The dawn came crimson.
The forest still burned — trees twisted into black silhouettes, the earth cracked open as if something beneath had clawed its way out.
Smoke rolled through the valley, carrying with it the scent of blood and ash.
At the edge of that ruin stood Marcus, his body trembling, eyes flickering between red and gold.
He did not remember how it happened — only that the voice in his head had screamed, and everything had turned to fire.
"Do you see now?" the voice whispered inside him.
"Power is not given. It's remembered."
Marcus clutched his head, teeth gritted. "Get out of me…"
But the voice only laughed — low, deep, ancient.
Hooves thundered through the smoke.
From the southern path, banners of the Royal Guard appeared, glinting faintly through the ash.
At their lead — a knight clad in silver and white. His blade shone even through the haze.
Arnold Valenhart.
He dismounted, removing his helmet.
His face was solemn, his blue eyes fixed upon the figure standing amid the carnage.
Arnold: "Stand down, whoever you are. By royal command, this forest is under investigation."
Marcus turned slowly. His hair, black and streaked with ash, stuck to his face. His eyes… those crimson eyes.
Marcus: "Investigation? You're late. The forest's already judged itself."
Arnold's expression froze. That voice — calm, cold, familiar.
He took a step closer, disbelief flashing across his face.
Arnold: "…Marcus?"
The world went still.
Marcus lowered his sword. For a heartbeat, he almost smiled — almost.
Marcus: "So, the crown's knight finally remembers his own blood?"
Arnold's soldiers looked between them in confusion.
Soldier: "Wait — Sir Arnold, you know this man?"
Arnold said nothing for a long time. Then, quietly:
Arnold: "He is my brother."
Gasps spread among the guards.
Marcus's gaze hardened.
Marcus: "Brother? You gave that up the moment you took their name. Valenhart."
Arnold's jaw tightened.
Arnold: "It wasn't a choice. The king—"
Marcus (cutting him off): "The king erased our family name, and you thanked him for it. Father died a traitor. Mother in silence. And you… became their dog."
The wind howled between them.
Arnold's hand trembled on his sword. "You think I wanted that? I swore to the crown so that our bloodline wouldn't be buried completely. I had to become what they demanded — to protect what's left of us."
Marcus's lips curled into a bitter smile.
Marcus: "Then tell me, protector — who protected me?"
Before Arnold could reply, a sharp hiss cut through the air.
From the shadows of the burned trees, arrows rained down.
The soldiers shouted. One fell. Then another.
Figures emerged from the mist — cloaked in black, masks of bone upon their faces. The Order of the Golden Thorn had come.
Varel, the High Inquisitor, led them, his burned face visible beneath his hood.
Varel: "Kill the cursed one. Spare the knight if he does not resist."
Arnold drew his blade instantly. "You dare attack royal soldiers?"
Varel smiled coldly. "The king will thank us when the corruption is gone."
The forest exploded into chaos.
Marcus moved like lightning, cutting down two assassins before they could even scream.
Arnold fought beside him — not as knight and monster, but as brothers born of the same blood.
Their blades danced between flame and shadow, cutting through enemies like wind through leaves.
For a moment — one fragile moment — they fought as one.
Then Varel stepped forward, chanting words that made the air quake.
The ground beneath Marcus split open, red light spilling from the cracks.
Varel: "Behold the power that stains your soul, monster!"
The glow wrapped around Marcus, pulling at his body, his veins burning like molten fire.
He screamed as his shadow twisted and grew — horns, claws, wings of smoke.
Arnold's eyes widened. "Marcus—!"
Marcus fell to one knee, panting, blood dripping from his mouth. His voice came out broken, raw.
Marcus: "I… can't stop it…"
Arnold dropped his sword, rushing to him. "Look at me, brother! Fight it!"
Varel: "He cannot. The beast is awakening."
Arnold glared at the Inquisitor. "Then I'll kill you before it does."
He lunged — his sword flashing, striking Varel's staff and shattering the crystal atop it.
Light burst across the clearing.
The masked assassins fell back, hissing.
Marcus gasped, the red glow fading slightly. His body steadied.
Varel stumbled, retreating into the fog. "This isn't over, Valenhart. The curse will claim him soon enough."
Then they vanished into the night, leaving the forest silent once more.
Arnold turned to Marcus, breathing hard.
Arnold: "We need to get you out of here."
Marcus shook his head weakly. "No… I have to understand what this is. What I am."
Arnold gripped his shoulder. "Then I'll go with you. You're my brother, Marcus — no crown, no curse will change that."
For the first time, Marcus looked him in the eye — truly looked.
And though his lips didn't move, his heart whispered the words he couldn't say.
You still believe I can be saved.
He stood slowly, sheathing his sword.
Marcus: "Then follow me, Sir Valenhart. Let's see how far your faith can go."
As they walked into the dying forest, the first light of dawn broke through the smoke —
and for a fleeting moment, two brothers stood side by side again.
But in the ashes beneath their feet, something ancient still pulsed — waiting.
End of Chapter