The sun crept over the horizon, its light pale and cold, staining the world with hues of grey and blue. Callan sat near the remnants of their fire, staring at the dull glow as if it could offer him answers, something to ease the churning in his stomach, the hollow ache that seemed to spread from his chest and out to every extremity. His eyes, bloodshot and tired from the battle, were fixed on the ground, tracing the deep footprints in the snow that led away from the carnage. The bodies of the fallen men still lay there, a silent testimony to the brutality of their existence. The cold had already begun to take its toll on the dead, their limbs stiffening as the first bite of winter crept in.
He hadn't moved much since the last fight. Galar and Rhenar had taken to their horses, the two of them already silent as they prepared to leave the scene of the battle behind. It was as if the slaughter had been nothing more than a passing storm. But Callan felt it—every drop of blood spilled, every life extinguished in an instant. And worst of all, he could still feel the warmth of the man's blood on his hands, the final gurgle of breath in his ears.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying it. The man's last moments, his desperate thrashing, the hopelessness in his eyes, and then the life leaving him in a spray of blood. Callan's fingers trembled as he closed them into fists, his body still shaking from the sheer horror of what he had done.
He didn't know if he could get used to this.
"Callan."
The voice cut through his thoughts, and he looked up to see Rhenar standing a few feet away, his posture as rigid and unwavering as ever. The tall man's face was unreadable, and the dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to deepen the older scars on his face. In his hand was a small bundle of supplies, but it was his gaze that anchored Callan's attention. It was always intense, sharp, as if he were seeing things no one else could.
"Get up," Rhenar said. "We move soon."
Callan hesitated. His legs felt like lead, his body worn from the brutal training and the harrowing violence of the day before. But he knew better than to question Rhenar's command. The harsh truth of it settled in his chest, pushing him up to his feet, despite the way his body screamed in protest. The world had changed for him, and there was no going back.
He followed Rhenar's eyes to Galar, who stood nearby, silently preparing his own gear, his broad back still unmarred by the bloodstains of battle. Galar was already in motion, adjusting the straps on his armor, his sword a constant companion at his side. The sight of him, as indifferent to the slaughter as the rocks beneath their feet, sent a chill through Callan. He wasn't sure what was colder—the snow that wrapped around them or the men themselves.
"Is there ever a moment for rest?" Callan asked, his voice rough, as if the weight of his thoughts had torn through his throat. He felt like he was speaking a language he no longer understood, one that had no place in this world they walked.
Rhenar glanced back at him, his expression softening just enough to acknowledge the question. But it was Galar who answered, his voice like gravel scraping against stone.
"The moment for rest is when the wolves aren't sniffing at your heels, boy," Galar said without turning to face him. "In the meantime, you move. Or you die."
Callan's stomach turned. He couldn't argue with that. Every part of him wanted to sink into the snow and disappear, but he couldn't. The world didn't care for his weakness. The world only cared if he could stand and fight.
Rhenar's gaze returned to the horizon, as if seeing something far beyond the white expanse of snow and trees that stretched endlessly before them. His silence felt more like a command than any words ever could.
Callan nodded stiffly and turned to pack his things. The ring on his finger, still cold and indifferent, caught his attention as he slid his leather gloves back on. The ring hadn't felt this heavy before, not until after the battle. It was a part of him now, inescapable, binding him to the decisions he'd made. Every movement he made felt as though the ring was whispering to him, urging him to be stronger, to be ruthless, to take what was his. He didn't want to listen. But part of him knew that sooner or later, the ring would pull him in, drag him into something darker than he could handle.
As he finished gathering his things, Rhenar turned toward him, his eyes locking with Callan's in a moment that felt almost too intense for words. It wasn't a question—it was a truth.
"Your life or theirs. Never forget that."
Callan swallowed hard, nodding once more, though the words gnawed at him. It had been his choice. His life, or theirs. And he had chosen to live.
The journey continued, though it felt like nothing more than a blur. Time passed differently out here in the frozen wilderness. The days stretched long, and the nights were thick with cold and silence. The trio moved with purpose, the constant urgency in their steps pushing them forward. Callan couldn't even remember how many days they had been traveling, only that the snow never seemed to end, and the weight of his decisions never lifted.
At times, when the wind howled and the world became a blur of white and grey, Callan would find his mind wandering back to the battle. To the man he had killed. To the blood that had coated his hands and stained his soul. His thoughts swirled around the same questions—questions that never seemed to have answers.
"Why did they stay and fight?" he whispered to himself one evening as they made camp. He sat apart from the others, staring into the fire, the flickering light casting shadows across his face. He couldn't help but feel like he was missing something—something critical.
It was then that Galar's voice, low and rumbling, reached his ears.
"The Sons don't let impurity stay as it is."
Callan's thoughts swirled in the firelight, the flames casting jagged shadows across his face as Galar's words sank deeper into him. The Sons don't let impurity stay as it is. The phrase echoed in his mind like a whisper from the past, a haunting reminder of a world far more brutal and unforgiving than he had ever imagined.
But it was a world that had embraced him nonetheless.
The memory surfaced without warning—the words Brewyn had once spoken about the Sons of Moar. The order, the enigmatic group he barely understood, but which seemed to shadow him at every turn. He had never asked too many questions about them, not wanting to delve too deeply into something that felt as dangerous as it was foreign. Yet now, with every step they took deeper into the wilderness, with every battle fought and every choice made, the Sons seemed more and more real to him. More relevant.
But what did they really stand for?
He glanced at Galar, the silent sentinel who stood watch over the camp. Galar's face was hard as stone, unreadable, but Callan could sense the same unwavering resolve that had driven them forward through the cold, through the bloodshed. Was Galar simply a tool of the Sons? A soldier in service to a cause that didn't care for morality, for innocence, or for compassion?
Callan shook his head and pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath visible in the frigid air. His thoughts drifted back again, this time to the chapel, the cold, solemn place where he had first heard her voice. The voice had been distant, ethereal—a presence in the shadows that whispered of fate, of purpose, of a call that ran deeper than blood and flesh. The voice had filled him with a sense of something greater than himself, something that had been laid out long before his time.
Had that voice been Moar? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
The questions came faster now. Why had the voice spoken to him? What had it meant by calling him? He had assumed it was some form of divine presence, a calling he had not understood. But now, after the battle, after hearing Galar's words, it felt like more than just an abstract idea. Moar, or whatever entity had spoken to him, seemed to have been preparing him for something—something that had been set in motion before he even realized.
Callan thought of the man he had killed. He thought of the lives he had taken and the toll it had taken on his soul. There was no innocence left to cling to, no shield of ignorance or untested morality. The blood on his hands was real. The choice to kill had been his own.
And yet…
The Sons of Moar had accepted him.
He swallowed, the truth of it settling deeper into his chest. Despite everything, despite the bloodshed and the terror that now clung to him like a second skin, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was a part of something bigger now. The Sons valued him. They had shown him that much, though the reasons still eluded him.
There was power in that recognition. There was something undeniable about the way they looked at him—Galar with his sharp eyes and his unspoken judgment, Rhenar with his stoic authority. They saw him not as a mere boy, not as someone naive or lost, but as someone who had made a choice. And that choice, no matter how ugly, had cemented his place among them.
A small part of him, a part that still longed for answers and clarity, felt a flicker of gratitude for that. Even if he didn't yet understand the reasons, even if he couldn't fully grasp the path before him, the Sons seemed to value him. And in this harsh world, that was more than most people ever received. It was more than he could have hoped for when he had first set foot on this journey.
In that moment, staring into the fire, Callan understood something fundamental. The Sons weren't interested in purity or righteousness the way most people understood it. They were interested in survival, in power, in keeping the world from falling apart under its own weight. They had no time for weakness, no tolerance for those who hesitated, who faltered in their duty. And while Callan had not yet fully come to terms with the violence he had committed, he couldn't deny that the path they offered was one that had a certain kind of brutal clarity. It was not about the rightness or wrongness of a choice—it was about making it, about asserting your will in a world that would crush you if you did not.
Callan exhaled slowly, the frost of his breath dissipating into the night air. He had made his choice. He had taken his first steps down this path, and now he would learn to walk it, however dark and uncertain it might be.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the fire, snapping Callan out of his thoughts. He looked up to find Galar still watching him, his figure a dark silhouette against the flames. There was no judgment in his eyes, no expression of pity or even approval. He simply waited, as though Callan's thoughts were his own to navigate. Perhaps they all were.
The world was cold, and the road ahead was still long, but for the first time since the battle, Callan felt a strange kind of resolve settle over him. The Sons of Moar might not be his salvation, but they were his path forward, for better or worse.
And so, with a final glance at Galar, Callan stood, brushing the snow from his cloak. It was time to move on. There was no going back, no undoing the choices he had made. And for now, he would follow the path they had set before him—whatever that path might bring.