The road snaked through gently rising hills, a narrow trail of packed dirt flanked by tufts of golden grass and the occasional thistle-covered stone. It was the kind of path only locals used—forgotten by maps, but remembered by wandering boots and iron-shod hooves. In the distance, dark woods hugged the horizon like a looming wall. The morning sun beat down from a cloudless sky, painting everything in a hazy gold.
Belanor rode at the front on a striking black stallion. The beast moved with the ease and grace of a born warhorse, its muscles bunching and releasing smoothly beneath a gleaming coat. Its breath misted in the warming air, its head high, ears alert. A noble steed for a man with purpose.
Reiner followed behind on a dray horse, a lumbering, heavyset creature more suited to pulling wagons than fleeing for one's life. Its gait was uneven, and its breath came in grunts and wheezes. It had been the only horse they found still alive in Tar—one of the few things the Burning Skeletons hadn't reduced to ash.
The silence between the two men dragged out like the road itself.
"So," Reiner said, breaking it at last, "this mage you told me about… a friend of yours?"
Belanor didn't turn. "Sort of."
The curt answer floated back like a stone skipping across water.
Reiner frowned. "You don't like being asked questions, do you?"
No answer.
He glanced to the side, watching the fields roll past. Birds chirped lazily in the trees, unaware—or uncaring—of the danger that followed the men down the road.
"This mage," Reiner tried again, "is she part of your rebellion? The one against the Flame Emperor?"
Belanor gave a soft exhale, not quite a sigh. "In her own way."
Reiner squinted. "That's not really an answer."
"She doesn't fight with blades or fire," Belanor said at last. "The mages of Vandera don't take up arms. But they help. Shelter, healing, food. Sometimes forged documents or smuggled supplies."
"So… not soldiers. Just helpers."
Belanor nodded.
Reiner shook his head. "Sounds like they hide while others die. Cowards."
Belanor's knuckles tightened on the reins. "You ask a lot of questions."
"You can't blame me," Reiner snapped, tired of the half-truths. "I barely know who you are. All I've got is your name and what you say you are."
Belanor abruptly pulled his horse to a stop. The stallion halted so suddenly it threw up a puff of dust. Reiner's dray horse trudged forward a few more paces before Reiner tugged the reins and brought it alongside.
Belanor turned his head slowly, dark eyes fixed on Reiner. "You also know that I saved your arse."
Reiner tensed.
"The Empire would've had you strung up back in Tar," Belanor continued, voice sharp. "But you're here. Alive. Because I dragged you out."
Reiner met his gaze, jaw clenched. "Or maybe you had a reason. Maybe this rescue has strings. Maybe you're leading me into a trap."
"You think I went through all that just to hand you over?" Belanor's voice was low and dangerous now. "I could've left you in that shit hole and been halfway to the mountains by now."
Reiner looked away, unsettled. "People don't help for nothing. Not in this world."
Belanor was about to answer—but stopped. He lifted a hand.
"Shhh."
Reiner blinked. "What is it—?"
"Quiet."
Reiner fell silent, eyes narrowing. He heard nothing at first—just the birds again, chirping lazily in the branches overhead.
Then…
The ground seemed to tremble. Soft at first. A distant rumble, like thunder over the hills. Then the faint, unmistakable rhythm of galloping hooves.
Reiner's blood ran cold.
He turned in the saddle slowly.
At first, there was only open road. Then, over the crest of a hill far behind them—dark figures. Moving fast.
"Soldiers," Belanor said grimly.
Reiner's breath caught. His throat tightened as fear crawled up his spine and settled in his chest.
"How many?" he asked, voice thin.
Belanor's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Fifteen. Maybe more."
Reiner's face paled. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Sweat prickled his brow despite the cool breeze. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing the tension.
"They're coming from Tar," Belanor said, calm but clipped. "Following the road. They've picked up our trail."
Reiner shook his head. "My horse—he can't outrun them. He can barely outrun a cart."
Belanor paused, his gaze distant. His jaw tightened slightly, eyes narrowing with a sharp glint of calculation. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just focus. A quiet storm building behind a mask of calm. Then his lips moved.
"We're not running," he said.
Reiner blinked. "What?"
His voice cracked with panic, higher-pitched than usual. His hands trembled on the reins, sweat beading on his brow. His heart thundered so loud it muffled thought, and his breath came fast and shallow, as if the very air had turned against him.
"Let them come," Belanor said, steady as stone.
"Are you crazy?" Reiner choked. "I—I can't even use my magic yet! How are we supposed to—how the hell are we—"
"Who said anything about you fighting?"
Reiner froze, startled into silence. For a second, the chaos in his mind stalled. His lips parted, but no sound came.
"You… you can't take them alone," he said at last, quieter. Less certain.
Belanor looked at him then—really looked. His dark eyes seemed to weigh Reiner's soul, measuring something only he could see. Then, with the faintest curve of his lips, he smiled.
"Watch me," he said, calm and confident, as if the outcome was already decided.
The sound of hooves broke over the hill behind them like thunder cracking across the sky.
Reiner twisted in his saddle as sixteen riders crested the ridge, descending in a disciplined line. Their silver armor caught the morning sun, glittering like a wall of polished knives. Red cloaks snapped in the wind behind them, a sea of blood riding down the hill. Their warhorses—sleek, powerful beasts—tore up the road as they advanced.
The soldiers reached them swiftly, fanning out into a half-circle. Hooves slowed to heavy, deliberate trots. Dust rose in thick clouds as they encircled the two men. Reiner's dray horse stomped nervously, nearly bucking from the tension in the air.
Sixteen men. Each one armored from shoulders to boots, helms adorned with silver crests. Sword hilts glinted at their hips. Spears were slung over their backs. They sat tall, disciplined, unified by purpose and order.
At their center, a striking figure rode a proud, snow-white Andalusian stallion—its mane braided with red silk, hooves wrapped in burnished steel.
Lieutenant Cephus.
His armor was gilded with gold trim, chestplate etched with the fire emblem of the Flame Empire. Unlike the other soldiers, his helmet was off, revealing a handsome, cruel face with sharp cheekbones and cold, hawk-like eyes. His black hair was slicked back neatly, not a strand out of place, and a scar cut a clean line beneath his right eye—like a badge, not a blemish.
He sat his mount like a man born to command, back straight, chin high, radiating smug superiority.
Belanor swung off his horse in one fluid motion. Dust curled around his boots as he landed. Reiner hesitated, then followed suit, dismounting clumsily, his legs weak beneath him.
Belanor stepped forward, his cloak fluttering behind him. He stared down the lieutenant without a word, his expression unreadable—though somewhere between defiance and disgust.
Cephus regarded Reiner with a raised brow, then lazily turned his head toward the soldier beside him.
"Is this the boy?" he asked, voice smooth and disinterested, like he was selecting a wine from a cellar rather than commanding an arrest.
The soldier gave a stiff nod. "That's him, sir."
Cephus shifted his cold gaze back to Reiner, studying him with clear disappointment.
"Well," he muttered, "you're not much to look at."
He tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing Reiner with the detached curiosity of a collector examining a flawed artifact.
"A Skeleton, they say... but I don't see the fire. No flame in your eyes. No demon worth the name would look like that."
A nearby soldier snorted.
"He looks more like a lost stable boy than some hellspawn."
Several others chuckled, the sound low and mocking, carried by confidence and cruelty.
Cephus lifted his hand with a flick. "Take him."
Belanor moved.
In one smooth motion, he stepped forward and planted himself between Reiner and the advancing soldiers. His cloak fluttered with the breeze as dust curled around his boots. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't have to. His presence alone shifted the air.
Reiner blinked, startled, then instinctively stepped back behind him. Protected.
Cephus narrowed his eyes, then gave a bemused laugh.
"You're joking." He glanced around at his men, who mirrored his smirk. "This one thinks he's a shield."
He raised his voice.
"Strike him down. Seize the boy."
A broad-shouldered soldier swung off his horse with a grunt. His name was Jon—one of the more decorated footmen, his armor scratched and dented from years of battle. He unsheathed a heavy broadsword with a metallic hiss and stalked forward, boots pounding into the dirt.
Reiner's pulse surged. His breath turned shallow. Sweat dripped down his temple. He wanted to call out—to warn Belanor—but his voice failed him. All he could do was watch.
Jon raised his sword high and brought it down with a roar.
The blade froze.
In mid-air.
An invisible force stopped it inches from Belanor's shoulder. It hung there, motionless, as if caught in thick glass. Jon's eyes widened in disbelief.
He growled and yanked the blade back, swinging again—harder.
Stopped.
Again.
Blocked.
He roared in frustration and slashed three more times, each stroke faster and more desperate than the last.
Each one halted.
Each one failed.
Sweat broke across Jon's brow now, his confident sneer replaced by confusion. Then panic.
Belanor hadn't moved.
"I'm afraid you can't touch me," Belanor said, voice calm and cool. "Empire dogs don't bite nearly as hard as they bark."
Cephus frowned, irritation creeping into his voice.
"Stop playing, Jon. Cut him down."
Jon stumbled back a step, face pale.
"I—I'm trying! My strikes won't land! It's like... the air's frozen!"
A hush fell over the soldiers.
Then one of the younger men—his hand still on his sword hilt—spoke up, his voice uneasy.
"Wait... I know that face. I've seen his sketch in the bounty halls of Adresgate."
His eyes widened in realization.
"You're Belanor Thor'don. The one with the TemporalDrape... Time-magic. Five hundred gold bounty."
Gasps rippled through the ranks. Even Cephus straightened in his saddle.
Belanor's lips curved into a slow, dark smile.
"Well," he said softly, "nice to see the Empire still values me."