The camp had been set. After days of moving through mud, blood, and mist, they finally reached the heart of Dahaka's southern rim, an old stone clearing nestled between jagged hills. There, the knights unloaded crates of provisions and weapons, reinforcing their temporary bastion with sharp stakes and simple barricades.
A fire was lit in the center of the camp. Around it, some knights sharpened blades, others mended armor, and a few simply sat in silence, their faces weary but watchful. The old guide gave short instructions on how to arrange tents in a defensive arc.
"This place reeks of old blood," muttered one of the knights, glancing warily at the surrounding mist.
"Better than rotting in a cell," another grunted, throwing down his pack.
"It's too quiet," a younger knight added, his voice low. "Too calm."
Aden didn't linger.
That night, as the moon hung high and silver winds rustled the branches, he wandered away from the flickering fires. Under the watchful silence of the stars, he sat with the Book of the Vasco Memoir once more.
The same poem greeted him. Familiar, but something had changed.
This time, he saw it—not just in words, but in movement.
Hidden beneath the poem's cryptic sorrow was a technique. A sword form laced between metaphors of wind and shadow, with a footnote beneath outlining the finesse required—swift limbs, subtle breathing, power tucked behind grace.
To anyone else, it would seem incomplete—scribbles of grief and pride masquerading as instruction. But to Aden, it stirred something deeper.
He drew his blade.
The edge caught moonlight as he mimicked the form. His movements were rough, raw, but the shape was taking form. Each slash hummed like a forgotten hymn. Each breath carried rhythm. And through it all, a strange memory pulsed at the edge of his mind—a faint image of his father's voice guiding his younger self through the very same form, in a time that felt distant and unreal.
From the treeline, the old guide stood there, arms crossed. He said nothing, just watched as the past unfurled itself through the boy.
He muttered to himself with a sigh. "Like Father, Like Son."
Four days passed.
Dahaka had remained oddly quiet. They encountered only scattered beast packs—nothing worth bleeding over. And yet, each night, Aden slipped away to carve shapes into the wind with his blade. Each motion became sharper. Cleaner. Like muscle memory returning from a life not lived. The poem slowly gave way, piece by piece. He could now see the verses were more than mourning—they were instruction, layered with meaning, grief turned to steel.
On the morning of the fifth day, the guide gathered them around.
A parchment map was unfurled across a stone slab, weighed down by daggers. His fingers traced lines and ridges, terrain that twisted like broken spines.
"This here," he rasped, tapping a black circle, "is an old orc settlement. Our scouts call it the Bone Village. A high orc commands it—mutated, twisted. Bigger, smarter, meaner. One of the oldest packs still holding territory."
Grumbles rippled through the knights.
"And what of the numbers?" asked one knight, furrowing his brow.
"Fifty, maybe more," the guide answered. "A frontal assault would be suicide. We'll need to draw them out."
Suggestions flew from all sides.
"We could charge from the back, kill them when they are distracted."
"A split advance from both ridges. Take the flanks."
"They'll expect that. Orcs aren't dumb, ...not anymore."
Aden stood apart, eyes locked on the map.
He thought hard. How to raze the village without bleeding too many? He turned the plan in his mind, again and again—but found no perfect answer. The image of fire and slaughter flickered behind his eyes.
Then the new hound leader, armored and battered by years, turned to him. "What do you think, Vasco?"
Aden didn't blink. He folded his arms and spoke coolly. "I've got it under control."
"What's the plan?" the captain asked.
He put together what little he knew about orcs behavior and in that moment formulated a plan that he thought was the best shot, if they wanted to return alive,
Aden leaned in and pointed at the terrain surrounding the village. "We don't charge. We circle them, pressure the outer huts, light them with oil. Force them into the open in chaos. When the high orc comes to take charge, we strike him first—fast and hard. Cut off the head, then the body crumbles."
The knights looked at him in disbelief.
"You're gonna get us all killed," one of them spat, stepping forward.
Before the captain could intervene, Aden's gaze pierced through him. "Then don't get in the way."
Silence followed.
The captain finally spoke, steady and firm. "Do you think this will work, Vasco?"
Aden stared at him for a moment, then replied, "Quit with the questions and just follow the plan."
By dawn, they departed.
Wolves lunged from the underbrush. Goblins tried to ambush from the ridges. They cut them down with grit and steel, pushing forward toward the village. Blood soaked into the earth with every step, the sun rising like a blade's edge in the sky.
By Sunset, they stood before it.
Smoke drifted from crooked chimneys. Shadows moved between huts. And somewhere deeper, something larger breathed.
Aden stared at the settlement, wind tugging his cloak as the horizon swallowed the sun.
He raised his hand.
"ADVANCE!!"
And as his voice echoed through the dying light, he smiled.
They had sent him into the mouth of monsters, hoping it would break him.
But it was in this cursed land, beneath the dying sun, that Aden Vasco found something more than survival.
They cast him to be devoured by beasts.
Tonight, ruin marched—on two feet, with sword in hand, and a name heavy with scars.
Vasco.