The wind was the first to greet him, a dry, scraping breath that carried the fine, rust-colored dust of the Red Plains. It was a taste he remembered from nightmares, the metallic tang of old blood and blighted earth. Retour Monarc pulled the frayed edge of his hood lower, a useless gesture against a memory that lived in the very air. Before him, the land of his birth stretched out, a vast and bleeding scar under a bruised, twilight sky. The crimson grass swayed in a rhythm that felt less like growth and more like a slow, consuming pulse. He had sworn an oath on the graves of his family, a vow whispered in the safety of distant lands, that he would never set foot here again. But oaths were for men with choices. Retour had only ghosts and a purpose that had festered for a decade.
Each step was an effort, his boots sinking slightly into the loamy, discolored soil. The capital’s ruins lay ahead, a skeletal hand of black stone clawing at the horizon. The sight sent a physical jolt through him, a lancing pain behind his eyes. There. That was where the great hall had been. That was where he had last seen his father, King Lorian Monarc, his face a mask of grim determination as he shoved his young son into a hidden passage, the echoes of screams already filling the air. The memory was a spark on the tinder of his soul. Unconsciously, his right hand clenched into a fist. A wisp of something ethereal, a vapor the color of fresh blood, seeped from his knuckles, curling around his wrist for a moment before dissipating into the stagnant air. He cursed inwardly, forcing his hand to relax, his breathing to slow. Control. It was always about control.
A figure detached itself from the shadow of a petrified oak, its trunk twisted and bleached bone-white by the mist that had scoured this land. Retour’s hand went to the plain, leather-wrapped hilt of his short sword. The man was not a soldier. He was tall and lean, wrapped in robes of a dusty, neutral grey that seemed to reject the landscape’s pervasive red hue. A large satchel, bulging with scroll cases and book corners, hung from his shoulder. His eyes, a piercing and intelligent grey, found Retour’s with an unsettling directness.
“You are a long way from any established road,” the man stated. His voice was calm, devoid of surprise or threat, merely an observation stated as fact. His gaze, however, did not linger on Retour’s face. It dropped to the cloak’s clasp, a simple, tarnished silver piece in the shape of a lion, its single eye a shard of dark, cracked amber. The sigil of the fallen house. A foolish sentiment, a dangerous keepsake.
“The plains are my road,” Retour replied, his voice a low rasp. He adjusted his stance, ready to walk on.
The historian—for that was what he had to be—did not yield space. “They say the last son of Asterfell perished here. Prince Retour. Consumed by the very crimson mist that devoured his lineage.” He paused, his head tilting like a curious bird. “My name is Ile. I chronicle the ends of empires. The official narrative of that day… it has holes one could drive a carriage through.”
A cold knot tightened in Retour’s gut. He kept his features a mask of worn stone. “To dig in such graves is to invite the plague within, scholar. Some histories are meant to remain closed.”
“Are they?” Ile’s thin lips pressed into a faint line. “Or is it that the truth, once buried, simply waits for a worthy inheritor to unearth it?”
The words struck a nerve his father had hidden, a raw, exposed end. The image of the king’s final moments, not just the push into the dark, but the sound—a wet, tearing sound as the red fog had solidified into spears of crystal, piercing the throne room—flashed behind his eyes. Grief, hot and sharp, merged with a decade of festering rage. It was a surge, a dam breaking. The air around him warped, shimmering with a heat that was not of the sun. This time, the mist did not wisp. It bled from him, a cloud of fine, crimson particles that haloed his body, clinging to his cloak like malevolent dew.
Ile’s clinical composure evaporated. He stumbled back a step, his eyes wide with a shock that rapidly crystallized into horrifying understanding. He was not looking at a strange atmospheric effect. He was looking at a man. He stared from the coiling mist to the line of Retour’s jaw, the set of his brow, the defiant posture that now seemed less like a traveler’s wariness and more like a prince’s bearing.
“The mist…” Ile breathed out, the sound barely audible. “It is not a scar on this land. It is a legacy. A crown of blood.”
Retour could feel it now, a pressure building in his skull, a whispering static that promised power and oblivion. He had to leave. He had to silence this man, this walking, talking key to a tomb he needed to keep sealed.
The thunder of hooves cut through the tension, hard and fast. From a shallow ravine to the east, three riders emerged. Their armor was a patchwork of scavenged plate and hardened leather, their faces hard and lean with the perpetual hunger of carrion birds. The leader, a brute with a faded blue tattoo across one side of his face, reined in his shaggy horse, his eyes immediately locking onto the silver clasp.
“Look what’s wandered up from the grave,” he sneered, his voice like grinding stones. He hefted a heavy, notched axe. “That bauble on your neck’s worth more’n you are, stranger. Be a good corpse and hand it over. Might let you keep your fingers.”
Retour said nothing. He slowly turned to face the new threat, the red mist around him thickening in response to the fresh spike of adrenaline and anger. It began to curl into tendrils, snake-like and eager.
Ile, recovering his wits, spoke calmly from the sidelines. “I would advise against this confrontation. The outcome seems… mathematically unfavorable for you.”
The bandit leader spat on the ground. “Shut your mouth, scribbler. You’re next.” He kicked his horse forward, the other two spreading out to flank Retour.
The first rider, a younger man with a rusty spear, charged from the left. Retour’s movements were economical. He didn’t draw his sword. As the spear point thrust toward his ribs, he sidestepped, his left hand shooting out to grab the shaft. The moment his skin made contact, the crimson mist that coated his palm lashed out. It was not an explosion, but a rapid, voracious corrosion. The wood of the spear shaft blackened, splintered, and turned to dust in a heartbeat, the metal head clattering to the ground. The bandit stared, dumbfounded, at the disintegrated weapon in his hands.
Retour didn’t pause. He used the man’s shock to yank him forward from his saddle, sending him sprawling into the red dirt. The tendril of mist retracted, leaving the bandit coughing and clutching a hand that was now covered in painful, weeping blisters.
The leader roared and swung his axe in a wide, brutal arc aimed at Retour’s head. Retour dropped into a crouch. The axe whistled over him. He could feel the mist reacting to the proximity of the violent intent, reaching for the weapon. He fought it back, the effort a strain that made his temples pound. He could not let it consume the axe, not with the man so close; the feedback could be catastrophic. Instead, as the bandit over-extended, Retour surged upward inside his guard, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, knocking him from his saddle.
The third bandit, seeing his leader fall and the strange red vapor now actively seeking them, fumbled for a bow. His movements were panicked. He nocked an arrow, his hands shaking.
Ile, who had been observing with rapt attention, called out, “His emotional state is the catalyst! The fear is fueling it!”
The bandit loosed the arrow. It was a wild shot, but it flew straight toward Ile. Retour’s head snapped around. A jolt of something—not quite protectiveness, but the stark understanding that this scholar held a key to his curse—flared within him. The red mist erupted. It formed a solid, shimmering wall between Ile and the projectile. The arrow struck the mist and did not pierce it. Instead, it hung there for a split second, vibrating, before the crimson energy dissolved it into a shower of splinters and molten metal.
Silence fell, broken only by the labored breathing of the fallen bandit leader and the whimpers of the one with the blistered hand. The third bandit stared, his bow falling from numb fingers. The red mist slowly retracted, seeping back into Retour’s pores, leaving him standing there, visibly trembling from the exertion of will. He looked at his hands, then at Ile, who was watching him not with terror, but with the intense, unblinking focus of a man who has just found the subject of his life’s work.
“The heir,” Ile said, the words final and absolute. “You are Retour Monarc. And you are not just cursed.” He took a careful step forward, his eyes alight. “You are the kingdom’s last, living weapon.”