I woke up after an unknown amount of time, enclosed in a shimmering, glass-like cocoon. The metallic sheet I had found was lodged at the very center of it, pulsing faintly. It must have generated this shield to protect me from the collapse. As if it could determine that I was now conscious, the barrier shattered.
The whole house was burned to the ground. Memories resurfaced about my years living here, just to be brutally cut short by the murder of my parents. Rage swelled up inside me. I was powerless, and the moment I could have done something, I was frozen. I watched while my family got slaughtered.
During these years living here, I forgot the harsh reality: war is a constant. No place can be safe forever; only power makes you safe. Your own power.
A violent fit of coughing wracked my lungs.
With the breaking of the protective shield, all the ash accumulating on top of it came down and filled the space I was in.
I need to get out of here, first of all.
Looking around me, everything seemed extremely fragile. A sudden gust of wind swept through the ruins, moving the ash resting on my right leg, and as I looked more closely, I could see that there was a hole where light was coming through. Luckily, I had enough space to move myself and bring my arms toward the hole. After some minutes of digging, I was finally able to remove all the ash and create an exit from this burned ruin.
The air was still. Little particles of ash drifted aimlessly. The once lively and vibrant village I called home was now no more than ruins. The only things still standing were the occasional stone walls, stubbornly clinging to the earth, almost as if they wanted to make the world remember that once a house and a family stood there.
The palisade was mostly burned down; only a few stumps now remained standing. The streets were muddy, with cadavers littered everywhere. As I walked, I saw the faces of my neighbors now lying on the street, frozen in time with anguish and terror. Now and then, there was also a fallen barbarian: massive men and women with intricate animalistic tattoos over their bodies. They were dressed in patches of fur and crudely made linen trousers. Most of them were barefoot, but some had hide scraps crudely wrapped around their feet and ankles.
As I turned the familiar corner leading toward the square, a hand grabbed my ankle.
A man—a barbarian—was using his teeth to hold a short sword. I stomped on his head with my other foot, making him groan in pain and release my ankle, but I lost my footing and fell against the wall standing behind me. As I tried to stand up, I winced in pain. I had probably dislocated my ankle falling.
The barbarian, now lying just four feet from me, recovered from the shock. His mouth was bloody, and a huge gash now marred his lips—probably caused by having a blade in his mouth. With one hand, he took the blade and used it as a hook to drag himself closer to me, while his other hand desperately tried to grab me.
Since I could not stand up, I frantically started to look around. Not so far from my right hand, a crude axe was lying, its heavy head stained with dried-up blood. It was heavy, but the adrenaline helped me a lot. I lifted it above my head, and once the barbarian was close enough, I let it fall.
The sickening crunch of bone echoed in the quiet street.
The blade fell straight into his head and lodged into the back of his cranium. He twitched for a few seconds and stopped.
Deep breath. Deep breath, Elvit. Breathe in and out, in and out.
His eyes, which before were filled with rage, were now peacefully closed. He seemed almost relieved that it had finally ended.
Killing someone like this felt a lot more personal than when I was shooting at enemies hundreds of meters away. Modern war almost completely stripped the cruelty and human factor from conflicts.
What snapped me out of my thoughts was the pain radiating from my ankle. Looking around, there was not much I could use. I removed the axe from the barbarian’s head after throwing all my weight in the opposite direction, but only the handle came off. Cheap quality, even in medieval times. But this was probably more useful anyway. I removed the barbarian’s shoes, unwrapped the rope that was holding the leather in place, and finally, after some work, I had a makeshift splint all for myself.
Supporting my weight on the wall behind me, I stood up once again, limping. I finally turned the corner and faced the square. The court was burned down, only its massive doors now standing. But what shocked me the most was that at the center of the square sat a huge mountain of cadavers. It was mostly made of barbarians, but I could see some soldiers wearing gambesons and half-plate armor mixed between them. And on top of the hill, standing hunched over a longsword, was a man wearing what seemed like full plate armor, with long white and black garments poking out from his arms and below his waist. As the light shone behind him, I felt blinded by the sheer scale of it.
After some failed attempts, I was finally able to climb to the top of the hill and took a closer look at the man. Before me stood a towering figure, entirely encased in blackened plate armor. The metal wasn’t just practical—it was etched with intricate gold filigree along the greaves, the heavy gauntlets, and the fully enclosed, tall-crested helm. A narrow vertical slit served as a visor, hiding whatever human face lay beneath and making him look more like a merciless executioner golem than a man. Underneath the solid breastplate, I could spot the dark, overlapping rings of heavy scale armor protecting his thighs.
Draped over his broad shoulders was a heavy white cloak, fastened tightly at the neck with a thick knot. At least, it should have been white. Now, it looked like a butcher’s apron. The lower half was completely soaked in a sickening mixture of fresh crimson and drying brown gore, completely ruining the elegant gold embroidery that lined its edges. The heavy fabric clung wetly to his armored frame, weighed down by the sheer amount of blood it had absorbed.
His steel-clad hands rested calmly, almost piously, on the golden, highly ornate crossguard of a massive two-handed longsword planted straight into the mud. The blade was freakishly long and slick with fresh viscera. He just stood there stoically amidst the corpses of my neighbors and the barbarian raiders, a grim, terrifying contrast of holy elegance and utter slaughter.
On one side of his garments, an emblem was etched: a black background with a falcon stomping over a tulip, and under it, the number seven stood proudly in gold. He was a Knight-Mage of the empire, people who were said to be able to command their ember with absolute precision and to force the ember of whatever was near them to obey their will. The Magister did not speak a lot about them, but he always treated them with great respect.
As curiosity got the better of me, I unfastened his helmet and removed it. Dark brown hair cascaded down, and a tired expression marred his face. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing; he was probably just exhausted. I pried his hands off his sword, put it back in the scabbard lying near his side, unfastened the belt, and slung it over my shoulder. I needed to bring the man to a safe place and heal him. He was the only one still alive here, and it could also be my only opportunity to make it out alive.
But I quickly discovered that his armored body was incredibly heavy, and I was far too weak to carry him. So, muttering an apology through gritted teeth, I dragged him to the edge of the hill. My broken ankle screamed in agony as I threw my weight against him and pushed him over. He slid down the gruesome slope, rolling and falling over the lifeless bodies, but luckily, his head did not hit anything hard.
Once I was also down the grotesque hill, I searched for a cart still standing. After finding one, and after at least an hour of agonizing effort, I hauled him on top. People normally tell you not to move an injured man, but I didn’t think nursing one on top of a hill made of corpses was the best idea.
The next three hours were spent trying to find some food and building what resembled a tent out of whatever I could find. Luckily, the barbarians did not have a lot of time to enjoy their loot.
Looking closer now at the man lying on the makeshift hay bed I had made, I saw he was of a darker complexion than me, more tanned. His hair was wavy, and he seemed to be in his thirties. As I removed his armor piece by piece, I could see numerous bruises on his body. Luckily, his armor protected him well enough, and no blade had cut him. What really impressed me was a marking he had on his neck: five lines clashed violently to form a beautiful structure of four triangles, each pointing in a different direction. The points were connected by curves, and the spaces between them were filled with intricate zigzag patterns that seemed to fight against the constraints of the lines. A circle enclosed the bottom half of the structure, featuring a single, small black dot in the exact center.
It didn’t look like a crude tribal tattoo. It looked precise, almost mechanical—a magical circuit or a containment seal for his ember, perhaps.
After cleaning the guy up, I could finally focus on preparing dinner. I took a sword I hoped was clean enough, started to cut the ham I had salvaged into thin slices, took some of the bread, and stuffed it with the ham. Homemade medieval sandwiches.
"Where am I..." a rough voice said. The man was awake.