The wind carried the scent of roses—faint, almost mocking in its delicacy—as it danced across the open plains beyond the Vaeroth Swamps. Shabuto stood atop a sunbaked ridge, his silhouette stark against the golden horizon. Three days since the battle. Three days since fire and shadow had torn through the mire, since he’d first felt Red awaken fully within him, since he’d forged Imperious, those twin nunchaku of blackened mist and crackling lightning that now hung at his hips like silent judges.
The swamp had clung to him, humid and suffocating, but this—this was liberation. Wide skies, clean air, the earth stretching endlessly beneath a vault of blue. Yet peace was a stranger to him now. Every breath tasted of resolve, of vengeance deferred.
Kawaki
The word had become a mantra. With each whisper, the memory replayed: the searing impact of steel on demistral, the surge of stolen life flooding through him like molten wine. He’d learned that day what Red truly hungered for—not just blood, but essence. The vitality of those he struck drained into his weapon, into him, amplifying strength, reflexes, mending wounds before they could fester. And then came the fire rune, En, igniting the stolen lifeforce into a new kind of flame. Not just heat. Not just destruction. Demonic combustion.
"Could... my other runes be used?" he murmured, fingers brushing the cold chain of Imperious. En for flame. Ur for lightning. Zeth for binding. Orion for silence. What would happen if he channeled Meyra through siphoned life? A frost that froze souls? A silence so deep it stopped hearts?
He dismissed the thought—too dangerous to experiment blindly. But the potential hummed in his veins, a promise whispered by Red itself.
"Mara… I’m coming."
Her name etched a wound deeper than any blade. Ghena—her kingdom, her home—now a prison beneath the iron heel of this "Order of Naveah". Hunters clad in gilded faith hunted Fae like vermin, twisting sacred rites into tools of torment. And Ophelle… the monster of a woman—her whip, Epine, alive with a voice not its own—had confirmed his fears.
There was a connection. Between Fae and Demon. Between Red and whatever demon had empowered her blade. There was a commonality of sorts between Fae and the Demons. It could also shed light on Red itself, a Desire on the level of Sophia's own demon.
And the one he used to be in servitude, Grixas, leader of the Nightmare Wolves.
"Sophia...Grixas."
Her name tasted not of metal, but of smoldering coal; the fury it sent through him was one he could barely contain. Had he not been so selfish and paid just an ounce of attention more to the sorcereess phony facade. He and Haylin might have been able to stop Sophia and her damn ritual. Grixas, his former lord and master, titles he would never allow another to force onto him ever again. He knew the depth of the powers he was up against, and though he was growing in strentgh ti was still far, far from enough to deal with either of them, let alone them both.
Rage boiled in his gut, a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Then—snap.
A deer, startled by his stillness. Shabuto’s breath hitched. His reflection shimmered in a rain-puddled hollow nearby—eyes ablaze with crimson-tinged fury, veins pulsing with Red’s influence.
Ophelle’s taunt returned, uninvited. Mocking. Prophetic.“Children of wind barely remember their left from their right. Surely incapable of eyes that glare with such hatred.”
His jaw clenched. The anger wasn’t just his. It was Red’s. The Desire fed on wrath, on violence, on the endless cycle of taking and consuming. And Shabuto was beginning to fear he wasn’t controlling it—he was negotiating with it.
But vengeance was a long road. And he wouldn’t reach the end of it as a monster.
No. He would become something greater.
Drink.
Grow.
Become.
The primal chant of Red. To regain its lost power, to grow stronger, it had to face horrors. Devour their essence. Ascend.
And Mara—his partner, his last tether to the man he once was—was trapped in the heart of one such horror.
Ahead, the land dipped into a valley, and there it stood: The Gates of Haven.
A colossus of risen stone, twenty feet high, stretching across the pass like the jawbone of a giant. Carved with runes of banishment and warding sigils pulsing faintly blue, it sealed off Gehena from the outer realms. Guard posts lined the ramparts, archers on patrol, their armor emblazoned with the sigil of Naveah—a golden flame over a shattered horn.
A caravan approached—the clopping of hooves, the creak of wooden wheels. Four figures: traders, by their garb. The lead man handed a document to the gate warden. After brief scrutiny, the massive doors groaned open.
Shabuto had no pass. No claim. No right.
But he had other ways.
His gaze lifted to the top of the gate, where a murder of crows perched like omens. Dire Crows—no, not the same. These were smaller, native to the mainland. But the principles of Druidic communion were universal. Intent. Spirit. Bond.
He knelt, scooped a handful of soil, and murmured an incantation in the old tongue. The dirt shimmered, laced with spirit dust. With a breath, he sent it spiraling upward like smoke.
The crows scattered—except one. It inhaled the dust, paused, then cocked its head.
"Easy, bud… just need your eyes. I’ll be out of your way soon, promise."
Through the crow’s senses, the world sharpened. He saw double—the ridge beneath his feet, and the stone parapet above. Two guards. Distracted. Laughing. One is picking at his armor, the other scanning the horizon.
Too few. Overconfident.
Perfect.
He released the bird. It flapped away, joining its kin.
"Alright... let's do this."
Shabuto closed his eyes. Raised his hands.
And called the sky.
The wind answered first—a slow, gathering sigh. Then pressure built in the atmosphere, subtle shifts in the air's charge. He wove strands of moisture, summoned ions from the earth, and pulled cloud from vapor. Not a storm. Not yet. Just a shadow.
Above the Gates of Haven, the sun dimmed.
One moment, brilliance. The next dusk.
"By the Flame, what in the hells?!" a guard shouted.
The caravan halted. Townsfolk in the distant market plaza gasped, shielding their eyes. The guards at the gate stumbled back, hands on swords, scanning the sky in panic. The sudden eclipse defied nature—no moon in sight, no storm front. Just darkness, thick and unnatural, swallowing a quarter-mile of sky.
Chaos. Confusion. And in that chaos—opportunity.
Shabuto moved.
Na-ten. The air coiled beneath his feet. He sprinted forward, limbs light as wind, and ran up the sheer face of the outer wall, each step buoyed by gusts of his making. Not magic. Not flight. Harmony with the wind.
He crested the top in seconds.
Below, in the courtyard, a hay wagon sat loaded—abandoned, just within the gate.
No time to hesitate.
He leapt.
The darkness above began to fray—sunlight piercing through as the clouds dissipated. The guards cursed, bewildered.
"Where did it go?!"
"Did you see something?!"
But it was too late.
Shabuto hit the hay, burying deep, heart pounding like a war drum. Above, the sky cleared, as if the shadow had never been.
Silence.
Then—normalcy. The guards muttered about omens. The caravan rolled forward. Life in Haven resumed.
But within the kingdom, buried in straw and secrets, Shabuto smiled.
He was inside the wall, but not yet in the city.
The team