The sky was turning a deep orange, Trees surrounded a small clearing, their branches twisted like claws, reaching toward the sky. The wind was light, but the air felt heavy.
Two knights came out from the shadows, dragging a man between them. His cloak was torn, his legs barely moving. Blood dripped from a cut above his eye, and his breathing was rough—like he had been running for a long time.
They threw him down, He groaned as his knees hit the ground hard. Dirt smeared his face. His hands were tied behind his back, and his mouth was covered with a dirty cloth.
A few steps away stood another man. He had short white hair, pale skin, and eyes as red as blood. His stare was cold, glowing faintly in the shadows.
One of the knights wiped sweat from his forehead. "Stubborn bastard ran deep into the woods," he muttered. "Nearly lost him near the river," the other added. "We've searched the area, Your Grace,"
The knight reported. "No sign of the others. It seems this one is alone." The white-haired man didn't look at the soldier. His eyes never left the one kneeling.
After a long pause, he finally spoke. "Tell me where the others are, and I might spare your life." The prisoner looked up, breathing hard through his nose. His eyes held hate.
The white-haired man nodded once. A soldier stepped forward and pulled the cloth from the prisoner's mouth.
The man coughed, spit to the ground, then let out a dry, broken laugh. "You?" he said, his voice raspy.
"Spare me?" He looked up, his face bruised but defiant. "Everyone knows you don't spare anyone. You're the monster in armor. The dragon in human skin."
The red-eyed man tilted his head slightly. His expression didn't change. "Last chance." The prisoner stared at him and gave a wide, bloody grin. "Then kill me. I'd rather die than beg a beast like you."
Without a word, the white-haired man drew his sword. The metal gleamed for a second in the low light. The sound it made—sharp and smooth—cut through the silence.
Then came the strike.
Quick. Clean. Cold.
The man fell forward, the life gone from his body before it hit the ground. No one spoke. The armored men bowed their heads slightly in respect. The red-eyed man looked down once, then wiped the blood from his blade with a cloth and slid the sword back into its sheath.
"Burn it," he said, "Leave no trace." "Yes, Your Grace," the knights said at once. The wind picked up again as he turned and walked away.
Elsewhere, deep within the same forest…. There was an open space surrounded by thick trees, their twisted branches reaching out like hands trying to grab something, and in the center of this space, a large circle had been drawn carefully on the ground using a thick black ink that looked fresh and strange against the grass and dirt.
Twelve people in dark cloaks stood around the circle, their hoods pulled over their heads but their faces still visible under the moonlight, pale and serious, eyes glowing with a strange light as they looked down at the center of the circle like they were waiting for something to rise or fall or appear.
They stood there with their hands slightly raised, the sleeves of their cloaks swaying with the wind that had suddenly started to blow gently, and then, almost at the same time, they began to chant in low voices, their words slow and unknown, like a forgotten language that didn't belong to any country or kingdom anyone knew.
"Alzen thorak lumira, venthir os'ma lektur… sael'nor khemira..." one voice started, calm but cold, and the rest followed.
The ground began to tremble. Small rocks shook in place. Dried leaves rose gently into the air. Animals in the distance cried out and fled the forest. Birds burst from the treetops like they were escaping something they couldn't see.
One of them suddenly staggered.
Blood dripped from his nose. His hand trembled, but he kept chanting. Another summoner's eye twitched, and red tears slipped down his cheek. "If this fails, we die," someone whispered.
"Then let it not fail," another answered sharply, not missing a beat in the chant.
"Vel'reth darakai... ashem nodur... veylun kessh'ra val'ekai..."
The black ink inside the circle began to glow faintly, almost like it was alive, and the air around them grew colder, heavy with a strange pressure, as if the forest itself was afraid and wanted to run, but had no legs or wings to flee.
The wind had started to blow harder, swirling around the twelve cloaked figures who stood in a perfect circle, their black robes whipping in the wind, their arms raised high as they chanted in voices that no longer sounded human.
"Zar'kai elun toram… ven tal'kerai nosh... sel'nor... a'krenai!"
"Vel'rakas tenai… dar'lu zorkan ven..."
Their chants grew louder, rising with the wind, echoing into the night like a storm of forgotten power.
Then— BOOM!
A huge blast of light exploded from the center of the circle, and the cloaked figures stepped back as dust and energy swirled outward, kicking up dirt and leaves, shaking the trees like a wave of force had just slammed into the world.
As the dust cleared, they stared. There—in the middle of the circle—lay a man, collapsed on the ground. His entire body was covered in blood, but his skin showed no open wounds.
It was him.