughter soon,” he said. The human nodded, his hands hidden deep in his sleeves. Pierce turned, stepping past the last of the bodies.

They resumed the march, the sounds of movement and purposeful behind him. He rejoined Rhys at his side at the front again, falling into rhythm without a word.

They didn’t need one. Not yet.

The village finally came into view, creeping slowly through the haze like a half-remembered dream turned sharp with reality. From their concealed vantage point, the Daemos group crouched beneath a mess of tangled underbrush. The air was tense, but not quiet. Silence was no longer natural, it was tactical.

The village square was roughly circular, its center dominated by a dried-up well. To the north, narrow alleys fed into the cluster of homes. A granary loomed to its left, already marked with clawed wood. To the west, a farmhouse was still intact. And beyond that, a crooked treeline curling toward the Daemos border.

Screams came in staggered waves. Steel clashed with claw. Cries of panic echoed through the village’s narrow alleys.

Pierce kept still, his jaw tight as he scanned the streets. The village wasn’t in flames, not yet, but chaos had already bloomed across its heart. Several werewolves - eight, maybe a dozen - moved through the streets like shadows with muscle. They stalked between buildings, some dragging humans out from cover with terrifying ease. The soldiers who remained, their own kin, were doing what they could, but they were struggling. Unprepared. Most hadn’t expected the attack to come this fast. What was worse, the wolves moved to them like spectres, methodical and relentless. Some werewolves even stole and used their own swords against the soldiers.

That explains the clean slashes on the soldiers.

They were deliberately setting up the attack to look completely different.

The soldiers behind their general remained low and still, watching the fight. The mage moved forward slowly, crouching beside him with practiced quiet.

“I’ll send another signal,” Rhys whispered. He raised his hand, murmuring softly as his staff materialised between his fingers. His incantation was smooth but strained, the gemstone glowing faintly, spinning in its socket. 

Pierce’s attention remained locked on the village. Yet even without looking directly, he caught the faint tremor in Rhys’ grip, the subtle dip in his posture. Pierce’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t normal. Rhys was steady. Always. But now, there was hesitation in his magic, a faltering Pierce had never witnessed.

Even the man - still hidden among them - noticed. Pierce saw the quick, curious flicker in his eyes as he watched Rhys. Observant.

He frowned. Turning his head, he said quietly, sharply enough that only Rhys could hear, “Rhys.”

Do not fail me .

Rhys drew a sharp breath, the gem flickering slightly, something bothersome in his chest as the magic beneath his fingers wavered. The gem flickered, sputtered slightly, before he forced it steady. The accusation in Pierce’s tone stung more deeply than Rhys showed.

“I’m fine,” he shot back quietly, almost harshly. More than he meant to. His voice trembled at the edges, betraying him. He blinked multiple times, despising the fact that he’d even allowed himself this brief moment of weakness.

But Pierce was already turning away, a silent reminder that time was not a luxury they could spare. 

Rhys closed his eyes briefly, centering himself again. The ache spreading through him felt foreign, an unwelcome intruder seeping into his muscles and bones that usually obeyed him without question. Fatigue tugged at his senses, whispering insidious doubts he had fought for years.

He exhaled slowly and pushed his magic outwards once more, feeling the gem shudder again between his fingers as the message finally took flight and launched skyward. Yet even as the light faded, a bitter taste lingered at the back of the throat.

Rhys tightened his grip on the staff, the cool metal pressing against his palm. The familiar comfort against the creeping chill. He straightened his posture deliberately, forcing his shoulders back, the practiced neutrality sliding into place like armour.

This wasn’t him. This was never Rhys. He was the royal advisor, the personal mage to Prince Asch. There was no room for hesitation, no allowance for uncertainty, and he’d spent the majority of his years burying that part of himself - the younger, weaker Rhys. The one who’d allowed fear to fester and conquer him, who’d once let others see him vulnerable. That boy was gone, replaced by him.

Weakness was not an option. Not now. Especially not now when they were this close.

“Are you alright?” 

From the corner of his vision, Rhys saw the human now closer, reaching toward him with cautious fingers. But Rhys recoiled sharply, turning to face him with a glare so cold, so dismissive, that the man immediately drew back.

“Your concern is misplaced,” he spat curtly, voice icy and distant. “Focus on yourself.”

The human nodded quickly, withdrawing his hand and looking down, chastened. Rhys turned his gaze forward once more, ignoring the faint tremble still lingering at the edges of his senses. He drew a slow breath, reinforcing the familiar walls around his composure, his expression smoothing into practiced indifference. He had no use for concern, especially from a human.

The mage would never falter. 

Steady now, Rhys lifted his chin, silently signaling Pierce that he was ready.

Pierce didn’t wait and jumped forward. Silent and efficient, he motioned for the others to hold until his signal. The general moved alone, slipping from building to building with ease.

The village was a maze of shadow and flickering torchlight. Pierce pressed himself against the rough stone wall of a farmhouse. His Daemos heritage sang in his veins. A low, thrumming power that sharpened his senses and muffled his footsteps to whisper against the cobblestone.

Closer now, the sounds of fighting sharpened: shouts and snarls, gasps and muted cries. Chaos roared like blood in his ears, yet Pierce’s heartbeat stayed calm. He had learned long ago to let the battle-fury flow through him without drowning in it. Control was everything. Control kept his soldiers alive.

He spotted his first target. A wolf lingering near the corner of a granary, its attention on a wounded Daemos soldier crawling desperately toward a dropped sword. The werewolf’s hackles were raised, its toothy grin widened as it prepared to pounce. Pierce’s magic stirred, flowing like liquid fire through his muscles as he closed the distance. Each step was perfectly placed, avoiding the scattered debris that could betray his presence.

The werewolf never saw him coming. Pierce’s blade, enhanced by his strength, slipped between its ribs with surgical precision. The creature’s eyes widened in shock, a strangled whimper escaping its throat as Pierce’s strike, infused with magic, found its heart. He eased the lifeless body down silently, the familiar weight of necessity settling in his chest. No satisfaction, no regret. 

The general quickly checked on the soldier, noting the gash across his thigh but seeing no arterial bleeding. He hoisted him up against the wall, pressing the Daemos’ sword back into trembling hands. “Stay quiet,” he whispered, his voice carrying the authority that had commanded legions. The soldier nodded, eyes wide with pain and gratitude.

Turning a corner, Pierce spotted another wolf prowling between the village well and a cluster of overturned carts. This one was a bit bigger, its tail matted with blood. Whether its own or its victims’, Pierce couldn’t tell. The creature’s nostrils snarled as it scented the air, but Pierce had already wrapped his magic around him like a second skin, muffling his presence, making him one with the shadows.

The werewolf turned just as Pierce’s sword sliced clean through its throat. Blood misted, black in the low twilight, spraying across the well’s stone rim. The creature’s claws scraped against the cobblestone as it collapsed, its final snarl dying in a wet gurgle. The general stepped over the body without a single glance, already looking for his next target.

But the third wolf was different. Older, scarred, with intelligence burning in its yellow eyes. It spotted Pierce the moment he emerged from behind the carts, its growl cut off by Pierce’s rapid advance. The general’s magic surged, lending supernatural speed to his movements, but the werewolf was ready. His blade met its claw with a muffled clash that sent vibrations up Pierce’s arm. The wolf stumbled back, then threw its head back and howled.

The sound was like a knife through the sky: long, sharp, echoing off the village walls louder than Pierce wanted. Much louder.

Damn .

Pierce’s jaw tightened as he watched the ripple effect of that call. Immediately, heads turned from all corners of the village square. The remaining wolves locked eyes on him, gazes filled with feral intensity and predatory hunger. Pierce felt the familiar weight of command settle on his shoulder, but this time it was different. This time, he was alone in the center of the village, exposed, with ten sets of lupine eyes reflecting the torchlight light tiny suns.

He counted them methodically, even as his pulse began to quicken. Ten. All converging on his position with the fluid grace of pack hunters. The wounded soldier behind made a small sound of terror, and Pierce felt something fierce and protective flare in his chest. These were his people. Human or Daemos, it didn’t matter at this point. They were under his protection.

The werewolves rushed at once from all sides. Pierce stood in the center of the village square, cobbled stones cracked under his boots. The broken well to his left, the granary smoldering behind him. He raised his sword swiftly, his magic flooding through him like molten metal.

The first wolf’s claw met his blade with a sound like breaking thunder. The impact shuddered up his arm, bone-deep, teeth-rattling. He pivoted. His boot connected with another wolf’s ribs. Crack. The wet sound of bone giving way. It tumbled into grain sacks with a heavy thud.

But they were circling now. Closing in. Pierce could feel their breath on his neck, hot and rank with blood. Hear the scrape of claws on stone. The rustle of fur. His own heartbeat, steady in his ears despite the chaos. For a moment, just a moment, he felt the old familiar thrill of being outnumbered, outmatched, with everything on the line. 

A wolf lunged from his left. Pierce spun, his reflexes turning the world into sharp, crystalline focus. His blade carved through the air, a silver arc in the torchlight. The wolf’s snarl cut off mid-sound as steel found its throat. Blood sprayed, warm against Pierce’s cheek.

Another attacked from behind. Pierce felt the displacement of air, the subtle shift in sound. He dropped to one knee, letting the creature’s momentum carry it over him. His sword thrust upward. The blade punched through flesh with a wet squelch . The wolf’s weight dragged his arm down as it collapsed.

His muscles burned. The magic enhancing them demanded payment, a fire that spread from his core outward. Sweat cooled on his forehead in the air. His grip on the sword handle was slick but steady.

Seven more remained. They paced around him, yellow and green eyes reflecting the distant torchlight. One feinted left. Two others crept right. The four waited, patient as death.

Pierce’s breath came measured. This was what separated generals from soldiers: the ability to find calm in the eye of the storm. He could hear his soldiers breathing in the tree line. Waiting for his signal. Rhys’ staff hummed with barely contained power. Even the human’s heartbeat seemed too fast, too loud.

Now.

Pierce raised his free hand and gave the sharp signal. But before his soldiers in hiding could respond, before the werewolves could complete their killing circle, Pierce let his magic explode outward in a controlled burst. The air around him shimmered with heat and power. Not fire, fire would have endangered the wounded soldier behind him, but pure energy. A wave that sent the nearest werewolves stumbling backward, their coordination shattered, pack mentality disrupted.

The wolf on his right yelped as it hit the stone wall. The one on his left scrambled for purchase on the slick cobblestones. The others stood its ground but swayed, disoriented by the magical assault.

Behind him, the wounded soldier gasped, whether in pain or amazement, Pierce couldn’t tell. The sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the tree line. His signal was received.

From the western edge, near the farmhouse and bordering trees, Rhys stepped into the square. His staff glowing with arcane light as he raised it. A bolt of energy crackled through the air, searing past Pierce’s shoulder to catch a lung wolf mid-leap. It hit the ground hard, smoke rising from its charred chest.

“About time,” Pierce muttered, parrying another claw swipe.

The soldiers behind Rhys poured through the clearing, fanning out behind the granary and well to form a loose crescent around Pierce’s position. Pierce found himself back-to-back with Rhys, their attacks moving in practiced synchronisation. The wolves were skilled, but they were outnumbered now.

Through the chaos, Pierce caught sudden motion. A figure darting across scorched cobblestone. The human. He sprinted toward the lone house on the south, at the village’s edge. The human’s posture was urgent, even desperate.

His daughter.

Pierce blocked a swipe, then drove his pommel into the wolf’s skull. It dropped like a stone. Around him, the tide was turning. His soldiers were pushing the werewolves back, Rhys’ magic providing crucial support.

But the father had disappeared into the house. Unarmed. Untrained. Defenseless. 

“Hold the square!” he shouted to his men, then broke away from the main fight. His boots pounded against the cobblestones as he sprinted.

The door hung open. Pierce slowed as he approached, his enhanced hearing picking up sounds from within. A child’s terrified whimper, the scrape of claws on the wooden floors, and something that sounded like a struggle.

Pierce stepped through the doorway, sword ready.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, a strange green mist seemed to swirl around his ankles. Pierce paused, frowning. Where was it coming from? The air inside felt different, almost charged with an energy he couldn’t identify. He glanced around quickly, but found no source for the ethereal vapour that clung to the floorboards.

The scene beyond the mist made him freeze for a heartbeat. The human was on the ground, pressed against the far wall, his arms protectively around a small girl with dark hair. Both were cowering as a massive werewolf loomed over them. Easily twice the size of the others Pierce had faced. This one moved differently, with purpose. His green eyes held a cunning that marked it as more than just another pack member, glowing with an otherworldly light that seemed to reflect the strange mist.

The leader.

The father looked up as Pierce entered, his face a mask of terror and relief. “Please,” he gasped, “my daughter-”

The werewolf’s head snapped towards Pierce, his lips peeling back in a snarl. He was scarred on his right eye, with patches of gray in his dark hair, and those eyes seemed to go straight through Pierce’s soul.

“Stay down,” he commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. The father pressed himself and the girl further into the corner, his body shielding her from view. 

The werewolf leader circled slowly, assessing this new threat. Pierce could see it in his eyes, the way he calculated angles and distances. This wouldn’t be like the others.

“You,” he growled. “You killed my people.” His voice was a bass rumble that seemed to shake the wooden walls.

“Your people are killing mine ,” Pierce replied, his stance shifting into a combat ready position. “I’m finishing what you started.”

The werewolf grinned wider, then lunged, moving with fury

Pierce barely got his sword up in time, the creature’s claws raking across the blade with a screech of metal on bone. The force drove him back several steps, his boots sliding on the wooden floor as he struggled to maintain his footing.

This wasn’t like fighting the others. They were smaller and unaware. When Pierce and Rhys faced that even bigger creature in the second village, it may not have attacked but its poetic words were foreseeable. But this creature fought with maddened desperation, sparing no time for words. The green mist seemed to fuel his fights and his rage, making his movements erratic and wild. Every counter he attempted met with a frenzied response that defied conventional combat.

The leader was fast, inhumanely so. But Pierce finally found a pattern - his attacks lacked the discipline of a natural predator. He threw himself at Pierce with reckless abandon, claws and teeth seeking any opening. Pierce gave ground, trying to use the confined space to his advantage, but the creature’s style made it impossible to force predictable angles.

Behind the werewolf, the human had managed to move the girl to the far corner, both of them pressed against the wall. The child’s sobs were barely audible over the sounds of combat.

Pierce’s magic surged through him, lending strength to his strikes. His sword caught the werewolf across the shoulder, drawing a line of blood, but the creature didn’t seem to even notice. Instead, he howled. Not in pain, but in wild exhilaration as the green mist swirled more intensely around his form.

The beast’s next attack came from renewed fury, those green eyes blazing with something that looked almost like madness. Pierce barely managed to parry a savage swipe that would’ve landed on his chest, the impact jarring his entire arm.

For several heart-stopping moments, the fight hung in the balance.

But gradually, Pierce could find ways to adapt. Finding patterns even in the chaos, to anticipate the wolf’s wild movements. When he overextended himself in a particular lunge, Pierce was ready. He sidestepped with perfect timing and brought his blade down in a controlled arc. Not a killing blow, enough to sever tendons in his leg.

The creature crashed to the floor, the mist slowly dim as it hit the ground. For the first time, he showed signs of actual pain, trying to rise but unable to put weight on the injured limb. Pierce pressed his advantage, his sword point finding the werewolf’s throat. His breathing heavy from the intense battle.

“Yield,” he commanded, his voice cold as winter steel.

The werewolf’s green eyes with hatred, but he had no choice. He slumped against the wall, panted heavily, dark blood pooling beneath it.

Pierce kept his sword steady while glancing towards the two humans. “Are you both hurt?”

The father shook his head quickly, his arms still wrapped protectively around the child. “No, we’re alright. Thank you.” His voice trembled with emotion. “I thought… I thought we were going to die.”

The relief in his voice, the way he held the girl - it all seemed so genuine. Something eased in Pierce’s chest. A father’s love was something Pierce could understand to an extent. And to that extent, he could respect. Pierce knew. He’d made the right choice to bring the man along.

The father looked down at the girl, stroking her hair with shaking hands. “It’s okay,” he whispered to her. “The monster is gone. We’re safe now.”

Pierce’s expression was stern. It always was unreadable. But as he watched them, a warmth settled inside him. The blue broad turned his attention back to the wounded leader, his gaze hardening. Now comes the difficult part.

He grabbed the werewolf by the back of his neck. The werewolf wasn’t as massive as that other one. “Stay inside till a soldier escorts you back to the other humans,” Pierce advised.

Then, he dragged the wounded leader across the floor, his claws scraping against the wood as he weakly tried to resist. The green mist finally seemed to clear through the open doorway as Pierce hauled him.

The village square had been transformed into a makeshift holding area. Rhys stood near the center as he supervised the Daemos soldiers who were gathering the surviving villagers into a protective circle. The humans huddled together as their faces etched with trauma and relief.

Pierce dragged the wounded werewolf leader into the square, dropping him roughly at Rhys’ feet. The werewolf gasped as it hit the stone, eyes gleaming with fierce defiance as he lifted his head to stare directly at them.

Rhys approached, his staff still glowing faintly with residual magic. He regarded the werewolf coldly, his voice calm but edged with mockery. “This is the leader?”

“He fought like one,” Pierce answered, wiping away the smear of blood still across his cheek. 

Rhys knelt cautiously before the leader, keeping a safe distance. He studied the wounded leg, his blue eyes narrowed slightly. “You and your wolves took three villages. Why?”

The leader’s lips curled back in a half-snarl. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps as he eyed them both. His green eyes - unnaturally bright - flashed with a kind of manic certainty. “Why do you Daemos take villages? Resources. Humans are resources. To you, they’re tools. To us, food. Survival isn’t complicated.”

Neither of the two Daemos reacted at the words, remaining silent. Their gazes cold. Rhys tilted his head slightly. 

“You didn’t just attack the villages. You strategically targeted them,” he spoke.

But the werewolf laughed hoarsely. A sound scraping from deep within his chest. “Does it matter? This land is claimed by your royal family. But territory is temporary. Boundaries shift. Power shifts. Your kind has grown arrogant.”

Rhys’s eyes flickered briefly toward Pierce. He caught the general’s faint scowl, the tightening of his jaw as the werewolf spoke. The mage drew a quiet breath, careful in choosing his words. “And this was your plan? Your decision alone?”

“Who else?” the leader snapped sharply, lifting his chin with defiant pride. Yet beneath that bravo, Pierce thought he detected something. Something… off.

“You question my conviction, Daemos?” he continued. “Do you question your own when you steal the souls of humans away? From their lives? From their freedom?”

Pierce didn’t react outwardly, but Rhys felt the subtle shift in his stance. A tension radiating dangerously from the general.

“We aren’t discussing our convictions,” Pierce replied coldly. “We’re discussing yours. Or rather, who you’re protecting.”

“I protect no one but my pack!” the werewolf spat. “They follow me, and only me.”

Rhys rose slowly, exchanging a subtle glance with Pierce. The mage’s expression was tight, eyes narrowed in quiet calculation. Pierce continued to hold the wolf’s gaze steadily. But beneath his stern exterior, doubt crept quietly into his thoughts.

With a slight gesture, Rhys moved closer to Pierce, stepping just outside the werewolf’s earshot. He lowered his voice, tone subdued but tense with urgency. “Something does not feel right about him.”

Pierce’s jaw tightened subtly, a brief acknowledgment he’d felt the same instinctive unease. His gaze never left off the captive wolf. “I felt it when we fought. Wild, but he didn’t lead. There’s no calculation. And the creature speaks as if he’s convincing himself as much as he’s convincing us. ”

“Exactly,” Rhys murmured, his eyes hardening as he watched the wounded creature shift restlessly on the stones. “This creature does not strike me as the leader capable of killing off soldiers and transporting humans between villages. All while under the nose of Prince Asch and the court elites.”

Pierce inclined his head slightly, giving a slow nod. It felt strange. To finally not be at odds with each other and their instincts aligned. A shared doubt creeping quietly between them, bridging their stubborn divide.

“What are you suggesting then?” Pierce’s voice lowered, tense with quiet contemplation.

As Rhys was about to respond, the werewolf let out a sharp, agonised cry. Both Daemos spun around instantly, their quiet discussion forgotten as the creature collapsed to his knees, clawed hands clutching desperately at his temples. Rhys jerked back instinctively. Pierce raised his sword, but didn’t strike. Not yet.

“What- What’s happening?” the werewolf gasped out, his voice twisted in confusion and fear.

His fierce posture dissolved rapidly, replaced by violent shaking. His green eyes flared vividly then faded swiftly, shifting abruptly into deep brown. The fur along his jaw faded. The mass of muscle and claws collapsed inwards, his limbs shrinking slightly. His snarling jaw gave way to a trembling mouth, lips quivering as breath returned to him in gasps. And his tails and ears, gone.

“Wait,” the man said, his voice suddenly softening, more human. “Where am I? What happened to me?”

Pierce stared, his heart thudding against his ribcage. The creature kneeling before them now was no longer. It was a man, a human. Terrified and utterly disoriented as he gazed at his hands as if seeing them for the first time.

Rhys’ eyes widened slightly in shock, his breath catching sharply. “You’re human?”

But the man seemed to ignore his words, looking in a daze. “I-I was at home. And then these wolves broke in and took us. They forced us to walk for days-” He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his temples as if desperately grasping at vanishing memories. “Then we escaped. Into a house, I think.”

The human breathed heavily as he continued. “Green smoke, a potion hit me-” Then he stopped to look around, frantically. “ Sarah . Where’s Sarah?”

The two looked at each other before looking back at him. “Who?” Rhys questioned him.

“My daughter.”

Then Pierce’s blood went cold.

“She’s seven. Dark hair and brown eyes.”

He felt ice forming in his veins, spreading through his chest like poison.

“There was a man! With green eyes.”

His heart didn’t just plummet. It shattered.

Beside him, Rhys had gone still. His hand gripped his staff, but his posture changed. Rigid. Focused. He slowly looked away from the werewolf-turned-man to Pierce.

He understood too. Too well.

But Pierce was already moving. Sharply turning around and using his enhanced speed to carry him across the square. He didn’t wait for the man to finish. He didn’t wait for Rhys to speak. His legs propelled him, a blur of blue cutting across the square. Behind him, he barely registered Rhys’ voice calling his name. The cry was lost in the wind.

The strange composure.
The way the father had never stammered when speaking of the wolves.
His exhaustion always seemed performative, too convenient.
The questions- the goddamn questions he asked. About Daemos. About their roles. About him .

Watching. Waiting. Biding his time.

A threat to walk beside him this entire time, and Pierce had let him.

His feet slammed against the dirt as the house came into view. For how well it still kept, it perfectly hid the ugly truth inside. The door hung ajar now. His breath caught in his throat. Pierce drew his sword, his heartbeat deafening in his ears.

He kicked the door and ran inside.

The air hit him like a wall. Hot, coppery and heavy with the scent of blood and something stranger, sickly sweet. The green mist from earlier appeared again, curling like smoke across now broken floorboards.

What he saw made him stop.

Blood. Everywhere. Splattered across the walls in violent arcs, pooling on the floor in dark, spreading stains.

And in the centre, kneeling over something small and still was a figure Pierce recognised but had never truly seen.

No longer the broken father. No longer the desperate human clinging to hope. The disguise had melted away like wax in a flame.

The creature that looked up at him wore the same face, but everything else had changed. His jet-black hair was tousled, streaked now with silver that caught the dim light. His eyes - those same eyes that had looked at Pierce with such convincing anguish - now burned with predatory satisfaction. They were wolf eyes. Hunter’s eyes.

Beneath him.

Pierce would have dropped his sword to the floor if he hadn’t gripped it so tightly.

Sarah lay motionless, her small body torn and bloodied, as the savage held her. The yellow ribbon he remembered from her hair was now dark with blood, still clinging to strands of matted brown. Her eyes, now brown, stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

The thing that had called itself her father slowly straightened, blood dripping from his chin. When their eyes met, his face broke into a wide, delighted, and red grin.

“Well well,” he said, his voice carrying that sample gentle cadence Pierce knew. But now, it dripped with mockery. The way the mutt spoke his title made his blood boil.

“The great General Pierce. You’re early.”

But the great General Pierce couldn’t speak. Couldn’t process what he was seeing. The man who had begged for his lost child.

“Oh, don’t look so sad,” the wolf continued, rising to his full height with fluid grace as Sarah’s corpse fell with an unceremonious thud. “Surely you suspected something? All those questions… about you. Daemos. About your precious magic. ” He chuckled, a sound like breaking glass. “I was taking notes, you know.”

“You-” Pierce’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’re…”

“Not her father?” His grin widened impossibly. “Oh, but I am. In a way, I’m the one who took her from her real father. I’m the one who kept her safe all this time.”

He gestured mockingly at Sarah’s broken form. “Right up until lunch.”

Pierce’s vision blurred with rage, but the wolf continued. Clearly, he enjoyed himself.

“You should have seen his face,” he said, beginning to pace around Pierce like a predator circling prey. “When I ripped her from his arms. Such desperation. Such hope that maybe, just maybe, if he cooperated, he might see her again.” He laughed again, the sound echoing off the bloodstained walls. “Humans are so beautifully naive.”

Pierce’s gaze returned back to the girl, and Ein followed after.

“And her real father. Yes, poor thing.” He gestured at her body dismissively.

“I needed him out of the way while I played my little game.” The wolf’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight. “Did you know he’s been searching for her for weeks? Walking from village after village, searching to find a little seven year girl. Sarah. ”

Pierce’s hands shook with barely contained fury.

“But you,” the mutt continued, pointing a clawed finger at Pierce. “You made it so easy. So wonderfully, perfectly easy. All I had to do was show up looking broken and desperate, and you practically invited me into your mission.” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound maniacal and sharp.

“The mighty Daemos General, fooled by a human with a sob story!”

Pierce’s voice grew stronger, more dangerous. “You killed her.”

“I devoured her,” he corrected with savage pride, slowly licking its lips, amused. “Just like I’m going to devour your precious sense of righteousness.” He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the carnage around them. “How does it feel, General? To know you’ve been walking down my path? To know that you walked her right into my jaws ?!”

Something inside Pierce snapped.

Kill him. Kill him now.

He lunged forward with a roar of pure fury, his magic flaring around like blue fire. But the mutt was ready, his form shifting as his claws extended to meet Pierce’s charge. 

“There we go!” he snarled with glee as they clashed. “Show me that famous Daemos rage. Show me what happens when the great General of Daemos fails!”

Pierce’s blade sang through the air but the wolf slipped aside like shadow, letting him strike only silence. Claws raked across his chest plate, sparks flying as supernatural strength met enchanted armour. The wolf’s protective sheen, some alchemical enhancement, deflected Pierce’s retaliatory strike, sending vibrations up his arms.

The wolf ducked low, impossibly flexible, and swept Pierce’s legs. As the Daemos stumbled, a vicious kick connected with his ribs, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing through the remnants of a wooden chair.

“She was so sweet,” the wolf taunted as Pierce rolled to his feet, splinters embedded in his seams. “Kept crying for her papa right until the end. Such innocence!”

Pierce’s response was wordless rage. He channeled his magic into his legs, launching himself forward with inhuman speed. His blade became a blur of steel and blue energy, each strike calculated to maim and kill.

But the wolf was ready. He flowed between Pierce’s attack like water, his enhanced reflexes turning what should have been fatal strikes into glancing blows. When Pierce’s sword came down in a devastating overhead strike, the wolf caught it between his claws, the blade stopping inches from his skull

They were locked together now, Pierce pressing down with all his strength while the wolf held him at bay with unnatural power. Their eyes met across the trapped blade, and the wolf’s grin never wavered.

“Does she remind you of someone ? Perhaps your sis-”

Pierce’s headbutt shattered the wolf’s nose in an explosion of blood and cartilage. The creature staggered back, snarling but his laughter never stopped.

Bleed, mutt.

Pierce pressed his advantage, his sword work becoming a symphony of violence. Each strike flowed into the next. Thrust, parry, slash, riposte. The wolf gave ground, his defensive posture more desperate now, but still he fought with terrifying skill.

The leader ducked a horizontal slash and spun behind Pierce, slamming him hard into the wall. Ancient wood cracked under the impact, dust raining down. Pierce grunted, then drove his elbow back into the wolf’s ruined nose. The creature staggered, more blood streaming down his face.

“You talk too much,” the general growled, spinning to face his opponent.

The man only grinned in return, blood coating his teeth. “That’s what makes it fun.”

With a howl, he dropped a vial at his feet. The room exploded in thick, choking smoke that burned Pierce’s eyes and throat.

Pierce didn’t hesitate. He moved back, covering his face, relying on instinct and his enhanced senses. The wolf was moving - there . Pierce pivoted, swinging blindly. Steel scraped something hard, and he heard a satisfying snarl of pain.

The wolf burst from the haze, tackling Pierce through what remained of a table. Wood splintered and exploded around them as they crashed to the floor. The impact drove the air from Pierce’s lungs, but he rolled with it, using his momentum to throw the wolf off.

They came to their feet at the same time, circling each other like the predators they were. Pierce’s blue energy flared around his arms, casting eerie shadows on the blood-stained walls.

The wolf was bleeding more. But so was Pierce.

Pierce could feel the warm wetness spreading across his shoulder where claws had found haps in his clothing. His breathing was laboured, but so was the wolf’s. The creature’s earlier composure was cracking, replaced by something more feral, more desperate.

They clashed again, but this time it was different. Less technique, more brutality. Pierce abandoned formal swordplay, using his blade like a club while his free hand grabbed and struck. The wolf responded in kind, his claws becoming extensions of his rage.

They rolled across the floor, neither able to gain a decisive advantage. Pierce’s magic burned between them, blue fire meeting alchemical enhancement in showers of sparks. The wolf’s claws found purchase on his exposed shoulder again, raking deep into the wound and more.

Pierce roared, grabbing the wolf by the throat and slamming him onto the blood-stained. The creature’s head bounced off the wooden planks with a wet thud.

“Or perhaps you know a little girl. A daughter? A niece?”

Pierce’s eyes flashed blue, dangerously. The wolf spat blood to the side, his grin never wavering despite the pain. “I bet she’d just scream just the same.”

He’s lying. He has to be lying.

The moment of hesitation cost him. The wolf twisted away from Pierce’s descending blade, the sword burying itself in the floorboards beside his head. In one fluid motion, he slashed across Pierce’s back, then flung another vial in the Daemos’ face.

But Pierce was ready this time. He caught the vial mid-flight, their eyes locking for a split second. The wolf’s expression shifted from triumph to alarm.

Pierce threw the vial back with all his strength. It shattered against the creature’s face, green smoke bursting between them. The wolf howled as the fumes invaded his senses, coughing and staggering backward.

Now, while he’s blind.

Pierce advanced, his sword glowing with deadly intent. But the wolf was cunning even in his agony. He pulled another potion from his belt and threw it at the floor between them. The explosion sent both fighters flying, Pierce’s sword spinning away into the darkness.

He rolled with the impact, his heightened constitution keeping him conscious despite the ringing in his ears. He looked up to find the creature on one knee, chest heaving. Blood trickled down his face, and his eyes gleamed. Not with madness, no. 

“You should be asking yourself,” he said, through a wet cough, “why I’m still smiling.”

Pierce frowned, then heard the screams outside. His blood went cold, spinning towards the window.

Roaring orange light bursts into the air outside the house. Distant shouting. And through the glow silhouettes, large and fast moving.

More wolves.

Rhys.

“Your dear friend is having quite the struggle outside. My pack is very thorough, you see,” he said with a cackle.  “Choose, General. Try to kill me while your friend dies… or abandon your revenge to save him. Either way, I win.”

The creature’s maniacal laughter filled the room as Pierce stood frozen between his rage and his duty. Sarah’s lifeless eyes seem to watch him from the floor.

The choice wasn’t really a choice at all.

Pierce’s gaze lingered on Sarah for one final, burning moment. Then, he turned away from the wolf’s triumphant laughter, his jaw set like stone. The creature’s taunts followed him as he moved toward the window, but Pierce already made his decision.

The wolf’s laughter turned to surprise as Pierce grabbed a fallen chair leg and hurled it with supernatural force. The makeshift projectile struck the creature in the temple, sending him sprawling. Not dead - Pierce could hear him groaning - but stunned enough.

Without another word, he left, escaping out the door.

The scene outside was chaos incarnate. Flames licked into the sky from burning buildings. Villagers screamed as they fled in every direction, their panicked silhouettes dancing against the firelight. And cutting through it all, the wolves moved like liquid death, herding the humans with terrifying efficiency.

Pierce burst from the house and into the square’s south side, the granary burning beside him. The well was still intact but smoke curled up from collapsed stalls and shattered barrels. Soldiers still held the perimeter near the granary, but it was failing fast. Villagers screamed as they fled in every direction, their panicked silhouettes dancing against the firelight.

The general slowly picked out Rhys through the mess. The mage was back against a crumbling stone wall, his staff blazing with defensive magic as three wolves circled him. His sleek robes were torn, blood seeping through the fabric, but he was still fighting. Still alive.

Pierce didn’t think. He acted.

His legs carried him across the square in a blur of blue energy. The first wolf never saw him coming - Pierce’s shoulder slammed into its back with bone-crushing force, sending the creature tumbling across the cobblestones. The second turned just in time to catch Pierce’s fist in its snout, the impact accompanied by a sickening crack.

The last leaped at him, claws extended, but Pierce was already moving. He ducked low, grabbed the creature’s legs and used its own momentum to send it crashing into a nearby wall. Mortar dust rained down as the wolf slumped to the ground, twitching.

“Pierce.” Rhys’ voice was hoarse but relieved. “You better have killed him.”

Pierce grunted as he helped Rhys to his feet. “Not now. Let’s first get this under control.”

His eyes swept the square, taking in the full scope of the disaster. The wolves weren’t attacking, they were organising. Corralling. Most of the humans were being driven toward the northern edge of the village, past where Daemos land ended and the wild territories began. 

The chaos pressed against his mind like a physical weight. Too many variables. Too many threats. Too many people screaming.

Pierce forced him to breathe. One thing at a time, that was how you survived chaos.

“Can you move?” he asked Rhys, keeping his voice despite the turmoil raging inside him.

Rhys nodded, testing his weight on his injured leg. “I can manage. There are so many of them-”

“I know.” Pierce’s hand found his shoulder, steadying him. Rhys seemed to look fine, if not a bit exhausted from exerting his power. But his grip on his staff was firm. Good. They’d need every advantage they could get.

“We need to move,” he said, already calculating their options. The wolves had superior numbers and knew the terrain, somehow better than Pierce. But they were herding the villagers, not slaughtering them outright. That suggested a plan, and plans could be disrupted.

A child’s scream pierced the night air. Pierce’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes picking out a small figure away from the main group of captives. A little boy, maybe no older than six, with his shorts dirty and torn.

One of the wolves noticed him too. It was moving with deliberate slowness, savouring the hunt.

But Pierce’s decision was instantaneous. He pressed his sword into Rhys’ free hand. “Cover me.”

The wolf saw him coming and snarled, abandoning its slow stalk for a direct charge. They met in the middle of the square with a bone-jarring impact that sent shockwaves through the cobblestones. And before he allowed the werewolf to do anymore, he grabbed his face with both hands and twisted with all his strength.

The crack was audible even over the chaos. The wolf’s body went limp, and Pierce let it fall.

The little child was still running, tears streaming down his face. Pierce picked her up without breaking stride, carrying them both towards a cluster of buildings that hadn’t yet caught fire.

“Hide,” he told her, setting him down behind a stone well. “Do not come out until the sun rises.”

He nodded, too terrified to speak and curled up in the shadows. Pierce turned back to the square, where Rhys was managing to hold off on his own and finding more humans to bring to Pierce’s way. 

The chaos was getting worse. More buildings were slowly burning down, the smoke thick enough to choke. The main group of captives were being driven steadily westward, their captors working with precision. And somewhere, their damn leader was making it happen.

Pierce felt the familiar weight of command settling on his shoulders. With all the remaining soldiers he could dispense, it still wasn’t enough. All he could really do was keep fighting to regain as many humans lost as possible.

He rejoined Rhys just as the mage placed a defensive barrier around the humans. “That should keep them from harm,” he said, leaning heavily on his staff.

Pierce nodded, but his response didn’t seem to soften Rhys’ eyes. 

“Pierce, what happened to that man?” he questioned sternly. “What happened to the girl?”

But before Pierce could respond, a howl echoed through the village. Then another, and another. Till that was all they could all hear. Through the smoke and flames, Pierce could see movement from a distance. Wolves emerged from the shadows, running all in the same direction. Those howls weren't a retreat. It was a victory.

Pierce turned to the village’s edge, the border of Daemos land. A familiar figure sprinting toward the treeline. A bloodied form moving with inhuman speed. Around the figure, other wolves were moving alongside. 

The bastard was running.

Pierce’s vision went red. Sarah’s lifeless eyes flashed before him, her small body broken and discarded like refuse. Her father’s eyes pleading for her. The wolf’s mocking laughter echoed in his ears, drowning out the chaos around them.

“Pierce, don’t-”

He didn’t listen. He was already gone. Using whatever left of his magic he had left stored, Pierce used it in his speed to carry him across the village. The mutt’s retreating form grew larger with each stride.

The wolf heard him coming. Of course, he did. He glanced back over his shoulder, and that damned smile spread across his blood-stainded face again.

“Can’t let it go, can you?” he called without slowing down. “You’re so delightfully predictable!”

Pierce slammed into the wolf at full speed, brutally tackling him to the ground. They crashed into the underbrush, rolling downhill violently. Leaves and dirt flying around them.

Pierce scrambled atop, his hands finding the leader’s throat. His windpiped compressed under Pierce’s grip, but the mutt’s smile never changed. If anything, it grew wider.

He coughed once, then laughed. The mutt laughed a sickly sound, clawing playfully at Pierce’s wrists. “There’s that rage,” he wheezed, his voice strained but full of delight. “I was hoping to see it up close.”

This only made Pierce tighten his grip, his magic coursing through his veins. “You are not getting away.”

“You know.” His eyes gleamed teasingly. “Under different circumstances you and I might’ve had fun-”

Pierce’s fist connected with the wolf’s face, cutting off the words. Blood splattered across the grass. But it served to make him laugh only louder.

“Oh, yes! Hurt me more,” he purred mockingly, eyes flashing dangerously.  “I like it rough, General.”

Pierce’s face twisted in disgust. “Shut up.”

The general raised his fist again, but a massive weight blindsided him from the side. Something massive, knocking him clear off. Another wolf, this one as large as the werewolf from the second village. It pinned momentarily before Pierce twisted free, coming up on one knee. Two more emerged from behind trees.

Their leader slowly rose, casually dusting himself off, blood trickling from his lip. “Careful now, friends. Don’t damage the goods.” He winked at Pierce. “We still have plans for him.”

Pierce’s eyes flicked between him and the other wolves, muscles coiled. The wolves continued to circle Pierce, their eyes gleaming in the darkness. But they didn’t attack. They were waiting. Playing with their prey.

“I’ll kill you.”

“Maybe. But not today.” The mutt gestured to his companions. “Today isn’t your day. I’ve got bigger plans, and they require you to be… intact.”

The largest wolf ran to Pierce without warning. The Daemos twisted away, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver. A second wolf hit him from behind, driving him to his knees. Claws raked across his back, leaving slashes through his clothing.

Pierce rolled forward, his reflexes barely keeping him alive as the wolves pressed on their attacks. There were too many of them, and they were working together. Every time he faced one, another attacked from his blind spot.

A massive hand caught him across the chest, sending him sprawling. Before he could recover, another wolf was on him, driving him to the ground. Claws digging into his shoulders, pinning him against the forest.

“Enough,” their leader commanded lazily. The wolves froze, instantly obeying.

With a casual gesture, he signaled his pack. Immediately, they hauled Pierce upright, forcing him to his knees. His arms were wrenched behind his back, claws digging into his shoulders to keep him defenseless. He barely had a moment to draw breath before a fist hit him in his ribs, a crack resonating through his body.

Pierce, gasped, pain burning through every nerve, yet refused to cry out. The mutt struck again. And again. Each blow precise and punishing, the wolf taking visible delight in every shudder and grunt Pierce unwillingly surrendered.

Then he crouched low, bringing himself to Pierce’s eye level. “You know, I was going to make this quick. Professional, even. But then you had to go and make it personal.”

Pierce’s head hung heavily, blood dripping onto the forest floor. As he forced his gaze up, his vision swam. “Why take them? If it's for food, why take them?”

The werewolf chuckled, leaning in close. “Always so curious. I’ll tell you a secret, Pierce-” His thumb traced the bruises along Pierce’s jawline with sickening gentleness. “-maybe I just wanted to catch your attention.”

He stood up and stepped back, casually wiping the blood from his knuckles. The wolves released Pierce, shoving him forward. Pierce hit the ground hard, his elbows barely holding him up. A satisfied grin played across their leader’s face. 

“Remarkable, really,” he murmured, as if speaking only to himself. “You Daemos truly are stubborn creatures. So proud, so full of rage. Or perhaps you were just easy to manipulate.”

He crouched back down, this time grabbing a fistful of Pierce’s hair between his horns. Pierce grimaced in pain, glaring defiantly through the blood and sweat.

“Hold onto that hate, Pierce,” the mutt whispered mockingly, eyes alight with twisted pleasure. “Cherish it. It makes you so much more interesting than pretending to play hero .”

Pierce clenched his jaw tightly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

“You wear this look so well, General.” He leaned even closer, his breath against Pierce’s ear. “I’ll be dreaming about it for days.”

Pierce mustered enough strength to spit blood defiantly in the wolf’s face. The creature flinched slightly, then grinned in delight rather than anger.

“Mm. Now you’re just teasing me, Blue ,” he chuckled darkly, wiping his face and standing again. His silver-streaked hair gleamed eerily beneath the daylight filtering through the forest canopy. “I could keep this going all night. Alas, all good things come to an end.”

With a final, devastating kick to Pierce’s temple, darkness overtook the General.

The wolf leader laughed quietly to himself, stepping back to admire his handiwork, savoring the sight. Pierce’s unconscious form crumpled among the fallen leaves.

Suddenly, the air crackled with energy. A surge of power swept through the forest in brilliant white light, causing even the wolves to shift uneasily. The temperature dropped. And the very trees seemed to lean away from the source.

The leader spun around sharply, momentarily thrown off guard as the light streaked violently from the edge of the clearing. Through the blazing illumination, he saw a familiar figure standing at the treeline.

Rhys.

But this wasn’t the composed mage from before. His eyes were pure white, glowing with power that made the air itself writhe. His staff blazed like a miniature sun and the very ground beneath his feet was cracking from the magical energy pouring through him. His robe whipped around him in an unnatural wind. His normally careful features were set in lines of cold determination.

“Step away from him,” Rhys commanded, his voice resonating with otherworldly harmonics that made the wolves’ ears flatten against their skulls.

The leader straightened slowly, his grin unphased. “Impressive. The cavalry has arrived. And here I thought you were just the pretty face who followed the General around.”

Rhys didn’t respond with words. Instead, he raised his staff and unleashed a bolt of pure destruction. It carved through the air like liquid light, striking the nearest wolves and sending them sprawling with howls of agony. The scent of burned flesh and ozone filled the clearing.

“Something’s different about you, mage,” the leader observed. “That power…”

Rhys’ response was another devastating wave of magic. It erupted from him in all directions, tearing through the wolves’ ranks and scattering them. Their leader narrowly evaded, rolling behind a thick oak as the spell reduced the tree behind him to splinters.

Rhys pointed his staff at him, his voice dripping with control. “Surrender now, wolf.”

“Oh, I struck a nerve!” he shouted gleefully, coming out from his cover. “Seems you do care about your dear general more than I thought.”

“You made a mistake,” Rhys said, his voice eerily calm.

The wolf’s grin widened. “And what are you going to do about it? Show me another pretty trick? You’re burning through your own power awfully fast.”

Rhys surged forward, his magic lashing out in controlled bursts. But the wolf was ready, keeping himself just ahead of the spells. He moved quickly, using the trees as cover while taunting the mage.

“Come on then, mage! Make me pay!” the creature called out.

For a moment, Rhys seemed to stumble, his white eyes flickering. The wolf saw his chance and lunged forward, but something had changed in Rhys’ stance. The mage’s power suddenly surged, doubling, then tripling in intensity. The borrowed strength flowed through him and his eyes blazed brighter than ever.

“Clever,” he muttered. “But cleverness only gets you so far.”

The wolf leader had quicker, his hand diving into his belt. He produced a vial filled with swirling black liquid and hurtled it at Rhys with desperate precision. It shattered against Rhys’ chest just before the mage could explode the entire forest.

Black smoke erupted in all directions, choking and acrid. The corrupted magic ate away at Rhys’ senses, making him stagger.

“You… coward…” Rhys choked out, sinking to his knees, clutching desperately at his staff as his magic flickered weakly.

“Efficient,” he corrected. “But I appreciate your dedication, truly.”

The wolf leader straightened his torn clothes, breathing heavily but triumphant. “Touching. Really. But you should have known better than to challenge me with stolen power.”

Rhys lifted his head with tremendous effort, his eyes no longer glowing white but still blazing with defiance. Blood started to come out from the corner of his mouth. ”This is not over. This is far from over.”

The wolf chuckled, approaching the weakened mage. “Oh, but it is. You’ve played your part. And you’ve lost.” He crouched down, bringing himself to Rhys’ level. “I do hope you’ll give Pierce a message for me.”

He smiled, the expression visible in the afternoon light. “Tell him Ein enjoyed our little dance.”

Rhys’ vision was fading, but he managed to lock eyes with the creature, who called himself Ein now, one final time. “Ein…” he whispered.

“Mm, that’s right. And when he sees that little girl… Whether she’s his or not, make sure he knows exactly who is the one that can take him down.”

With that, the last of Rhys’ strength gave out. His staff clattered to the forest floor as darkness finally claimed him. 

Ein’s smile faded as he rose to his feet. His casual demeanour shifted to something more serious, more tired. He surveyed the carnage around them. The scattered wolves, both dead and alive. The fallen Daemos. The smoke coming from the village in the background.

“Let them live,” he commanded, his voice carrying easily to the surviving wolves. “He’ll want them to be a warning for what is to come.”

The pack obeyed without question, melting into the shadows between the trees. Their forms disappeared one by one, heading deeper into the wilderness, away from the Daemos border and toward their domain they called home.

Then, all the wolves were gone.

What was left was the silence, the fire still burning.

And in the center of the scorched clearing, Rhys and Pierce lay crumpled side by side. Unmoving. Unconscious.

Alone.