The morning sun spilled faint light across the rented room, but Diomede lay still on his bed, eyes unfocused, staring into the wooden beams above. His mind wandered through old, sunlit memories.
The steady rhythm of farm life came to him in fragments — the smell of fresh-cut stalks, the bite of cold iron on his palms, the weight of hay bales over his shoulders. No fighting, no shadows lurking in corners, no mysteries twisting the day into something dangerous. Just peace.
He could almost hear Gelda's laugh again, the quick patter of her bare feet racing across her father's land. Eric, book in hand, reading aloud in a voice too grown-up for his years while Diomede fixed whatever he had broken that day. Serina, their mother, flour dust on her apron, singing in the kitchen as bread baked and filled the air with warmth.
The ache in his chest grew until tears welled in his eyes. He swiped them away with the heel of his hand, sat up, and covered his face, letting out a long, slow sigh.
The silence broke with a pounding knock.
"OPEN THE DOOR NOW!" a voice barked from the other side. "THIS IS THE HOLY KNIGHTS OF UMAR! EVERYONE IS TO LEAVE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY!"
Diomede's heart kicked into a sprint. The Holy Knights? The only one in town was the young knight who had killed the Gultonk. Reinforcements couldn't be here so soon… unless they were already on their way before last night.
His mind raced. Were they here for him? For someone else? Then a thought snapped into place — there was someone they could be looking for. He lunged for his sword.
The door exploded inward before he could open it. A plated boot slammed into his face, snapping his head back against the wall with a crack. The impact burst stars across his vision and a rush of copper filled his mouth. His shoulder scraped the wall's rough plaster as his knees buckled.
Through the ringing in his ears, a massive figure stepped inside — black armor trimmed in silver, the plates only covering the most vital points of a body built like a fortress. A red plume streamed from the helmet's crown, catching the morning light.
"Grab this one and drag him outside!" the figure ordered, voice like grinding stone.
Two knights hauled Diomede up by his arms, their gauntlets biting into muscle. His legs refused to steady; his boots scraped against the floorboards as they dragged him out. He caught the figure's gaze — a glint like steel in a forge — and muttered through a blood-threaded breath, "Elite."
Outside, a line of tavern patrons stood under the watch of armed knights. The tavern keeper waited beside an older knight in worn armor, and the young one — Clayton.
The knights dumped Diomede on the packed dirt. A third reached for his greatsword, only to grunt in surprise when it didn't lift. Clayton noticed, brow furrowing.
"Leave it," the older knight barked. "Check inside for more."
"I am Commander Ruffgaurd," the old knight called, pacing in front of the line like a wolf sizing prey. "We are looking for a female — a Boarkar."
Gasps rippled through the line.
"A Boarkar? Here?" someone scoffed.
"She's here," Ruffgaurd said flatly. "We tracked her from White River." He stopped before the speaker and locked eyes. "And she's had help."
With sudden force, he seized the man by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground.
"AND WE INTEND TO FIND BOTH HER AND THOSE WHO SHELTER HER IN UMAR'S HOLY LAND!"
The man's neck snapped like dry kindling. His body hit the dirt with a dull, final thud. Gasps turned to silence.
Diomede only rolled his shoulders, unsurprised by the knights' brutality. Clayton's face betrayed nothing, but his clenched jaw and faintly trembling hand on his sword hilt told another story.
Ruffgaurd turned away, voice steady again. "We will have cooperation. And obedience."
Diomede pushed himself upright, cracking his neck with a sharp twist. His ribs still hummed with pain from the boot, but his glare didn't waver.
A crash split the air — a knight tumbled from a second-story window, hit the ground in a sprawl, then scrambled upright. He pointed. "Follow up, boy! Someone's resisting!"
Clayton dashed forward, but Diomede caught his arm. "Don't. Leave her."
Clayton yanked free and sprinted inside.
Ruffgaurd's blade hissed from its sheath, tip aimed at Diomede. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Diomede hefted his greatsword in one hand, returning the point. "Whatever I want."
Inside, Clayton found the Elite standing in stillness, watching two knights clash with a pale-skinned woman. Her hair was white as frost, her hands gripped a great axe, and her black-and-red leotard was padded across chest and shoulders.
But as Clayton's eyes adjusted, he saw something impossible — a massive, spectral figure overlapping her form, moving as she did.
"What is she?" Clayton asked, almost whispering.
"A Halfead," the Elite rumbled. "One who calls the dead to fight alongside her."
Clayton stared, caught between awe and disbelief.
"Do not let her fascinate you," the Elite warned. "She is an abomination."
The woman drove her axe into the floorboards, splinters bursting up to strike one knight in the face. She spun on the shaft, kicking the other down. Seizing the moment, she hurled her axe out the window and leapt after it, rolling to her feet outside.
Her head snapped toward the clash between Diomede and Ruffgaurd. She bolted down an alley, knights shouting pursuit behind her.
She didn't stop until she burst through the door of an unfamiliar building, slamming it shut and piling crates and sacks against it. Her chest heaved, breath rasping in her ears. Slowly, she steadied it.
A shape shimmered into being before her — the towering ghost of a man, his body mapped with old scars, hair and beard long and white. His arms were crossed, his presence solid despite the faint glow of his form.
"Was that wise, Lily?" His voice held the weight of years.
"No," she admitted, eyes still closed.
"You left the axe, too," he noted, his tone not scolding but knowing.
She nodded.
His gaze swept the dusty, salt-scented air and stacked goods around them. "A storehouse," he said softly. "Just like your uncle would've found."
Her eyes opened, meeting his spectral gaze. "I don't think fighting the knights is wise."
"No? Then what — run? Hide?"
She said nothing at first, thoughts turning over. "The bigger knight who watched me fight… too strong to face. And I'm no good at creeping about for long."
He nodded, the faintest smile at her self-awareness. "And the others?"
"I saw a man fighting the old commander. They said he was tied to last night's attack. He might help me get out — or at least draw their eyes long enough for me to slip away."
Her father's form drifted closer, one scarred hand stroking his beard. "And the hooded woman the knights seek? Why not hand her over?"
Lily's eyes blazed. "After what they've done? Never."
He raised his hands in peace. "Then what, my daughter?"
She paused. Then it struck her. "The Nesfundur from last night. He can use magic. He might help — and he'll likely need help leaving town himself."
Her father's ghost gave a slow, approving nod. "Then you must find him."
She rose, weaving between crates as he followed, tethered to her by something deeper than death. She searched each box with quick, deliberate movements.
"What do you seek?" he asked.
"Food," she replied. "I didn't eat this morning."
He smirked faintly. "Just like your uncle. But find something to hide yourself as well."
Then his form faded, the tether loosening but not breaking. She felt the absence like a sudden chill.
She found a box of dried, salted beef and fish and devoured half before she even thought to stop. A box of blankets yielded one dull, dirty piece — perfect for blending into a crowd. She placed a small pouch of coins in the box before replacing the lid.
The sound of armored boots and shouted orders drifted closer. She moved to a side door, closed her eyes, and murmured under her breath. Shadows curled at her feet.
A thin, spectral figure emerged — her brother. His hair hung in straight white strands to his chest and back. Ash dusted his fingertips, and a black handprint marked his face. His eyes were hidden under a cloth wrap.
"We move only in shadow," his voice was a whisper in her mind. "And only when I give the word… little sister."
"Yes, brother," she answered silently.