The first blush of dawn crept across Lithiar's fortress, its faint light washing the land in ashen hues. A thin mist clung to the earth, heavy with the acrid scent of burned wood and blood. Smoke curled lazily from last night's dying fire pits, coiling through the chilled morning air as if reluctant to fade. The gravel crunched under steady, deliberate steps — the rhythmic thud of boots echoing through the silence.
Prince Sion walked with the authority of someone born to command, his cloak rippling in the wind like a banner of arrogance. His silver armor gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished but splattered with flecks of dried mud and dark stains that refused to wash away. Rows of bodies lined his path, covered in coarse linen sheets that swayed faintly in the dawn breeze. Beneath them, the outline of broken limbs and lifeless faces hinted at the horrors buried beneath.
"How many casualties from last night's border patrol, Maddox?" Sion's voice sliced through the quiet, cool and sharp as the steel hanging at his hip. The vice commander walking at his side swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly beneath his collar. "From the two hundred that were dispatched, only thirty returned unscathed, Your Highness. One hundred and fifty-six confirmed dead. Fourteen in critical condition."
The silence that followed felt like a noose tightening. Sion stopped in his tracks. The faint clink of his sword's hilt against his armor punctuated the stillness. "Useless," he growled, his jaw tightening. "Useless new recruits." His voice dropped into a hiss, more venom than sound. "What good are they if fending off a few demonic beasts is too heavy a task?"
Maddox said nothing. The men behind them shifted uneasily, their eyes darting to the rows of corpses, then quickly away. "Get rid of the injured," Sion ordered, his tone low but deadly. "And forge the report. Fewer fatalities will make for better morale." Maddox's hand trembled slightly as he scribbled on the papers and bowed. "Y-Yes, Your Royal Highness."
Sion's gaze flicked toward a passing squad of soldiers jogging in perfect rhythm, chanting the Lithiar war anthem. Their voices, though proud, sounded hollow beneath the weight of morning's grief. The air itself seemed to recoil around the prince. He turned away, his expression carved from stone, though his eyes glittered with something harsher than anger — something that looked a lot like fear disguised as fury.
Then, a shout cut through the air like a blade. "Make way for Crown Prince Kazein of Alkaraz!" Heads turned. A murmur rippled through the camp like wind sweeping through dry grass. Soldiers straightened their backs, conversation died, and anticipation thickened the air.
Through the fortress gates, a stallion of onyx black strode forward, its hooves striking sparks from the gravel. Upon it sat a young man whose presence seemed to command the very light — Crown Prince Nathaniel. His crimson cloak fluttered dramatically behind him, trimmed in gold thread that caught the pale sunlight. His eyes, a deep and steady amber, swept across the scene with the cool detachment of a man used to the stench of death — and the respect of the living.
The Alkaraz soldiers erupted in cheers. "Long live Prince Kazein!" they cried, their voices thunderous, the sound echoing against the iron walls. Even the air seemed to shift, reverent in his wake. Sion felt a chill crawl down his spine. He composed his face into a mask of warmth and extended his hand as Nathaniel swung off his horse in one fluid motion.
"Welcome, Your Highness, Crown Prince Kazein," Sion greeted smoothly, forcing a grin that didn't touch his eyes. "Though our reunion comes under grim circumstances, it's good to see you again." Nathaniel's boots landed with a heavy thud. He grasped Sion's outstretched hand — and squeezed. Hard.
Sion's smile faltered for a fraction of a second as pain shot through his fingers. He winced inwardly but did not pull away. "Still strong as ever," he muttered, his grin stiff. Nathaniel said nothing. His gaze lingered on Sion's face — calm, unreadable — before he released the prince's hand.
Before Sion could say another word, a harsh voice barked from across the camp. "Move faster, you worthless dogs!" Both princes turned. A soldier stood over four young men struggling under the weight of enormous barrels of water. Their bodies were lean and malnourished, their ragged sackcloths clinging to sweat-streaked skin. Water sloshed over the rims, splattering onto the dirt as they stumbled forward.
Nathaniel's brow furrowed. "Who are they?" Sion glanced toward the scene, scoffing lightly. "Four buffoons from the Uluka tribe. Sent here to mock us, I'm sure. They can't wield a blade, let alone stand their ground in battle. Look at them — pathetic." Nathaniel's eyes lingered on the young men. Beneath the grime and exhaustion, there was something else — the spark of endurance, of men who refused to break even under humiliation. His jaw tightened.
He stepped forward without warning, his cloak sweeping behind him. The Uluka boys froze, unsure whether to flee or bow. They chose the latter, lowering their barrels with care before dropping to one knee. "Your Highness," one whispered breathlessly, his voice trembling.
Sion watched the scene unfold, his fingers drumming lightly against his arm — a small, nervous rhythm masked as boredom. Don't say anything, he thought bitterly. Don't you dare open your mouths. "Raise your heads," Nathaniel commanded, his tone not unkind but firm. "And follow me."
The four looked to one another, bewildered, but obeyed without question. As Nathaniel turned to leave, the morning light caught the edge of his armor — a sharp gleam that seemed to cut through the fog itself. Sion's glare followed them, the corner of his mouth twitching. His heart thudded once — heavy, resentful. Nathaniel was already commanding his soldiers, his presence effortlessly dismantling the fear that Sion ruled with.
And as the Alkaraz prince strode away, leading the outcasts toward the central tents, the Lithiar camp seemed to come alive again — murmurs of hope rippling through the air. For the first time that morning, Sion realized he was no longer the most commanding presence in his own camp.
**
What is so great about him that they treat him with such reverence? Sion thought bitterly as he paced restlessly in his tent. A broken young man with a reputation in ruins, despised by his people and pitied by the court… and yet he dares to stride into my camp like he owns it. His eyes hardened, catching the flicker of the lamp on his desk. Let's see how long before he scurries off with his tail between his legs.
Nathaniel's tent stood like a fortress of silk and shadow at the heart of the encampment. The golden insignia stitched into the black canvas shimmered faintly under the afternoon sun, while the scent of burning cedar from nearby fire pits hung heavy in the air. His knights had prepared everything with soldierly precision—his armor polished to a mirror's sheen, his desk stacked with neatly ordered reports, his wine poured just so—and, as always, they guarded the tent with unwavering devotion. No one entered without his leave. Not even Prince Sion.
"Am I the only one having trouble understanding this report, Vice Commander Maddox?" Nathaniel's voice cut through the air, low and sharp like the draw of a blade. The vice commander's face paled. "Y-your highness, I assure you the information is true and—" "This is your last chance to tell me the truth," Nathaniel interrupted, tone icy, each syllable clipped. "Bring me the correct report no later than tonight—or I'll ask the prince myself."
Maddox's hands trembled as he clutched the parchment to his chest, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. "Y-yes, your highness!" He stammered something unintelligible and stumbled out of the tent, nearly tripping over the threshold. Nathaniel exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. The tent felt heavier somehow—thick with tension and the smell of parchment, ink, and cold sweat. "Something fishy is happening in this camp," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"Shall I assign a spy, your highness?" asked Leonardo, his ever-loyal aide, standing tall beside him with an easy grin that never seemed to fade. "That won't be necessary," Nathaniel said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sure this will be just a walk in the park for you, Leo."
Leonardo smirked, bowing slightly. "Understood, your highness." A rustle outside. The flap opened, and a knight bowed. "Pardon the interruption, your highness. We've brought the Uluka lads you requested to see." "Escort them in."
The air shifted as four young men shuffled into the tent, their steps hesitant but synchronized. There was something familiar about them—something unsettlingly symmetrical. They wore the traditional garments of their tribe: sleeveless tunics of rough-spun fabric that exposed lean, bronze-toned arms and shoulders marked with faint tribal ink. Nathaniel frowned slightly. Aren't they cold?
They lined up before him, avoiding his gaze, their bare feet brushing the rug nervously. The faint scent of forest earth and smoke clung to them, wild and unrefined. "Raise your heads and state your names," Nathaniel ordered, rising from his seat. His crimson hair shimmered like burning silk beneath the lamplight, and the authority in his voice made even the candles flicker. After several seconds of awkward shuffling and exchanged glances, one of them—broad-shouldered and bright-eyed—stepped forward.
"My name is Uwol, your highness. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." "Ulrick, at your service, your highness." "My name is Ulyx. It is a pleasure to meet you, your highness." "I am Uler. A pleasure to meet you, my prince."
Nathaniel blinked. They looked and sounded identical. It was as if God had copied and pasted the same face four times, only tweaking the hairstyles to tell them apart. He studied them carefully—Uwol's full braid, Ulyx's topknot, Uler's rope-twist locks, and Ulrick's loose hair. Not bad, he thought smugly. I think I got it right the first time.
Their eyes sparkled expectantly. They wanted him to ask more questions, to keep them in his tent a little longer and maybe not send them back to prince Sion. "Are you perhaps… brothers?" "Yes, your highness! We are, in fact, quadruplets!" Uwol announced proudly. Nathaniel froze. "P–pardon? Qu–quadruplets, as in—" "—born from the same mother on the same day, your highness," Leonardo supplied helpfully, lips twitching with amusement. Nathaniel blinked in disbelief. "I… see. That's… quite remarkable."
He hesitated before blurting out, "Is your mother… alright?" The tent fell silent for a moment. Then Uler gave a nervous chuckle. "She passed away while giving birth to us, your highness." Nathaniel winced inwardly. "My condolences," he said quickly, clearing his throat. The four young men smiled weakly, all at once, like marionettes tugged by the same string.
"How old are you?" "We are fifteen years of age, sir!" Uwol answered cheerily. "No, you dolt! We turned sixteen last week!" Ulrick hissed, shoving him lightly. "How can you forget something so important?" "Teehee! Sorry! I really thought we were younger than that!" "Are you calling us old, you birdbrain?" Ulyx snapped, elbowing his brother arm. "Shh! Behave yourselves—we're in the presence of an imperial prince!" hissed Uler frantically, looking as though he might faint from embarrassment.
Leonardo leaned in, whispering near Nathaniel's ear, "You should join in the fun, your highness. I have a feeling these lads will play a very important role—both in this war and in your life." Nathaniel shot him a flat look. "Remind me to have your pay docked." Leonardo only grinned. "Ahem!" Nathaniel straightened, pushing aside his amusement. "Now then, why don't you fill me in on everything that's been happening in this camp?"
The quadruplet brothers stood at attention—sort of. Uwol tried to salute, Ulrick sneezed, Ulyx tripped on thin air, and Uler facepalmed in perfect synchronization. Nathaniel sighed inwardly. This is going to be a very long night.
**
"Look at that luscious pink blush! I bet they taste wonderful." Fatima's voice bubbled with a childish hunger as she craned her neck toward the lowest mangoes, sunlight catching the honeyed hairs at her temple. Her fingers flexed, imagining the warm juice sliding down her chin.
"You're drooling, Fati," Ivy teased, a soft chuckle that fluttered through the shaded grove like a sparrow's song. "Clover, what are you doing?" Fatima asked, amusement softening the edges of the day. "Climbing up to get one." Clover's bare feet found the bark; she hoisted herself nimbly into the crook of the branch, skirt rustling, cheeks already flushed with the effort and the thrill.
Fatima watched Clover's bright determination with a fond exasperation. Her rambunctiousness has worsened ever since I came back. Look at her go — she must really want that mango. The air smelled of sun-warmed grass, crushed mint, and the distant, sugary perfume of ripening fruit. Bees hummed lazily among the leaves; a faint, resinous scent clung to the bark.
Then a dark shadow slithered through the green. Fatima's attention snagged on a small cloud of black smoke sliding between blades of grass toward Clover's dropped foot. Her smile faltered. "Jump down, Clover!" she barked, more urgency than she'd meant. Clover obeyed without thinking, a lithe blur as she dropped to the soft earth. For a heartbeat everything seemed ordinary: the thud of a foot, the rustle of leaves, Ivy's relieved breath.
The shadow struck. It leapt after Clover and missed, its impact a dissonant slap against the soil; the thing collapsed in a heap of billowing smoke and black slime on the grass. The air turned sour—rotten fruit and old rain mingled into a stench that clawed at Fatima's throat. "Stay back, you two!" she yelled, panic sharpening her voice.
Fatima scrunched up her nose in disgust, the smell of rot and iron, a stench that drove the birds away and made the insects fall silent. Her heart pounded a rapid, unfamiliar rhythm. If my hunch is right, this is a demonic creature, but what is it? Her mind ticked through the old tales she's read about as she stared at the formless thing before her, quietly swaying above the ground.
A wind rose without warning, a staccato gust that scattered dry leaves in a frantic eddy. Branches shivered and the play of sunlight broke into jittering patterns. The small heap began to uncoil and lengthen, scales knitting into a solid column of shadow. In a single, horrific surge the creature rose, tail braced on the earth, until it towered above the forest— twenty feet of black muscle and ink-bright scales that drank the light of day. A demonic serpent.
For an instant Fatima felt as though her soul had been wrenched free of her body and held above the world. Ivy and Clover screamed; their voices were ragged threads that the wind snatched and carried away. "How dare a mere human stand before me?" The voice was rasp, like the grinding of pebbles, yet it rolled through the clearing with the ease of speech.
It can speak? Fatima's mouth went dry. The creature's maw gaped; fangs curved like polished daggers, a glistening line of white against the abyss of its throat. Lines of venom, paler than milk, gathered at each fang's tip and trembled. "Fati! Get out of there!" Clover shrieked, scrambling back, fingers clawing at the grass.
Fatima was terrified, her body shaking violently as she stood before the creature. Though she was a Sant, well versed in matters of demonic beasts and sorcery—trained to fight and defend against evil forces, she'd never truly faced a demonic before. And that moment she realized—experience, not blood or power, was what she lacked. She didn't have a weapon in hand, she was better with her limbs and her divine powers.
The serpent's breath swept over them; it reeked of rot so thick it felt like a physical blow to the back of her throat. It spoke again, words slithering through the air. "I've been waiting months to enter this territory. Someone had the nerve to purify this land, to keep me from feasting on those delicious souls. From what I see, you must have been the one who dared to interfere. You shall pay for your insolence with your very life, child."
Fatima's stomach lurched. Souls. Could the small white lights that roam the forest at night be what it was speaking of? She had always thought them giant light bugs, harmless pinpricks that bobbed in the darkness of night—how naïve that now seemed. She blinked, and in the periphery of her vision tiny, pale motes drifted between the trees, trembling like held breaths. So that's what a soul looks like. Her cheeks burned with the foolishness of it.
"Goodness! Its breath smells horrible!" Ivy cried, more bravado than comfort, trying to disguise her terror with a thin laugh that cracked. The serpent drifted its head, tongue flicking, tasting the air. Fatima's fingers tightened around a rock she'd picked from the ground. Her palms were slick. She could feel the thrum of something beneath her ribs—fear, yes, but also the heat of the promise that she could do something. The tree trunks around them creaked, leaves whispered, and the tiny white lights bobbed closer, drawn like moths to a flame.
"Fati! Look out!" Ivy's warning shredded the air. Fatima's world narrowed to the curve of a fang, the weight of the rock, the thin thread of heat that crawled behind her sternum. Time stuttered—one breath for courage, one for a plan.