Callan awoke with a sharp, jarring pain in his chest.
His eyes shot open just in time to see Galar's boot pressing firmly down on him, the cold weight of it driving the air from his lungs. He gasped, coughing as the taller man loomed overhead, silhouetted against the pale, early dawn light creeping into the tent's open flap.
"You sleep like you've got a register on the wild," Galar muttered, his voice flat and disapproving. "Like nature needs your permission to kill you."
Callan groaned, dazed, trying to make sense of the words, chest aching beneath the pressure. "What's a regis—?"
Before he could finish, Galar grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him up with a single, effortless pull. Callan stumbled to his feet, breath catching, legs still weak from sleep.
"No more questions. It's time," Galar said simply. "Training of the body."
Callan blinked, shivering in the cold morning air as Galar stepped back and dropped his heavy cloak beside the fire, revealing the lean, brutal frame beneath his armor. With barely a glance back, the inquisitor dropped down and began lowering himself toward the ground—then pushing back up. Again. Again. Muscles flexed with each movement, steady and controlled.
Callan stood there, confused, until Galar looked up, his expression unamused.
"Push the ground," Galar said, as though it should have been obvious. "Up. Down. Until you feel like your arms will tear off."
Callan hesitated, but obeyed, trying to mimic the motion. His arms trembled before the third repetition.
Then Galar stood and began another set of movements—lowering himself as if preparing to relieve himself in the woods, then rising. Over and over, slow and deliberate.
Callan watched, bewildered.
"Now do this," Galar ordered, continuing the squat. "Up. Down. Like you're about to shite, but too proud to finish the job."
Callan stared, wide-eyed, but said nothing. He simply started moving, awkward and stiff, his breath visible in short bursts, pain already creeping into his legs.
Somehow, the cold air felt sharper now.
By the time Galar was satisfied with the squats and the "ground-pushing," Callan's limbs were trembling, soaked in sweat despite the biting cold. His lungs burned with every breath, and his arms felt like sacks of wet flour. But Galar wasn't finished.
"Now run," he said simply, motioning in a wide circle around the clearing. "Don't stop. Run until the sun's fully risen. Then we carry."
Callan blinked, stunned. "Run… around the camp?"
Galar's stare was answer enough.
He ran. Or stumbled. Or limped, half-frozen, his breath dragging sharp and ragged through clenched teeth. His legs screamed. His lungs begged. But still he circled, watched now and then by Rhenar, who sat sharpening a long, curved dagger, as if the sound of metal on stone was more pleasant than the boy's suffering.
Then came the rocks.
Heavy stones, some half his size, had to be lifted—no rolled—and carried from one side of the camp to the other. Then back. Then again. Galar said nothing about why. Just pointed, watched, nodded when it was done, then pointed again.
By the time the scent of breakfast filled the air, Callan was a broken twig barely held together by sheer will.
He sat slumped near the fire, the warmth like a distant dream. His hands shook as he held the wooden bowl, staring into the thick stew like it might bite him if he dared eat.
His stomach growled painfully, but his body refused to move. The food sloshed slightly as he tilted it, poking half-heartedly with the worn spoon.
Then came Galar's voice, sharp and unquestionable.
"Eat. All."
The words hung in the air like a commandment.
Callan swallowed hard.
The real horror had just begun.
After breakfast, there was no time to linger, no room for rest. Galar gave the signal, and the horses were prepared again. Callan's legs ached like torn cloth, his arms barely obeyed him as he gathered his things, every breath a silent curse.
Mounting up was worse than the run. The simple act of lifting his leg over the saddle sent a flash of pain through his entire body. Galar said nothing—he didn't need to. His silence was a judgment heavier than any scolding.
Callan climbed up behind him with the stiffness of a corpse and clung on, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek every time the horse jostled beneath them. The rhythm of the ride, once exciting, now felt like punishment—a constant reminder of how weak he still was.
They rode on, silent as ever. The land stretched out in a pale, snow-covered sprawl. Frozen streams wound between the trees like glass veins. Branches drooped heavy with frost. Ravens flitted across the sky in lazy arcs, cawing into the wind.
And still, they rode.
The hours passed slowly, the cold working its way deeper into Callan's bones, where even the pain in his muscles began to dull, replaced by something colder. Numbness. He stopped counting the hours. He stopped thinking of time. There was only the sound of hooves in snow, wind in branches, and the slow, relentless ache that followed every breath.
It was nearly dusk by the time Galar signaled for them to stop again.
Callan gripped the saddle tighter, his fingers numb from cold and fear. He leaned slightly to the side, just enough to catch Galar's attention without falling off.
"Wh-who are those?" he asked, his voice low, shaky.
Galar didn't look back at him. His eyes stayed locked on the advancing figures, his hand slowly moving to the hilt of his remaining longsword.
"Broken men," he said, voice calm and cold as the snow beneath them. "Soldiers, once. Or bandits. Doesn't matter now."
Callan's breath hitched. He'd heard the term in whispers around the monastery, but never imagined it like this—wild-eyed, frostbitten men who looked more like walking corpses than anything once noble or human.
Galar continued, "Probably fled from a skirmish. Lost. Hungry. Desperate." He finally turned slightly, just enough for Callan to glimpse the edge of his expression. It was unreadable—grim and quiet. "Desperation makes men animals."
Rhenar didn't speak. His blade was already half-drawn.
The wind picked up again, howling like a warning through the trees.
The leader stepped forward from the pack—a broader man, his frame thick with muscle and clothed in piecemeal leather and furs that looked half-stolen, half-survived. Unlike the rest, who twitched and jerked with animalistic hunger, this one walked with grim purpose, a dull confidence in each step. His beard was matted with frost and blood, but his eyes were clear. Clever.
Callan's breath caught in his throat as he watched from his place behind Galar's horse. His legs ached from the ride, his arms sore from the morning's brutal training, and now—now there was this.
The two inquisitors had dismounted wordlessly the moment the figures emerged from the woods, their movements practiced and silent, as if they'd expected this. Their horses had been left to the side, reins loose. Neither Rhenar nor Galar gave any order, no word of explanation to Callan.
Why? Why dismount? Callan's thoughts spun like the snow dancing on the wind. We don't need to face them. We could ride. Just ride.
He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs, more from confusion than fear. Why aren't we running?
But the two men stood firm, swords drawn, calm. Still as statues.
The leader of the broken men came to a stop a few paces away, close enough now for Callan to see the yellowing of his teeth when he grinned.
"Well now," the man rasped, voice carrying with the wind. "What's this? Rich bastards walking straight into the wolves' den?"
Rhenar said nothing. His sword tip didn't even twitch.
Galar took a single step forward, silent.
The leader's grin faltered just a little. The air hung with the weight of what was to come.
The moment Rhenar spoke, "Wrong prey," his voice cutting through the air like a blade, the tension snapped. It was like a trigger had been pulled, and in the blink of an eye, chaos erupted.
Galar was first to move, his long sword gleaming in the dull light of the afternoon, the blade an extension of his brutal strength. His first swing cleaved through the chest of a man charging at him, the force of the blow splitting bone and flesh. The man's body dropped, lifeless, before the blood had even begun to flow. Galar didn't stop. He spun, his sword rising and falling with precision, each strike a death sentence. His movements were fluid, calculated, and merciless, the steel in his hands finding their targets like an instinct born from years of carnage.
Rhenar was a blur of motion beside him. He moved like a shadow, the fluidity of his strikes impossible to track, his blade a deadly extension of his own will. One man lunged at him, a wild swing aimed for Rhenar's throat, but he parried effortlessly, sidestepping with the grace of a predator. In a single motion, Rhenar drove his blade through the man's side, carving through the ribs like they were nothing more than brittle twigs. The man's guttural scream was cut short as he crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling around him in the snow.
The air thickened with the stench of iron and gore, the once-clean whiteness of the snow now painted crimson. The battle was chaos—a blur of bodies moving and falling, screams echoing in the open air. Galar's sword cleaved through another man's gut, spilling his intestines onto the cold earth. The man staggered, mouth agape, before his legs buckled beneath him. Galar didn't pause to savor it, his next strike already in motion, carving through another attacker's throat in a spray of blood that stained his armor.
Callan stood frozen, eyes wide, hands shaking, his heart thudding in his chest like a drumbeat. He had never seen anything like this before. The brutality, the sheer power, the blood, it all hit him like a wave, drowning him in a sense of panic that made his stomach churn. He was about to turn, to run, when one of the men—the largest, most savage-looking of them all—charged straight at him.
The man's eyes were wild with bloodlust, his lips curled in a snarl, and he swung his axe down at Callan. He was too fast. Callan's breath caught in his throat as his instincts screamed at him to move, but he was too slow.
But something—the ring.
The cold, dark magic surged within him before he could even understand it. He reached for the ring, felt the surge of its power flood his body. It wasn't just the rush of strength—it was something else, something darker. The ring's influence.
Without thought, without reason, Callan stabbed forward, his hands moving as if they had a mind of their own. The blade from the fallen man's own weapon was there—right in front of him. Callan's hand gripped it instinctively, pulling it toward the attacker's throat.
The man's eyes widened in shock just before the steel plunged into his windpipe with a sickening crunch. The force of the blow sent a spray of blood bursting from the man's neck, the warm, viscous fluid splattering across Callan's face and hands. The man's hands gripped the blade in a desperate, futile attempt to pull it out, but Callan didn't move—he couldn't, his body locked in a strange paralysis as the man gurgled and sputtered in his death throes.
Gurgle. Gasp. Gurgle.
The man's blood poured from his mouth in a steady, horrifying flow. His body jerked once, then twice, before he collapsed to the ground at Callan's feet. His eyes remained wide open, the life drained from them, the horror frozen in place.
Callan staggered back, his heart hammering in his chest as the reality of what he had just done hit him like a brick wall. The blood dripped from his hands, and his entire body trembled, unable to comprehend the violence of it all. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs unsteady beneath him.
The world seemed to slow around him, as if the very air was thick with the aftermath of death. The sounds of the battle faded, the screams of the men he'd just slaughtered becoming a distant echo.
Galar's voice cut through the fog of his mind, harsh and commanding, yet somehow distant.
"Focus, Callan. Don't lose yourself in this. You did what you had to. Now move."
Rhenar, his face painted with blood, looked down at Callan, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He wiped the blade of his sword clean on the nearest body, his movements efficient, almost mechanical.
Galar's voice cut through the haze of panic and horror that had settled over Callan like a cold shroud. His words were sharp, but there was no malice in them, only a harsh pragmatism that seemed out of place in the midst of such chaos.
"Don't. Don't resonate with them. They are dead, you are alive. They suffered, you don't."
Callan's breath caught in his throat, his body trembling uncontrollably as the blood from the man he had slain still coated his hands. He stared down at the body at his feet, still fresh with the finality of death, the lifeless eyes frozen in shock. The weight of what had just happened crashed over him like a tidal wave, the reality of his actions settling into the very marrow of his bones.
But Galar's words were like a slap, a cold, harsh reminder that the world wasn't going to stop for his guilt. It was a hard truth, one Callan wasn't sure he was ready for. His mind raced, fighting the flood of emotions—horror, guilt, disbelief—that threatened to overwhelm him.
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his shaking hands, but the blood was still there, staining his palms, making his fingers feel as though they were being weighed down by something far heavier than just the gore.
"I…" Callan's voice cracked, the words stuck in his throat, unable to find their way out. His legs buckled beneath him, and he dropped to his knees, feeling as though the ground itself was too much for him to bear. His eyes blurred, and the ringing in his ears grew louder. "I didn't want this…"
Galar was silent for a moment, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
His figure remained a hulking silhouette against the chaos of the aftermath, his sword dripping with blood, but his posture—steady, unyielding—was that of a man who had seen it all. He didn't offer comfort, nor did he offer sympathy. He simply watched Callan, as if waiting for him to rise from the weight of his own thoughts.
The battle had ended. The last of the ragged men who had attacked had either fallen or fled, leaving nothing but the stench of death in the cold air. The ground was slick with blood, and the snow around them was stained crimson, a grim canvas beneath the fading light of the day. The only sounds now were the labored breathing of the survivors, the crackling of the fire, and the distant howl of the wind.
Callan blinked away the fog in his mind, his legs still weak beneath him. Slowly, his gaze drifted up from the lifeless body at his feet, and there, standing amidst the blood-soaked carnage, were Galar and Rhenar.
They were a stark contrast to the men they had just slain—untouched by the carnage, their expressions unreadable, almost statuesque in their stillness. Rhenar stood with his arms crossed, his face devoid of emotion, though his eyes, dark and calculating, were fixed firmly on Callan. There was no approval in his gaze, no condemnation, only the heavy weight of experience. As if everything that had just transpired was nothing more than a fleeting moment in a much longer story.
Galar, on the other hand, was still wiping the blood from his blade, his expression grim but not unkind. His eyes, dark and cold, flicked to Callan, then back to the surroundings. It was as though he was already moving past the battle, already seeing the next step, the next threat, as if death was just another part of the world he lived in.
Callan couldn't speak. He wanted to, wanted to ask something—anything—but the words felt foreign on his tongue, choked by the reality of what he had done, what he had become part of. He could feel his heartbeat, thudding painfully in his chest, his entire body still trembling, but it wasn't just from the cold or the exhaustion. It was from the knowledge that there was no turning back. The ring, the fight, everything was real. There was no shield of innocence left to hide behind.
For a long moment, the three of them stood there, locked in a silence that was almost suffocating. It was a silence that stretched beyond the noise of the battlefield, beyond the blood and the bodies, into something deeper—a truth neither of the men had voiced but both of them knew all too well.
Finally, it was Rhenar who broke the silence, his voice cold and sharp, but still carrying the weight of his world-weary authority.
"Your life or theirs?" Rhenar asked, his eyes narrowing as he took a step toward Callan, his tone devoid of any softness, yet demanding an answer.
Callan's throat tightened, his heart pounding as the weight of the question pressed down on him. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn't come. The image of the man he had just slain, his blood pooling in the snow, haunted him. He didn't want to think that it was either his life or someone else's, but the reality of the situation was undeniable.
"I don't…" Callan began, his voice cracking, but Rhenar's gaze never wavered. The silence between them was thick with unspoken truths.
Rhenar's eyes burned with the intensity of someone who had lived through this choice countless times before, and his voice cut through the hesitation like a sword through flesh.
"Your life or theirs?" he repeated, this time with even more force, as if the question itself was a command, a law of the world they inhabited.
Callan's breath hitched. The panic, the guilt, the horror—everything welled up inside him. But there was one undeniable truth: he was alive. And in that moment, the weight of that life settled on his shoulders like an anchor.
He looked up at Rhenar, meeting his gaze for the first time with a quiet intensity. There was no room for weakness here, no time for indecision. The man before him had been dead before he ever swung the axe. It had been his choice or Callan's.
Callan nodded, slow but steady, his voice finally coming through, calm but laced with a sharpness that was new to him.
"Mine," he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue but firm with resolve. "I choose mine."
Rhenar's eyes lingered on him for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity of the answer. But when he nodded, it wasn't in approval or condemnation. It was the acceptance of the harsh truth, a truth that both of them knew well.
Galar, still standing like a silent sentinel, watched the exchange, but his expression remained unchanged. He hadn't needed to say anything. Rhenar had spoken the truth—one that Callan had to face whether he liked it or not.
"Good," Rhenar muttered under his breath, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "Now get up. We move out before the wolves smell the blood."
With that, Rhenar turned, moving toward the horses, his back as straight and unyielding as ever. Galar followed suit, his gaze never leaving the horizon, as if there were more threats waiting in the wings.
Callan stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment, the reality of what had just happened sinking in. He had made a choice. And it had cost him something—perhaps his innocence, perhaps his sense of who he was—but it was a choice nonetheless.
He had seen everything, the bloodshed, the brutality—but what he didn't understand was why they hadn't just fled.
Why had they stayed and fought? Why not just run and avoid the bloodshed entirely?
Finally, his voice broke through the silence, hoarse and filled with confusion. "Why didn't you just run? Why fight them at all?"
Galar didn't even pause in his stride as he made his way toward the horses, his eyes still locked on the horizon. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of everything he had experienced.
"The Sons don't let impurity stay as it is," he said, his words a cold, clipped truth that seemed to hang in the air like an omen.
Callan felt a chill creep up his spine. The Sons? Impurity?
Callan's thoughts spun as Rhenar's cryptic words echoed in his mind. The Sons don't let impurity stay as it is. What did that even mean? He was still trying to grasp it when another thought struck him. The blood. The carnage. The brutality.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach as he thought of the blood that stained them, their swords, their hands, face, "Won't we get sick from all this?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Galar, still mounted on his horse, didn't look back at him. His face was unreadable, but his voice, when it came, was steady, almost reverent.
"She protects us," he said, his words simple, yet carrying a weight that Callan couldn't quite grasp. The finality in Galar's tone left little room for questions, but the statement raised more in Callan's mind than it answered.
She protects us.
Callan was left standing there, his hands still trembling, blood caked beneath his nails, a thousand questions still swarming in his head. Who was this she? Was it some kind of deity? A spirit? Moar? Something more? He wanted to ask, to press for answers, but something in the way Galar spoke, as if the question was beneath him, made Callan hesitate.
Instead, he simply nodded, even though the confusion inside him hadn't eased. There was no time for uncertainty now. He had seen things he couldn't unsee, made decisions he couldn't take back. He was now in a world where the answers were buried in the blood and the actions of those around him, and the only way forward was to follow them—no matter how little he understood.
He mounted his horse, his body still stiff, and looked toward Rhenar and Galar, both of whom were already moving forward, their figures dark silhouettes against the fading light. The journey continued. There was no turning back now.