Aden and the hounds stood at the edge of Dahaka for the final time. The sun peeked over jagged cliffs as the cold wind howled through the remnants of what was once a blood-soaked battlefield. Silence reigned among them as they packed their belongings. Even the birds seemed reluctant to sing here.
"Never thought I'd miss this cursed place," Ilric muttered, slinging his blade across his back.
Aden cast one last glance at the dark horizon, the scent of ash and iron still heavy in the air.
They leave behind more than Corpses, They left behind the people they were.
The journey toward the capital began. The terrain shifted from barren wastelands to frost-covered plains, then to muddied valleys carved by winter runoff. Each step was a quiet drumbeat of purpose, their breath misting like smoke as the days passed.
There was space for reflection.
"I still remember when I thought you were going to gut me in my sleep," Kellan said, half-joking.
Aden smirked. "Don't get too comfortable. I still might."
They shared a laugh, the kind born from survival and shared scars.
By the fifth day, they encountered a column of noble escorts on horseback—lavish carriages bearing crests of minor houses, silk banners fluttering in the wind. As the hounds stepped aside to let them pass, the nobles eyed them with suspicion. A few whispered, their eyes locking on Aden.
"Is that... him?" one of the younger nobles whispered a little too loudly. "The beast of Dahaka?"
Aden said nothing, simply walking forward.
But the whispers didn't stop. A well-dressed noble with slicked-back hair and a curled sneer urged his horse ahead of the others. "You there," he called, pointing. "The one in black. Are you the guy they sent back from the grave?"
The hounds stopped. The air thickened.
Aden didn't respond immediately. He walked slowly toward the noble, his boots crunching the frost-bitten earth. He stopped just short of the horse's snorting muzzle, his eyes cold and steady.
"I've been called worse," Aden said, voice calm as still water. "But I wonder... who calls you anything at all?"
The noble smirked. "Careful how you speak, mongrel. You're still dirt, even if the Dahaka dusted you off."
A sudden pulse of bloodlust surged from him, subtle but sharp—like a blade drawn in the dark. The noble's horse reared violently, neighing as it nearly threw him off. The guards flinched, reaching for their weapons.
One of the guards recognized him, the knight whose eyes widened in terror as he spoke. "Aden Vasco..."
Everyone who heard those two words stood there in silence, the noble now understanding the man he messed with.
But Aden didn't move. He didn't need to.
"You think yourself above me," he said, voice now low and quiet. "But you're just the kind of man who survives by hiding behind names and silk."
He turned his back on the noble, walking away. "Try speaking like that in Dahaka. The corpses might laugh."
No one else spoke a word as the nobles passed. The road felt colder after they were gone.
That night, they made camp beneath a starlit sky. The crackling fire did little to chase away the chill.
Aden drifted into uneasy sleep, haunted by something older than blood. In his dream, a younger version of himself stood before him in a quiet garden, flipping through a familiar book—The Vasco Memoir.
The boy looked up. "Even monsters rest their blades... when they remember why they were drawn."
A surge of pain thundered through Aden's chest. His vision blurred as the book dissolved, and mana pulsed through his veins like molten fire. He gritted his teeth, fighting the sensation, his limbs twitching.
When he awoke, sweat clung to his skin like frost. Ilric was watching from the edge of the firelight.
"Another dream?"
"Another ghost," Aden replied.
By dawn, the towering spires of the Imperial City rose on the horizon—ornate and cold like a crown of stone.
At the gate, soldiers stepped forward, hands on hilts. "State your name and purpose."
Aden didn't flinch. "By order of the Emperor, I've been summoned."
The soldiers hesitated. "Name?"
"Aden Vasco"
Recognition, then fear, dawned in their eyes.
Just as their hands began to twitch for their weapons, Bren appeared, holding up a sealed scroll. "Stand down," he called. "He's expected."
The guards parted.
As the gates creaked open, the city's noise swelled—a cacophony of life and lies.
Aden stepped through them not as a criminal or a hound—but as something else entirely.
Feared. Free. And finally... seen.
He was walking right into the Lion's Den.
But this time, he wasn't the prey.