The Wetlands stretched before Arrand like a festering wound, its air thick with the stench of rot and the hum of unseen insects. Mist coiled around gnarled trees, their roots clawing into the sodden earth, while the twin suns of Nameth dipped toward the horizon, their light struggling to pierce the haze. In the fading distance, the remains of the Chimeric Crow camp buzzed with life—a discordant symphony of clinking armor, muttered chants, and the rhythmic scrape of blades on whetstones. Tents sagged under the weight of damp canvas, their banners fluttering weakly, marked with three-headed, three-legged crows wreathed in fire—a symbol of chaos and greed stitched in vibrant threads.
From within the moving carriage, Arrand peered out at the forest's edge, his gaze settling on a lone armored mage clad in crow-etched plate. "A scout perhaps?" Arrand asked himself, the mage silently watching the caravan recede into the distance. A predatory smirk curled Arrand's lips. He raised a hand, and the air within the carriage quivered as a Shadowgate's purple rift split open, its far end materializing behind the unsuspecting mage. The technique's power gnawed at his flesh, a sharp, searing pain flaring from his fingertips to his wrist—a constant toll for borrowed might. Undeterred, Arrand thrust his arm through the shimmering portal, his fist crashing into the mage's helmet with a thunderous crack. The soldier buckled, unconscious before his body struck the earth.
In one fluid motion, Arrand gripped the mage's limp form and yanked him through the Shadowgate into the carriage's cabin. The rift vanished with a snap, leaving no trace at the forest's edge. Inside the jostling vehicle, Arrand's fingers tightened around the mage's essence, tearing his soul free in a burst of writhing light. With a dismissive shove, he flung the lifeless corpse out the carriage door, watching it tumble onto the muddy ground, where it bounced once before being pulverized beneath the pounding hooves of the trailing escorts.
Arrand flexed his throbbing hand, wincing as the gate's toll lingered, a leech on his cultivation. The mage's soul stirred, its form hazy and flickering in the dim light of the cabin. Arrand loomed over it, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Tell me, why is the Chimeric Crow in Nameth?" The words dripped with the arrogance of a Fuchsia sect heir, honed by the pavilion's scorn and his own unyielding pride. The mage's soul wavered, defiance flickering in its depths despite its state.
Arrand's hand flipped over, and from his storage ring, a series of large metal spikes, too thick to be called needles, materialized, razor-edged and thin as fingernails. Covered in runes glowing with malicious intent they hovered like hummingbirds around the mage's crippled soul, spinning closer with a low hum that sent sparks dancing across the cabin. "I wonder who has more confidence," Arrand mused, his laughter echoing, "me in my interrogation, or you."
The mage's soul tried to spit rather than answer, its ghostly jaw clenched, its eyes defiant and unwilling. Arrand's grin widened. One of the spikes darted forward, piercing the soul's cheek and sliding through to emerge on the other side. It lodged between its teeth, pinning its mouth open—a cruel gag that drew a muffled groan. Pain reverberated down to the soul's chin but its gaze remained unbroken, its resistance still smoldering.
"I have ways of making you talk," Arrand said, his tone low and deliberate. He drew a small bone knife from his belt, its surface etched with runes that shimmered like dying stars. The blade, faintly visible, was carved from an unknown void beast — a relic of his father's era, a tool of torture and power that Arrand kept close to his heart. His fingers caressed the hilt, his eyes gleaming with a dark, almost lustful intimacy. This knife was more than a weapon; it was a piece of his past, a tether to secrets he'd yet to unravel.
He swiped the bone knife along the soul's chest, the motion gentle yet precise. Thin shavings of soul seemed to peel away, corroding into dust as illusory skulls swirled around them, their wails a haunting chorus that filled the pathway. The bits of shaved soul dissolved under the knife's touch, left gashes behind, wounds upon the mages very fiber to existence. The mage's soul writhed, its essence twisting under Arrand's grasp, its screams piercing the stillness.
"I am no traitor!" the soul shook, its voice defiant despite the apparitions' chokehold. Its eyes burned, a flicker of loyalty to the Chimeric Crow or its unseen masters changed nothing of his fate.
Arrand's lips curled. "I'm amazed you can still speak so boldly. Do you think I'd hesitate to destroy your soul, letting you reincarnate?" He clenched his fist, and the soul screamed, its essence twisting under his cultivation's grip. "Lords Gaze," he intoned, his eyes beaming with faint light. The technique burrowed into the soul, compelling truth through its manipulative curse. "What were you doing at the edge of the forest?"
Defeated, the soul's arms fell limp, its bravado shattered. "I was paid to kill you, Young Master," it said obediently, its voice cold and deadpan. The words struck Arrand like a blow, the title "Young Master" a jolt to his pride, hinting at a betrayal far closer than he'd imagined. Young Master played in Arrand's mind a few times before he stopped himself.
"Young Master?" Arrand's voice was a growl, his pulse quickening. "Do you work for my family?" The soul struggled to nod, its incorporeal form flickering in a haze. "Who sent you?" He raised the bone knife, the apparitions tightening their grasp, the Wetlands' heat fueling his rage.
"The crow flies for gold, profit..." the soul whispered, "but the hand that feeds it is closer than you think." The words hung heavy, a riddle wrapped in menace. Arrand's mind raced—Theon? Gin? Someone within the sect? The betrayal sank into him like a thorn, sharp and unyielding.
Destroying the mage's soul, its form dissipating into the mist, Arrand thought to himself while the grove fell silent, the weight of the revelation pressing against his chest. He stood alone in the carriage cabin, the bone knife still in hand, its runes dimming as the skulls faded. The humid air mixed with the fresh smell of rain loomed around him. A labyrinth of danger and deceit awaited, but the true threat lay elsewhere—within his own bloodline, perhaps, or the shadowed halls of the Fuchsia sect.
Arrand sheathed the knife, his thoughts in a race against time. The mage's words echoed in his mind, a warning and a challenge. He'd come to Nameth seeking power, but now he faced a gauntlet of enemies, some wearing familiar faces. His path back to the sect stretched before him, no longer a journey but a battlefield. He took his seat, resolve hardening in his veins.