The wind cut through the ruins like a living thing.
Torches rattled in their iron clasps, flames bending low as if trying to escape. Shadows stretched and folded across broken stone, crawling up cracked pillars and spilling into the forest beyond. The night felt heavy—thick with anticipation, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Kazul stepped forward alone.
His boots crunched against debris, armor scarred and dusted from travel. The Hunters fanned out behind him in practiced formation, spears angled outward, chains coiled at their sides. Every man there knew fear. It sat in their chests, sharp and cold—but none of them stepped back.
Kazul lifted his head.
"Mournveil!" His voice tore through the darkness, raw and unyielding. "FACE ME!"
The forest answered with silence.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then the shadows shifted.
They didn't retreat. They didn't scatter.
They gathered.
Darkness folded inward, thickening until it took shape. Smoke-like strands spiraled upward, forming a tall silhouette that stepped forward without sound. Red light burned where eyes should be, steady and unblinking. His hair drifted as though submerged in water, untouched by the wind.
Mournveil emerged from the dark as if it had been waiting for him all along.
"…You know my name," he said.
Kazul's jaw tightened. His grip on the spear didn't waver. "I know what you are."
A faint smile touched Mournveil's lips—not joy. Not anger. Something colder.
"Then," he replied softly, "you should run."
Kazul didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
The Hunters surged forward with him, chains flying, spears humming with tuned metal meant to pierce flesh that wasn't meant to exist. They screamed—not in terror, but defiance.
Mournveil didn't move.
He lifted one hand.
The shadows exploded.
The ground buckled. Trees snapped like twigs. Soldiers were torn from their feet and hurled into the night, bodies spinning uselessly before vanishing into the dark. Armor shattered. Spears bent. Screams cut off mid-breath.
Kazul slammed his shield into place just as the force hit him.
The impact drove him backward, boots carving trenches into the dirt. His arms screamed. His teeth rattled. He barely stayed upright.
When the dust settled, Mournveil was walking toward him.
Unhurried.
"You hunt me like an animal," Mournveil said, his voice carrying through the wreckage. "But you don't understand."
Kazul snarled and swung his spear.
The blade passed through smoke.
Mournveil vanished.
Pain exploded across Kazul's face.
He screamed as something wet and hot spilled down his cheek. His vision blurred, half the world drowning in red. He staggered, dropping to one knee as blood soaked into the dirt.
"…monster," he spat.
Mournveil stood behind him, fingers darkened with shadow.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm what your king created."
Kazul forced himself to look up.
The killing blow was coming. He could see it in the way Mournveil's posture shifted—subtle, precise, final.
Then—
"MOURNVEIL—WAIT!"
Dave's voice cracked through the chaos.
He crawled from the rubble, hands trembling, eyes wide with terror. White scars glimmered faintly beneath his skin where the fire had burned him hollow.
"Don't," Dave begged. "Please."
For the first time, Mournveil stopped.
That hesitation lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
Kazul slammed a device into the ground. Smoke erupted, thick and choking, swallowing the ruins in gray. Hunters surged forward, dragging him away, retreating into the forest with practiced urgency.
Mournveil watched the shadows swallow them.
"You survived," he murmured. "Human."
The capital erupted into panic.
Guards rushed forward as Kazul staggered through the gates, blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his face. Nobles whispered. Servants froze mid-step. The scar was unmistakable—running from brow to jaw, raw and permanent.
Kazul knelt before the throne.
"You failed," the king said coldly.
Kazul lifted his head.
"No," he replied. "I learned."
The room stilled.
"They cannot be fought like men," Kazul continued. "They must be contained."
He rose to his feet, voice echoing off stone.
"From today," he declared, "we become Black Iron."
Fear spread like fire.
So did applause.
The fire crackled softly.
Dave sat close to it, knees pulled to his chest, staring into the flames as if they might answer him. His hands still shook.
"You were going to kill him," he said quietly.
"Yes," Mournveil replied.
Dave swallowed. "If I become like them… would you kill me too?"
Mournveil turned.
The stars reflected in his eyes—soft, distant, unwavering.
"You saved my life once," he said. "Now I save yours."
He rested a hand on Dave's shoulder.
"You are my brother. Not by blood. By choice."
Dave's breath hitched.
In the distance, a kingdom prepared for war.
And Black Iron was born.