At the Wybaris prisoner camp, on the banks of the river beyond the Deceptive Forest,
Behind the green-mud stone walls that rose high, towering and undefended, belonging to the Crasmer Kingdom, smoke billowed and snow fell, conjured by the mana of the sorcerer-priest leading the Wybaris. He cast his spells to reshape the surrounding terrain, covering the ground in a shroud of white. The beach turned into ice crystals, the sand hardened into frost. Mana gnawed at the land relentlessly, and the grass, stretching in long ribbons to the thick walls, began to whiten under the spreading spell. They razed nearby castle ruins, sending tremors through the earth to distract those inside the walls.
"Hahaha! Bring more wine! I adore it when the port girls come by. Come! Let me play with you a bit more!"
One of the barbaric, lawless Wybaris seized a hapless captive. The woman's body writhed in flames around her waist. Agony from the fire had already shattered her mind, and her form bore bruises from being trampled underfoot, scars etched with strange rune symbols on her stomach, marks of the heretic cult. Her plight was pitiful. Her sea-blue hair stuck to the post she was tied to, yet she could not scream.
"It's exhilarating! This landing… none of the kingdoms even knew. Ridiculous, haha!"
"Quiet, fool. Take care, or the child will suffer. The mage must have the child for the sacrifice. Remember that."
Yes… this blue-haired woman was pregnant, carrying a child from the Wybaris sorcerer-priest—the one who guided them all. They marched in unison: invade, slaughter, pillage, and negotiate with those who condoned their deeds.
"I know, I know. I won't anger the old mage. Who else would get in trouble if I lost my head? Me, of course. But no matter… this little one is fierce. Look at that blue hair, pale and dazed… you lot want a turn?"
She hung bound to the corner of a pinewood tent. No one showed mercy. Several of them came and took turns violating her. Her mind crumbled into dust. She did not sob, did not flinch. Her gaze was empty. Every strike she endured ignited the runes on her stomach, burning with cruel intensity. She was already dead in every sense of the word. And the Wybaris, unshocked, merely stepped back from the lifeless body, which hissed and steamed as if expelled from its own shell.
"She's dead. Take her body to the mage."
"I haven't even had a taste yet! Damn!"
Outside the rotten tent, the camp resembled a small Viking village. Each tent was large enough to house semi-aquatic beasts used to drag their ships ashore. Within, they roasted meat—human and otherwise—and trained with weapons, particularly their massive axes, capable of felling thick trees with a single blow.
Two Wybaris carried the lifeless blue-haired woman. Her abdomen twitched faintly from the strange magical residue. Elsewhere, women were dragged from cages, tormented as if they were animals, their screams and despair blending with the stench of blood and flesh.
Yet, strangely, no knights had come to strike them down.
They threw her body into the largest tent. Outside, the remains of warriors from distant lands hung from posts, serving as target practice. Inside, a thin man with a skull-helmet resembling a hybrid of bear and squid sat, radiating a pungent spiritual aura.
"You two, why linger? I will perform the ritual. Set it down and leave!"
The two obeyed. Though larger, they feared the mage.
"This child's body… perfect for my new experiment," the sorcerer whispered.
He sliced open her stomach along the rune markings, extracting the infant, still breathing but motionless. Oddly, there was no scent of blood or amniotic fluid. Any ordinary person would have vomited at the scene.
"How grotesque. Like watching some demonic play… too vivid, though," muttered one of the Wybaris.
Meanwhile, atop the ruined castle tower far from the Wybaris camp, a tall man in a single stag-antlered skull helmet sat silently, eyes scanning through the snowy haze, gazing upon the camp.
"The archer, they carry bodies elsewhere. Shall we follow?"
"No. Let them go. The forest beyond holds nothing but shadows and trees. Their only aim is to use the corpses to expand the snow spell. No knights patrol here? Crasmer Kingdom must be blind. A single bomb could change everything. Look—another woman dragged into that tent."
Helm covered his face, frustrated. The camp offered nothing but screams, blood, and despair. Captives were butchered and tossed to the sea beasts they used for dragging ships across lands.
The creatures resembled walruses but were far more grotesque, their mouths lined with jagged teeth. They were armored lightly for underwater protection.
Time passed. Winds swept across the tower. Helm observed, silent and calculating, as one of the Wybaris, a hulking brute, yelled in a language incomprehensible to him and his few companions.
"What gibberish is that? Sounds like drowned men talking. Did we waste time following Vionnier?"
"Better move, my lord archer. Some come this way," one whispered.
"I want to, but now is the time to wait. The spiritual tremors from the mage's mana are growing. The snow enhances their strength. Move now, and you die. Only the mage's chants can contain it. I hear them even from here."
A gust of wings. The storm gull perched on Helm's antlered helmet, pecking and shrieking. He caught it in his hand.
"Vionnier, will you ever stop pestering me? And where have you been? Leaving me to spy alone?"
"Hahaha! Foolish archer! I came before you, but why not inform me, hm?"
She pried free, landing near a charred brick. The scratching of talons against ruin echoed sharply.
"I had to escape the bar… hours gone, waiting on you and that mage-priest Prorson chanting from afar. I heard it all! I'm not deaf, nor will I sit idly spying!"
"Excuses! Always drinking and excuses!"
Helm and Vionnier argued as usual. Below, the few warriors hid, watching, unnoticed by the Wybaris.
Something approached—a silent, four-legged presence moving through the deceptive forest.
"Prorson, are the chants ready? Shall we storm and die?"
"They empower only the mage. Not me. I receive faith, not strength. No matter. We cannot attack now. I will approach, feel the spiritual tremors, and contact him."
Helm peered at the camp. Vionnier sensed a distinct spirit, not fully clear.
"Wait… some flee! Alongside the sea beasts, terrified. Perhaps bounty hunters pursue?"
"Maybe. Focus first. Head to the castle front. Warriors await. Be careful. Surviving this long… not typical for a mage."
Prorson chuckled mentally, projecting energy through Vionnier. She approached, eyes tracing the camp, past freezing walls, amidst screams and rotting flesh.
The land trembled. Branches fell, blocking their path.
"Nothing more to do now," Helm said.
"What's happening?"
Half the beach had frozen. Blood and curse-spells permeated the air, twisting the dead into blackened sludge. If left, demons would rise in place of corpses—the mage's doing.
They reached the unfrozen shore. Chaos had subsided, but answers lay before them.
"Prorson, chant. I'll approach," Helm said.
Bodies, melted into black goo, lay in a long line. Vionnier, in bird form, landed beside him.
"Did you bring a lantern? Might as well sell their souls," she teased.
Helm gripped his bow, silence surrounding them. Prorson purified the Wybaris spirits, leaving the mage outside now overrun by warriors in antlered skull helmets.
"All in all, we need not attack. Nothing remains to fear."
They walked past a colossal dead sea beast, unaffected. Helm readied his bow. Vionnier watched. And there it stood—a figure, belonging to no side. Eyes vacant, swirling with red, black, white, and gray. A sword and axe in hand, ready to fight as if no other existed.
"I'm ready to shoot. What say you, Vionnier?"
"The Marshal Chennel… involved in this."
She handed him a blackened feather, smelling faintly of lingering lightning. Helm lowered his bow, massaging his temples. Silence fell.
"Shall we?"
"Take it. Chennel must be involved. I need to know if this is the one from my dreams."
"The church will rage… this will be a long affair, haha."
It stood still. Helm drew again. No fear, no flight. Only quiet authority. He shot—arrow pierced its arm. It collapsed.
"Bring it along," Vionnier commanded. Helm lifted the frail figure. Prorson, finishing his chant, blinked, muttering dryly, "Quite the big catch this time."
"Dead too, mind you, old turtle," Helm replied.
Through the illusory forest, leaving remnants behind, silence prevailed. Prorson sensed eyes upon them from the kingdom walls.
Footsteps, wind, melting snow, and disappearing shadows repeated. Horses and armoured knights encircled them.
"Ah… this won't end easily. Hope the kingdom serves some cold ale for this meeting," Helm said.
Vionnier remained silent, walking alongside, weapons ready.
"I doubt there's any ale today," she muttered.
"Shut up, both of you."
And so they moved, through the echoes of death and power, the forest deceptive as ever, into a world still ruled by silence, shadows, and the unknown.