Chapter 1
The battlefield smelled of iron and rain.
Zen Noctryn stood ankle-deep in mud and blood, his breath steady while the world around him screamed. Broken shields jutted from the ground like gravestones. Arrows hissed overhead, some burying themselves in corpses that had already stopped caring.
He wiped his blade once against a dead man's cloak.
Not because it needed cleaning.
Because habit demanded it.
Across the field, the banner of the Ebon Wing rose against the storm—black feathers stitched into crimson cloth, snapping violently in the wind. Men rallied beneath it not out of loyalty, but belief. That banner meant survival.
And survival was all Zen had ever believed in.
"Left flank's folding!" someone shouted.
Zen moved before the words finished forming.
His body obeyed without thought—muscle, tendon, bone acting in flawless sequence. A spear thrust toward him. He turned just enough. The spearhead slid past his ribs. His sword answered.
One strike.
The man split open with one strike from his sword
Weapon Ascension.
The blade felt light. Not because it was—but because it belonged to him.
Zen advanced through the chaos like a thing that had learned war before language. He did not roar. He did not rush. He cut. He stepped. He cut again.
Three enemies fell in the span of a breath with they heads missing.
Predator Perception whispered through him—not voices, not visions—just knowing. A tightening shoulder. A breath drawn too sharp. Fear leaking through armor.
He turned before the axe came.
The axe never finished its swing.
Zen's sword opened the man from collarbone to hip.
The left flank held.
The horn sounded retreat. The enemy broke.
And then—
Silence.
Rain fell harder, washing red into the soil.
Zen stood alone among the dead.
---
They celebrated that night.
A fire burned high at the center of camp. Meat sizzled. Laughter clashed with the distant thunder of siege engines still working the fortress walls.
Pippin shoved a cup into Zen's hand.
"You're alive," he said, grinning wide. "Means you drink."
Zen stared at the cup.
Then drank.
The liquor burned. He welcomed it.
Yami sat beside him, arms folded. "You fight like you don't care if you live."
Zen didn't answer.
Because the truth was simpler.
He cared very much.
That was the problem.
Across the fire, Zaerphel stood apart from the others.
He was untouched by mud or blood, as if the battlefield had politely avoided him. His noble attire was immaculate, pale fabric catching the firelight. Long blond hair hung loose, stirred by the wind. Around his neck rested the Crimson Herrek, gleaming faintly.
Zen watched him.
Everyone did.
Zaerphel spoke quietly with a commander, smiling as if discussing harvests rather than corpses. When he laughed, men nearby laughed too—without realizing why.
"Doesn't look like a mercenary," Pippin muttered.
Yami's eyes narrowed. "No. He looks like a man who knows where he's going."
Zaerphel turned.
His vivid blue eyes met Zen's across the fire.
The world thinned.
Not slowed. Not frozen.
Aligned.
Zaerphel crossed the camp with unhurried steps, as though the ground itself wished to carry him. He stopped in front of Zen, studying him openly.
"Zen Noctryn," he said.
Zen did not stand.
"Yes."
Zaerphel smiled. "You lowered the enemy's morale today. One man, one strike at a time."
Zen shrugged. "They were weak."
"No," Zaerphel said gently. "They were afraid."
Silence stretched between them.
Zaerphel's gaze lingered—not on Zen's sword, but on his eyes.
"You don't fight for coin," Zaerphel continued. "Or glory. Or even loyalty."
Zen said nothing.
Zaerphel's smile sharpened—not cruel, not kind.
"Tell me," he said. "What do you fight for?"
Zen's fingers tightened around the cup.
"To live," he said.
Zaerphel laughed softly. "Good."
He reached up and touched the Crimson Herrek.
"I fight for a kingdom that does not yet exist."
Zen looked up at him.
"For a dream," Zaerphel went on, voice low, sincere. "One worth bleeding for. One worth belonging to."
The word settled heavily between them.
"You're dangerous," Zen said flatly.
Zaerphel's eyes lit—not offended.
"Of course," he replied. "So are you."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Stay alive, Zen Noctryn," Zaerphel said over his shoulder. "I have need of men like you."
Zen watched him walk away, the firelight bending strangely around his silhouette.
For the first time in years—
Something in Zen's chest stirred that was not hunger, rage, or fear.
It was unease.
High above the camp, unseen, the clouds twisted.
And somewhere far beyond the world, something ancient shifted its attention—
Not toward Zaerphel.
But toward the man who should be soon crowned emperor .