The forest was quiet, but Twylmir stayed tense.
Not because he knew fear.
But because silence in Aeridor was rarely just silence.
Here, between tightly packed trunks, it felt like a lid on a pot that had been boiling for a long time. Light struggled to slip through the leaves. It didn't come as beams, but as broken patches, as if the forest only let it through grudgingly.
And somewhere inside it… there was a gaze.
Twylmir had felt it since his very first step.
Only moments earlier, he'd still been meeting with the captain of the city watch boundary. A man with a rough voice, heavy eyes, and a hand that kept drifting to his belt whenever he spoke, as if he needed to remind himself he wasn't in the middle of a fight.
The captain had given Twylmir a letter. Seal. Wax. His father's handwriting.
No unnecessary sentence. No warmth.
Only duty.
Three assignments.
The first had already been clear before Twylmir even set out: a village west of the capital. Enemy territory. Taken.
And not just any village.
Quartzford.
A place that produced more than bread and timber. Quartzford was a crystal outpost, a mining village of the Crystae Aetheris mines. A large part of the Lumina crystals began there as raw shards, hauled from deep underground, washed, sorted, and shipped onward.
Food. Weapons. Raw materials.
And crystals.
If Quartzford fell, the capital wouldn't feel it immediately.
But soon.
The second assignment was older, heavier, more dangerous, like a shadow that had long been hanging over Aeridor:
The Twin Dragons of the Evening-Red Dusk.
The name alone tasted of blood and old songs.
And the third…
Billi the Ripper.
A name whispered in taverns when the wind scratched at the shutters outside. A myth for children. And a nightmare for those old enough to know that some myths don't die.
Twylmir folded the letter neatly, as if it were a weapon being stowed away. Then he didn't read it again.
He didn't need to.
The forest remained hard to read. The air grew thin, not like on a mountain, but as if the place itself allowed less breathing. Sounds came out muffled. Even his footsteps felt like they sank into moss, though there was only damp earth.
"The forest… seems to be moving."
His voice was quiet, more to himself than to anyone else.
He stopped.
One hand on the hilt.
No rushed movement.
Then it happened.
Two figures dressed in black leapt out of the brush, as if they'd been waiting for him to loosen his shoulders. Cloth covered their mouths and noses, their eyes glinting hard in the half-dark.
One shouted, almost triumphant:
"You'll die here, Red Lightning!"
Twylmir didn't answer.
He only took one step.
The first strike was barely visible. No wide swing. No show.
Just a short motion, like a reflex.
The second came immediately after.
Both attackers hit the ground as if someone had cut the strings that kept them upright.
Not dead.
But unable to fight.
A gasp.
A choking pull of air.
Then a trembling attempt to push up.
"How… is that possible…" one forced the words out of the dirt. "We… we made sure… we were careful…"
Twylmir stood over them, his gaze calm, like he was examining something that hadn't impressed him in a long time.
"How that's possible, you ask?" he said, without mockery, without arrogance. Just factual.
"Simple. You were too weak."
He waited a heartbeat, as if giving them a chance to get smarter.
"Now then." Twylmir's voice stayed flat. "Who sent you?"
No answer.
Only hatred. And beneath it, something tight, nervous.
As if they were afraid of what they might say.
Twylmir exhaled once.
Then he simply turned away.
He didn't have time to talk to two shadows.
He had to take back Quartzford before a raid became a rebellion. If the fire started eating into the neighboring territories, it wouldn't be about a village anymore.
Then it would be about Aeridor.
Twylmir moved on.
This time faster.
Much faster.
The forest became a tunnel of green and black. Branches tore at his clothing and snapped back, as if the air itself wanted to chase him. Moisture sprayed from the ground, and the wind… the wind wasn't wind anymore, just a sound breaking against him.
He ran.
And then, all at once, there was light.
A clearing.
The forest edge lay behind him, as if he'd ripped it away. Ahead, the world opened into a valley, rugged and cool, with a crystal-clear stream cutting through the landscape like a blade.
And there…
Quartzford.
Half the size of a city.
And yet quieter than a grave.
Rough-hewn stone houses, dark timber, many buildings pressed against the cliff faces. Above everything hung a gray veil, like mist that couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay or vanish.
Twylmir stepped forward.
His gaze swept over the first rooftops. Over the entrance. Over the paths.
No normal village feeling.
No smoke from chimneys, no voices, no clink of tools.
He raised his voice.
Not loud with anger.
Just enough to carry.
"Enemies of Aeridor."
His words cut through the air, clear, without hesitation.
"You who dared to take this village. Step forward and face your fate."
He paused, as if giving them space to understand the world correctly, one last time.
"You can make your mistake right."
His gaze stayed calm.
"Accept the Regina's mercy. Leave. And never come back."
Silence.
For a few heartbeats, only the stream answered.
Then, as if someone had given a signal, shapes stepped out of the shadows at the village entrance.
Black robes.
The same kind as those in the forest.
There were more.
And they didn't stand like people who wanted to win.
They stood like people who had something to lose.
One spoke, aggressive, uncivilized, as if volume could replace power:
"So you're Twylmir. The Red Lightning. Yeah, we've heard a lot about you."
A crooked laugh rolled through the line.
"I'll tell you once: get lost. Or we execute the villagers."
Twylmir's eyes didn't change.
He didn't look shaken.
Not surprised.
Only… emptier.
"Very well." His voice stayed calm. "I won't say it again."
He closed his eyes.
Drew his sword.
A clean motion. Not rushed. Not dramatic.
Like a ritual he'd done a thousand times.
And then…
The Aether listened.
Red lightning rose, not like fireworks, but like veins of light wrapping around him. A crackling, red aura enveloped him, and for a moment the air seemed to grow denser, as if it was afraid to move.
Twylmir opened his eyes.
"Do you really think," he said, "you can execute hostages… before or after I deliver you?"
The word deliver didn't sound like mercy in his mouth.
It sounded final.
Fear became visible.
Bandits turned pale.
Some took a step back without realizing it.
"Kill the hostages!" one screamed, panicked, as if it was the last power he had left.
Another roared: "Attack!"
Twylmir sighed.
Not annoyed.
More like… he'd hoped they would choose differently.
He shifted into a different stance.
Blade far forward.
Body low.
Muscles taut.
Then he launched.
Sound speed.
For a heartbeat there was only red.
A bandit lifted his axe.
His arm was still in the air when his body was already falling.
Another tried to turn, to shout, to warn.
His mouth hung open.
No sound came.
Twylmir tore through them like reeds in a storm.
More tried to surround him.
Others sprinted for the cage where villagers were locked up. You could hear children crying, muffled by wood and fear. You could hear a woman holding her breath as if she would never let it out again.
Twylmir was already there.
He hadn't run there.
He was simply there.
His sword flashed, red and sharp, and the thugs heading for the cage dropped before their thoughts could finish the command.
"A… monster…!" one gasped, still on his knees.
"Run!" another screamed.
And they ran.
Some threw their weapons.
Others stumbled over their own robes.
Two collided, as if panic had made them blind.
Twylmir let them go.
He stood before the cage.
With one strike he cut the lock.
The door sprang open.
The villagers staggered out, not like freed people, but like people who'd forgotten what freedom felt like.
An old woman fell to her knees and grabbed his coat, as if she could hold onto it so the world wouldn't tip again.
Twylmir lowered his gaze to her.
"Take cover," he said. "And stay there."
They nodded frantically, some crying, some unable to make a sound at all.
A man, smeared with blood, stepped forward, his voice breaking:
"Thank you… knight… but… that wasn't the goal…"
Twylmir lifted his head.
"Speak."
The man swallowed.
"The capture… was a distraction. They wanted to lure someone. A high-ranking commander. Or… someone important enough to come alone."
Twylmir understood immediately.
He hadn't only been the rescuer.
He'd been the bait.
"And where are the others?" Twylmir asked.
Something flickered across the faces.
Shame. Fear. Anger.
"In the bunker," the man said quietly. "An old shelter. Only a few in the village know the entrance."
Twylmir nodded.
"Show me."
They led him.
Through narrow paths, between stone and wood, past the crystal outpost, past workshops with doors kicked in. The stream rushed somewhere in the background, cold and clear, as if it wasn't part of this misery.
The entrance was half-hidden behind a heavy slab between rocks, in a spot you'd only find if you knew what you were looking for.
The man pushed, pulled, gasped, and the opening gave way.
A dark shaft.
Twylmir climbed down.
The air down there smelled of earth, of fear, of sweat that had been trapped in cloth too long.
Then he reached the room.
And there he stood.
A man. Alone.
Not tall. Not muscular. Not like a leader.
He looked like someone who used to come home in the evenings and ruffle his children's hair. Like someone whose back knew the weight of carrying loads. Like someone shaped more by work than war.
In his hand was a curved dagger.
Not beautiful. Not noble.
A tool for cutting. For slaughtering.
He raised his other hand, as if he wanted to greet Twylmir… or curse him.
His eyes shone strangely. Not only with hatred.
There was something beneath it.
Something restless.
A fine tremor in his eyelids, as if a second pulse beat inside him.
"Oho," the man said. His voice sounded almost cheerful, and that was exactly what made it wrong. "I knew the plan would work… but I didn't expect you."
He took a step forward.
"Twylmir Fribur."
The name came out of his mouth like something he'd practiced too many times.
Twylmir raised his sword.
"You're the reason people cry in cages," he said calmly. "And you think you're clever."
The man laughed softly. It wasn't a normal laugh. It scraped.
"Clever?" he repeated. "I'm tired."
He glanced to the side, as if he saw someone there.
But there was no one.
"Tired of empty hands," he murmured, and his gaze snapped back, sharper. "Tired of Quartzford spitting out Lumina crystals like a mountain that won't stop bleeding, and still… still children freeze at night."
Twylmir's face stayed calm.
But his gaze narrowed.
"You brought bandits."
"No," the man said, and suddenly he sounded offended, as if Twylmir had accused him of something unfair. "I used them."
He lifted his hand a little higher. His fingertips trembled.
And Twylmir felt it.
Something in the air.
Not strong.
But dirty.
Like fine smoke you can't see, but you can taste.
The man smiled, as if he'd noticed Twylmir noticing.
"You feel it, huh?" he whispered. "The world touched me. Just a little. Just enough so I'm not… small anymore."
Twylmir didn't take a step back.
"Where are the rest of the villagers?" he asked.
The man tilted his head.
"Safe. For now."
"And your children?" Twylmir's voice stayed hard. "Are they part of your plan?"
For a heartbeat something flickered in the man's eyes.
Not anger.
Pain.
Then it was gone again.
"They're supposed to live," he said quietly. "They're supposed to have more than stone dust in their lungs and a future that smells like a grave."
He tightened his grip on the dagger.
"And if a few strangers have to die for that… then they die."
Twylmir raised the blade a fraction.
"You want to buy with blood," he said. "But blood isn't currency. It will never be enough."
The man grinned crookedly.
"Tell that to the guilds," he hissed. "Tell that to Aeridoris. Tell that to the ones sitting in warm halls, talking about Lumina like they're numbers."
He took a step.
"Come," he said, and there was something in his voice that wasn't his. Something foreign. "Show me if you're really the Red Lightning."
Twylmir exhaled once.
The Aether listened again.
And the red lightning around his body flickered, as if the world itself held its breath for a moment.
The man in the bunker smiled as if he'd been waiting for exactly that. Not for Twylmir's blade. Not for death. But for this moment, when the flow in the room changed and even the air knew it would have to jump aside.
"There it is," he said softly, almost reverently. "That… red."
Twylmir didn't answer. He stood calm, one hand on the sword, the other loose, as if this were only another decision among many. His gaze stayed on the man, not on the weapon. On posture. On body.
The "family man" wasn't a warrior. You saw it instantly. Worker's shoulders, rough hands, joints too stiff for elegant fighting.
But there was something else.
Something that didn't belong to him.
Under his skin ran dark lines, like fine cracks in stone. Vein-like discolorations that flared briefly and died again, as if a foreign current breathed inside him. His right forearm twitched irregularly.
And the eyes…
His pupils were too large. Too black.
And yet there was a green shimmer at the edges, like crystal dust in the light.
"You can feel it," he murmured, and suddenly he no longer sounded like a desperate village man. More like someone who had learned something he was never meant to learn. "You… can feel that I'm not just me anymore."
Twylmir raised his blade a little.
"I can feel you're a problem." His voice stayed calm. "And that you think this problem is a solution."
The man gave a short, hoarse laugh. His face tightened, as if the sound itself displeased his body. He grabbed his throat and rubbed it, like something inside him was scratching.
"A solution…" he whispered. "I don't need a solution. I need… just enough."
Twylmir stepped forward.
The man tensed. The dagger lifted, tip pointed at Twylmir. His fingers trembled. Not from fear, but from pressure building inside him.
"Stay back," he growled. "Or—"
"Or you pretend you'll actually follow through on your threat." Twylmir's gaze stayed flat. "You've already used it. With cages. With screaming. With children holding their breath."
A twitch ran through the man. A brief crack in the mask.
"You know nothing about children," he snapped, too fast, too sharp. "You don't know what it's like when they get thin. When you tell them: tomorrow there'll be something, and tomorrow there's nothing again."
He swallowed. His eyes flickered. The green glow at their edges intensified, like someone had poured oil onto a fire.
"They're everything I have."
Twylmir didn't move.
"Then you shouldn't have made them the reason other people suffer."
For a moment it was silent. Only the soft drip of water somewhere in the bunker. And a barely audible, irregular crackling in the air, as if something invisible was grinding against reality.
The man raised his free hand as if to summon something, or stop the world. The lines under his skin pulsed. His breathing ran too fast. Foam clung at one corner of his mouth, like his body had taken in too much of something it couldn't digest.
"You people up there," he said, and his voice cracked briefly, then turned hard again. "You take everything from us. You take the crystals, the Lumina, the work. And we get dust."
He lunged with the dagger. Not a clean stab. More an outburst. An attempt to turn everything with a single moment.
Twylmir moved.
Not dodging away. Not retreating.
A minimal step to the side.
A single impulse.
The dagger sliced through air. The man stumbled into the emptiness of his own attack.
Twylmir's sword was already there.
A controlled strike, guided flat. Not to kill. To end it.
The dagger fell to the floor with a metallic clatter.
The man stared at his hand. His fingers were still there. But they no longer wanted to obey. Muscles twitched, as if the body refused to accept the ending.
"What…?" He blinked. "What did you—"
Twylmir stepped closer. His aura stayed calm, but the red in the lightning darkened for a heartbeat, heavier.
"You've talked enough."
The man tried to back away. But his knees buckled, halfway, as if they'd forgotten how standing works. He caught himself with his shoulder against the wall. His gaze darted. Left. Right.
"They're… they're not here," he muttered. "They're safe. I… I hid them… I…"
He choked on his own words.
Twylmir heard the sentence finish even without it being spoken.
…hidden.
"Where?" Twylmir asked.
The man laughed, but it sounded like coughing. "You think I'll tell you? You think I—"
The corruption under his skin flared again. The lines thickened, like fine shadow-roots. His eyes rolled back for a moment, as if something inside was pressing against his skull from within.
"They won't… freeze anymore," he said suddenly, much quieter. "Do you understand? They'll be full. No matter what it costs."
Twylmir shifted his stance.
A grip adjustment. A short pull on the air.
The man raised his hand on reflex, as if to block something. But there was no spell. No spectacle. Only speed and precision.
Twylmir struck.
A clean cut, guided so close to the body that the blade was almost invisible.
The man's robe tore open. Not like a wild hit. Like a surgical opening. The body stayed upright, only the breathing stumbled.
Then the man dropped to one knee.
He lived.
But he had no choice left.
Twylmir didn't put the blade to his throat. Not to his heart. He put it to the truth.
"You give me the access point," Twylmir said, "or I'll find it myself. And then everything you've done 'for them' will be nothing but another reason they'll hate you one day."
The man lifted his head. Tears stood in his eyes, but not as remorse. More like a chemical overflow, because the body could no longer keep the corruption quiet.
"You…" He gasped. "You wouldn't understand."
"Yes," Twylmir said. "I understand you decided to become a knife."
He stepped closer.
The man pulled his lips back. Hatred and fear mixed. And a third thing: relief, like he'd always known it would end like this.
"Behind the outpost," he forced out at last. "Under the old press room. A slab with… three notches. Only someone who… only someone who turns the notches in the right order—"
Twylmir raised his hand.
"Enough."
He turned away. No triumph. No remark. Just a command in his posture.
Two villagers who had stayed in the shadows came closer, hesitant. Faces pale. Hands shaking.
"You know the spot?" Twylmir asked.
They nodded quickly.
Twylmir pointed briefly at the man. "He stays alive. Bind him. And make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
One of the villagers swallowed. "And… what about—"
Twylmir looked at him.
"The children." His voice wasn't soft, but it was clear. "We're getting them."
The man laughed, quiet and broken. "You're fast… but not fast enough…"
Twylmir didn't respond.
He left the bunker.
Up above, the air was colder. Fresher. And yet something hung in the atmosphere that didn't belong to the village. As if the earth itself had briefly forgotten what peace smelled like.
The villagers followed, showing the way. Behind the crystal outpost were work sheds, press rooms, storage spaces. The wood was old, the nails rusted, but the structure was solid. Down here they'd built things meant to last longer than a human life.
Under the old press room was a slab in the ground. Three notches, barely visible. Only someone who knew where to look would find them.
Twylmir knelt and studied the notches.
"The order?" he asked.
An older man stepped forward, voice hoarse. "Left. Middle. Right. That's how the old ones did it. For emergencies."
Twylmir pulled the slab free.
The hollow beneath smelled of stale air. Of fear. Of children who'd had to stay silent too long.
"Slowly," Twylmir said, and this time his voice had something in it you only heard from him when it mattered. "No panic. No noise."
They climbed down.
The space below was small. Too small for what was inside it.
Two children sat in a corner, pressed against each other. Thin, yes. Cheeks sunken, eyes too big for their faces. A woman held them in her arms, lips cracked, gaze hollow with exhaustion.
When she saw Twylmir, she flinched. Then she noticed the red in his aura, still flickering faintly even down here.
She didn't cry. Maybe she had no tears left.
"You…" she whispered. "You're… really…?"
Twylmir nodded.
"You're free."
The woman clutched the children tighter, as if only now realizing she still had them. The children stared at Twylmir like they were looking at a story no one would ever believe them.
Twylmir turned his gaze aside for a moment, as if to spare them the feeling of being watched. Then he stepped aside.
"Out. Slowly."
They came up.
Above, the light hit them in the face. A brief shock. Then air. Real air.
The children blinked. The boy grabbed the woman's hand, as if to make sure she wouldn't vanish again.
Twylmir stood beside them without imposing.
"Your father…" the woman began, and her voice broke.
Twylmir looked at her.
"He's alive."
That was all he said. No judgment. No explanation.
The woman nodded like she'd expected something but hadn't known if she was allowed to hope.
A villager called from farther back. "The last bandits are gone! They took the forest!"
Twylmir looked toward the tree line.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
He walked a few slow steps until he had a clear view of the edge. His aura was calm again. The red only flickered faintly now, like a heartbeat settling down.
Then he saw it.
Not with his eyes first.
With instinct.
Something lay on the ground near the old marker where merchants used to line up their carts.
A body.
Not the bandit from the entrance. Not one of the raiders who'd fled.
This one lay… differently.
Twylmir went over.
The villagers kept their distance. No one wanted to get closer.
The body was clean. Too clean. No struggle marks. No frantic slaughter. No sign Twylmir had struck him down.
Only a cut.
A single one.
So precise it almost felt like someone had opened flesh with a line, without hesitation.
Twylmir knelt.
The cut wasn't where you'd normally kill. Not heart. Not throat. It was… as if someone had been looking for something. Or testing.
Beside the body lay a small pouch. A plain little bag. No jewelry, no seal.
Twylmir opened it.
Inside: a splinter-lumen. Worn down. Almost worthless.
And a piece of cloth.
The fabric was dark. But not black. More like… night that had been left in water too long.
Something was woven into the threads. A pattern.
Twylmir didn't know any bandits who wore things like that.
He flipped the cloth over.
On the inside was a marking. No name. No symbol anyone would wear openly.
Just a tiny notch shaped like a number.
Or… a time.
A villager edged closer. "What… is that?"
Twylmir didn't answer immediately.
He looked at the cut. The pouch. The splinter-lumen, almost mocking.
Then he stood.
"Go back to the village," he said calmly. "Block the roads. Take care of your people. And don't talk about this."
"Why not?" someone whispered.
Twylmir stared toward the forest.
The sun was still there. The wind was normal. And yet the forest edge felt like it was hiding something that didn't belong to Aeridor.
"Because some things," Twylmir said, "grow larger when you give them a name."
He tucked the cloth away. He left the splinter-lumen where it was.
As if it belonged there.
He turned and walked back toward the village center. His posture stayed that of a commander. Controlled. Awake. Unmoved.
But there was something new in his eyes.
Not fear.
More like… attention.
A quiet, cold focus, like standing before a war most people didn't even know had begun.
Twylmir paused for one last heartbeat, his gaze fixed on the tree line. The wind moved through the leaves, perfectly ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Then he turned away.
There were tasks that didn't allow delay. And others you didn't chase, you kept in memory.
He left the village behind while voices in Quartzford slowly returned, doors opened, life resumed. No one stopped him. No one asked about the cloth, the cut, the meaning.
And that was exactly how it had to be.
Far away from there, beyond crystal mines, forests, and forgotten roads, another current began to move again.
Not abruptly.
Not visible to those who only watched battles.
In the south, along the old trade routes, a single carriage rolled over rutted roads. The wood groaned softly at every uneven patch, the wheels cut through damp ground still marked by past rain. The landscape shifted slowly. The forests thinned, the land opened, the smell of resin gave way to dust and grain.
Alvios sat inside the carriage, staring out. No one spoke. None of them had the mood for it. The journey was quiet, almost deceptively peaceful, as if the world had decided to stop resisting them for a moment.
Viktoria leaned against the side wall, holding her arm still, breathing evenly. Raiiko sat opposite her, motionless, eyes closed but not sleeping. Nouel had pulled the curtain aside just enough to watch the surroundings, as if he expected something to tear itself out of nothing at any second.
The carriage followed the road south.
Hours passed. Maybe more. No one counted.
When the first walls of Trivordi appeared on the horizon, a different feeling settled over the group. No shout of relief. No loud exhale. Only the quiet knowledge that they had arrived, at a place where decisions carried weight.
The town lay ahead like a knot of stone, trade, and voices. Banners fluttered lazily in the wind, merchant wagons lined up before the gates, and life went on as if nothing had happened.
The carriage slowed.
Trivordi took them in.
And with it, the next stretch of their journey began.