1 Chapter 0001: Death and Squalor

"Honor..."

The word tastes bitter on my tongue. It rolls around my mind, recalling vivid images of blood and death as I stand at the well of my burning village. I'm swallowed into a memory.

Faces of my family, disfigured and scarred. Mutilated bodies, broken across the stones of my home. Faces contorted in panic and disbelief, mouths open and waiting for cries that do not come. Tears trail down their cheeks, their blood is splattered across the walls. My hands tremble as I remember the faces of those I loved. Gone.

I know why they killed us all. We contracted a disease. One magical, deadly, and incurable. They couldn't risk letting it spread. It had already taken over our clan, causing dozens to die in tombs of shimmering alabaster. It's said the disease targets the soft parts of the body first, causing blindness as it ravages the eyes and paralysis as it seizes the joints.

Then the organs are attacked by the very thing protecting them, the bones. The disease spreads, leaving the organs hard and dead. The entire process is excruciating. In a cruel twist of fate, the brain, lungs, and heart are the last to succumb, causing the infected to live in agony. They let their loved ones put them out of their misery.

Rumors spread that even after death, the bodies continue the morbid practice. It is said that the entire body hardens, skin included. It makes it difficult to lift the dead, so they are buried quickly, only given the necessary funeral rites before being buried. Many believe that the bones capture the soul, not allowing it to pass on to the Weave and causing it to suffer perpetual agony.

I've watched many friends die this way, families grieving over something they know they can not fix. Whispers said our clan had been cursed by a spiteful god. Word got around quickly, and we were cut off from the outside world, forced to quarantine lest we infect others.

Festivities and joy were replaced by famine and suffering. Some had hoped that this would be it, that we would be able to return to normal, that this was simply a bad period and we would regain the favor of the gods. I just felt lucky that my family and I were not affected.

They were wrong.

I was wrong.

Knights came soon after the quarantine. They came with a royal decree. Most of us didn't understand most of it. Pedigree and flowery words were thrown around, and the messenger was delighted to be given such an honorable task. A wicked gleam came into his eyes as he continued.

When the last part of the message was conveyed, blood ran cold, and we all understood what this was about. Panic began seeping in and people started fleeing, hiding their children. The knights, eyes cold and hard, gripped their weapons tightly as they were unsheathed. The message was clear. They would not show us mercy.

"The Sanctus Imperator, long may He live, has by royal order, authorized the complete and utter eradication of the village Arma and its inhabitants. You are ordered to obey. Do yourselves well and die with honor."

We resisted. Honor be damned, we just wanted to live.

We still didn't win. How could we?

The knights were efficient and unfeeling in their killing. They cut down the masses as they rode through the village, burning homes with torches to draw out those who had hidden. Men, women, children. All were killed, and none were spared. They had archers shoot down those who tried to flee. We had no formal combat training and no weapons in which to resist.

It was a pure and utter slaughter. Blood ran crimson throughout the streets. The knights' silver armor glittered like stars as the fire spread across the village.

I am still unsure of how I survived.

Maybe it was an oversight, divine intervention, or just plain luck. I remember running away before getting clubbed over the head. They must've assumed I was dead. I woke up to the smell of corpses surrounding me and the feeling of dirt above. They'd buried all of the bodies in a pit.

Bastards. I bet they didn't even pray for us. They just shoved us into a pit and moved on.

Desperate for air, I clawed my way to the surface. My body felt stiff and hot, covered in sweat and blood. Most of it wasn't even my own. My throat was cracked from thirst and my limbs were sluggish. I needed to get out, to feel the air on my face.

I didn't know if the knights had left, but I didn't care. As my hand broke the surface, I realized I must've been buried for quite some time. The raging fires had calmed down, leaving the houses smoldering wrecks. I didn't care much and stumbled to the town's well.

It seems that the knights had left us. The village was thoroughly abandoned and eerily quiet. Besides the crackling of fire, there wasn't a sound. No birdsong, no people chattering, no insects buzzing. It was as if the entire world had collapsed with my clan. I wanted it to.

I finally snap out of my revere. I need to drink water. If I die here, no one will remember. No one will tell our story. 

My body was much more dehydrated than I anticipated. It was no small wonder that I can get up and walk around. Just how long had it been? I examined my reflection in the well. Cold eyes stared back. Something was different about them. They had always been a warm brown, but now they were ivory colored and had flecks of red. It was unsettling.

It wasn't only my eyes either. My hair seemed to have darkened, almost looking black when it had been more blond. My face was covered in scars. They must have been rougher than I thought. Stubble peeked out from my chin, feeling rough against my hands. It was almost brittle. I pulled my hands away from my face and examined them. They seemed bigger, more calloused than what I was used to. I had been a blacksmith's son, so I was no stranger to hard work, but this was different.

I examined the rest of my body as well. It seemed to me that I was taller, maybe by a few inches. My body had got more rugged, more muscular. It also seemed firmer in a way I couldn't understand. Small nubs seemed to have formed in locations around my body. They were hard and paler than the rest of my skin was. What happened to me?

My thoughts were cut short, however. The smell of blood was still strong, and it assaulted my senses. Those damn knights. That damn empire. They didn't have to do this. They could've kept us under quarantine and looked for a cure. We didn't matter to them enough.

Rage washes over my vision. My stomach is a mess of grief. My hands shake and my breath is ragged as I examine the horrific scene. One thought is repeated in my head, over and over, yelling over the din of all the other thoughts. It tells me to get revenge, to kill those who have done this, to hurt them like I have been hurt.

It tells me to kill the Imperator. It tells me to lay waste to the Imperium and its knights. It tells me to gather power and make sure this never happens again.

I seethe with anger, hot tears falling down my cheeks as I mourn those whom I have lost. The life I could have lived is gone, replaced with the determination to make my enemies' lives a living hell.

I will stop at no cost.

I don't care if I could die.

They've already taken everything away from me.

I want them to suffer. I want them to burn. To fear me. To die by my hands.

As I salvage the town, looking for things to help with my survival, one phrase keeps repeating itself in my head. It was something the elders would use at the end of a funeral ceremony, It was supposed to help the souls return to the Weave. It reminded us that no one could escape the cold embrace that is death.

I gather food, a bag, clothes, and basic survival tools. A glint of metal catches my eyes. It seems I have missed something important. I turn, shoving wreckage off of a metallic feature, laughing bitterly as I take it in my hands.

It is a shield, ivory white and gleaming in the fire. Light but sturdy, cool to the touch despite sitting in the embers. It seems the knights had left me a little present.

As I stare at my reflection, the phrase finally reaches my lips. It gives me strength and fans my rage. It becomes an inferno inside of me, driving me forward.

"Mors omnibus prope est..."

Death is near to all.