Will of the Battlefield

The capital of Bentram breathed with life.

Merchants shouted across crowded streets, children chased one another through narrow alleys, and the scent of roasted meat drifted between rows of stone buildings.

Engineers hauled strange machines from workshops, while soldiers in polished armor marched through the avenues beneath fluttering banners on the walls.

To most, it was another ordinary afternoon. To one man, something was terribly wrong.

Arathorn walked alone. The captain of the Iron Jackals had abandoned the welcoming feast without explanation.

Crowds had never suited him. Palaces were cages built from polished stone, and ministers smiled too much for his liking.

He preferred the streets, real people, the smell of sweat, and possible danger.

His weathered boots struck the cobblestones with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

His scarred face remained expressionless as he wandered past blacksmiths hammering glowing steel and merchants advertising enchanted lanterns powered by the hearts of lesser cursed beasts.

Children chased one another across the road. A young mother laughed. Somewhere nearby, a bard sang of forgotten heroes.

Arathorn almost smiled. Bentram had changed.

It had become wealthier, stronger, and much more prosperous.

Then, everything stopped. Not gradually, but instantly.

The laughter vanished, and the hammering ceased. The singing died; even the wind seemed to lose its voice.

Arathorn frowned. His boot halted halfway through another step.

Silence. There was a perfect silence.

He slowly lifted his eyes. The people... were frozen.

A merchant stood with his mouth open. A child remained mid-stride. A pigeon hovered motionless upon the roof of a fountain, as though time itself had forgotten to move.

Arathorn’s fingers slowly tightened around the hilt of his sword.

He looked at the merchant and asked, "Are you okay?"

No answer came; only silence.

Thousands of miles away, beyond the kingdom of Bentram and its mountain ranges...

Within the sacred palace of the Great Murak Empire...

An old woman screamed. She had no hair, no eyebrows, and no eyelashes as well.

Her skin hung from her bones like ancient parchment. Every tooth had long abandoned her mouth.

Her eyes were entirely black; they were black as night, without the normal pupils and irises of humans. Only endless darkness.

Across her wrinkled face stretched six black Blessed Lines.

She was known throughout the continent by many names:

The Blind Oracle.

The Black-Eyed Mother.

The Mouth of Fate.

But the emperor whom she served simply called her... Mother Seer.

She had not left her chamber in twenty-three years, not once. Yet now, she jolted upright with impossible strength.

Her old, creaking chair crashed backward. "No..."

Her voice trembled. "No..."

One skeletal hand clutched her chest. The other reached blindly through the darkness.

A young servant rushed into the chamber. "Mother?"

The old woman pointed toward the palace doors with a shaking finger. "Run."

The servant hesitated. "Mother?"

"RUN!"

The girl’s face turned pale. The old woman had never shouted, never in her twelve years of service.

"Go to the Emperor. Tell him..." Her breathing grew ragged. "...tell him..."

"That something buried beneath forgotten ages... has awakened."

The servant froze at her words.

The old woman slammed her walking stick against the stone floor. "I SAID RUN!"

The young woman fled, barefoot and terrified.

The chamber became quiet once more; the old seer breathed heavily. "No... it cannot... it must not..."

With trembling hands, she reached toward an old wooden chest. Inside lay strange objects collected across decades.

Black stones. White shells. Animal bones. Ancient coins. Bird feathers. Pieces of crystal. Things no ordinary person would understand.

She scattered them across the floor, then knelt. Despite her age and her decaying, shaking body, she began chanting.

Not in the common tongue, nor the language of Murak, nor even the holy speech of priests.

It was older, far older. A language no kingdom remembered, a language buried beneath history itself. The language of old gods.

The candles flickered, the air became heavy, and the stones trembled.

One by one, they moved. Not rolled, as they were meant to be, but literally moved.

As though invisible fingers pushed each piece across the stone floor.

The shells spun, bones stood upright, coins balanced upon their edges, and the crystals cracked.

The old woman watched, impatiently waiting and praying.

Then, everything stopped. The final pattern formed. She stared; her breathing ceased.

For the first time in her life, Mother Seer... looked afraid, truly afraid.

She slowly raised trembling hands toward the heavens.

Her voice became distant, almost poetic, almost... mad.

"The First Shadow has opened its eyes... The Nameless Walker has crossed forgotten roads... The seal of silent centuries has been found."

A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.

"Blood shall remember what flesh has forgotten. Crowns shall kneel where beggars once slept. Mountains shall bow. Rivers shall flee."

Her voice shook harder.

"I see... Eight banners burning. Seven stars falling. One throne drowned in ash."

She pressed both hands against her head, as though trying to stop something from entering.

"No... No..."

Another vision struck; her body convulsed violently.

She screamed. "I SEE THE BLACK SUN!"

The chamber trembled, and the candles burst apart. Servants outside collapsed to their knees.

The old woman’s voice broke into desperate sobs.

"Merciful Gods... Close Your Eyes... Do not witness what is coming... For if even Heaven looks upon Him... He shall look back."

Quietness covered the space for a brief moment. Then, one final whisper escaped her cracked lips, barely audible.

"He who was erased... walks once more."

Back in Bentram, Arathorn slowly reached for his sword.

Every instinct he possessed screamed to run and hide. But how could he? Something... was behind him.

He could feel it; it made no sound, nor did it give out any stench for him to smell. However, he could feel it.

Like icy fingers resting upon the back of his neck, his heartbeat thundered, fast and heavy.

Every breath became difficult. He glanced downward; his shadow was wrong.

The afternoon sun stretched his shadow across the cobblestones.

But another shadow stood behind it.

Taller, broader, and perfectly still. It had no source, no body, only darkness.

Arathorn’s breathing quickened. He tried to speak, but his tongue failed him; his fingers tightened around his sword.

Every instinct told him to turn and attack if running was not an option.

Slowly, very slowly, his muscles obeyed. His shoulder began to move, and his his neck followed.

Just a little more...

But before he could complete the motion, the shadow moved first.

A hand, entirely black without shape or detail, rose from behind him. It reached toward his shoulder.

Arathorn’s pupils shrank. For the first time in years... the captain of the Iron Jackals... felt genuine fear.

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs; he opened his mouth, but no sound came.

The black hand touched him; it was cold. Not merely cold, it was the absence of warmth: the warmth of life.

Darkness exploded outward and swallowed the street.

The buildings, the sky, the frozen people, everything.

The world disappeared in darkness; only silence remained, only darkness.

Then, in the next moment, the darkness faded away and everything turned normal.

The merchants kept talking, and the boy jumped a few more times. The only difference was...

Arathorn, the spot where he stood...

Was now empty.