The bandits staggered through the dense forest, two of them struggling under the weight of their leader, Thorne, whose unconscious body lay slung between them. 

Even in his bloodied and battered state, Thorne was a looming figure, his hand still loosely gripping his broadsword. 

A shallow, ragged breath escaped him as the bandits pressed on, their eyes darting around for fear that the Warrior of Wrath might still be stalking them.

With a sudden shudder—

Thorne's eyes flew open, blazing with fury. 

His chest heaved, and his gaze darted wildly before he found his voice, low and dangerous.

"Where are they?!" he snarled, struggling against the grip of his men. 

His hands flexed as he reached for the ground to steady himself. 

"Where's that puny warrior of wrath... KAZAKS?!"

The two bandits holding him faltered, startled by the outburst. 

One of them, swallowing hard, replied.

"Boss, they... they got away. We barely got out with our lives."

Thorne's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a bitter sneer. 

His rage was palpable, simmering just beneath the surface. 

"Got away?" 

He steadied himself on his sword, drawing himself to his full height despite the pain that made his knees shake. 

"You call running a victory? We lost more than a half our men to that... that band of theirs." 

The others looked away, shamefaced and silent. 

They all remembered how the Renaissance Band had torn through their ranks—

Each member of the band fighting like a storm. 

Kazaks, especially, had cut through them like a wild beast. 

It had been nothing short of a massacre.

One of the younger bandits, anxious to justify himself, muttered.

"There were so many of them, boss. And they fought like demons. We... we couldn't do anything."

Thorne's gaze cut through him, sharp as a blade. 

"Excuses, that's all I'm hearing." 

He ran a trembling hand over his face, a flicker of doubt clouding his eyes. 

"And the others...?" 

"Gone, most of them," replied a grizzled bandit, his face set in a hard line. 

"Dead or scattered. We're all that's left." 

He gestured to the few men around them—those who were battered but had made it out alive. 

The weight of their decimated numbers hung heavy in the silence that followed.

Thorne clenched his fists, his jaw working furiously as he struggled to contain his anger. 

"Zach, Kazaks and his damn Renaissance Band... Do you even know who we are?" 

He spat, the fury in his voice barely contained. 

"They'll pay for this. Every single one of them."

One of the older bandits, a veteran with a scar running from his temple to his chin, tried to speak some reason into the group. 

"Boss, we don't even know where they're headed. They could be anywhere by now. And if they fought like that once, they'll be ready again if we go after them. Maybe we cut our losses here..."

Thorne's eyes narrowed, and he grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him forward until they were nose-to-nose. 

"Do you think I care? Do you think I'd let them walk away after this? We'll find them. I don't care how long it takes, I'll make sure that arrogant warrior Kazaks and his precious 'band' know what it means to cross me."

He released the man with a shove, breathing heavily, his eyes scanning the remaining men. 

"Gather the rest of you. We regroup, we rebuild. And when the time is right... they'll know. They'll all know what it means to be hunted by me."

Suddenly—

A faint sound stopped them in their tracks—a steady, measured rhythm of footsteps approaching.

It was a single, deliberate stride, slow yet with an air of unbending purpose. 

Every man stilled, clutching their weapons and glancing nervously at one another.

Thorne, teeth gritted, raised his fist, signaling his men to ready themselves. 

"Stay alert," he hissed under his breath, eyes narrowed. 

"We're not alone."

As the footsteps drew closer, a shadow materialized from the trees—a tall, imposing figure that walked with an unnatural calm. 

In the dimness, they could make out the glint of dark armor and the quiet, almost casual grip of a spear at his side. 

The figure's presence alone filled the air with a sense of dread that made even the most seasoned bandits feel a shiver of unease.

Thorne's gaze sharpened, his grip tightening around his own weapon. 

He barked out an order. 

"It's one of them—move in! Surround him!"

His men surged forward, weapons raised, a few letting out battle cries as they charged. 

But the figure did not quicken his step or even raise his weapon. 

Instead, with a slight turn of his head, he looked at the first man who came close and, in one swift motion, plunged a spear through his chest. 

The bandit gasped, the life fading from his eyes before he could even cry out, as his body was tossed to the side like it weighed nothing.

More bandits closed in, enraged by the brutal slaughter, swinging their swords wildly. 

But the figure moved with a deadly grace, weaving through them with effortless precision. 

Each swing of his spear was lethal, finding vital spots with uncanny accuracy. 

One man's head snapped back as the spear drove through his throat, another fell screaming, clutching a bloody stump where his arm had been, his blood pooling on the forest floor.

Thorne's face contorted in horror and fury as his numbers dwindled with each passing second. 

The realization dawned that this was no ordinary foe. 

The man before him was skilled—too skilled to be some wanderer or mercenary.

They watched, paralyzed, as the figure cleaned his spear with a single, fluid motion. 

Then, in a voice as cold and detached as the wind slicing through the trees, he spoke.

"Bandits..." he began, his tone almost mocking

"Step forward... if you wish to rob me... come force it."

Thorne felt a surge of anger boil in his chest, but behind it was something he didn't want to admit: fear. 

It was in the way this man moved, so precise and calculated, not a shred of hesitation in his strikes. 

Thorne's heart skips a beat as he recognizes that presence—Eldritch, the Champion of Aetheria, with his long, unyielding spear glinting under the faint light, every inch of him emanating calm, controlled violence. 

The remaining bandits catch their breath, glancing uneasily between Thorne and the stranger, sensing the danger even if they don't fully understand its depth.

Thorne's jaw clenches as he steadies himself. 

"So, it's you, then," he says, voice a low growl. 

"Champion of Aetheria...or should I say Eldritch?"

Eldritch inclines his head, the faintest trace of amusement or acknowledgment flickering in his eyes. 

"And you are the Lost Knight," he replies, his voice steady, smooth. 

"Fitting, I think, considering how long you've been running."

Thorne's anger flares, tightening his grip on his broadsword, the pommel rough under his weathered palm. 

He gestures to his men. 

"Take him. Everything he has. Leave nothing."

The men advance, hesitation hanging thick around them, though Thorne's command sharpens their movements. 

But Eldritch doesn't flinch, doesn't shift even an inch. 

Instead, he meets each of them with an eerie calm, a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if sizing them up.

One by one, they charge, trying to circle him. 

Eldritch's spear moves like an extension of himself, fluid and deadly. 

He doesn't rush, each strike and parry almost graceful, as though he's dancing rather than fighting. 

The first man lunges; Eldritch sidesteps, the spear's tip slicing the man's throat before he even understands he's been hit. 

A second tries to catch him from behind, but Eldritch swivels, driving the spear backward, impaling him with chilling precision.

Thorne watches, his men dropping one after another, none lasting more than a heartbeat against Eldritch's prowess. 

"Eldritch... damn you..."

Eldritch moves like a shadow, unfazed and unhurried, his every action clean, efficient, deadly. 

He weaves through the chaos with such ease it feels surreal, almost as if the battle unfolds in slow motion for him, each man's downfall already anticipated before they make their move.

The last bandit stands, desperation and fear overtaking him as he raises his sword in a shaky grip. 

Eldritch approaches, his eyes cold, calculating, and the man stumbles back, terror plain on his face. 

With a swift motion, Eldritch finishes him, and silence falls over the battlefield, broken only by Thorne's heavy, seething breaths.

Now, only Thorne remains.

Eldritch and Thorne lock eyes, the weight of their history hanging heavily between them. 

Eldritch's expression shifts, almost imperceptibly—

A flicker of interest, perhaps, or disdain. 

He plants his spear in the ground, looking at Thorne with a level gaze that betrays no fear, only calm confidence.

Thorne raises his broadsword, his gaze dark, unwilling to yield, even if dread knots in his stomach. 

He knows Eldritch's reputation; he's witnessed his prowess firsthand. 

But surrendering isn't an option. 

Not here. 

Not now.

Thorne says, voice laced with forced bravado.

"So, this is where we end it?" 

Eldritch tilts his head slightly, his voice soft, almost mocking. 

"If that's what you wish, Lost Knight."

They begin circling each other, slow, deliberate, every step a calculated move. 

The air is thick with anticipation, a silent, dangerous dance as each watches the other's every movement. 

Thorne feints forward, testing Eldritch's reflexes. 

Eldritch doesn't budge, his gaze unyielding.

They strike, their weapons clashing with a resonance that echoes through the clearing. 

Thorne fights with every ounce of rage, desperation, and pride, each swing of his broadsword fierce, almost wild. 

Eldritch, in contrast, remains controlled, precise, as if the fight is merely a formality, each counter an exercise in restraint.

Blow after blow, they clash, Thorne's strength meeting Eldritch's skill. 

Thorne grits his teeth, determination hardening in his gaze as he pours everything into every strike, his muscles straining, his breaths ragged. 

Yet Eldritch is unyielding, absorbing each attack with a calm that borders on disdain, his spear finding openings that keep Thorne on the defensive.

The struggle stretches on, every movement magnified in the stillness around them, until finally, Eldritch's spear thrusts forward with a swift, precise motion that catches Thorne's arm, forcing him to drop his sword.

Thorne staggers back, clutching his bleeding arm, his face pale, his eyes filled with a bitter mixture of anger and resignation. 

Eldritch stands over him, spear pointed at his throat, his expression unreadable.

In the silence that follows, Thorne's labored breaths fill the air, a stark contrast to Eldritch's calm.

Eldritch leans in closer, the tip of his spear hovering dangerously near Thorne's throat, his gaze steady and piercing.

"Lost Knight," he says, his voice a smooth, mocking murmur. 

"The man who brought down Solaria all by himself, yet here you are, falling into the hands of Eldritch, the Champion of Aetheria. What a pity." 

He lets the words linger, watching the flicker of anger and humiliation in Thorne's eyes.

Eldritch's tone shifts, almost savoring each word as he continues.

"To think that you were once the strongest knight from Drakonium—Ybael's loyal knight, a legend, a man claimed as the strongest of us all, decades ago. And yet now..." 

He presses the spear just slightly closer, enough to make Thorne flinch but not yet enough to break the skin.

"Now, here you are, kneeling at my feet with my spear close to your throat. What happened, Lost Knight?" 

Eldritch's gaze narrows, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"Did time make you weak, or did something else break you?"

Thorne's hands clench, the frustration and helplessness simmering in his eyes as he grits his teeth against the humiliation. 

His pride, his identity as the Lost Knight, feels crushed beneath the weight of Eldritch's words.

Eldritch tilts his head, studying Thorne's face with a cold, detached curiosity. 

"I wonder, do you still believe you're a knight of Drakonium? Or did that loyalty die with Ybael? Tell me, Thorne... Do you still think yourself a man of honor?"

Each question cuts deeper than the spear could—

Stripping Thorne bare—

Leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of his own downfall.

Eldritch watches Thorne with a glint of disdain, his spear still hovering near the man's throat. 

Then, with a casual, almost dismissive gesture, he withdraws it, taking a step back and letting Thorne breathe, the humiliated silence thick between them.

Thorne stares at him, his body tense with suppressed rage. 

Eldritch's calm, mocking gaze doesn't waver as he speaks, his voice low but cutting.

"I could end you here," Eldritch says, his tone dripping with disdain. 

"But I think this—" he gestures around, to the bodies of Thorne's dead men scattered across the field.

 "—Is punishment enough. You get to walk away, Lost Knight. But remember this moment, and remember how far you've fallen."

Thorne's fists tighten, knuckles white with fury. 

The sting of Eldritch's words digs deeper than the spear could have. 

His mind flashes back to another recent humiliation—Kazaks, with his war hammer, had also spared him, a twisted mercy that felt more like a rebuke than a kindness. 

Now—

Twice defeated—

Twice humiliated.

Eldritch begins to turn, dismissing him entirely, as if Thorne isn't even worth the effort of a final blow.

But that's more than Thorne can bear. 

Still kneeling, he gathers his strength, his breath a ragged snarl as he forces himself to his feet, his gaze locked on Eldritch's back. 

With a shout, he lunges forward, swinging his broadsword in a desperate, reckless charge.

"ELDRITCH!"

Eldritch doesn't flinch. 

He plants his spear firmly into the ground, bracing himself, and then, in one swift, fluid motion, turns and strikes. 

Thorne doesn't even have time to register the move as Eldritch's fist connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backward.

Before Thorne can recover, Eldritch is on him, landing punch after punch with brutal precision. 

Thorne's vision blurs with each blow; his body, weakened by battle and humiliation, absorbs the relentless impact. 

Eldritch's fists are merciless, each strike intentional, controlled, leaving bruises that would mark Thorne's defeat for days.

Finally, Eldritch stops, standing over Thorne, whose body is now sprawled on the ground, bruised and broken. 

Eldritch looks down, unruffled, his breath steady. 

With a quiet, mocking disdain, he says.

"Still lost, Lost Knight?"

△▼△▼△▼△

As Eldritch stands over the bruised and beaten Thorne, a faint sound rises from the forest edge—a slow, deliberate applause, each clap echoing through the stillness. 

"Bravo. Bravo! Bravo!"

Eldritch straightens, his gaze shifting as he realizes they are no longer alone.

From the shadows of the trees, two figures emerge, stepping with purpose into the dim light of the clearing. 

At the forefront is a man robed in dark crimson armor, intricate designs etched along the edges, marking his stature. 

His aura commands attention, regal yet cold, his gaze fixed on the scene before him with an amused, almost predatory glint. 

Beside him, a tall, broad-shouldered knight with a stoic expression and a fierce intensity stands like a silent sentinel, his armor gleaming faintly in the low light.

Eldritch immediately recognizes the man in crimso, Ybael, King of Drakonium. 

"Ybael..."

A figure once thought nearly mythical, his very presence carries a weight that's almost tangible, pressing down on the clearing. And by his side stands Sentinel, his loyal friend and knight, known for his unmatched loyalty and strength, a living legend among Drakonium's ranks.

Ybael pauses a few paces away from Eldritch, lowering his hands as he finishes his slow applause. 

His gaze flickers over Thorne, bruised and beaten on the ground, before settling on Eldritch, his eyes glinting with both amusement and approval.

"Well done," Ybael says, his voice smooth and commanding. 

"To see the Lost Knight bested and brought to his knees...a rare sight indeed."

Eldritch doesn't respond immediately, meeting Ybael's gaze with a calm, steady intensity of his own. 

He feels the subtle shift in the atmosphere as, slowly, figures begin to emerge from the trees surrounding them. 

Ybael's men, armored and silent, step into the clearing one by one until they form a loose, wary circle around Eldritch and Thorne.

Ybael tilts his head slightly, his gaze assessing, as if taking in every detail of Eldritch's demeanor, his posture, the steadiness in his eyes. 

"I've heard tales of your skill, Champion of Aetheria," Ybael continues, a hint of admiration threading his words. 

"But seeing it firsthand... it's impressive. No one could bring down Thorne with such ease."

Sentinel remains silent, watching Eldritch closely, his stance alert, ready—though there's no immediate threat, the tension between the three men is palpable. 

Thorne, still on the ground, pushes himself up slightly, glancing bitterly at Ybael, his expression a mixture of shame and anger. 

The humiliation of being defeated—

First by Kazaks and now by Eldritch, gnaws at him.

Eldritch regards Ybael with a cool detachment, his grip on his spear steady, though he remains motionless, every sense alert to the soldiers encircling him. 

"Your praise is unexpected, King Ybael," he says, his voice calm but guarded. 

"I didn't expect an audience."

Ybael chuckles, a rich, almost unsettling sound. 

"I merely came to watch an old acquaintance meet his fate. Thorne here was once my most trusted knight, a warrior of unparalleled skill, yet..." he glances down at Thorne, his gaze hardening, "he chose the path of betrayal."

Thorne's face contorts with anger, but he doesn't speak, the weight of Ybael's condemnation hanging heavily in the air.

Ybael turns his gaze back to Eldritch, his expression softening slightly. 

"I have little tolerance for traitors, as you can see. But strength, loyalty—those, I value above all else. And you, Champion of Aetheria, have proven yourself as both."

Eldritch raises a brow, his expression unreadable. 

"Is this your way of saying you're impressed?"

Ybael smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

He steps closer, his tone shifting, almost persuasive. 

"Tell me, Eldritch—what drives a man like you? What purpose calls you to fight as you do?"

For a moment, Eldritch's calm, collected expression falters—

A shadow of something deeper passing over his face. 

He hesitates, as if weighing his words, and his hand instinctively tightens around the spear. 

His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and filled with a rawness that startles even Ybael.

"I fight..." Eldritch begins, his tone wavering ever so slightly, 

"For someone I lost. My daughter. She vanished without a trace, taken from me when she was only a child. Not a day passes that I don't think of her, wonder if she's alive, if she's out there somewhere, wondering why her father hasn't come for her."

Eldritch's gaze shifts, distant, lost in memories. 

"I've scoured every corner of Aetheria, every rumor, hoping for a glimpse of her. But every lead fades, slipping through my fingers. And all I've found is the Renaissance band, tearing through kingdoms and leaving chaos behind them—only more reminders of a world that devours the innocent."

Ybael watches him closely, his interest tinged with something softer, almost empathetic.

Eldritch's voice drops, filled with barely contained grief. 

"So, yes, I fight. But not for glory or power. I fight for the chance that, maybe, I'll find her someday—or, if not, that I can at least burn down the ones who took her, who turned this world into one where someone like her could simply vanish."

Eldritch's jaw tightens as he meets Ybael's gaze again, his composure steeled. 

"That's my purpose, King Ybael. It may not mean anything to you, but it's enough for me."

Ybael nods slowly as Eldritch finishes speaking—

His expression shifting, deepening with something like understanding—

Or perhaps something he's carefully crafted to seem like understanding. 

His gaze moves from Eldritch to Thorne, and then back again, as he studies them both with a calculated intensity.

"Your convictions run deep," Ybael begins, his voice smooth, almost soothing, like he's offering solace. 

"I see that you've each held on to something—something you believe is worth all this bloodshed and sacrifice. A daughter, a sense of lost honor... each one its own anchor, keeping you in place." 

He pauses, letting the words hang, settling into the silence, then continues, his tone almost reflective. 

"But is it enough to merely exist like this, clutching at broken remnants? To live bound to a quest with no end?"

Neither Eldritch nor Thorne responds immediately, but Ybael notes the flicker of uncertainty in each man's gaze. 

Eldritch's face is carefully controlled, but a hint of doubt flickers in his eyes. Thorne, still bruised and shaken, clenches his fists, his jaw tightening.

Ybael seizes on the moment, his voice lowering, weaving an almost hypnotic cadence into his words. 

"Think about it, a life defined by what you lack. What you've lost, what you're trying to recover, the battles you fight, hoping they'll bring some semblance of closure... but in reality, they only deepen your wounds."

He pauses, his gaze sharp and penetrating as he looks directly at Eldritch. 

"Tell me, Eldritch, in all these years of hunting, of wandering in search of your daughter—has it brought you any closer to finding her?"

Eldritch's face tightens, the answer painfully clear without him saying a word.

Ybael's voice softens, taking on a hint of almost fatherly compassion. 

"And you, Thorne... you think that vengeance, that attempting to cling to the shards of a lost legacy, will fill the void? Even now, look around you. Your men are gone. Your title is dust. And the world has moved on."

A tense silence lingers as Ybael's words settle like a weight in the clearing. 

Thorne's face contorts, his pride warring with the undeniable truth Ybael's words have stirred. Eldritch stares off, silent, but Ybael senses the slight tremor in his posture, the effect of doubt gnawing at him, however subtly.

"Imagine," Ybael continues, his voice threading a touch of promise through his words.

"If you could take that energy—those years spent grasping at the past—and turn them toward a true purpose. No more blind quests, no more wandering. No more empty struggles against ghosts and shadows. A new path, with purpose, with vision—with power."

He lets the word resonate, watching as both men, despite themselves, show a flicker of intrigue.

"A mission worth following, not just to patch the wounds of your past, but to build a future where no one else has to endure what you did. Imagine, Eldritch..." 

Ybael's gaze sharpens, striking at Eldritch's deepest wound with careful precision.

"...if you could remake a world where children like yours could never be taken in the first place."

Eldritch's breath catches slightly, his gaze meeting Ybael's with a wary intensity.

"And Thorne," Ybael says, turning toward him with a gaze softened just enough to feel like empathy.

"You could restore honor to the Drakonium name. Stand by my side as you once did—no longer lost, but a leader once more. You could have what you once believed was forever lost to you."

Thorne's face contorts, and Ybael senses his reluctance weaken, ever so slightly. 

He presses forward, his tone shifting to one of undeniable confidence—

As if his words contain an immutable truth. 

"Fighting without purpose leaves nothing but ruin in its wake. But imagine fighting for something grander, something worthy of your strength, your loyalty. Imagine if you weren't alone in that fight, if you had allies as committed to that purpose as you are. I can give you that, both of you. Together, we could create a world worthy of the strength that you both possess."

Thorne stares at Ybael, anger flaring in his gaze, but it's tempered by the undeniable logic of Ybael's words. 

The endless cycle of loss and bitterness he's endured suddenly feels small, petty, against the promise Ybael is painting—

A purpose, a place to channel his rage and rebuild his pride.

Ybael takes a step closer to Eldritch, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur, as if revealing a shared secret. 

"All these years, Eldritch, you've fought alone. You've borne the weight of a father's grief, and it has made you stronger. But imagine what you could achieve if you didn't have to bear that weight alone. Imagine, instead of one man fighting against the dark, if you had an army by your side, a force that could scour every hidden corner of this world in your search."

Eldritch's jaw tightens, the conflict in his eyes growing. 

He's lived a life defined by isolation, by a solitary path. 

Ybael's words are seductive— 

And though he knows he should resist—

He can feel the undeniable pull. 

His entire being is aching for an end, for anything that could bring closure, however unlikely.

Ybael's voice becomes almost a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. 

"You can keep fighting alone, clinging to this endless, uncertain hunt that may never bring you closer to her. Or... you can take control of your destiny, seize the power you need to bring an end to this search, once and for all."

Thorne, too, shifts, the mixture of bitterness and desperation in his gaze betraying the effect of Ybael's words.

He's lost everything; this might be the only way he can regain even a fraction of his former honor. 

Ybael's gaze flickers between them—

A glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he senses their resolve weakening.

Ybael steps back, letting the silence settle around them, his expression calm but watchful, ready to let his words work their way into the deepest recesses of their minds.

At last, Thorne breaks the silence, his voice hoarse with both anger and bitter resignation. 

"You ask for my loyalty now, after everything? After letting me fall?"

Ybael turns to him, his expression suddenly cold, almost unforgiving. 

"Do not mistake my intentions, Thorne. You chose this path. You made yourself a traitor. The only reason I'm offering you a chance at redemption is because I see that even a broken weapon may still have its use." 

His tone softens slightly, growing persuasive once more. 

"But redemption is possible. And, unlike the ghosts you chase, I can offer it to you—here, now."

Eldritch shifts, his gaze fixed on the ground, as Ybael's words dig deep. 

His daughter's image flashes in his mind, the years of struggle, the emptiness that haunts him still. 

He has always believed he could face the world alone, that he could carry this burden unaided. 

But Ybael's offer, has opened a crack in his armor.

Ybael watches them both, his expression unreadable, his words heavy with certainty. 

"Join me, and together, we can shape the future. Or... you can continue down your paths of ruin and bitterness, alone, haunted by the past."

He lets the silence settle, his words lingering, every syllable like a thread tightening around their minds, drawing them further toward his web.

As the silence thickens, a tome in Ybael's pocket opened its eyes.

The forest air shifts, heavy with an unseen force emanating from the tome—

As if it's alive—

Watching—

Waiting.

═════ ◆ TO BE CONTINUED ◆ ═════

◆ ◆ ◆ Author's Notes ◆ ◆ ◆

Arc 2 has officially began!!