The march began beneath a painted sky.
Lydia's gates yawned open at dawn, spilling gold light across the marble streets as horns sounded from the towers. Crowds had gathered along the walls, waving banners and tossing petals that glimmered in the morning haze. From the balconies, nobles leaned forward with solemn smiles, watching the heroes and their army descend into the valley below.
To anyone else, it might have looked like hope.
To Nhilly, it looked like theatre.
He rode at the front beside Kael and Celeste, the reins loose in his hands. The horse beneath him moved with smooth obedience—too smooth. Its hooves struck the cobblestones in perfect rhythm, its breathing shallow and even, as if choreographed.
"I've never ridden before," Nhilly murmured under his breath.
Celeste glanced over. "You're doing fine."
"That's what worries me," he replied, keeping his tone light. "It's almost like the horse already knows the way."
Eli, riding a few paces behind, chuckled dryly. "Maybe it does. Everything else here seems to."
Kael didn't join the banter. He rode upright, eyes fixed on the horizon, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The march would take them south, across the stone causeways and into the forests that bordered Wyre.
Behind them, two thousand men followed, soldiers of Lydia clad in pale armour, their banners adorned with sun emblems that caught the light like mirrors. They sang no songs. The only music was the steady, hollow rhythm of their march.
Nhilly studied the crowd one last time as the city receded behind them. Women pressed their palms together in prayer; children waved wooden replicas of swords. A little girl shouted something he couldn't hear. Her smile was so bright it almost hurt to look at.
He raised a hand and waved back.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
When the walls of Lydia finally vanished from view, the noise faded with them, leaving only the echo of marching feet and the whisper of wind against steel. The world felt smaller again.
They camped that evening in the shadow of the outer hills.
The soldiers moved with practised efficiency—pitching tents, stacking crates, sharpening blades. Celeste tended to the wounded from training accidents, her hands glowing faintly as she worked. Eli oversaw the scouts, while Kael consulted the captains about tomorrow's route.
Nhilly sat apart, running his fingers along Draco's Shroud. The blade caught no reflection, swallowing the firelight whole.
"Still not sure what part I'm playing," he murmured to himself.
"You're the lead," Eli said, sitting down beside him. His voice lacked its usual heat. "Everyone's watching you. That's what you wanted, right?"
Nhilly smiled faintly. "I don't think I've ever wanted that."
Eli shrugged. "You're good at pretending, then."
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire. Somewhere beyond the camp, a soldier strummed a lute, the melody soft and uncertain.
Nhilly looked up at the stars—still frozen in their perfect constellations. "Tell me something," he said. "When we die here, do you think the stars even notice?"
Eli frowned. "Don't start with that again."
Nhilly chuckled quietly. "Relax. Just curious."
"Curiosity gets people killed."
Nhilly's smile widened slightly. "Then it's a good thing, I've been trying to die."
By morning, mist blanketed the camp like a veil.
Kael's scouts returned before sunrise—faces pale, armour slick with dew.
"Wyre patrols," one reported. "Maybe fourty men. They're not far ahead."
Kael nodded, calm and deliberate. "We move in formation. Heroes lead."
Eli exhaled, flames flickering briefly between his teeth. "Finally," he muttered.
Celeste said nothing. Her expression was steady, but her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her gloves.
Nhilly stood, brushing dust from his coat. "Guess that makes us the opening act."
Kael gave him a sharp look. "No theatrics. Just precision."
"Precision is my forte."
The army advanced slowly through the fog-drenched forest. Branches hung low, heavy with condensation. Birds scattered ahead, their cries fading into the haze. Every sound felt amplified—the rustle of leather, the creak of armour, the soft snort of horses that seemed too quiet, too obedient.
Nhilly's hand hovered near Draco's hilt. He could feel the faint hum in the air, the tension that always preceded violence.
"Contact soon," Kael murmured.
Moments later, the first arrow whistled past.
The arrow sank harmlessly into a tree, quivering. Kael lifted a hand, halting the column. The soldiers froze instantly, the forest falling into a suffocating silence.
A second arrow followed, this one finding its mark — a Lydia scout crumpled without a sound.
"Shields!" Kael barked. "Form ranks!"
From beyond the fog came the shuffle of movement, the faint ring of steel drawn from scabbards. Then shapes emerged — rough, human, trembling.
Wyre soldiers.
Their armour was mismatched, dented, rust-streaked. Their faces were gaunt with hunger and fear. One man at the front — broad-shouldered, beard streaked with grey — raised a hand.
"Stay back!" he shouted hoarsely. "We don't want this!"
The sound of his voice startled Nhilly. There was something so painfully human in it — not rage, but desperation.
Kael's gaze hardened. "They've chosen their side."
Eli exhaled, flames curling from his lips. "Guess that means they've chosen death."
"Wait—" Celeste began, but it was too late.
The first clash came like thunder.
Wyre's line broke through the fog with a cry, steel meeting steel. Kael's commands cut through the chaos, Eli's flames roared, and Celeste's light flared as she shielded the front ranks.
Nhilly moved forward, calm amidst the storm.
His first step was slow. His second deliberate. By the third, the rhythm had set in — that strange, graceful flow he'd practised alone in candlelight.
Draco's Shroud sang through the air.
One step, twist, pivot — slash.
A soldier fell, blood steaming in the cold air.
Two more came at him, screaming.
Nhilly sidestepped the first, blade spinning like silk through fabric. The second's sword met his — a sharp, bright clash — then the man's eyes widened as Nhilly's follow-up strike cut clean through his chest.
Every movement was exact.
Every swing an echo of that same impossible elegance.
Celeste nearby, paused for just a heartbeat.
He looked weightless. The black steel shimmered as it moved, arcs of motion flowing into one another seamlessly. There was no hesitation, no anger — only rhythm.
"He's beautiful," someone whispered behind her.
Nhilly didn't hear.
He cut through another man, blade tracing a perfect diagonal line. The soldier — barely older than a boy — collapsed at his feet, his sword still trembling in his hand.
Nhilly exhaled. "No," he murmured. "Not good enough."
Another came. Another fell.
It wasn't killing anymore; it was choreography.
From the edge of the field, Kael saw it too. His commands faltered for a fraction of a second as he watched Nhilly weave through chaos with inhuman precision.
"God…" Kael breathed. "He's not even fighting — he's performing."
The Wyre captain — the grey-bearded man — charged at Nhilly, rage and grief twisting his face. Their swords met once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Sparks flared between them.
"Why won't you stop!?" the man shouted. "We're not monsters!"
Nhilly parried smoothly, his expression unreadable.
He stepped past him.
The man fell.
When it was over, the forest was silent again.
Bodies lay scattered across the clearing, smoke rising faintly from the patches scorched by Eli's fire. Celeste's hands shook as she lowered her light, her breath shallow.
Lydia's soldiers were cheering somewhere behind them — but the sound felt wrong, hollow.
Nhilly wiped his blade on his sleeve, then looked at his reflection in the black steel. "Still not right," he whispered.
Celeste approached, her voice small. "You… you killed them all."
Nhilly looked at her, eyes calm. "I missed the rhythm."
She stared at him, unable to speak. He turned away.
Kael watched from a distance, jaw clenched. There was something terrifying in Nhilly's composure — something detached and cold, like a man who'd stepped out of himself and forgotten how to return.
That night, they made camp among the trees.
The smell of blood still lingered in the air, carried by the wind. The soldiers celebrated quietly, raising cups of weak wine, telling stories of victory.
Eli sat apart from them, poking at the fire with a stick. His usual grin was gone, his face set in grim stillness.
Kael joined him, lowering himself onto a nearby log. "You held back today," Kael said.
Eli shrugged. "Didn't need to burn them all. They were barely standing."
Kael nodded. "They were human."
"Yeah," Eli said softly. "That's what makes it worse."
Across the camp, Celeste sat polishing her gauntlets. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet. The image of Nhilly's sword slicing through air — through flesh — replayed in her mind again and again. The way he moved, the calm in his voice.
She looked over at him now. He was sitting a short distance away, cross-legged, Draco's Shroud resting across his lap. The blade caught the firelight, swallowing it like ink.
He was whispering to it.
Celeste strained to listen, but his voice was too low. She caught only fragments.
"…Still not like you, huh, Draco? Maybe tomorrow."
He smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded, as if he were listening to someone she couldn't hear.
The wind shifted. The flames swayed.
And somewhere deep in the trees, something else watched — silent, patient, waiting.