The wooden door of the dilapidated hut groaned, its creak cutting through the suffocating silence. A woman stepped in, her piercing blue eyes scanning the room until they landed on the frail figure lying on the rough straw mat. Her gaze brimmed with a strange mixture of pity and resentment, emotions she tried to conceal but failed.
Sunlight filtered through a jagged hole in the hut's sagging roof, the golden rays piercing the gloom and falling onto Veythor's face. His eyelids twitched, his body stiff as stone. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, revealing crimson orbs that burned like smoldering embers. He didn't move, his mind caught in a labyrinth of questions.
"Where am I?"
he thought, his mind racing as he assessed his surroundings. The suffocating dust, the faint smell of decay this place was too mundane to be the afterlife. His gaze flickered toward the woman, her silhouette outlined against the light.
"And who is she?"
Veythor's analytical mind kicked into overdrive, dissecting every detail, every nuance. Yet the puzzle refused to fit.
The woman broke the silence. Her voice, soft yet firm, was laced with an unspoken tension.
"Thank the gods you're alive. I was sure you wouldn't make it."
Her words hung in the air like a faint echo. Veythor's crimson eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, probing. A flicker of recognition stirred within him, but he buried it beneath a carefully crafted mask of indifference.
"Those eyes... Why do they feel so familiar? I've seen them before, up close. But where?"
The woman's face was partially obscured by a scarf, leaving her identity shrouded in mystery. She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening as she noticed his silence.
"Are you... alright? You're not feeling unwell, are you?"
Her voice dragged him back to the present, but he didn't answer. He was consumed by the gnawing sense of familiarity, the feeling that she was someone from his past. Then she reached out, her hand brushing his shoulder.
In that instant, a fragmented image surged into his mind a fleeting vision of a woman, her features distorted by the haze of memory. His eyes widened ever so slightly as realization struck.
"Miral's daughter... Erika. The one who slipped through my fingers. So that's why she saved me."
Veythor suppressed a sardonic smile, his expression remaining blank. He knew now. She was here for vengeance, yet she didn't recognize the predator she had taken in.
Feigning confusion, he spoke, his voice trembling just enough to seem authentic.
"I... I'm sorry, but who are you?"
The woman hesitated, her fingers brushing her scarf before she spoke.
"Me? I'm Elena."
Her lie was seamless, her tone steady. But to Veythor, it was transparent.
"Still hiding, still desperate for revenge," he mused, a dark amusement curling in his chest.
He adopted the guise of a man adrift, lost in his own mind. His expression crumbled into feigned panic.
"I... I don't know who I am. Why am I here? What's my name?"
He clutched his head, his voice tinged with desperation. It was a masterful performance, a predator donning the mask of prey.
Her reaction was immediate. She stepped back, disbelief etched across her face.
"W...what? Are you serious?"
"Her fingers twitched slightly before she steadied herself. A flicker of hesitation doubt, perhaps crossed her eyes, but it was gone in an instant.
Veythor didn't answer, only nodding weakly. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied him, suspicion flickering in her eyes before she shrugged it off.
'Maybe it's for the best,' she muttered. But she wasn't convincing anyone, least of all herself."
Her dismissive tone only confirmed Veythor's suspicions. She wasn't here out of compassion. This was a calculated game, and she thought she held the upper hand.
"What do you mean?
he asked, his voice carefully laced with curiosity and vulnerability.
But she turned away, her movements sharp and deliberate.
"You must be hungry," she said, avoiding his question entirely. "I'll make you something to eat."
Without waiting for a response, she stepped out, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.
As the echoes of her footsteps faded, Veythor's mask slipped, revealing a cold, predatory grin.
How amusing. Let's see how long you can keep up this charade."
He muttered his mind drifted
"If Erika thought herself a strong enough to win against me, she has much to learn. These tribes were no different. They relied on strength alone, without understanding that true power lay in control. The kind of control he mastered long ago."
together the threads of their shared past, Questions lingered in the air like shadows for us
Who was Miral? Why had his daughter sought vengeance against Veythor? And why had she once been his target?
In the silent hut, Veythor plotted his next move, a hunter waiting to strike.Veythor reclined on the simple cot, his movements deliberate, as though even in frailty he commanded the room. His crimson eyes glimmered with a cold amusement, though his face betrayed none of his thoughts. His hand brushed against his chin, his smirk concealed in the shadows of the dim light.
"Ah, Miral look How fate delights in its little ironies."
His mind turned inward, the words a silent monologue meant only for the shade of the man long gone.
"Look upon your daughter, Miral. Such beauty, such fire, so like her father. Yet how disappointing she is, a pale echo of the man she seeks to avenge. Does she not see the futility of her revenge? What should I do with her, I wonder? Break her will, crush her spirit, or perhaps… turn her into something unrecognizable even to herself?"
He allowed himself a soft chuckle, but it carried no mirth only the weight of disdain. His cold gaze drifted to the doorway, where faint noises from the village outside filtered through. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the cot, a rhythm devoid of urgency yet laden with control.
Hours passed as Veythor's sharp mind pieced together fragments of information. The architecture, the sounds, and the air itself whispered truths to him. He was within a tribal settlement, deep in the Eternal Forest of Darkness a region infamous for its savage warriors.
"Savage, yes. Skilled, perhaps. But undisciplined."
Two years ago, Veythor had ascended to the rank of Supreme Commander in Narzan, the sole individual to command absolute military authority under the emperor. His rise, despite his commoner origins, had been marked by relentless ambition and ruthless efficiency. Yet no amount of power could erase the whispers of disdain that followed him through the gilded halls of the nobility.
"A commoner, they called me. A man without lineage, unfit for the blood-stained crown of war. How petty their insults are?
His thoughts returned to the tribespeople. He had once entertained the idea of recruiting warriors from such savage clans, but his observations had swiftly disabused him of the notion. Their strength was undeniable, their skill honed through constant strife. Yet their recklessness was an affront to the discipline Veythor valued above all else.
[A Supreme Commander can have a personal army unit of Fifty thousand soldiers]
"Strength without discipline is but a child's tantrum. These warriors, for all their raw power, are no better than beasts. They would perish like fodder in the face of a true army. Passion, talent, even fervor none of it holds weight against the unyielding blade of discipline."
The irony of his situation did not escape him. Gravely injured, his mana reserves depleted, he now found himself at the mercy of the very people he deemed unworthy. His cold smile returned as he considered the possibilities.
"If they side with Erika, it will complicate matters. Though weakened, I am not defenseless. My blade remains sharp, and my magic, though diminished, is sufficient to end this farce. Yet how quaint it is, to see fate throw such trivial obstacles in my path. Death, after all, is but a doorway and I have walked through it before."
His crimson eyes closed for a moment, though his mind remained vigilant. Death held no power over him, no terror to shackle him.
"What is death to me? A farce. A fleeting inconvenience. A rebirth into the same endless cycle of suffering. It is laughable, truly. And yet, even in this, there is purpose. For every death is a thread in the tapestry of my vengeance a vengeance that will rend this world asunder."
His thoughts shifted to Erika, her presence a thorn in his side, yet a fascinating enigma.
"Ah, Erika. You think yourself a predator, circling your prey. But you are a mere cub, unaware of what you stalk. Let us play this game, then. I will don the mask of the wounded, the helpless. And when you grow bold enough to strike, I shall teach you a lesson."
Outside, the tribal drums beat a steady rhythm, their cadence a heartbeat in the darkness. Veythor opened his eyes, their crimson red glow piercing the gloom of the hut.
Let the tribes prepare, let Erika plot her revenge.
The smirk on his lips grew colder, more deliberate. The hunt had begun, and Veythor was no prey.