A brutal cold, sharper than any undercity winter, knifed through my thin shirt, dragging me from oblivion. I lay sprawled not on my cabin's thin mattress, but on cold, wet earth. Open sky stretched above, vast and alien. Why here? The question surfaced, dull and distant. Exhaustion was a leaden weight in my bones, pain a familiar thrum. A proper bed? A forgotten luxury. Strangely, the cool grass offered a fleeting, deceptive comfort against my back.
I shifted, seeking a less exposed position, turning onto my side. My face plunged into something cold, wet, and thick. Disgust jolted me upright. I scrubbed frantically at my cheek, pulling my hand away. It was streaked crimson. Not mud. Blood.
Frowning, I scanned my surroundings.
Hell unfolded before me. The field was a charnel house. Corpses lay tangled in obscene heaps, their blood soaking deep into the earth, staining the grass a sickening, pervasive red. Beside me, a figure in full plate armor lay ruined, a blue cape incongruously bright against the gore. His helmet had been crushed inward, obliterating his features. One gauntleted hand still clutched the shattered remnants of a sword. The blade was chipped, the armor dented and buckled in multiple places.
As ragged clouds parted, twin moonlight – one icy blue, the other a baleful crimson – flooded the carnage. I rose slowly, the scene imprinting itself with horrifying clarity. Every corpse bore similar brutal wounds. All wore variations of the same armor. It looked less like a battle, more like a slaughter. A one-sided massacre. The victors hadn't suffered a single casualty. What kind of force does that?
How did I get here? Memory was a shattered pane. Darkness. Falling. And those eyes... twin points of crimson fire boring into my soul as the void swallowed me. Yet here I breathed. Unless... Purgatory? The thought wasn't entirely unwelcome.
I tilted my head back. The sky was unnervingly empty of stars. Dominating the void were two impossible orbs: the cold blue moon and its sinister crimson twin. Any lingering doubt vanished. Earth was gone. This was... elsewhere.
The wind sliced through my threadbare black shirt and worn jeans like a spectral blade. I shivered violently; this cold was deeper, more penetrating than any I'd known. What now? Lost, weaponless, surrounded by the dead – the only potential guides were silent forever. A grim laugh escaped me. Escaped the undercity's hunger only to starve on a corpse field in another world.
In the distance, across the ravaged plains, shapes emerged: scattered tents, tattered flags snapping in the frigid wind. Beyond them, barely visible, loomed the dark outline of a city's outer wall. The defeated army's camp. Maybe not everything had been taken. A map. A better weapon. Food. Hope warred with caution. Scavengers might already be at work.
A weapon was essential. These fallen warriors wouldn't miss theirs. I crouched, hefting a fallen soldier's sword. The weight was immense, ungainly. Even gripping the hilt with both hands, the blade felt dangerous, unpredictable. I was no swordsman. Reluctantly, I let the heavy weapon clatter back onto the blood-soaked earth. My fingers found a dagger sheathed on another corpse's belt. It slid free easily. Lighter. Balanced. The blade was undamaged, elegant in its simplicity: double-edged steel, a black handle, a simple silver guard. Practical.
For a moment, I stared at my distorted reflection in the polished metal. Inky black hair, swept back haphazardly, revealing more of my face than I was used to seeing. Pale skin stretched tight. Hazel eyes, haunted and shadowed by countless sleepless nights. How long since I'd truly seen myself? The face in the blade felt like a stranger's.
I tightened my grip on the dagger, holding it close to my chest like a talisman, and began the trudge towards the distant camp.
The mile felt endless, a gauntlet through the aftermath of annihilation. The path was choked with shattered barricades, uprooted spikes, and the mangled remnants of traps. Something colossal had plowed through here, obliterating defenses with terrifying ease. I was walking the wake of a monster. The thought sent a fresh wave of ice down my spine, colder than the wind. Following its footsteps. Brilliant. I prayed fervently that our paths wouldn't cross again.
Reaching the camp perimeter, I dropped low. Broken wooden fences offered little cover. I listened intently, straining past the chirping of unseen insects. Only silence answered, thick and oppressive. Death had visited here, too. I clambered over splintered wood, entering the graveyard of tents.
It was vast. Hundreds of white tents stood in eerie rows, like tombstones, behind the ruined fences. At the very center, dominating the space, stood a royal blue tent, easily twice the size of the others. A rich, now muddied, carpet unfurled before its entrance. Above it, a blue flag bearing the emblem of a proud stag still fluttered defiantly in the biting wind. Light glowed from within the large tent, a stark beacon against the surrounding darkness.
Moving with predatory caution, I slipped inside, dagger ready, senses screaming. Nothing lunged. The interior was illuminated not by flame, but by lanterns hanging from the tent poles. Within each glass housing, a fist-sized stone pulsed with a steady, unnatural orange light. Magic? The realization prickled my skin.
My gaze darted: a disheveled bed in one corner, a heavy wooden desk in the center. But behind the desk, half-shadowed, sat a sturdy-looking chest. Potential. I rushed over, crouching, and grabbed the iron-banded lid. It didn't budge. Locked. Of course. Normally, picks would solve this, but all I had was the dagger. I jammed the tip into the keyhole. Too wide. Useless.
Where would the key be hidden? Slowly, reluctantly, I stood up, scanning the desk's surface, the nearby chests, the ground...
Movement.
From the corner of my eye. A shape. Standing utterly still in the tent's entrance. Silhouetted against the lesser gloom outside. Watching.