The night had teeth.
Aelric could feel it in every nerve as he rode through the mist-choked paths of Velmar's borderlands. The moon hung low, a crimson bruise against the clouds, illuminating the landscape in shades of blood and shadow. Every sound — the snap of a branch, the flutter of a bat, the hiss of distant fire — made his senses sharper, his heart beat faster.
Beside him, the surviving soldiers from Duskveil rode silently, eyes wide with fear and anticipation. They had seen the cost of war, yet they followed Aelric without hesitation. That alone reminded him why he had to survive — why he had to be more than just a son of Velmora.
---
The village ahead lay in ruin. That much was clear even from a distance. Smoke curled from shattered roofs, and the air smelled of burning flesh. Demon sigils scorched the earth around each home — their mark, warning the living of what would come if they resisted.
Aelric dismounted, his boots crunching on the scorched soil. He drew his sword, silver blade catching the faint moonlight.
"They've done this before," muttered one soldier. "How do we fight something that doesn't tire?"
Aelric didn't answer. He had no time for words. The demons didn't wait for speeches. They attacked.
From the darkness, a dozen figures emerged — tall, spined, and black as the void. Their eyes glowed with malice, fangs bared, claws gleaming. The first one leapt forward, and the battle erupted.
Aelric moved like a storm, silver steel flashing, striking down one demon after another. His soldiers followed his lead, though some fell in mere moments, shredded by claws and fire.
But it wasn't enough.
A larger shape emerged from the shadows — a demon far taller, wings folded like jagged blades, eyes glowing violet. It advanced deliberately, each step shaking the ground. Aelric's blood ran cold.
"Var'eth," he whispered, recognizing the creature from the visions that haunted him in his sleep.
The demon laughed, a sound that cut through bone and spirit alike. "You come seeking vengeance, little vampire?" it hissed. "Your city burned, your family slain, and still you dare to meet me?"
Aelric's rage boiled over. "I do more than dare!" he roared. "I will make you pay with every drop of your infernal blood!"
Their clash shook the village. Steel met claw, silver against darkness. Aelric's movements were faster than thought, each strike precise, each dodge instinctual. Yet every blow the demon took seemed to fuel its power.
---
From the edge of the battle, Serath watched. Her violet eyes gleamed in the moonlight, the faintest smile on her lips. She whispered a single word, and the shadows obeyed, twisting around Aelric's enemies, striking unseen, sowing chaos.
Aelric barely noticed. His focus was singular: destroy Var'eth.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the demon faltered, staggering back with a snarl. Aelric pressed the advantage, driving his blade through its chest. The creature screamed, the sound echoing like a nightmare, then dissolved into ash before his eyes.
Silence fell over the village, broken only by the heavy breaths of the surviving soldiers.
Aelric wiped his blade clean, gaze fixed on the blackened horizon. "This is just the beginning," he muttered.
---
Back at Duskveil, Kaelen watched the news of the battle arrive via scouts. He frowned. Aelric had disobeyed orders, yes — but the victory was undeniable.
"Reckless, but effective," Kaelen muttered, turning to Lady Seralyn. "He's growing stronger, faster than I anticipated. But at what cost?"
Seralyn's eyes narrowed. "At the cost of his humanity, perhaps. Every battle, every demon slain, he drinks deeper from the well of vengeance. He risks becoming the monster he hunts."
Kaelen said nothing. His mind was already on the next move. The demons would regroup. The traitor would strike again. And the war… the war was only beginning.
---
That night, in the darkness of his chambers, Aelric could not sleep. He could still hear the screams of the demon he had just killed, the echo of Velmora's burning streets. His hand went to the wound on his palm — the one that bled whenever his rage grew too strong.
From the shadows, Serath appeared, her violet eyes gleaming. "You did well," she purred. "But you could do more. Drink. Embrace it."
Aelric glared at her, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "What are you?"
"An ally… for now," she said. "And a mirror. The thirst you feel — vengeance, blood, power — it can be your weapon. But it can also be your chains."
He said nothing. He understood her too well. The thirst was real, and it was growing.
And far away, in the ruins of Velmora, something stirred. A figure cloaked in shadow moved among the ashes, eyes glowing with hunger. The traitor's work had only just begun
The war was no longer approaching — it had already arrived.