The night pressed close, thick with smoke, laughter, and the unsteady chorus of soldiers' songs. Chants rolled in waves across the camp, fading and rising again, each voice blending with the hiss of firewood as flames devoured it. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, and mead—yet beneath it all hung something heavier, something unsaid.
Macon sat apart from the circle, shadows dancing across his face. The boy's words still echoed inside his mind, a weight that refused to settle.
The Merciless Dawn.
The name clung to him like a ghost, a title stitched into his skin. It followed him into silence, pressing on him like an unseen hand.
He rubbed at the scar beneath his ribs, fingers tracing the ridged skin. Though the ache had dulled, the memory of fire there had not. His gaze swept the camp idly, searching for distraction, until it caught on the largest tent rising like a crimson wound at the camp's heart.
Unlike the others, its canvas was dyed a deep red, darkened further by black runes scorched into the fabric. Even torchlight seemed to shy away from it. Soldiers gave the place a wide berth, their laughter dying when their eyes lingered too long on its form.
The armory.
Macon rose without a word.
The second-in-command noticed immediately, as though tethered to his movements. He broke away from where he had been overseeing the soldiers and fell into step beside Macon without question. No words passed between them, yet the silence carried meaning: I will follow. I will watch.
Together they crossed the trampled dirt, boots sinking into ground wet with years of blood and rain. The guards at the tent's entrance stiffened at Macon's approach. Their eyes widened, but they did not move to bar him. They bowed their heads, silent and reverent.
It was permission enough.
Inside, the air shifted—colder, sharper, tinged with something old.
Weapons lined the racks in endless rows: spears tipped in steel, axes notched from battles, shields cracked along their centers. Some gleamed as if newly forged; others bore the weight of history, marked by scars that whispered of men who no longer lived to carry them. The metallic tang was sharp, but beneath it ran a bitter, sour trace—as though blood once spilled here had never fully dried.
Macon's eyes wandered, cataloguing the arsenal without interest—until they stopped.
At the far end of the tent, apart from all others, rested a single weapon on a stone altar.
A sword.
It was not beautiful. Not like the polished blades that lined the racks. Its steel was blackened, uneven, jagged as if it had swallowed too many wars and could never smooth again. The hilt, wrapped in leather, was worn to near ruin. Across the blade, faint runes flickered like embers—dying yet unyielding, whispering for air.
The second-in-command's voice was low, respectful.
"No one touches it. Not anymore. Many have tried. All have failed. The sword rejects the unworthy."
Macon's chest tightened. His feet moved before thought, drawn toward the altar by an invisible pull.
The scar beneath his ribs blazed. Not a dull ache—fire. It roared through him, sharp and merciless, searing flesh to bone. His breath hitched, a hiss slipping past his teeth. With each step closer, the pull deepened, a tide dragging him under. His vision blurred at the edges.
"General…" the second murmured. Warning. Caution. Fear.
Macon ignored him. His hand rose, trembling, unwilling yet unable to resist.
The moment his palm closed over the hilt, the world cracked.
A sound like thunder split the tent, rattling the racks, shaking loose dust from the ceiling. The sword vibrated violently in his grip—then stilled, as though sighing in recognition. The runes blazed to life, flooding the armory with crimson light so fierce the shadows leapt like frightened animals. The air grew heavy, charged, alive.
And then—
Memory.
Not his. Yet undeniably his.
He stood on a battlefield drowned in red. Dawn broke over the horizon, but it was no gentle light. It bled, thick and dark, staining the clouds. Corpses sprawled around him like discarded dolls. Smoke curled from villages reduced to embers.
Thousands of soldiers knelt in rows, their armor battered, their voices thundering as one:
"MERCILESS DAWN!"
The cry shook the earth. His hand raised the sword—the very sword that now pulsed in his grasp. Blood streamed from its jagged edge. His armor was dented, his body weary, but his eyes burned with a fire so cold it frightened even him.
Another flash. Another dawn. Another war.
Always the sword. Always the title.
The blade sang in his grip, a soundless hum that seeped into his marrow, into his soul. You are mine.
Macon staggered back into the present, his breath ragged. The sword still throbbed in his hand, alive and waiting.
Gasps broke the silence. Soldiers crowded the entrance, drawn by the crimson blaze. Their eyes widened. Then, one by one, knees struck earth. Heads bowed. Some whispered in awe, others prayed aloud, tears streaking their faces.
"It recognizes him…" one voice trembled.
"The sword… has chosen…"
Macon's throat tightened. Their eyes—all of them—stared at him with devotion, fear, reverence.
He wanted to shout that they were wrong. That he wasn't the warlord they believed him to be, that he didn't even know who he truly was. But the hum of the sword drowned his thoughts, burrowing into his pulse, his heartbeat no longer his own.
The second-in-command stepped forward. Unlike the others, he did not kneel. His gaze stayed fixed on Macon's, steady, unshaken.
"General," he said quietly, firmly. "You don't have to carry it."
Macon's grip tightened on the hilt. Sweat beaded his brow. The blade felt heavier than steel—its weight was history, memory, blood. Every throb pulled another fragment into his mind. Screams. Flames. Endless dawns painted in red.
"I don't have a choice," he rasped.
The second's eyes softened, though his voice remained iron. "Then remember this: whatever storm lives inside you, walk through it. Do not let it consume you. This sword has devoured men greater than any of us—but it is not greater than you."
The words cut through the haze, grounding him. Slowly, Macon lowered the blade onto the altar. The runes dimmed, their blaze fading, though a faint glow clung to the steel—like embers waiting to reignite.
Behind him, the murmurs swelled.
"He is our General…"
"The Merciless Dawn lives again…"
"The sword has chosen…"
Macon clenched his jaw and turned away. He could not bear their worship, their hope, when he himself was lost.
Outside, the night air slapped cold against his face, sharp enough to remind him he still lived. The second followed, silent but present, as steady as a shadow.
Macon's hand still tingled where it had gripped the hilt. The scar beneath his ribs throbbed in rhythm with the sword's pulse, as though the two shared a single heartbeat.
He stared at the camp—the fires, the soldiers who now looked at him with reverence so complete it burned.
And under
his breath, unheard by any but the night, he whispered:
"I need answers… before this sword consumes me."