The Forsaken

The afternoon sky was grey as ash and heavy with smoke. The air was thick with the smell of blood, mud and burning — a stench that clung to the skin and seeped into the lungs like a reminder that the world was dying. The battlefield resembled an abandoned slaughterhouse. Bodies lay in disarray, curled up in their final spasms or stretched out in dead stillness. The silence that followed the recent screams was more ominous than the roar of battle itself.

In the midst of this silence stood he — a tall, black-haired man with eyes as dark as a starless night. His face was stained with the blood of his enemies, and his robe, once black and proud, now clung to his body in red patches, as if the war itself had left its mark on him. He still held his sword in his hand. The blade dripped with blood, which flowed lazily onto the scorched earth.

Nerion.

He had no need to give orders — his men knew what to do. A select legion of assassins, his personal guard, mercilessly finished off the wounded, cutting through the battlefield like reapers among ripe grain. The cries of the dying mingled with pleas for mercy, but no one answered. The orders had been given many days earlier — this time, no prisoners of war. Those he was to capture, he had already captured long ago.

The enemy announced their surrender at dawn, deluding themselves that they would avoid total annihilation. But Nerion did not believe in mercy. He had warned them. He had had enough of prejudice, enough of betrayal, enough of beautiful words about peace. They were all just lies. War had only one ending — death. And he intended to deliver it personally.

"They had a choice," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. "They chose their own end."

His voice was calm, devoid of emotion, as if he were reading a passage from a chronicle whose content had long been decided. He looked into the distance, where the borders of the last of the rebellious kingdoms blurred in the smoke. His gaze expressed neither satisfaction nor triumph. It was empty. He waited.

For he had not conquered this continent for glory.

Not for power.

Not even for himself.

Nerion did not turn when he heard footsteps approaching. He did not need to. He would recognise that rhythm of marching even among a thousand others — heavy, confident, learned through years of service. The man stopped a few steps behind him and knelt on one knee, not daring to look up.

"My emperor..." he began in a tense voice, though he showed no fear. "The prisoners you designated have been secured. They have been separated and imprisoned as you ordered. None have escaped."

Nerion did not answer immediately. He stood motionless, staring at the horizon, where the smoke from the conflagration merged with the sky. Finally, he turned his head, looking at his kneeling subject from under heavy, blood-soaked eyebrows. His dark eyes were like wells, bottomless, without light.

"You call me emperor," he said coldly. "But you are mistaken.

He paused for a moment, allowing the words to sink into the tense air like poison.

"This continent can only have one empress. And it will know her soon. I am merely her general.

There was no question, no comment. The kneeling warrior bowed his head even lower, placing his hand on his chest in a gesture of absolute devotion. He knew that questions were unnecessary — not only because of loyalty, but because of the spell that was deeply rooted in his soul, entwining it like an iron hook stuck in the spine of his will. Nerion did not trust people. He did not need to. In a world where magic was both a law and a curse, a single well-crafted spell was enough to turn a man into a tool. To strip him of hesitation, mercy, his own thoughts. To chase away his conscience like an unwanted dog.

Nerion had created that spell himself.

And now every member of his legion — those he called his black blades — lived only for his commands. No questions. No dreams. No opposition.

He could not afford to have his subjects disobey him — not now, when the preparations for the great ritual were finally coming to an end.

The war had lasted fifteen years. That was all — and all — Nerion needed to destroy seven kingdoms, wipe ancient families to dust, tear down temples, and erase coats of arms from the pages of history. Each kingdom fell one after another, as if doomed from the start. No alliance survived, no army was strong enough, no magic too powerful to stop his march. Even attempts to seek allies outside the continent ended in failure for everyone. No one wanted to antagonise Nerion. Not when he was so effective at forcing kingdom after kingdom to bow down before him.

He was thirty-five years old.

He was still young.

But for Nerion, this moment was not the end — it was the fulfilment of destiny. Every blow, every kingdom that knelt before his power, every palace that burned — everything led him to this one moment. To her.

To Virea.

He learned about her when he was only twelve years old — about this young woman who had been erased from history as if she were a mistake, a failed experiment. But she was not a mistake. She was his sister. She shared the same blood as him. She was his other half. And she was dead. Murdered in secret in a ritual designed to protect the throne from "inappropriate heritage." Rituals so old that even the darkest books did not record them. But he found the answer. He found out what had happened to her.

From that moment on, his childhood was over.

From that moment on, he had only one goal left.

When he discovered the truth, he ceased to be a carefree boy and became a future strategist and executioner. A warrior in the service he had imposed on himself, which had since become the meaning of his existence. He learned not only warfare, but also ancient languages. Spells forgotten for centuries. Rituals that were bloody, dark, illegal even in kingdoms known for their cruelty. He acquired knowledge that damaged his mind and soul, but he paid no attention to it and continued on his path. Because every wound was nothing compared to what had been taken from him. What had been taken from her.

He knew that gaining power would not be enough.

He had to spill blood. A whole sea of blood.

And to do that, he needed the entire continent. Every stone, every sacrifice. Every ruler whose blood would be offered as a gift. And that was the only reason why those who now knelt in chains in the dungeons — kings, queens, princes — were still alive.

They were needed.

But not for long.

Nerion inhaled the smell of blood and smoke. The still-fresh corpses steamed in the warm afternoon air. His dark hair stuck to his neck, and his skin, though accustomed to the filth of war, itched from the dried blood. Still, he stood calmly. Like a statue amid the ruins. Like a messenger of the end.

"Take the weapons of the fallen. Everything, down to the last blade." Nerion's voice was quiet, but it carried across the battlefield with icy precision. "Before the peasants get the idea that they are anything more than food for the ravens."

The commanders nodded and moved towards the field without a word. The soldiers began to collect swords, spears, even broken shields. There was no looting, only cold calculation — he was taking away their hope before it could sprout.

"Build pyres. Burn everything." Nerion added after a moment. "I don't want the scavengers to have a feast. Neither humans nor dogs."

Without turning around, he closed his eyes and counted the days in his mind. There was a week left until the full moon. That was all he had left. Seven days to prepare everything — and every moment of them had to be used to the fullest.

"Return to the castle." He turned his head towards the waiting commanders. "Gather all the nobles who are still alive. Track them down, pull them out of the ruins, out of the caves, out of the holes under the corpses of their own children. Tomorrow I want to see them in the throne room. Together with the high priests of this country."

The commander kneeling at his feet did not raise his eyes. He did not dare. Nerion looked silently at his bowed figure for a moment, then spoke and gave another order:

"Bring the chief builder here as well. Tell him to come tomorrow at dawn. I want a detailed report on the progress of the work. There is little time left."

When the soldier left, Nerion gave another quiet order.

"Bring him."

That one word was enough. His subordinate asked no questions. He merely bowed his head and asked:

"Where should I bring him?"

Nerion looked towards a nearby hill. In the distance, it towered over the battlefield like a silent guard.

"There. I'll wait for him there."

He turned and headed towards the indicated location without looking back. He knew his men would follow his orders. They always did.

He made his way through a sea of dead bodies, over which hung a heavy smell of blood, smoke and death. Every step splashed mud and blood, but Nerion seemed oblivious to his surroundings. His thoughts were already far away.

He had just passed a bend in the trees when a heavy, iron-clad prison cart approached from the opposite direction. Two black horses pulled it slowly, as if reluctantly, and it was accompanied by guards on each side. Nerion stopped, and his gaze fell on the five bound figures inside the cart.

It was the royal family of the recently conquered kingdom — the former king, his wife and children, captured at dawn. They were tightly bound and gagged, and their torn clothes revealed signs of resistance and wounds sustained during the final battle. Their eyes were unconscious, dulled by sedatives. All these measures — carefully tied bonds, gags, sedatives — were intended to keep the prisoners alive. Nerion knew that people condemned to death often try to hasten it. To end their lives on their own terms and by their own choice. He couldn't allow that. He needed them all — alive.

He glanced at them — indifferent, cold, almost lazy. Their hatred was as irrelevant to him as snow to a fire. He was about to pass them when something stopped him in his tracks.

He raised his hand and the cart stopped immediately. The guards looked at him expectantly.

He walked to the side of the cart and stopped where the eldest child of the king who had been stripped of his throne and kingdom lay — the crown prince. The boy's face was bloodied, beaten and dirty, but still alive, still full of anger.

Nerion pulled the gag from his mouth with one movement, reaching between the thick bars of the carriage. The prince immediately spat at him, hitting him straight in the chest of his black, bloodstained cloak.

Nerion did not react. He grabbed the boy by the jaw, turning his face slowly in his hands, as if assessing the value of the goods. Without a word. Without a hint of emotion.

"He'll do," he said coldly. "Take him to the others."

The guards immediately obeyed the order. They entered the carriage and pulled out the young prince, who, despite his wounds, bonds and sedatives, struggled and screamed wildly, trying to free himself.

His mother and sisters began to thrash about and scream, though their voices were muffled by their gags. They tried to beg. Beg for mercy, for their lives, for anything.

But Nerion did not listen. He glanced just as dispassionately at the king's two daughters. This time, without a word, he pointed to one of them. The guards knew what their master's silent command meant and without a word pulled the young woman out of the carriage.

Nerion did not wait to see if his men would do their job well. He knew they would. He also knew that when he returned to his bedroom that evening, the woman he had pointed out would be waiting for him there.

He turned and moved on. Ahead of him lay a hill — and the one he had ordered to be brought there.

Climbing to the top, Nerion immediately spotted the silhouette of one of his guards. He stood motionless next to a prisoner bound in chains. The man sat on a stone, chained to an iron hook driven into the ground. His head was bowed, his grey hair falling over his emaciated face. From a distance, he could have been mistaken for an ordinary old man — hunched over, weakened, too tired of life to pose any threat.

But it was only an illusion.

For although the man did not look dangerous, although his body was weak and his hands trembled from cold and old age, the knowledge he possessed could bring destruction to the whole world. And Nerion knew this very well. It was this knowledge that he intended to use.

The shaman was the last priest of a faith that had long since been buried. Forgotten. Erased from all chronicles, condemned by all modern religions and persecuted by each of the seven kingdoms. It survived only in whispers, in oral traditions, in families so old that they still remembered the time of creation.

He knew the true names of the ancient beings. He knew the words that could open the Gates of Hell.

Nearly twenty years ago, Nerion found him and imprisoned him. Since then, he had kept him hidden, away from the world, away from the light, away from everyone. For two decades, he had protected him — and imprisoned him — only to now use his knowledge.

The shaman raised his head as Nerion approached. Their eyes met. There was no fear in the old man's eyes anymore. There was resignation. And regret.

"You're preparing for the end," he said quietly, hoarsely. "Or the beginning. It depends on how you look at it."

Nerion did not answer immediately. He paused, looking at him closely. Assessing him. Perhaps looking for even a trace of weakness. Or, on the contrary, a sign that the old man still remembered who he was.

"It won't be the end," he said at last. "And not the beginning. It will be a return."

The shaman narrowed his eyes.

"Do you still believe that you can get her back by opening those cursed Gates?" he asked. "That you'll find her there? Do you think that after all this... she's still waiting for you?"

Nerion was silent.

"I beg you," whispered the old man. "Give it up. It's not too late. You can still turn back before you bring something into this world that you won't be able to stop."

"You're wrong," Nerion replied calmly. "There's no turning back for me now."

"Have you even considered for a moment what you are really about to unleash? What evil awaits there? What ancient forces are you about to bring into a world that is not yet ready to bear them?"

Nerion smiled slightly. But there was no warmth in that smile.

"It doesn't matter to me," he said coldly. "I conquered this world for her. And if necessary... I will destroy it for her."

The shaman lowered his head. His jaw twitched, but he did not respond. Perhaps he already knew that he could not stop him. Nerion looked at him in silence — intently, without a hint of compassion.

"You have no choice," he said after a moment. Quietly, but firmly. "You know the bond I have bound you with. You cannot refuse me. You cannot lie or hide anything from me. You cannot leave."

"I know," whispered the shaman, raising his eyes with difficulty. "I know all too well. For years I have been living, though it is as if I were not really alive. You have taken everything from me."

Nerion took a step closer. He was now standing very close, almost above him. The shadow of his silhouette fell on the kneeling old man.

"Take a good look," he said firmly. "Look at this field. At the slope of this mountain. At the place I have chosen. And tell me if it is suitable."

The shaman hesitated. He knew he couldn't lie. The magic Nerion had woven around him years ago was like a thorn stuck in his soul — it burned with every attempt at disobedience. He had to tell the truth when he asked the question. Even if the truth meant the end.

He rose slowly from his knees, his bones creaking, his body trembling with age. He looked around.

The valley below the hill was still littered with piles of dead bodies. Burnt carriages, scattered banners, bloodstained flags of a family whose name would cease to exist that very night. The heavy, metallic smell of blood still hung in the air.

The shaman sighed quietly.

"Yes," he said hollowly. "This place is suitable. It is steeped in death. The blood that has soaked into this earth is enough to stabilise the Gate."

"Fine," Nerion replied emotionlessly.

But the old man wasn't finished.

"But you know that the one you want to bring back won't be the one you expect?" he asked bitterly. "Not after so many years in the depths of Hell. Not after what must have happened to her there."

He looked Nerion straight in the eye. "This is not love. It has long since ceased to be longing. It is obsession, Nerion. A disease that has consumed your heart and burned the world around you. You have destroyed kingdoms. You have overthrown dynasties. You have burned the world to get to the gate behind which, you think, the woman who is no longer there is waiting for you."

"Be silent," Nerion growled, though there was no anger in his voice. There was something far more terrifying: certainty.

"I will not stop begging you as long as I still breathe," the shaman continued weakly, as if he no longer believed that his words had any power. "Step back. Stop this before it's too late."

Nerion leaned close to his ear and whispered:

"Even if she returns changed... even if she returns as one of the demons inhabiting Hell, which you fear so much... I will still bring her back. Because she is all I have left. I owe it to her."

He fell silent for a moment.

"And if this world cannot accept her... it will be destroyed."

The shaman looked away. He said nothing more.

Nerion straightened up and looked at the sky. His gaze rested on the moon — not yet full, but getting closer to it. Looking back at the old man, he knew he didn't need to tell him when he wanted to perform the Ritual and open the Gate.

Nerion looked at the old man for a moment longer. Then he gave a short order to the guard:

"Bring him to me at dawn in three days. He will be needed for the preparations for the ritual."

He did not wait for confirmation. He turned and headed back towards the camp.

He had a week left.

One week until the full moon.

One week to open the Gates of Hell.

One week to bring her back.