The wind in the wastelands didn't whisper—it howled. It screamed like the dying. Like the ones Robert couldn't save. Like the ones he didn't want to remember.
He moved through the ash-coated ruins of what was once a border outpost, now swallowed by time and rot. Burnt banners of the Empire fluttered weakly in the wind, clinging to blackened bones of iron poles. His boots crunched over charred earth and broken glass. This place had fallen long ago, just like him.
A long, tattered cloak hung from his shoulders, hood drawn low, hiding the face
His blade his only companion now
a blade that once shined oh so bright now wanders not into but as a part of darkness
Now his name was worth a fortune in the right circles.
Robert pulled the scarf higher over his face and kept walking.
To him Sleep was no longer a necessity but a burden. Not because of the cold. Not because of the monsters that roamed these outskirts. But because sleep brought dreams. And dreams dragged the past screaming into the present.
Flashes. Blood on marble floors. His mother's lifeless eyes. The faint scent of lavender crushed under boot. Fire. Screams. A trap set by those he once called brothers.
A man once said only in there dreams can men be truly free but for Robert his dreams were his cage his prison
Hope is a curse, he thought bitterly. The cruelest lie ever sold.
The night was falling, and with it came the things that fed on more than flesh. Wraiths. Scorch dogs. Whisper fiends. He found shelter in a collapsed chapel—ironic, given his opinions on faith. Dusty pews lay scattered like corpses. The altar was cracked, defiled with graffiti and dried blood.
Robert dropped his pack with a grunt and sat against a stone pillar. His sword—more rust than steel—rested by his side, always within reach. Just in case.
He stared at the roofless sky, stars like pinpricks in a dying world. They reminded him of the Empire's capital on festival nights. Back when he still had a name. Back when he still believed in causes.
Back when he had people.
A sharp pain twisted in his chest. Not the kind that bled—but the kind that festered. Regret. Rage. Grief that never faded, only burrowed deeper.
Sleep came slow and cruel.
And with it, the dream.
A firelit hall. Screams. Shadows closing in. His companions dying one by one—each face burned into his memory. The betrayal in their eyes as they fell. And then—
Her voice.
"Robert… why?"
He bolted awake, sweat cold on his skin. His hand flew to his sword's hilt before he remembered where he was.
Alone.
Always alone.
being alone was better no
It took him 22 years 4 wars out which he was part of three Rivers of blood everything he cherished and countless innocent soul to realise that humanities true enemy are not those who hide in the shadows or who stand with armys of monster at their gate
But those who sleep peacefully at night and walk free and tall in day wearing a beautiful disguise wearing human skin
He stared into the dark, heart pounding, and whispered to no one:
"They made me a symbol and then apluded as I fell "
He whispered to the wasteland and the stars in the sky
One day
One day for sure
I will paint those halls red with their own blood.