Blackridge Fortress slept under a sky ripped open by lightning.
Thunder rolled across the battlements like the roar of a chained titan, shaking loose dust, rust, and the courage of the men guarding the execution yard. Rain hammered down in relentless, icy sheets—cold enough to cut, heavy enough to drown a weaker man.
Tonight, the storm came for blood.
And it would not leave disappointed.
Hundreds of soldiers circled the stone platform at the center of the yard. Shields locked. Spears lowered. Armor clattered under trembling hands. Even seasoned veterans avoided looking directly at the man kneeling on the blood-wet slab.
He didn't grovel.
He didn't curse.
He didn't plead.
He simply knelt with the stillness of a frozen blade.
Varik Thorne, once the Oathguard's proudest captain, lifted his head as though the rain meant nothing. Pale hair plastered to his forehead, storm-grey strands trailing down the side of his hard jawline. The light from the torches carved sharp shadows across his cheekbones, revealing eyes that didn't reflect fear—
Only calculation.
Cold.
Precise.
Unbroken.
The kind of gaze that made men forget how to breathe.
Six runic chains clamped around his arms, chest, and neck. They glowed faintly, suppressing any hint of sorcery or strength. But even bound, Varik's presence made the armed ring of soldiers feel like they were the ones kneeling.
A hush rolled across the yard.
The High Warden stepped forward, voice cracking as he tried to read the decree.
"Varik Thorne, former Captain of—"
"Spare us the theatrics," Varik said softly.
His tone wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
His voice rasped through the storm with a surgical calm that sliced through the silence—and the warden's nerve.
Murmurs rippled through the soldiers.
Varik raised his chin, eyes locking onto the royal dais beneath the black canopy.
King Edric sat upon a stone throne, draped in gilded armor, flanked by six elite knights. His expression hardened when their eyes met, but the slight tightening of his fingers on the throne's armrests betrayed the truth.
The king feared the man he condemned.
Varik's lip curled—not in rage, but disappointment.
Edric had once vowed brotherhood to him. Shared war councils, blood-soaked campaigns, victories carved into song. They had fought side by side in winter sieges, spilled their youth on the same battlements, bled for the same banners.
Now—this.
Varik tilted his head slightly. "If you are going to kill me, Edric, at least look me in the eye while you do."
A murmur of shock rolled through the soldiers. Addressing the king by name was a direct insult. But the king looked away first.
Weak.
Predictable.
A king who could not even meet the stare of the man he betrayed.
The High Warden swallowed and tried again.
"Varik Thorne. You are hereby sentenced to death for treason, for the murder of Lord Rivenhart, and for breaking your sworn oath to the crown."
Lightning lit the yard in a blinding white flash.
Varik didn't blink.
"I killed Rivenhart," he said calmly, "because he sold our western fortresses to the Vhalrik Dominion. He was a traitor. You call that murder?"
"You are the traitor!" Edric shouted from the dais, voice trembling with fear rather than fury. "You defied your king!"
"I upheld the kingdom," Varik replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "You upheld a corrupt lord's coin purse."
Gasps echoed through the yard.
One guard whispered, "Is it true…? Did Rivenhart really—"
"Silence!" barked the warden.
But the doubt remained.
The storm wasn't the only thing eroding Blackridge tonight.
The headsman stepped forward, axe glinting beneath the torchlight.
Edric exhaled in relief. "End it. Now."
The headsman raised his blade—
And Varik felt it.
A faint, familiar vibration beneath his skin.
A dormant throb in his bones.
A pulse in his veins like ancient war drums waking from slumber.
The Blood-Mark.
For years he had forced it into submission, buried it beneath discipline and iron will. He had sworn never to use it again—even if it meant death. The chains around him glowed brighter in response, runes straining, trembling with warning.
The mark pulsed a second time.
Deeper.
Hotter.
Hungry.
Varik inhaled slowly, the only sign of struggle a faint twitch in the corner of his jaw.
No.
Not yet—
But the Blood-Mark didn't obey men.
It obeyed fury.
Another pulse, stronger.
The chains sizzled against his skin.
A guard stumbled back. "His chest—the mark! It's glowing through the damn armor!"
Through the cracks in Varik's torn shirt, faint crimson lines lit up—delicate, complex sigils embedded into his flesh like living scars. The cursed brand he had earned on the battlefield of Ghaeldor. The power that cost him half his unit.
The reason he took the Oath—
To never wield that darkness again.
But treachery had a way of waking sleeping monsters.
Varik clenched his teeth. "Not now…"
The headman swung.
The Blood-Mark answered.
A massive shockwave burst outward, crimson energy tearing through the air like an exploding heart. The stone platform cracked, runic chains snapped like brittle bones, and soldiers were thrown back screaming as spears shattered in their grip.
The shockwave rippled across the yard, rattling shields, snapping torches, and turning the rain into a crimson mist.
Varik rose to his feet.
Steam curled from his skin.
His shirt was torn open, revealing the full mark—an intricate network of crimson veins and sigils spiraling across his torso like a war god's brand.
The headsman, trembling, tried to steady his axe.
Varik moved.
Cold. Clean. Efficient.
He disarmed the man, snapped his wrist, and drove the axe back into his chest with a single, merciless thrust.
The man collapsed in a heap.
Varik stepped past him without a glance.
Three royal guards charged him at once.
He pivoted smoothly, dodging a spear and grabbing another soldier by the throat. With a twist of his wrist, the guard's neck snapped like dry timber. The second guard lunged—Varik slammed the lifeless body into him, breaking his jaw as he struck the ground.
The third guard hesitated.
Varik didn't.
He rammed his palm into the soldier's sternum—
the Blood-Mark ignited—
and crimson energy erupted through the man's back in a burst of gore.
Silence fell.
Even the storm quieted.
Varik turned his attention to the dais.
Edric had fallen off the throne, scrambling backward on hands and knees. Mud clung to his gilded armor, and his crown lay crooked in the dirt. The image burned into the soldiers' memory—
their king, reduced to a coward before the very man he tried to kill.
"V-Varik…" Edric stuttered. "Please… listen—"
Varik stepped forward, dripping red in the torchlight.
His tone was eerily calm.
"I gave you loyalty. I gave you victory. I gave you my oath."
His eyes hardened—cold enough to freeze fire.
"You broke yours."
The royal knights finally found their courage.
"Protect the king!" one shouted, rallying the others as they formed a steel wall between Varik and the fallen monarch.
Varik exhaled once.
The Blood-Mark pulsed.
His body blurred.
A crimson streak cut through the rain as Varik launched forward with unnatural speed. He struck the first knight with the force of a battering ram, sending him crashing into the stone dais. The second swung—Varik caught the blade with his bare hand, blood spilling as steel bit into flesh.
Varik twisted the sword out of the man's grip and split the knight from collarbone to hip in one brutal motion.
The other knights hesitated just long enough.
Varik took them apart with flawless efficiency—
breaking a knee here, severing a tendon there, driving blades through armor seams like he was dismantling training dummies.
The rain washed the blood away almost as fast as it spilled.
In mere seconds, six elite knights lay broken at his feet.
Varik stepped onto the dais, sword dragging through the mud.
The king tried to crawl away.
Varik placed a boot on his hand.
Bones cracked.
Edric screamed.
Varik stared down at him, expression unreadable.
"For the kingdom," Varik said, voice low. "I endured. For your throne, I bled. For your honor, I killed."
He leaned closer.
"And this is how you repay loyalty?"
Edric sobbed, "Varik… I—I had no choice. Rivenhart—his influence—his gold—it—it would have destroyed—"
Varik didn't let him finish.
"Do you know the difference between us, Edric?"
The king looked up, shaking.
Varik's eyes gleamed with cold finality.
"I keep my oaths."
Lightning split the sky.
Varik lifted the blood-stained sword.
The storm swallowed Edric's scream.
The torches flickered.
The soldiers watched in paralyzed silence.
A throne had fallen.
And in its place stood a warlord marked by blood and betrayal.
Rain hissed against Varik's skin as the Blood-Mark slowly dimmed, returning to a dull scar across his chest.
He turned toward the fortress gates.
No hesitation.
No remorse.
Only purpose.
A new oath formed in the cold silence of his mind:
To cleanse the kingdom.
To hunt corruption.
To reclaim everything stolen from him.
Even if the world drowned in blood.
Varik walked into the storm without looking back.
Tonight was not his execution.
It was his ascension.
Blackridge Fortress slept under a sky ripped open by lightning.
Thunder rolled across the battlements like the roar of a chained titan, shaking loose dust, rust, and the courage of the men guarding the execution yard. Rain hammered down in relentless, icy sheets—cold enough to cut, heavy enough to drown a weaker man.
Tonight, the storm came for blood.
And it would not leave disappointed.
Hundreds of soldiers circled the stone platform at the center of the yard. Shields locked. Spears lowered. Armor clattered under trembling hands. Even seasoned veterans avoided looking directly at the man kneeling on the blood-wet slab.
He didn't grovel.
He didn't curse.
He didn't plead.
He simply knelt with the stillness of a frozen blade.
Varik Thorne, once the Oathguard's proudest captain, lifted his head as though the rain meant nothing. Pale hair plastered to his forehead, storm-grey strands trailing down the side of his hard jawline. The light from the torches carved sharp shadows across his cheekbones, revealing eyes that didn't reflect fear—
Only calculation.
Cold.
Precise.
Unbroken.
The kind of gaze that made men forget how to breathe.
Six runic chains clamped around his arms, chest, and neck. They glowed faintly, suppressing any hint of sorcery or strength. But even bound, Varik's presence made the armed ring of soldiers feel like they were the ones kneeling.
A hush rolled across the yard.
The High Warden stepped forward, voice cracking as he tried to read the decree.
"Varik Thorne, former Captain of—"
"Spare us the theatrics," Varik said softly.
His tone wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
His voice rasped through the storm with a surgical calm that sliced through the silence—and the warden's nerve.
Murmurs rippled through the soldiers.
Varik raised his chin, eyes locking onto the royal dais beneath the black canopy.
King Edric sat upon a stone throne, draped in gilded armor, flanked by six elite knights. His expression hardened when their eyes met, but the slight tightening of his fingers on the throne's armrests betrayed the truth.
The king feared the man he condemned.
Varik's lip curled—not in rage, but disappointment.
Edric had once vowed brotherhood to him. Shared war councils, blood-soaked campaigns, victories carved into song. They had fought side by side in winter sieges, spilled their youth on the same battlements, bled for the same banners.
Now—this.
Varik tilted his head slightly. "If you are going to kill me, Edric, at least look me in the eye while you do."
A murmur of shock rolled through the soldiers. Addressing the king by name was a direct insult. But the king looked away first.
Weak.
Predictable.
A king who could not even meet the stare of the man he betrayed.
The High Warden swallowed and tried again.
"Varik Thorne. You are hereby sentenced to death for treason, for the murder of Lord Rivenhart, and for breaking your sworn oath to the crown."
Lightning lit the yard in a blinding white flash.
Varik didn't blink.
"I killed Rivenhart," he said calmly, "because he sold our western fortresses to the Vhalrik Dominion. He was a traitor. You call that murder?"
"You are the traitor!" Edric shouted from the dais, voice trembling with fear rather than fury. "You defied your king!"
"I upheld the kingdom," Varik replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "You upheld a corrupt lord's coin purse."
Gasps echoed through the yard.
One guard whispered, "Is it true…? Did Rivenhart really—"
"Silence!" barked the warden.
But the doubt remained.
The storm wasn't the only thing eroding Blackridge tonight.
The headsman stepped forward, axe glinting beneath the torchlight.
Edric exhaled in relief. "End it. Now."
The headsman raised his blade—
And Varik felt it.
A faint, familiar vibration beneath his skin.
A dormant throb in his bones.
A pulse in his veins like ancient war drums waking from slumber.
The Blood-Mark.
For years he had forced it into submission, buried it beneath discipline and iron will. He had sworn never to use it again—even if it meant death. The chains around him glowed brighter in response, runes straining, trembling with warning.
The mark pulsed a second time.
Deeper.
Hotter.
Hungry.
Varik inhaled slowly, the only sign of struggle a faint twitch in the corner of his jaw.
No.
Not yet—
But the Blood-Mark didn't obey men.
It obeyed fury.
Another pulse, stronger.
The chains sizzled against his skin.
A guard stumbled back. "His chest—the mark! It's glowing through the damn armor!"
Through the cracks in Varik's torn shirt, faint crimson lines lit up—delicate, complex sigils embedded into his flesh like living scars. The cursed brand he had earned on the battlefield of Ghaeldor. The power that cost him half his unit.
The reason he took the Oath—
To never wield that darkness again.
But treachery had a way of waking sleeping monsters.
Varik clenched his teeth. "Not now…"
The headman swung.
The Blood-Mark answered.
A massive shockwave burst outward, crimson energy tearing through the air like an exploding heart. The stone platform cracked, runic chains snapped like brittle bones, and soldiers were thrown back screaming as spears shattered in their grip.
The shockwave rippled across the yard, rattling shields, snapping torches, and turning the rain into a crimson mist.
Varik rose to his feet.
Steam curled from his skin.
His shirt was torn open, revealing the full mark—an intricate network of crimson veins and sigils spiraling across his torso like a war god's brand.
The headsman, trembling, tried to steady his axe.
Varik moved.
Cold. Clean. Efficient.
He disarmed the man, snapped his wrist, and drove the axe back into his chest with a single, merciless thrust.
The man collapsed in a heap.
Varik stepped past him without a glance.
Three royal guards charged him at once.
He pivoted smoothly, dodging a spear and grabbing another soldier by the throat. With a twist of his wrist, the guard's neck snapped like dry timber. The second guard lunged—Varik slammed the lifeless body into him, breaking his jaw as he struck the ground.
The third guard hesitated.
Varik didn't.
He rammed his palm into the soldier's sternum—
the Blood-Mark ignited—
and crimson energy erupted through the man's back in a burst of gore.
Silence fell.
Even the storm quieted.
Varik turned his attention to the dais.
Edric had fallen off the throne, scrambling backward on hands and knees. Mud clung to his gilded armor, and his crown lay crooked in the dirt. The image burned into the soldiers' memory—
their king, reduced to a coward before the very man he tried to kill.
"V-Varik…" Edric stuttered. "Please… listen—"
Varik stepped forward, dripping red in the torchlight.
His tone was eerily calm.
"I gave you loyalty. I gave you victory. I gave you my oath."
His eyes hardened—cold enough to freeze fire.
"You broke yours."
The royal knights finally found their courage.
"Protect the king!" one shouted, rallying the others as they formed a steel wall between Varik and the fallen monarch.
Varik exhaled once.
The Blood-Mark pulsed.
His body blurred.
A crimson streak cut through the rain as Varik launched forward with unnatural speed. He struck the first knight with the force of a battering ram, sending him crashing into the stone dais. The second swung—Varik caught the blade with his bare hand, blood spilling as steel bit into flesh.
Varik twisted the sword out of the man's grip and split the knight from collarbone to hip in one brutal motion.
The other knights hesitated just long enough.
Varik took them apart with flawless efficiency—
breaking a knee here, severing a tendon there, driving blades through armor seams like he was dismantling training dummies.
The rain washed the blood away almost as fast as it spilled.
In mere seconds, six elite knights lay broken at his feet.
Varik stepped onto the dais, sword dragging through the mud.
The king tried to crawl away.
Varik placed a boot on his hand.
Bones cracked.
Edric screamed.
Varik stared down at him, expression unreadable.
"For the kingdom," Varik said, voice low. "I endured. For your throne, I bled. For your honor, I killed."
He leaned closer.
"And this is how you repay loyalty?"
Edric sobbed, "Varik… I—I had no choice. Rivenhart—his influence—his gold—it—it would have destroyed—"
Varik didn't let him finish.
"Do you know the difference between us, Edric?"
The king looked up, shaking.
Varik's eyes gleamed with cold finality.
"I keep my oaths."
Lightning split the sky.
Varik lifted the blood-stained sword.
The storm swallowed Edric's scream.
The torches flickered.
The soldiers watched in paralyzed silence.
A throne had fallen.
And in its place stood a warlord marked by blood and betrayal.
Rain hissed against Varik's skin as the Blood-Mark slowly dimmed, returning to a dull scar across his chest.
He turned toward the fortress gates.
No hesitation.
No remorse.
Only purpose.
A new oath formed in the cold silence of his mind:
To cleanse the kingdom.
To hunt corruption.
To reclaim everything stolen from him.
Even if the world drowned in blood.
Varik walked into the storm without looking back.
Tonight was not his execution.
It was his ascension.