Prologue
The Church of Erosin stood as a testament to both devotion and the passage of time, its towering spires stretching toward the heavens like silent prayers cast in stone. Built upon the bones of an era long past, its weathered façade bore the scars of history, cracks running like veins through the marble pillars, ivy creeping along its edges, as if nature itself sought to reclaim it. Stained-glass windows, set high above, told the stories of saints and martyrs, their vibrant colors muted under the gray, overcast sky. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense, curling in delicate tendrils from golden braziers placed near the altar. It clung to the ancient stone walls, mingling with the lingering aroma of melted candle wax. Dozens of candles burned in neat rows, their soft, flickering glow casting long, wavering shadows that danced along the polished floor like restless spirits. The hush of the sanctuary was broken only by the occasional crackle of a wick, the distant dripping of water from some unseen leak, and the murmured prayers of the faithful. At the very heart of this solemn space, Prince Rory knelt before the grand altar. His posture was rigid, disciplined, his head bowed in silent contemplation. Prince Rory carried himself with the careful poise expected of royalty, his emerald-green attire rich with intricate embroidery, a mark of both status and purpose. Dressed for a formal visit, every detail of his clothing spoke of refinement, his presence a blend of youthful elegance and quiet dignity. His short blonde hair, neatly kept, framed a face that had yet to bear the weight of a crown, his green eyes bright with curiosity, yet edged with the burden of expectations. Standing at an average height, he did not rely on stature to command attention but rather the grace of his words and the quiet confidence of one who knew his name carried meaning, even if he had yet to define it himself. He had shut out the world beyond these walls, surrendering to meditation, seeking solace in a moment that would not last.
Beyond the sanctuary doors, however, peace was far more fleeting. Drake stood beneath the looming shadow of the church, arms crossed, eyes lifted to the sky as the first droplets of rain began their slow descent. Drake might blend into a crowd at first glance, but there's an undeniable air about him, those hints at more beneath the surface. His blonde hair, short in the front and tied into a small braid in the back, frames a face marked by baby blue eyes that seem to carry an unspoken depth. Though his build is average, there's an unassuming strength in his posture, as if his true power lies hidden just beneath his skin. He dresses differently from most knights, opting for practicality over tradition. His long-sleeved shirt, tight around the arms to prevent the sleeves from hanging, is a muted grey, with chainmail worn beneath for added protection. A simple grey breastplate rests on top, designed for mobility rather than grandeur. His pants, dark olive green and seemingly out of place, are worn and rough, as are his brown boots both functional, if not fashionable. His appearance might not demand attention, but those who look closely might sense the quiet force he carries within. They landed in soft, rhythmic taps against his armor, gathering into darkened patches before trailing down the worn material. He stretched out a gloved hand, watching the droplets gather at his fingertips before shaking them off with a quiet scoff.
"Great," Drake muttered, voice laced with dry annoyance. "It would start to rain. Just our luck." The first drops pattered against the dirt, darkening the earth in uneven splatters before growing into a steady drizzle. A bitter wind rolled through the church courtyard, carrying the scent of damp stone and wet leather. It was the kind of night where silence stretched just a little too long, where the shadows at the edge of the torchlight seemed to breathe.
Beside him, Ferin leaned lazily against the rough-hewn stone of the church wall, arms folded across his broad chest. His armor was worn but reliable, the leather creased and darkened with age, its scent mingling with the rain. A scruffy beard, streaked with silver, clung to his face, giving him the air of a man who had seen far too many nights like this. Unlike Drake, he didn't flinch at the rain; he welcomed it, tilting his face up slightly as if greeting an old companion. "You look bored, boy," Ferin remarked, his tone holding the barest hint of amusement.
Drake scoffed, shifting his weight as his gaze drifted toward the church doors. Inside, Rory was still praying, as if the gods would whisper their blessings to him if only he knelt long enough. It wasn't that Drake disrespected faith, but standing in the cold rain while his friend mumbled to the heavens? That was another matter entirely. "Aye," Drake sighed, running a gloved hand through his dampening hair. "Rory takes forever to pray." A smirk tugged at his lips. "It's a wonder the gods haven't answered him by now."
Ferin gave him a sideways glance. "You should address the prince as 'Your Grace.' It's his proper title."
Drake rolled his eyes. "I've known Rory for years. I'm one of the few men who can call him by name."
Ferin exhaled, shaking his head. "Aye, you're right. For now." His tone, however, darkened, turning quiet but firm. "But one day, he will be king. Learn your respect before it's too late. I don't want to be the one putting a dagger through your heart."
Drake blinked. For all his usual ease around Ferin, that statement settled uncomfortably in his chest. He turned to face the older man fully, his jaw tightening as if forming a retort but before he could speak, movement from the courtyard caught his eye. Michale approached, his cloak already soaked through, dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead. The young man was restless, his fingers fidgeting against the hilt of his sword. The rain had worsened, turning from a light drizzle to a steady, oppressive downpour. Puddles pooled beneath their boots, reflecting the wavering torchlight in their rippling surfaces. "Commander," Michale said, glancing between the two men. "The weather's turning. Should we make camp here for the night?"
Ferin's jaw tightened as he scanned the horizon. Thick clouds hung low, suffocating the moon's glow. The road ahead would be nothing but treacherous mud and unseen dangers lurking beyond the reach of their steel. "Aye," he finally said, his voice firm. "No use traveling in this storm. We make camp here."
Before anyone could move, the sharp hiss of an arrow split the air. The arrow struck Michale with unerring precision, burying itself deep into the young man's skull, piercing his eye socket. He crumpled to the ground, his body collapsing in a heap, blood seeping into the wet earth. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The sound of the rain was deafening, yet everything was too quiet. Then, Ferin's voice cracked the silence. "Men, to arms! We're under attack!"
Drake's sword was out in an instant, the steel catching the fading light as he prepared for the ambush. Shadows appeared from the mist, figures cloaked in darkness, charging toward them. The air was thick with the stench of rain, sweat, and blood as Drake collided with the first of the attackers. He swung his sword with precision, slicing through the first man's defense before driving his blade deep into the man's chest. The attacker gasped once, then fell to the ground, lifeless. Another figure came at him from the side, and Drake spun, meeting the strike with his own. The clang of metal rang in his ears, the rain beating down harder now, but he was focused. Every movement was sharp, every swing calculated.
Nearby, Ferin was engaged in his own brutal dance. Outnumbered three to one, he moved with terrifying speed. His sword plunged into the first man's chest, the sound of flesh and bone giving way to the steel. Without missing a beat, he reached down, snatching a dagger from the fallen foe's belt and throwing it with deadly accuracy. The blade embedded itself into the second man's eye, dropping him like a puppet with its strings cut. Ferin shoved the first body forward into the third attacker, knocking him off balance, then yanked the dagger from the dead man's eye, slashing across the third attacker's throat.
Drake's eyes narrowed as he finished his own fight, the last assailant crumpling to the ground. He wiped his blade on his tunic and looked around. The fight was turning in their favor. But the tension in the air was thick, and Ferin's voice cut through the battlefield. "Drake. Go protect the prince!"
Drake nodded, his heart pounding as he bolted toward the church doors. He ran, his boots slipping slightly on the wet stone, until he reached the double doors leading into the sanctuary. The church was silent, save for the muffled sounds of battle outside. He threw open the doors, but what he saw inside made his blood run cold. Prince Rory lay sprawled across the cold, stone floor. A long sword pierced his body, the blade sticking out from his chest. His eyes were wide open, unseeing, his hands frozen in mid-motion as if trying to grasp at life itself. Standing over the prince's body was a man Drake never thought he'd see again. Dion. Dion has a ruggedness to him that's impossible to ignore, even if his features don't immediately stand out. His brown hair and brown eyes are unremarkable, but his presence is anything but. There's a certain roughness in his demeanor, the kind that hints at a life lived on the edge. His voice, deeper than most, carries with it the authority of someone accustomed to commanding space, a bully's edge that can't be easily shaken off. Draped in full black armor, Dion's attire is imposing, sleek and heavy, with scarlet red lines flowing across the surface like streaks of blood. The armor reflects him: tough, unapologetic, and undeniably striking despite its simplicity. His stance and the glint of his eyes suggest a man who's always ready for a fight, even if his handsome face is the last thing anyone might notice at first. The memories flooded back to Drake, memories of the days when Dion had been his comrade, his friend. But that was before the building collapsed on Dion. But Dion stood there now, his cold eyes locked on Drake. The blood on his sword was still fresh, dripping down the blade as he casually wiped it clean with the back of his hand. Drake's breath caught in his throat. "It can't be... No... how?! Dion!! Why? How?"
Dion turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. "You don't understand, Drake. And I understand why. I don't blame you."
Drake took a step forward, fury burning in his chest. "You killed him! We served him and his father for years. Explain yourself! How are you even alive? I watched you die!"
Dion's gaze softened for a moment, but only for a second. "You don't know the truth, Drake. This world... it's not what you think. Once you understand the truth, you'll understand." The words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Drake's mind reeled as echoes of a woman's voice filled his head, distant but clear: "Find and understand the truth."
"How did you survive? The building... it collapsed on you!" Drake's voice cracked with emotion; disbelief was written across his face. "The past is the past, Drake. It doesn't matter anymore. This world... it's all a lie. A dark shadow clouds everything. The truth is there, but there's more to the story."
Drake's fists clenched, his body shaking with the weight of the revelation. "What truth? Tell me, Dion!"
Dion took a step forward, his eyes locked onto Drake's. "This life... it's a lie. There's corruption everywhere. Lies we don't see, death we don't understand. Find the truth, Drake. Then come find me." Drake, his mind reeling, moved to strike, but before he could, Dion dodged with great speed, landing a punch to Drake's gut. The force knocked the wind from his lungs, and before Drake could recover, a swift kick to his head sent him crashing to the floor, his vision blurring. "Find the truth, Drake," Dion's voice echoed as he turned and walked away, leaving Drake to collapse in the cold, wet stone of the church floor. "And then... you will understand." As the world around him grew dim, Drake reached out a trembling hand. "Dion, why?" he whispered, the weight of the loss suffocating him.
And then, everything went dark. In the silence that followed, Drake's mind drifted into a deep, unyielding slumber, his dreams pulling him back to days long gone. He saw Dion again, three years ago, when the world had been different. When they had been brothers in arms, not strangers of a ghost of the past.
