The sky was already bruising.
Twilight stretched long and thin, the last sliver of light fighting to hold onto the dunes.
Not much time left.
Araeius pressed the gas harder.
The Humvee rattled, groaned, metal protesting against the terrain. In the back, Thorne was unconscious, his breath shallow, his bandages soaked. The smell of blood, sweat, and spent ammunition clung to the seats.
But inside?
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind—the kind that sat between old friends, easy and warm.
This was the silence of dead men.
Of things left burning.
Of ghosts trying to catch up.
Araeius kept his eyes forward, hands too tight on the wheel. The road was a blur, the desert stretching endlessly ahead.
For minutes, neither of them spoke.
Then—Araeius exhaled.
“You were out of line.”
Delacroix didn’t react.
Didn’t turn his head. Didn’t blink. Just kept his gaze locked on the road ahead.
Araeius’ voice came again, rougher this time.
“We could’ve brought them in.”
Nothing.
“They’d already surrendered.”
Delacroix finally moved—just slightly. He adjusted in his seat, rolling his shoulder like he was working out a knot.
“That wasn’t the mission.”
Araeius’ grip tightened.
“That’s not how we operate. We don’t just shoot—”
He stopped.
A pause, long and sharp.
Delacroix tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the hesitation.
“…Don’t think about it too much.” His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. Like he was doing Araeius a favor.
Araeius’ jaw locked.
“Can you really do that?”
Delacroix didn’t answer.
Araeius glanced at him, scanning for something—anything.
“Just ignore it? Pretend it didn’t happen?”
Delacroix was still.
Araeius shook his head. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to live with that.”
Delacroix finally spoke.
“You mourn them, right?” His tone was light, almost absent. Like he was asking if Araeius liked his coffee black or with sugar.
“You think about it further and, yeah, what we did—it’s an atrocity.”
Araeius felt something loosen in his chest—just slightly.
Then—Delacroix kept going.
“Let me ask you something.”
Araeius glanced over, uneasy.
Delacroix finally turned his head, just slightly—enough that the blindfold faced him.
“If that village was filled with men, women, and children…”
A beat.
“…With blindfolds like mine…”
Another beat.
“Is that an atrocity?”
Araeius felt something cold slide down his spine.
His hands clenched on the wheel. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”
Delacroix’s lips ticked up, like he already knew what Araeius would say.
“No, you’re right. Stupid question.”
He turned back toward the window, letting his head rest against the glass.
The Humvee kept moving.
The sun kept sinking.
And the silence settled back in.
The Humvee rolled past the gates just as the last light slipped below the horizon.
The perimeter floodlights blazed, cutting through the dark, casting everything in harsh, sterile white. Beyond the wire, the desert was black, bottomless.
They were safe.
But the ghosts rode in with them.
Araeius killed the engine. The silence that followed felt heavier than the drive itself.
He stepped out first, boots hitting the dirt, scanning the faces of the waiting soldiers. They didn’t know yet. To them, this was just another mission complete.
Delacroix climbed out, rolling his shoulder like he was shaking off something invisible.
Then—the welcoming party.
Two figures emerged from the command tent. One clad in the armor of a superior. The other younger, sharper, a mirror of Delacroix if he had been born with golden eyes.
Knight-Commander A’noa Teorista.Knight-Lieutenant Ashen Teorista.
Delacroix straightened slightly. It wasn’t respect—it was a reflex, the instinct of a beaten dog.
“Knight-Commander,” Delacroix greeted.
A’noa didn’t even look at him.
He strode right past his son, stopping before Araeius instead.
“Knight Braythar,” A’noa said, as if Delacroix didn’t exist. “This is all that remains of your squad?”
Araeius squared his shoulders. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”
A’noa nodded once, expression unreadable. Then, the news.
“We have a situation. Both of you clean up and meet me onboard the Archgriffin for debriefing.”
Araeius and Delacroix answered together. “Yes, sir.”
Only then did A’noa glance at his son, the look brief, impersonal, like he was inspecting a defective weapon. Then, he walked away.
Ashen stepped forward, filling the space their father left.
“You look like shit.”
Delacroix snorted, shaking his head. “You should see the other guy.”
Ashen’s gaze flicked between them both. For a moment, something genuine softened his features.
“Glad you made it out.”
Delacroix only nodded.
Then they were gone, disappearing into the flood of moving bodies.
The Archgriffin loomed overhead, its hull cutting against the night like the blade of a guillotine.
Inside, the Knight-Commander’s office was cold, orderly—no unnecessary décor, no sentimental clutter. A room for a man who had no past worth remembering.
A’noa sat behind his desk. Ashen stood at his side, arms crossed.
A screen flickered to life.
The image was grainy, shaking with every breath of the man holding the camera. His face was bloodied, glasses cracked—but his voice was steady.
“My name is Amir Hassan.”
A pause. A glance toward something out of frame.
“I am a former professor of the University of Aman. And if you are watching this, then you need to know the truth about what happened in Al-Miraj.”
Delacroix’s fists tightened on his knees.
Hassan inhaled sharply. “We are not terrorists. We are civilians. And we are being slaughtered because of this.”
The camera tilted—revealing the generator.
A crude, homemade machine, wires still sparking from the damage, its core still pulsing with a dying blue light.
“A free light grid,” Hassan said. “One that does not belong to the government. One that does not belong to the Obsidian Court. One that is ours.”
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Gunfire rattled in the background.
Hassan flinched, then steadied himself.
“We are not soldiers. We are not enemies. And now, we surrender.”
His voice cracked.
Then—he turned the camera.
A woman, clutching two children to her chest. They were crying, pressing their faces into her torn clothes.
“Amina,” Hassan whispered. “My love.”
One of the children looked up.
A boy, maybe six.
Hassan’s voice broke completely.
“Take them away from here. If you survive, if you see this—know that I love you. And I will always be with you.”
The screen went black.
The silence in the room was absolute.
Then—A’noa spoke.
“People are already citing this as genocide. The CA has called for a hearing in Lionel City.”
His voice was calm. Too calm.
“The man surrendered,” A’noa continued. “Was he taken alive?”
Araeius’ throat was dry. “No.”
A’noa’s gaze turned sharp. “Was it on your orders?”
Before Araeius could speak—Delacroix cut in.
“I took the shot.”
Ashen’s posture stiffened.
Delacroix’s voice was flat, clean, precise.
“The mission objective was to eliminate the cell and all high-value targets in Al-Miraj. That’s what we did.”
A’noa’s expression didn’t change.
Then, Araeius spoke.
“Was it really bad intel?”
A’noa’s gaze flicked to him. “What sort of answer are you looking for, Knight Braythar?”
Araeius’ jaw locked.
“The kind that doesn’t make us feel like we just murdered civilians.”
A pause.
A’noa said nothing.
Araeius slammed his fist onto the desk.
“You’re the fucking Knight-Commander. This is your operation! How the hell did this happen?”
“Araeius.” Ashen’s voice was low, warning. “Stand down.”
Araeius didn’t move. His breath was sharp, ragged.
Then—Delacroix grabbed his arm.
Firm. Unyielding.
Araeius turned, eyes burning.
Delacroix shook his head.
A silent command: Not here. Not now.
Araeius’ hands clenched.
Then, slowly, he let Delacroix pull him from the room.
The office was quiet.
The only sound was the distant hum of the Archgriffin’s engines, pulsing through the walls like the heartbeat of something vast and mechanical.
A’noa sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, watching the door Araeius and Delacroix had just stormed out of. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched.
Ashen stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t spoken since Araeius’ outburst, since Delacroix dragged him from the room. Now, he did.
“That wasn’t bad intel, was it?”
A’noa didn’t answer.
Ashen didn’t back down.
“The order didn’t come from the king.”
A’noa exhaled slowly. Then, finally, he looked up.
His eyes were sharp, polished steel, the kind of gaze that weighed a man’s worth in silence.
“Someday,” A’noa said, “you will learn firsthand that there are commands more absolute than those from a king.”
Ashen felt something cold slip into his spine.
Because that was not a denial.
The door slammed shut behind them, sealing the office like a tomb.
Araeius barely made it five steps before he turned and drove his fist into the wall.
Concrete cracked. Blood smeared the surface.
His shoulders rose and fell, breath sharp, ragged.
“It isn’t goddamn right.”
Delacroix leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but his knuckles were white where they gripped his biceps.
Araeius shook his head, teeth gritted. “I expect to be a tool, Del. That’s what we are. We’re weapons, nothing more. But not for this.”
Delacroix said nothing.
Araeius turned, eyes burning.
“They were civilians, man.” His voice cracked. “People. They were just trying to fucking live.”
Silence.
Then, finally—Delacroix spoke.
“So?”
The word landed like a slap.
Araeius stared at him. “So?”
Delacroix pushed off the wall, stepping forward, slow and deliberate. “You think that changes anything? You think the brass gives a shit?”
Araeius let out a short, hollow laugh, shaking his head. “I knew you were cold, but fuck, Del.”
Delacroix tilted his head. “You want to be mad? Fine. Be mad. But don’t pretend to be surprised.”
Araeius stiffened. “We were told they were terrorists.”
Delacroix arched a brow. “And you believed them?”
The words hit harder than any bullet ever could.
Araeius opened his mouth—then shut it.
Because Delacroix was right.
Araeius wanted to believe it. He wanted the lie. Because the truth meant he’d been complicit. It meant his hands were just as dirty.
Delacroix kept going, voice smooth as cut glass.
“You ever ask yourself why we’re really here?”
Araeius frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Delacroix gestured vaguely. “Al-Zahir. The desert. The whole damn op. You think this is about national security? Protecting the world from ‘terrorists’?”
Araeius stayed silent.
Delacroix smirked, but there was no humour in it. “No, man. We’re here because someone up top didn’t like that these people found a way to survive without paying for it.”
Araeius stared at him.
Delacroix stepped closer. “That’s the truth, Araeius. You didn’t kill ‘bad guys’ today. You didn’t wipe out a terrorist cell. You enforced the status quo.”
Araeius felt something in his chest crack open.
“We’re supposed to protect people.” The words sounded hollow in his own mouth.
Delacroix tilted his head, like he was studying something pathetic.
“No. We’re supposed to protect power.”
Araeius felt sick.
“You don’t believe in anything, do you?”
Delacroix exhaled a laugh, shaking his head.
“I used to.”
Araeius looked away, staring at the ground like it might offer him something solid to stand on.
Delacroix studied him. Then—his voice softened. Just slightly.
“You’ll get used to it.”
Araeius snapped his head back up, eyes burning. “That’s the problem, Del.”
A breath.
“I don’t want to.”
Silence stretched between them, raw and fraying.
Then—Delacroix sighed.
And somewhere in the spaces between their words, something cracked that would never be whole again.
TWO DAYS LATER…
The SUV rolled through the neon arteries of Lionel City, its black frame swallowed by the glass and steel canyon surrounding it. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the streets still glistened, slick with light from the monolithic billboards that hung like false gods over the avenues. Everything about the city was pristine, artificial—clean in the way that only something soulless could be.
Inside the vehicle, three men sat in silence.
Delacroix watched the skyline pass through the tinted glass, jaw tight, hands resting on his knees.
Araeius sat beside him, shoulders squared, like a man trying to convince himself he still had a spine.
Thorne was in the front, silent for once, his face still a mess of bruises and healing wounds. The bandages across his temple made him look like a war hero—a laughable irony.
None of them spoke.
Because what was there to say?
They had seen men packed into transport trucks before. Prisoners being ferried to sentencing, hands bound, faces blank with the knowledge that the verdict had already been decided.
Now, they were the ones in the back of the bus.
The SUV pulled up to the grand staircase of the Continental Alliance Courthouse—a brutalist behemoth of cold marble and towering columns, its presence designed to intimidate, not inspire. A temple to
justice built on the graves of a hundred forgotten wars.
Beyond the cordon of armoured security personnel, a sea of protestors waited.
Hand-painted banners flapped in the wind:
- “JUSTICE FOR AL-MIRAJ”
- “NO KNIGHTS ABOVE THE LAW”
- “GALLIAN BLOOD ON INNOCENT HANDS”
A woman shouted through a megaphone, her voice raw with fury. Someone else threw something—a rock, a bottle, whatever was on hand. It clattered against the armoured windshield, leaving a spiderweb of cracks.
Flashbulbs exploded like muzzle flashes, journalists shoving microphones forward, their questions indistinguishable from the shouting.
- “Knight Braythar! Do you deny the war crimes?”
- “Sir, how do you respond to the evidence?”
- “Prince Delacroix, do you feel any remorse for your actions?”
Delacroix didn’t blink. He had been the subject of whispers and stares his entire life—what was one more trial where the verdict had been written before he stepped inside?
Security personnel pushed back the crowd, creating a path up the stairs. The courthouse doors loomed ahead, a mouth waiting to swallow them whole.
The doors slammed shut behind them, muting the storm of voices outside. Inside, the air was sterile, cold.
And then—warmth.
Princess Melianna Del Gallian stepped forward, and for the briefest moment, Delacroix was not a soldier, not a Shadeborn, not the butcher they all claimed him to be. He was just a son in his mother’s arms.
She held him tightly, longer than she should have, as if trying to shield him from something that had already broken through.
“It’ll be alright,” she whispered, voice thick with restrained emotion.
Delacroix stiffened.
Because he already knew the answer to the next question.
“He isn’t here, is he?”
Melianna pulled back slightly, brushing a hand over his cheek, a gesture so tender it almost hurt.
“You know your father,” she said softly. “Duty calls.”
Delacroix let out a quiet, humourless chuckle.
“Funny.” He gestured to the marble halls, the banners of the Continental Alliance hanging above them like funeral shrouds. “I thought this was what duty looked like.”
Melianna closed her eyes for half a second, then exhaled sharply. “I spoke to your father. Everything will be fine.”
Delacroix said nothing.
Because she wanted to believe that.
But they both knew better.
A cleared throat broke the moment.
Magistrate Thompson approached, his presence as sharp as his pressed suit. He was the kind of man who could walk through a massacre and emerge without a drop of blood on his shoes.
“Gentlemen,” Thompson greeted, clasping his hands behind his back. “I trust you’ve committed your talking points to memory?”
Araeius, Delacroix, and Thorne nodded.
Thompson adjusted Thorne’s collar, straightened Araeius’ cuffs, wiped an invisible speck of dust off Delacroix’s shoulder—like a tailor making final adjustments before sending his clients onto the stage.
“Good,” he said smoothly. “This is just a formality. You’ll walk in, say what you need to say, and walk right back out. After this, we’ll have you on the Archgriffin heading home. You can lay low until this all blows over.”
Delacroix arched a brow. “Lay low?”
Thompson offered a small, polished smile.
“Gallian takes care of its own.”
Delacroix looked to the doors ahead. Beyond them, the trial awaited.
A script had been written.
A dance had been choreographed.
And all they had to do was step where they were told.
They entered the courtroom like men walking into a funeral.
The vast marble chamber swallowed them whole—rows of seats filled with foreign dignitaries, military officials, press, and citizens who had come to see justice served. The jury, twelve men and women chosen for their “neutrality,” sat in silence, their expressions unreadable.
At the front, Judge Helena Vasquez sat on her high seat, flanked by banners of the Continental Alliance. She had presided over war crimes tribunals before, sentencing kings and generals alike. There was no warmth in her stare.
Araeius could feel the weight of the world pressing down on them.Delacroix felt nothing at all.
In the gallery, Princess Melianna Del Gallian sat among diplomats, her posture regal, but her hands clutched together in her lap, knuckles white. She wore a veil—not for mourning, but to hide the storm behind her golden eyes.
Outside, protesters screamed for blood.
Inside, justice waited.
Chief Magistrate Anton Verain, a man with the voice of law itself, stepped forward, a stack of papers in hand.
“Knights Araeius Braythar, Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian, and Roland Thorne, you stand before this court accused of war crimes against the people of Al-Miraj. Specifically—”
He read each charge with precision:
- Unlawful killing of civilians.
- Deployment of prohibited incendiary weapons.
- The execution of surrendered combatants.
The gallery murmured. The press leaned forward.
Verain’s eyes landed on the accused. "How do you plead?"
Araeius took a sharp breath. "Not guilty."Delacroix’s voice was cold. "Not guilty."Thorne hesitated—for just a second—before saying, "Not guilty."
Judge Vasquez nodded. “Proceed.”
Araeius sat under oath, spine stiff, hands folded.
Verain paced slowly, his tone calm, deliberate.
“Knight Braythar, describe what happened in Al-Miraj.”
Araeius answered carefully.
- They were sent to eliminate a terrorist cell.
- Their intelligence identified the village as hostile territory.
- They were attacked upon arrival.
- The airstrike was necessary for survival.
Verain let the words settle, then struck.
“Are you aware that the airstrike resulted in 47 civilian deaths?”
A pause. “I was not aware of that number at the time.”
“But you knew there were non-combatants?”
Araeius’ throat tightened. “We had no confirmation.”
“Yet, you still called in the strike?”
The silence was suffocating. “I made the best call I could under fire.”
Verain had what he needed. He let the jury sit with the answer before moving on.
Delacroix moved like a man already condemned. His face was blank, but inside, he was waiting.
Verain turned to him, voice smooth.
“Knight Teorista, confirm for the court—did you, or did you not, personally execute the three men who surrendered in the village square?”
Delacroix didn’t hesitate. “I did.”
A gasp rippled through the gallery. Even the jury flinched.
Verain let the moment linger. Let silence do the work.
“Would you describe yourself as someone who enjoys killing?”
A trap. Delacroix didn’t blink. “I am a soldier.”
“Did your orders specify execution?”
“The individuals were high-value targets.”
“They were on their knees.”
“They were combatants.”
“Did they resist?”
“No.”
Verain leaned in. “Did they beg?”
Delacroix’s mind flickered back—the steady eyes, the final words meant for a wife and children. “One spoke of his family.”
The courtroom absorbed that answer like a bullet wound.
No denial. No regret. No emotion.
Verain gave a small, knowing nod. "No further questions."
Delacroix returned to his seat. He felt Araeius staring, but he didn’t look back.
Thorne sat wrapped in bandages, looking every bit the wounded hero.
Verain softened his tone. “Knight Thorne, you saw the execution?”
“I did.”
“And what did you hear?”
Thorne exhaled, shaking his head. “They weren’t soldiers.”
A lie.
“They said they were just trying to survive.”
Another lie.
“They begged.”
Delacroix’s fists clenched. Araeius’s breath hitched.
Verain feigned confusion. “And how did Knight Teorista respond?”
Thorne looked right at Delacroix. “He smiled.”
The death sentence.
The gallery exploded in whispers.
“You’re saying he killed them in cold blood?”
“Without hesitation.”
“And afterward?”
Thorne sighed, shaking his head like a martyr. “No remorse.”
Delacroix was doomed.
Judge Vasquez’s voice was final, absolute.
“Knight Araeius Braythar, this court finds you not guilty. However, due to leadership failures, you are dishonourably discharged from the Vanguard Legion.”
The jury watched. The cameras flashed.
“Knight Roland Thorne, this court commends your testimony. You are dismissed with honours.”
Then—the moment history would remember.
“Knight Delacroix Teorista Del Gallian.”
Delacroix stared ahead. He knew what was coming.
“You have been found guilty of the unlawful execution of surrendered combatants.”
The room roared. Protesters cheered. Cameras clicked like gunfire.
“You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Iron Yard Prison.”
The gavel slammed.
Delacroix inhaled, exhaled.
Thorne looked triumphant.
Araeius was shaking with rage. His hands balled into fists, his breathing unsteady. He wanted to yell, to fight, to burn this whole goddamn court down.
Princess Melianna rose from her seat—then collapsed back down, eyes wide, breath stolen from her lungs.
She had been raised to never show weakness. But this? This was not weakness.
This was a mother watching her son be buried alive.
Her voice broke first.
“No—please, no—”
She pushed forward, reaching for him, but guards were already pulling Delacroix away.
Delacroix met his mother’s eyes for only a second.
Then, they dragged him out.
Like that, The Butcher of Al-Miraj was born.