Early morning mist arose from tall, green grass. Ancient trees bowed inward as if they slept. The soft glow of scattered fires illuminated the rolling hills. Small villages decorated the knolls where sheep and cattle rested near their young. Stars dotted the dark sky, streaked with wisps of galaxies far beyond their own. Mountains rose in the east, a pink hue beginning to lighten the sky around them while the sun began its ascent. It was peaceful there, quiet.

Swords clanged loudly in the deep canopy of trees. Men screamed, shouting orders. The peace was ruined by war. War that had not yet found the shores of Er Rai, until then.

The darkness the night cast upon the lands rose, tendrils of shadows whipped wildly as if they were alive, cracking against massive trees and downing them. Streaks of molten black decorated the ground wherever the shadows smashed, leaving blood and pieces of soldiers spread across the grass. There were many soldiers, their spears steady, thrusting into the darkness around them. But the blades pierced nothing. The shadows were just that, shadows. Smoke. There was nothing to hit. But their target was not the shadows that tore their brothers to shreds around them, but the man controlling them. They needed to subdue him.

Blades flung from the darkness, where the shadows were thicker than the rest of the forest, the void fed with maliciousness. Men dropped, blades struck true, and the nightmare of shadows moved and twisted like demons from the depths. Two men caused this chaos and carnage, two men who needed to be brought down.

“Come round! Don’t let them escape!” The men shouted.

The soldiers held lit torches in an attempt to snuff out the shadows. Some shadows retreated, but others were too solid to be chased away. With light surrounding the soldiers now, the men they had come to capture could be seen.

More soldiers rushed forward, their torches piercing the inky darkness, encircling the demon and his pet.

“Mage!” Roared the captain, torch stabbed outward, pushing back the dark. “Where are the mages!?”

From the line they held within their seemingly endless number, three cloaked figures stumbled forward. The demon and his pet were surrounded, but confined within a grove of thick trees. They were sticking where the dark was thickest, where it was oppressive and dangerous even if the shadows weren’t writhing and alive.

Calaris was a prodigy. She joined the mages of Er Rai only a few moons back and had already shined so brightly she was placed with the two men with her. Algen, the master mage, an old and grizzled man, with a long, pointed beard and cold, deep set eyes. He was battle hardened and powerful with his incantations. The other, Doca, was younger, closer to her own age, though he had begun his training with the military when he was even younger still. They were both near their 25th name day, young and ready and eager to learn and fight for their country.

But this? This was not what Calaris expected to find that night. It was so beautiful before. The moon was a sliver, and the stars were alight that night. They were called forth with only a word, that there were several Arcturians in the country, and they needed to be captured. They did not know who was there, they did not know it was him.

The Demon of Arcturus. The bane of Nihal, the only man who could stand against the Golden one, the Hero of Er Rai.

She could see him. Through flickers of flames, she could see this man who had brought so much pain, so much terror to her country and to others. Why was he here?

Through the flames of torches, between bodies of soldiers meant to protect them, she saw his gaze, and with horror realized it was on her. She felt it, the pierce of those icy eyes struck her, stabbed through her and froze her in place.

Then, he sunk back into the darkness and the heavy hand of Algen on her shoulder urged her forward.

They stood back, tomes in hand, chanting and whispering their spells. She fumbled, briefly, but the warmth of her magic erupted into her hands and chased away the freezing dark she felt seize her for a moment. Laying against the book, under her palm, she envisioned the markings that they needed. They practiced these, these talismans that would stop the assault of the darkness. Still, she was afraid. What if they did not work?

In unison the mages lifted the talismans from the pages of their tomes, holding them outward and with the circle of soldiers, they stepped forward. The shadows were snuffed out the closer they came, sinking back into the ground, no longer whipping and stretching. The light from their torches were winning this battle thanks to the incantations and the power of the papers.

The three spread out, surrounding the pocket of dark, and slowly inched forward. Their voices raised, the markings on the talismans burned brighter from between their fingers, piercing even that impossible dark, and then… She saw him properly.

He was smaller than she expected him to be. The stories painted him as some grotesque beast, eating his victims and taking on their traits as he grew in strength. But before her, sword drawn and looking downright feral, was a small man, barely taller than herself, with sharp, attractive features. More attractive than she was prepared for, truth be told.

His eyes were the color of the ice that had chilled her moments before, intense and pale blue. His face was smooth and appeared almost youthful, save for a scattering of scars across the corner of his lips and laced within his left eyebrow. His hair was dark, a mane of wild mess that hung past his shoulders, swallowing the light of their torches. He must not have expected them, since his hair was down.

She did not expect to see a man like him, one that women and perhaps even other men would wish to coax into their beds. It was startling, nearly so much so that she fumbled a word. The sight of Algen shooting a sidelong look to her snapped her up quickly, and she pressed forward as she had been taught.

Behind the demon, with his own weapons drawn, was another man. Thinner than the demon himself, who had the powerful build of a warrior, but still taller by nearly a full head. Dusty blonde with dark eyes, he did not look to be an Arcturian, or at least the ones she had seen before. Most Arcturians were like the demon, with dark hair and light eyes, though the demon himself seemed to take those common traits and intensify them.

What struck her most about the man near the demon was how calm he looked. He was assessing them, the situation they were in. Was it only them? The demon was a commander, he lead armies. Where were the others?

“Surrender, demon! We need not spill more blood this day!” The captain called to their trapped foes, safely behind the rows of soldiers and the mages.

The shadows around the demon had all but left, leaving only barely moving tendrils that writhed about his boots, but were unable to defend him as he would wish them too. Though his shadows were useless now, he was not defenseless.

He did not respond to the captain, nor did he seem to care what they thought. He looked ready to die there, and Calaris thought he may attack them anyway. But, the man behind him placed a hand on the commander’s shoulder, and leant his head lower, murmuring something to him.

“W-We’ve done it! We’ve got the demon!” Doca’s voice did manage to break her concentration, and she looked to him.

He was sweating and strained, but a smile was spread across his youthful face. “We’ve got the little bastard!” He said, turning his head to meet her gaze. She too felt a smile pull at her lips.

The moment his concentration was broken and he looked away, the demon was on him. There was a shout, and the smile on Doca’s face was replaced by a gaping look of horror and pain. Doca fell, the demon’s sword shoved through his chest. They hit the ground together, Doca on his back, and the demon over him, driving the blade deeper into him.

Doca could not scream, but Calaris could, and she did. Chaos erupted around them once more. Doca choked, blood splattering from his lips and over his face. Algen had leapt forward in an attempt to assist his young apprentice, but the demon turned on him quickly. Another weapon, a dagger, was yanked from his belt and the demon left his sword behind, grasping the old man and driving the dagger up into the soft part of his jaw. An audible crash of teeth sounded from the force in which Algen’s jaw snapped together. Algen grasped the demon’s shoulder, fists tightening in the cloak that adorned him, too heavy for the warm climate of Er Rai, then he fell.

The demon slid his blade from the old man when he fell, now red with blood, and turned his head. There, on his shoulder, was the talisman. He seemed more interested in it, rather than the soldiers now bearing down upon him.

He was taken down, finally.

The soldiers dragged him to the ground, feet and fists connecting where they could, wrestling arms back behind the demon so that they could be chained. The demon was taken down, finally.

The other came quietly, simply allowing the soldiers to take him into chains, his eyes never leaving the man who struggled on the ground, blood seeping from a fresh wound on his temple, a high cheek bone beginning to darken with a bruise.

Calaris moved through her duties in a haze. She enchanted several more talismans at the request of the captain to be placed upon the chains holding the demon secured. The sun was rising, and she was thankful for the warmth of it.

Her friends were dead, so quickly. He targeted them. Mages were rarely used in combat, not this close. They should have never come here, they wouldn’t have come had they known who they were facing. Now Algen and Doca were dead, and she was alone once more.

The soldiers were preparing to move to a nearby camp, where the Hero would meet them. He was enroute already. How he knew that the demon was here, she did not know, nor did she care. She hoped he would kill him. She hoped it was painful.

Stepping into a ray of sun, she closed her eyes, drawing a breath. What would she do now? How could she move past this? When she opened her eyes, it seemed like the trees were bowing inward, trying to consume her. It was dark suddenly, and she felt her pulse quicken, she felt sweat beading along her forehead.

“Are you afraid of the dark?”

The voice was soft, but it caused a cold fear to spread over her back. She turned her head and found the demon staring at her. He was sat on the ground, legs folded below him, arms bound behind his back. His expression had not changed. It was still angry, intense, but there was a pull at the corner of his lips.

She realized with horror that not only was he smirking, he was speaking to her.

“No. I am not afraid of you, demon.” She sounded stronger than she felt. She was weak, her knees threatened to give out. Her hands were tucked under her arms to hide the tremble. She could not show her fear to this man, this man who had slayed her friends before her.

“You should be.”

-Varia-

He missed Arcturus. He missed the cold, the tall trees that shrouded the ground, bowing and groaning under the weight of snow. He missed the emptiness, the way every sound floated over the ice with nothing to stop it. He missed his home. He could see it still, smell it. The smell of pine, the smell of storms. If he concentrated, he could feel the pain of the ice in his lungs whenever he drew a breath.

But whenever he opened his eyes, all he saw was stone. The stone walls of his new prison, in a country so far from Arcturus, that when he was conscious, he could not even imagine the cold. The yearning he felt for Arcturus was all but forgotten when his eyes opened. He forgot the good, but the horrors he faced on the ice followed him, and were stronger now that he sat in the dingy, damp cell somewhere in the vast wilds of Er Rai.

The dark was too familiar. The drone of soldiers not contained was too familiar. The smell and feel of moldy straw below his rear was too familiar, reminding him of a small bed for a smaller child. The cramps in his legs and the dull ache in his back from sitting on that cold, stone floor reminded him. It reminded him, and it twisted his thoughts in ways he should not be able to do.

He should have known. The moment the council told him, the commander of the entire Legion, to travel to Er Rai with only his left hand, he should have known. When Brom, his hand, spoke of the strangeness of the request, when he questioned the intentions of the council, he should have known. When their position was routed while they made their way through the strange land, he should have known.

They wouldn’t betray him. They needed him. If he questioned them, if he questioned their orders and his purpose in serving them, then he was no better than the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others like him who had betrayed the council. He was not like them, he was the Demon of Arcturus. He was the greatest asset of the council, and he would remain so.

But, even for a place that prized military prowess over everything, there was no place for people who did not know how to keep their heads down. Perhaps he was too much everything Arcturus was and wanted. He commanded too much power and influence in the military and in the common folk. He was to be feared, the council saw to that when they set him on his own countrymen as well as those opposed to them.

“The council is too young to consider conceding its power, commander.” Brom had told him during their first night in the dank cell, far beyond any hope for rescue.

He did not want Arcturus. He had no ambition or need for a place of power alongside those men in the council. He had Legion, he had more than most. He wanted simply to serve them, to carve out Arcturus’ place in the world. He wanted to do as bidden, and bring horror and destruction to those who would insult and war with his homeland. He was their weapon, their greatest weapon, and he was content with that, for he knew nothing else.

But steel was not supposed to feel. Weapons had no need for hearts. Arcturus did not forgive these faults. There was no room for failure, no compassion. Only duty, war and death.

The mage woman had spun talismans for the cell as well, and once they were placed inside, they were left, awaiting the arrival of him. He was several days from this small post, which once was a town, if the stone buildings were any indication. Varia had not seen much of the place when they were paraded through to their prison. Many had come to watch the progression. Soldiers, all of them, crowded to view the demon, and to taunt him. The taunts did not bother him. He kept his chin high as they walked, Brom on his heel and bound similarly though he was not gifted as Varia was.

Throughout the world, there were many gifted people. Some could craft potions, speak over ancient texts and produce flame or ice or lightning. There were many mages in the world like that, but their powers were bound to the text they read, or the runes they carried. There were less mages who could craft talismans like the mages had done when Varia was captured. The writings were secret, held close by those a part of ancient families and covens. All mages, even those who crafted them, were not contained by talismans as men like Varia were.

Men like Varia were fewer in number, and exceedingly powerful. Their blood ran darker than others, still tainted from when the world worshipped demons as gods. Their blood provided things only demons could do. Some could crack earth with a stomp of their boot, others could speak to animals, and some could taint memories of others near them. Varia controlled darkness. He could wield shadows as a weapon, blanket the skies with them. His blood was potent, more so than others like him. He was an exception among exceptions. He could destroy countries, and few could stop him. He became the Demon of Arcturus, and made his mark on the world in blood.

Now, the Demon of Arcturus sat in his cell, cheek leant against the cold wall, staring at the carvings from prisoners before him. Here he was not the Demon of Arcturus. Here, right then, he was Varia, a prisoner. A dirty, small man awaiting death at the hand of his enemies.

The writings on the wall made little sense to him. Those written in the common tongue were ramblings of mad men, or notches to mark the passage of time. Others, the ones he continuously looked at, were elven. At least, he assumed they were elven. He spent the past two days deciding that they were, and wondering what they may say. There were no elves in Arcturus or Nihal, and he was unfamiliar with the language. Even for a breeder, he was learned, and fluent in several languages. Elven was not one of those languages, as it was not a language many spoke outside of the tribes of elves that roamed Er Rai.

By the second day, however, the cells were no longer a silent tomb for him to reflect on his life and meaning. The other cells began to fill with petty thieves and criminals, no one near as important a prisoner as he was, certainly. The new prisoners bickered and whispered, raked their tin cups along metal bars, shouted at the guards and wept. That uncomfortable, but coveted silence he was so used to was gone, replaced with low Er Rian, spoken by the scourge.

Now, he couldn’t even hear himself think. His eyebrows furrowed, his mouth turned down into scowl. He would surely go mad if he had to wait any longer, sitting in here with men like these. He wanted to smash his head into the wall, to clear his head, to draw a guard into his cell. Anything, as long as he got some goddamn quiet. His hands slipped up to cup around his ears, fingers tangling in his own hair. He nearly shouted in his frustration, but he would not sink so low. He would not shout at the filth.

He took to brooding. That’s all he could do in that situation, with no quiet and with no patience to attempt to do anything useful, like thinking up a plan to escape. But he could not shut off his mind, and though he wished to not hear the criminals speak about their families, their crimes, he could not help, but listen.

Above the sounds of his cellmates, he heard a shout. Being in this cell, and among soldiers his entire life, he was used to that. But being around soldiers his entire life, he knew what that kind of shout meant.

His eyes opened and he scrambled to his feet, boots sliding against the damp floor. Brom lifted his head to look at him from where he sat quietly. They were separated when they arrived, but placed in cells near enough they could see one another.

“What is it?” Brom asked, rising to his feet as well, shoving against the bars of his cell, near his new cell mate, who turned a pockmarked face to him in disgust.

Varia was alone in his cell, considered far too dangerous to allow for the door to open for a single moment, even to toss another body in with him. Though small, it was still a victory.

Varia held his hand to Brom and pressed his cheek against the stone wall.

More shouting, then the undeniable sounds of swords clashing with swords, of horses whinnying in fright, of men shouting orders. Of death. The camp was being attacked. Varia stepped back from the wall, his eyes moving frantically over the wall, and then the bars of his own cell. Brom heard the sounds as well, and the criminals had grown quiet as the sounds of fighting grew louder, surrounding them. They were all around them.

“They’re coming.” Brom said, stepping back from the bars.

Indeed, the sounds were around them because whomever was attacking the Er Rians were coming for the prison, and the Er Rians were defending it. Varia thought, trying to recall how many men there may have been in this place. He had been so closely surrounded when they were marched through he could not get a sufficient count, but by the sounds from the last couple days, there were a few hundred, maybe more.

Then, there was a sound that sounded suspiciously like an Arcturian shout. Varia looked to Brom, and Brom snapped his head to Varia. Where Varia felt relief, Brom’s face showed concern, fear even. The criminals were whispering among themselves now, worried for what was happening, what would happen to them. They were all petty criminals, meant to go to trial and be released into the world, at the very best. Now, their fates were uncertain. As were Varia and Brom’s.

They would not abandon him. Another Arcturian shout forced Varia’s feet to move, and he grasped the bars of his own cell, pressing his cheek against them to get a better view of the door. They had come for him. They had come to rescue him!

He heard and felt the magic before he saw it. A wind picked up in the cell, threatening to remove the talismans plastered on his cell, though it did not. It slammed into the door with such force it could be seen. The door splintered, then shattered. Rotted wood flew outward, into the light that blinded all the prisoners for a moment.

The sound of hurried boots drew Varia’s attention, forcing him to blink away the temporary blindness and step back from the bars. Before him stood two men. Two Arcturians. One was a mage, holding a large, old book close to his chest. He did not look at Varia, he kept his eyes on the ground. It was respectful to do, though Varia noticed that he did not clasp a fist over his heart in standard greeting to his commander. Varia did not care, not at the moment. He was looking at the other man who stood closest to his cell.

The other was named Ewal, but he wore such a stony expression that Varia nearly didn’t recognize him. He had not seen him for years, since he was a boy. Varia’s eyes moved over the man standing before him, and though his face was creased and worn, he was not old. He was still a boy, but one who was aged by the things he was made to do in the name of Arcturus.

He rid himself of the thought, and stepped closer to the bar once more. “I did not think you would come so soon.” He said, speaking to the other in his native language.

A strange expression crossed Ewal’s face then, one Varia could not quite pinpoint. At least, not until he followed his gaze, to the crossbow half hidden below his cloak, bolted and aimed at Varia. Varia stared at it for a long moment, then turned his gaze to where Brom stood in his cell. Brom stared back, wide eyed and fearful, hands gripping the bars of his cell so tightly his knuckles were white.

“C-Commander…” Ewal’s voice drew his gaze back to the young man. The boy. How old would he have been? Varia could not recall how old he was when he came to his service, but he was young. Not of his 15th name day yet. That had been… four, five years past.

Varia felt his gaze harden from the shock he wore into cold contempt. Ewal was trembling so badly the crossbow rattled softly in his hands. Varia was not certain Ewal would be able to hit him, though he stood mere feet from him. Ewal always had issues obeying orders. If he found that the order was too cruel, if he did not believe those he was sent after were meant to die, he would refuse. He would balk at the very thought of killing someone innocent.

But Varia was not innocent. No, he was far from innocent. He was a commander who sent his men to die, a commander who sent his men after towns of nothing but women and children. He would face his judgement someday, and his jurors would be those he killed. Those who still visited him in the nights, whispering to him, bidding him to join them. He would join them, someday, and accept whatever judgement they would bring.

He was greedy too. Had he stopped from climbing the mountains of bodies, he would have never claimed the fame Arcturus gave him. He would never have Legion whispering to him, where they thought none could hear of their loyalty to him and not to the council. If he weren’t so greedy, so weak, he could have brought those men to justice. They should not have chosen him, but they had, and he accepted.

And Ewal, who he spent months teaching to follow orders, was now faltering. He did not wish to kill Varia. It was painted on his face, on features that had been shadowed by fatigue and were now open and smooth, revealing his age. It was clear by the shine in his eye, the tremble of a too plump bottom lip. He was a child, and it was Varia’s fault now that he hesitated.

When did Varia decide that he was sick of fighting? When had his mind grown tired? Had it always been? His haunted mind and his own weakness had influenced too many men, Ewal included. His mercy was known and seen within Legion. That’s why Ewal hesitated. That’s why Ewal was here.

“Commander… They want me to… The council ordered me to…” Ewal could barely speak, his voice a whisper, but shaky. He sounded so mournful, so resentful of the order he was given. He cared too much, he cared about Varia and did not wish to kill him.

“Do as you’ve been commanded.” He had to press for Ewal to do this. He needed to do this. If he didn’t, Ewal would be punished, killed. It was his fault that Ewal didn’t think himself able.

Ewal’s eyes widened, and from behind the boy, Brom began to shout. Brom was pleading with Ewal, demanding that he lower his weapon from where it was now steadily pointed at Varia, demanding that he spare him. The mage standing behind Ewal was watching the boy as well now, though he was silent, had been silent the entire time.

“C…Commander?” Ewal spoke a question, an affirmation of what Varia wanted, no, needed Ewal to do.

It was selfish, really. He wished so badly to just rest, he would have allowed anyone to slide a blade across his throat. He wished for the silence, the dark that he felt it would bring. He wished he was no longer a weapon, no longer abused, tormented, and forced to kill people who could not fight back. He was tired of the council, tired of their command, of their fat fingers grabbing and touching him like he was some prized cow. He was sick of the starvation of his people, of the war that would not end. If he died, it would. Arcturus would fall, the council would fall, and then there would be freedom.

Freedom. Freedom sounded nice. He had never tasted freedom. There was freedom in death. Ewal could deliver him that freedom, something he wished for so badly, that he never thought he’d have.

“If you do not, then I will come for them, and you will be to blame.” Varia’s voice was cold, dripping with malice. All of his anger, all of his pain was swarming, boiling over and reaching for the top. He wanted to lash out, to hurt someone. If there were no bars restraining him, he would have wrapped his hands around Ewal’s slender throat and choked the life from him.

Arcturus had not come to save him, they had come to silence him. To remove him from standing between them and Legion. They were so scared of him. He could make them fear him worse. He wished to.

He watched Ewal hesitate still, watched the crossbow lower just a bit at the urging of Brom and his own inner turmoil. The blue of his sigil seemed to spread, to stretch, filling his vision. The sigil, the same sigil he wore, was suddenly so heavy he felt he may collapse right there.

“Commander, I cannot.” Ewal whispered, his voice the only one now. The criminals had grown silent, cowered into the corners of the cells. Brom had silenced as well, giving Ewal space and quiet to come to his own decision. One Varia knew would bring Arcturus to ruin at his feet.

“I am ordering you, as your commander to do your fucking duty, Ewal!” Varia’s voice raised sharply, suddenly, and seemed to strike Ewal like a whip across the face. The younger man flinched away from him, the mage as well. The crossbow was on him once more, steadier than it had been.

“Do as you’re told!” Varia continued, surging forward and grasping the bars of his cell aggressively. If it were not for the talismans, he would have removed Ewal’s head from his body for hesitating, for making him wait this long for the silence and darkness he yearned for.

It happened so suddenly Varia nearly didn’t react. Ewal was hit by a burst of energy. It was not energy like his own, just pulses of pressure, unformed, uncolored. His own powers were identifiable, clear in what they were, but his were not. The mage had fallen before Ewal, but Varia’s vision had begun to tunnel, red seeping in the corners of his eyes. The humming drone that had begun to buzz in his ears was gone in an instant, in time to hear the gargled choke and the splatter.

His face was wet, and for a moment he wondered if he had shed a tear. He lifted his hand and rubbed at that wetness with a finger, peering down at the red now streaked on his fingers. Blood.

Ewal was leaking before him, a clean, gaping wound in his chest. He stared up at Varia, eyes clouded, blood bubbling in his throat. Varia stared back, feeling a familiar wave of adrenaline wash over his shoulders. He watched Ewal until the blood bubbling in his throat ceased. The wound was cauterized, the smell of seared flesh and meat filled the cell. Blood seeped under the cell door, soaking the bottoms of Varia’s boots. He did not need to look up to know who had come.

So young. Ewal had a future, perhaps not with Arcturus, but if he had run, he was far from them. Too far to be found. He was not important like Varia, he was not a threat as Varia was. Worse still, he was dead before him and had not loosed the bolt. Ewal was dead, and Varia was not.

A shadow passed by the opened doorway, and Varia lifted his gaze to it. The silhouette was framed in gold, tall and well formed. He stood with an air of arrogance around him, and when Varia’s vision adjusted to staring directly into the filtering light, he could see him.

Emerald eyes burned down at him with barely contained hate, but a friendly smirk curled at his lips. Hair that was somehow kept smooth and in place despite being in constant war fell just above his shoulders, golden as the light that shimmered in around him. When his eyes found Varia’s, his head tilted mockingly, that smirk turning cruel. This man, his nemesis, the Golden Hero of Er Rai, the man who saved his life just then, finally arrived.

Maddox.