The journey through the Dark Forest weighed heavily on my men. The air was thick, oppressive, and shadows danced at the edges of my vision like forgotten dreams. Yet I reminded myself that this forest, filled with beasts, caves, and ancient ruins from the Gods' War, was no stranger to such mysteries. Even my father’s great expedition hadn’t ventured this deep. The common folk whispered that the Dark Forest teemed with magic and strange creatures—Dryads, Centaurs, Gnomes, and other childhood fantasies. I couldn’t dismiss the idea entirely, given the strange phenomena I had seen. Aunt Flavia scoffed at these tales, claiming those creatures had either died out or gone into hiding long before the Cataclysm. Curiously, though, she still believed that vampires roamed the land.
Titus Phikaria rode beside me, his single eye, not lost at Talon's Reach, scanning the trees with a hawk's precision. I could hear his labored breath through his helm as we neared a clearing. My legionnaires marched in disciplined silence, their armor catching only faint glimmers of the dim light that fought its way through the forest canopy. Our company was a mixed party—soldiers, my childhood tutor Darianus, and a handful of attendants—drawn by reports of banditry in the rural outskirts of Natunnos, near the southern coast of the Broken Lake.
"By Bellona’s tits, where are these bastards?" Titus grumbled, his frustration palpable. "We’ve been trudging through ancient oaks all day. Why did the gods leave this cursed forest standing? The western realms have enough wood as is, yet this place grows more trees the harder we cut."
"You know, the philosopher Beneca the Wiser famously said that difficulties strengthen the mind, as labor strengthens the body, Lord Titus," Darianus, replied sagely.
"Bah! I’d counter with his son, Beneca the Drunkard, who said, ‘Joy blooms in intoxication.’ If I had anything other than this watered-down piss, I might follow his sage advice," Titus grumbled.
"Some say a goddess of nature blessed these lands during the God’s War, Lord Titus, along with many other natural wonders like the Coi Wood, The High Forest, and the Forest of Shadows," Darianus continued, likely weaving one of his usual tales. Sol knows I’ve heard many of his stories in my youth. "There are even tales of her great garden beneath the lonely mountains—"
"Sol’s piss, don’t start boring the men with your tales, especially about dead gods," Titus interrupted, irritation rising.
"Shut it, Titus," came a voice from behind me—Aunt Flavia, clad in riding leathers. She absentmindedly rubbed her stomach. Her insistence on joining this expedition had vexed me, but I didn’t have the heart to refuse her. Since my father’s death, she had been a constant presence, and despite her previous claim to avoid assisting with the Imperium’s rule, she had relented somewhat, becoming more involved in my affairs. Even her drinking had subsided, with her declaring that mortal libations no longer had any effect on her.
"Please continue, Darianus," she added.
"Uh... Yes, yes indeed, Lady Flavia," stuttered the old scholar. "As I was saying, this garden was veiled in green pastures, swelling with the most beautiful roses and orchids conceived by the goddess. And right in the middle of this divine garden stood a cherry blossom tree, tall and illustrious. Outside this tree's trunk, in this hallowed place where the goddess last took rest before the siege of Caelum, rested the primordial sword: Peristeria. It is said this blade held a diamond containing the last of her essence in the mortal plane. I don’t recall all the details, but I distinctly remember Peristeria’s blade being made of a metal only found deep within the mountains."
"Galeandra," my Aunt Flavia said.
"I beg your pardon, my lady?" Darianus queried.
"The goddess’ name was Galeandra. The metal was Alondanium, and the blade’s first wielder was none other than the first King of Magvel, Frederick de Renais," Flavia explained, her Magvelian flawless. I gave her a questioning look, silently asking, "Where did you learn this?" She seemed to understand.
"I’ve had a lot to read during my captivity at Hunter’s Hold," she shrugged. "I don’t consider the Ardaling Tribes the most literary culture, far from it, but the libraries of Óþyrmir were sufficient."
The forest grew denser as we continued, the bandit hideout nowhere to be found.
"I suppose his story ends like so many others," Flavia mused thoughtfully. "Dying in some meaningless war on a Sol-forsaken battlefield. That kingdom was already in a state of slow, inevitable decline, likely plagued by internal corruption and, of course, serving as a sacrificial lamb to the ambitions of Ascalon. What’s more intriguing is the rumor that his entire bloodline was cursed by a sorceress."
"Turns out it was the same sorceress said to have had a hand in his brother’s death almost a decade before his own," she finished, sighing, "Vae Victis."
Titus, slowing his horse, turned his head toward us. “You know what I think?” he said, his voice gruff with certainty. “I think Artos Flambard had a hand in it. No one rises to that level of power without spilling a little blood along the way. He probably made some unholy pact with that sorceress. Hell, he was a mean bastard, no doubt about it—before he got gutted in this very forest. Vae Victis” he cheekily grinned
"Vae Victis," I mirrored, reflecting the old Asrian saying.
Suddenly, Titus’ horse bucked, neighing as it stumbled on the uneven road, the legionary cursing under his breath. "It’s a bloody wonder the roads here are still maintained, as shit as they are..." Titus said, glancing at me cheekily, only to meet my disapproving gaze.
The roads in the Black Forest were a sore spot for me. The few roads built here were laid during my father’s great crusade eastward, and only where the legions traveled. With my father perpetually at war, the lands west of Natunnos had been left with mere country roads. My father had assumed that his lords like Old Godobald Dorner or Osric Laurent would complete the job. The latent magics within the forest made it difficult to send work crews to clear paths, and the average townsfolk had to prioritize feeding their families over roadwork. Thus, progress was slow, no matter how much money I invested.
"I meant no offense, my lord. I beg forgiveness," Titus said, raising his arms in mock surrender, knowing I would not punish him. After all, I trusted him with my life and the lives of those who swore loyalty to me after my father’s death.
"Water under the bridge," I replied, my voice calm yet firm. "Although I believe you should recall your profession, Titus. I need not remind you that you traversed this very forest when my esteemed father crusaded through these lands all those years ago." I gently patted my horse’s head as she shifted uneasily, likely disturbed by a fly or some other mortal phenomenon only a horse could comprehend. "The sooner we rid our august countrymen of these brigands, the sooner we can return home," I smiled as my men cheered at the prospect.
But even as the cheers rang out, I knew that something else drew us here—something far more sinister than mere banditry. These were not just petty thieves preying on travelers. I should have known. Bandits do not leave strange esoteric wards inscribed on ancient oaks, nor do they set up grotesque displays like the one before me now.
My men halted, eyes drawn to the sight ahead. Hanging from the trees were sixteen men and women of various walks of life, all in various stages of decomposition. Some were burned beyond recognition, others mangled, disemboweled, or beheaded. These poor souls had not only lost their lives but their very dignity, victims of something far darker than robbery.
My men stood at high alert, Titus forming a defensive line, shields ready against both arrows or potential witchery.
A shuffle in the forest alerted me, and judging by the tense posture of my men, they too sensed it.
"Imperator," Titus signed, catching my eye. His hands moved swiftly, the gestures nearly invisible to an untrained mortal. "We’re being watched."
I gave a small nod, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword—a ceremonial gesture more than anything, for I had not yet drawn the blade. Still, the weight of unseen eyes pressed against us, making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I could sense it—these were no ordinary mortals. They were led, undoubtedly, by one of our own.
"Let them watch for now," I signed back, my movements deliberate. "We need to draw them out." I glanced at Flavia and Titus, receiving their silent approval.
A tense hour later, our group soon came upon a clearing, a stark contrast to the wild growth around us. It was unnaturally clean, with flattened grass forming neat circles around an altar. And there—on the stone altar—lay a mortal woman, an iron crown upon her head and a sword resting beside her. An unnatural pallor emanated from her, her chest rising and falling in a slow, melodic rhythm.
Darianus rode closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the scene from behind the shields of my legionaries. "Something is amiss, your grace. I fear these are no common brigands."
"No shit," Titus said, surveying the weird esoteric sigils etched everywhere within the clearing, glowing with the unmistakable signs of the arcane.
"This… this reeks of witchery, my lords," Darianus confirmed.
I was about to respond when fate intervened. The ambush struck with feral savagery—figures in tattered, ecclesial rags emerged from the forest’s depths like beasts hungry for blood. Their eyes gleamed with derangement, their lips whispered fevered prayers to gods long forsaken. The stillness of the clearing shattered into chaos, and I found myself ensnared in the fray.
"Form up!" I roared, my voice cutting through the din as my legionaries sprang into disciplined action. Shields clashed together, broadswords bristled like the talons of the famed Sunwing. Discipline and precision, lessons from my father that I had learned well.
"For Sol and Empire! For the Emperor!" Titus bellowed, his voice a clarion call amidst the tumult.
But my gaze was drawn to my aunt, who somehow made it to the frontlines to my eternal horror.
The first ambusher lunged at her, his face twisted in a grotesque snarl, a rusted dagger clutched in his filthy hand. His eyes were wild, gleaming with the madness of the forsaken. His mouth hung open, revealing a blackened tongue. But my aunt was unmoved. She shifted her weight, sidestepping with the grace of a Prydhainian swordsman. The blade hissed past her, harmless.
Before the madman could realize his folly, her sword flashed in a brutal arc, slicing up beneath his ribs. The sound was wet and sickening. Flesh and bone gave way, the impact lifting him clean off his feet. His body convulsed, blood spraying in thick, steaming arcs. His face twisted in disbelief, a sick parody of pain, as if his shattered mind couldn't comprehend that death had already claimed him. Flavia flicked her wrist, tossing his corpse aside like refuse. It hit the earth with a dull thud, lifeless eyes staring into the uncaring heavens of Caelum.
No pause. No hesitation. Another madman was upon her, this one wielding a crude club—little more than a chunk of wood riddled with nails. He swung wildly, frothing at the mouth, garbled prayers to gods not of my own spilling from his lips in an incoherent frenzy.
She moved like a shadow, her blade arcing with cold precision. His strike whistled through the air, harmless. Her sword sang in response, a flash of steel, cleaving through his wrist with a dull crunch. Blood sprayed, and the severed hand, still gripping the club, flew through the air and landed with a soft thud in the grass. The foolish mortal screamed—a high-pitched, animalistic wail—but he was silenced swiftly. Her sword found his throat, sliding through flesh and sinew as easily as parchment. His eyes bulged, hands clawing at the gaping wound, but it was already over. Blood gushed, soaking his filthy robes, as he collapsed in a pathetic heap, gurgling his last.
She didn’t even glance down at her work for a towering brute was now upon her, a massive maul in his hands. His armor was a mismatched patchwork of rusted steel and scavenged leather, all caked with dried blood. His eyes burned with fanatical rage, and his roar split the air.
"Witness the twilight of the gods!" His voice was thunderous, full of conviction born of madness.
This one was different. His height, the way he moved, and the way his eyes tracked her told me he was no mere mortal. He had known battle, likely one of us—a First One who had strayed too far from the path of Sol. A leader among these madmen. But even as my gut twisted, my aunt remained unshaken. She held her ground, her sword raised in a defensive posture, luring him in.
The maul came down with terrifying speed, the air itself displacing under its weight. But she was faster. She stepped aside, her sword meeting the maul with a resounding clang. The impact rippled through her arm, but she absorbed it, twisting the blade along the haft of the maul, deflecting the brute’s strike.
With a fluid motion, she drove her boot into his knee. There was a sharp crack, the sound of bone shattering, and the giant howled in agony as his leg buckled. He fell to one side, clutching at his ruined limb. His maul slipped from his grasp, useless now. But Flavia showed no mercy. In a single, precise strike, she brought her sword down in a swift arc, cleaving through his neck.
Blood exploded in a violent spray, drenching the ground in a sea of red. The brute gurgled, hands clawing at the gaping wound, but his strength was fading fast. His final snarl of defiance was silenced as Flavia’s sword found his eye, sinking deep into his skull. He spasmed once, twice, then went still, crumpling to the ground with a heavy, wet thud.
Turning my attention to my legionaries, I saw they held the line with unyielding discipline. My men fought with the precision they had been trained for—methodical, efficient. The madmen broke themselves upon our shields, their wild frenzy no match for us.
Yet, it wasn’t the cultists that truly troubled me. It was the altar—and the sword resting beside the woman, half-hidden beneath tattered cloth. I felt a pull, a presence I could not ignore. Somehow, I could hear whispers—whispers just out of earshot calling me to the altar. I pushed forward through the tumult, my guards cutting a path for me, my gaze locked on the weapon.
As I approached the altar, Darianus was already there, hunched over the blade, his gaunt fingers trembling in reverence. His eyes gleamed with a mix of awe and fear, as if he stood in the presence of something divine. "Aurelian..." he rasped, voice thin and strained. "This is no ordinary relic. It is... ancient. Beyond mortal comprehension." His hands shook as he fumbled for his battered tome, desperately flipping through its pages.
"Darianus, spare me your theatrics," I snapped, eyes sweeping the battlefield. The last of the madmen lay broken, scattered like ash before the wind, but the whispers... they persisted, crawling into my skull, urging, pleading.
"Wait—look!" Darianus’ fingers jabbed frantically at a page, his voice rising in pitch. "In all my years of study... never did I think I would witness such a thing. Such... power."
"What in Sol's burning name are you talking about?" I demanded, the irritation gnawing at me. The blade called out, its whispers growing louder, more fervent. Although it seemed Darianus wasn’t affected by it, or at least he didn’t show it.
"Eureka!" Darianus gasped, eyes wild with fervor. "This blade... the Sword of the Holy Flame! The blade forged from the tear of our lord of light himself, shed at the dawn of the Gods' War."
The battlefield fell silent. The last of the madmen had been dispatched, leaving only us and the whispers of the sword. Titus and Flavia approached, their eyes narrowing as they took in the scene. My men moved to secure the perimeter, but even they could sense something was wrong.
"What’s got you so stirred, old man? Never seen a naked woman before?" Titus sneered, sheathing his sword, his voice laced with his usual crassness.
Flavia’s hand lashed out, striking him hard across the face. "Have some respect," she spat, before pulling a cloak from her saddle and draping it over the woman, concealing her from the indignities of Titus’ gaze.
"Sol’s Lamentation, my lord and lady!" Darianus continued, undeterred by Titus’ crude remarks. His voice quivered with reverence. "This sword was wielded by Saint Esclarmonde herself during the Gods' War."
Flavia’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in skepticism. “This?” She gestured at the pitch-black blade that, her voice dripping with doubt. “Esclarmonde’s sword was silver, radiant like the sun. Not this… this shadowed thing. And these whispers—can you hear them?”
We all nodded in unison. The whispers were unmistakable, yet indistinct. They clawed at the mind, hungry and relentless.
Darianus, undeterred, clung to his tome, repeatedly tapping on the illustrations. "The iconography matches. Look closely—the runes, the markings. They are unmistakable. This is no counterfeit."
Titus grunted, eyeing the sword with suspicion. "It’s tainted, that’s for damn sure. Reminds me of the sorcery they whisper about in Iungard. Their High Queen is said to have a sword with shifting runes. But black as night? I don’t like it."
As they argued, I felt the whispers pulling me closer, their ancient voices weaving a web of forgotten secrets. My hand, almost of its own volition, reached out. I grasped the hilt.
The whispers, once sinister, now seemed to embrace me, confirming truths I hadn’t known I sought. I couldn’t understand their words, but their meaning was clear: this was no ordinary weapon. It was mine. It was destiny.
“It is Sol's Lamentation,” I breathed, the words heavy with certainty. The blade had spoken to me—not with words, but with something deeper, something eternal. It was a fragment of the divine, a remnant of the War in Heaven. The whispers now promised much more than just knowledge of the blade. They whispered of peace, of retribution, of the reckoning that was to come.
I turned to my companions, who stared at me, bewildered. “Prepare yourselves,” I said, my voice low, commanding. “This place reeks of corruption. We're leaving.”
Titus, already bloodied from the battle, nodded grimly. “And the girl?”
“Take her,” I ordered, my eyes never leaving the sword. “Hopefully she has some answers.”
Flavia frowned, her gaze piercing. “Aurelian, what are you thinking? Why the urgency?”
I gripped Sol’s Lamentation tighter, yearning for its warmth. “I foresee... retribution.”
The whispers swelled in agreement.