Where others falter before uncertainty, the Seeker strides on with purpose. Forged in silence, veiled in shadows, they are the Warden's final decree—the blade whispered of in frightened halls, honed to perfection through necessity. When treaties crumble and treachery takes root among the loyal, it is the Seeker who hunts, pulling truth from the darkest corners.They are not bound by borders, nor fettered by the chains of law.
The Seeker bears no crest. Their faces are seldom known, their names whispered in sealed halls. Yet their presence leaves echoes—citadels that did not fall, wars that never began, and threats never given name. Some say they are myth. Let them. Let every enemy believe the dark holds no eyes. Let every rebel rest easy, until the knock comes.
You may never meet a Seeker. You may never know the danger they keep from your door. But should you stray too far from the path—should your actions tip the realm toward ruin—you will know them then. And when you do, it will be too late.
The caravan crawled across the ravaged countryside, a line of carriages and wagons creaking beneath the weight of the wounded. Smoke rose from Brelith in the distance, where the city still smoldered like a dying ember. The rail lines, once a lifeline to the east, were now twisted and blackened by the blast. The survivors, what little remained, moved at a horse's pace.
Siegfried sat at the rear of the caravan, slumped against the wall of a swaying carriage. The wind slipped through the wooden slats, but its bite was lost on him—dulled by the bandages wrapped around his side and shoulder, and the steady ache in his ribs. In his lap rested the hilt of his broken longsword, the blade severed halfway down. He turned it slowly in his hands, the grip dark with dried blood. His eyes drifted to the passing landscape through the window, but the world felt distant—almost unreal—as nightmares clawed at the edges of his mind.
He couldn't stop seeing it—Terry collapsing with a sickening crack, Blanca slamming into the stone wall.
Miraculously, Anna had survived. She lay in the front wagon, wrapped in linens and dreams too deep to wake from. He'd checked on her that morning. Her pulse was steady. They were lucky an enchanter had made it out of the flames. Without immediate treatment, she would've died—and Siegfried would still be writhing in agony.
But two of them hadn't made it.
The loss sat on him like a stone—unmoving, unwelcome. He had fought beside them, trained with them. Now they were gone—and he was still here. Wounded, shaken, left with nothing but the ruined grip of a shattered sword and questions that hadn't stopped circling since the night Brelith fell.
None of it made sense. This was supposed to be a routine mission. The idea that one of Bellacia's major cities could be attacked—it was unthinkable. Brelith lay too far west for foreign forces to reach. It should've been safe. The Wardens were meant to be a formality, not a necessity.
What was the point of destroying Brelith? To cripple Bellacia's grain supply? Sever the rail lines?
Siegfried exhaled, fingers tightening around the sword hilt.
Then there was the creature.
It wasn't a monster. Monsters didn't speak. They can't cast artes. It reminded him of his fight during the selection process. Where they were completely outclassed by a far more powerful opponent.
The carriage gave a sudden lurch as it rolled to a stop. Siegfried's head lifted at the disturbance, his wounds flaring in protest. Hooves clopped on packed dirt, and somewhere up front, muffled voices traded indistinct words. A moment later, the latch clicked.
The door swung open, creaking on its hinges.
Framed in the light stood a towering figure clad in full plate—blackened steel from head to toe, helm polished to a mirror sheen. Etched into one pauldron was a crest Siegfried recognized: a Second-Class Warden.
The figure stood motionless for a beat. Then came a voice—female, firm, and devoid of patience. "You're coming with me, then."
Siegfried didn't have the strength to argue. With a nod, he gathered himself, sliding the broken hilt into the loop at his belt, and stepping out from the carriage. The wind blew across the open fields, carrying with it the scent of smoke and wet dirt.
A black carriage had stopped beside his—sleek, silent, unfamiliar. The Second-Class Warden crossed her arms and gave a small nod toward it.
Siegfried hesitated for a moment, then gripped the brass handle and pulled, the latch giving with a sharp click.
The interior was dim, cloaked in shadow behind heavy velvet curtains. Polished wooden paneling lined the walls, rich and dark, while long cushioned benches sat quietly on either side.
He stepped in, ducking low beneath the frame.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the carriage in a hush so complete it felt like the world had been cut away. The air was cooler inside, faintly scented with cedar oil and aged leather. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim.
Across from him sat a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and greying hair.
Siegfried recognized him. Tancred. They'd met once, when he first joined the Wardens. His brother had called him a legend.
He wore no armor now—only a high-collared coat of deep indigo, devoid of insignia. His pale eyes fixed on Siegfried, face carved from stillness.
"Sit," came the command—low, composed, and unquestionable.
Siegfried obeyed, settling across from him, posture straight despite the dull throb in his ribs..
"Good," Tancred said. "Let's talk about what happened in Brelith."
"I am to report first to my lieutenant and captain," Siegfried said flatly. "It is standard procedure."
"Hmph." Tancred scoffed. "Didn't take you for a stickler."
Siegfried didn't respond. He met the older man's gaze, matching his intensity.
"Do you know what a Seeker is?" Tancred asked, leaning forward slightly.
Siegfried frowned. "A clandestine rank within the Wardens—so it is claimed. No division, no formal privileges. Terry… spoke of them once. Mere rumors, he said. Phantoms that ensure the nation remains in order."
"Then I don't need to explain further," Tancred said, settling back. "Tell me what happened in Brelith."
"Do not be absurd," Siegfried snapped. "Even if these 'Seekers' exist, I'll not accept your word alone. I will report to my division, as protocol demands. Should your claims hold merit, you may extract whatever truth you seek from them directly."
Tancred's lips twitched faintly. "So defiant. Just like your father."
"I am nothing like him!" Siegfried shot up, eyes blazing.
Tancred's expression darkened. "Sit."
Jaw clenched, Siegfried forced himself back down, his chest burning.
"I don't care about your grudges or your resignations," Tancred said. "You're right—I could wait until Aldinia. But this is urgent. If you know something that might prevent another catastrophe, you'll tell me now. That is my duty. To find the embers and stamp them out before they become flames. That's what it means to be a Seeker."
A tense beat passed. Siegfried studied the man across from him, weighing every word.
"How am I to ascertain the truth of your words?"
"You don't," Tancred replied calmly. "As you said yourself—Seekers are ghosts. Identification defeats the purpose. The only way I could convince you is with my spiratus."
"Spiratus?" Siegfried echoed, brow furrowing.
"You've never heard of it?" Tancred's nose wrinkled. "Siegmar did a poor job training you."
"My sister taught me," Siegfried growled.
"That explains as much," Tancred duly noted.
Siegfried's fists clenched. "Do you believe that insulting me will encourage my cooperation?"
"No," Tancred said without flinching. "But I had hoped you'd show some sense. Instead, you really are just like your father."
Siegfried's fists shook. "Do you find this amusing? You appear from nowhere, flaunt your rank, and begin picking through the carrion while the blood remains fresh."
Tancred raised an eyebrow. "I'm just here to figure out what happened."
"Well, you're too late," Siegfried snapped.
Tancred didn't respond.
Siegfried stood again, breathing hard. "Terry and Blanca are dead. Anna may never awaken. Do you truly believe I care who you are?"
He exhaled, his mouth tasting like ash.
"You were not present," he said, sinking back onto the bench. "You did not witness what it did to them. What it did to us. All that training we endured together... utterly pointless."
A silence fell between them, thick and heavy.
Tancred nodded once. "You felt powerless."
Siegfried didn't look up. His eyes locked on the cracked hilt resting in his lap.
"I'll make you a deal," Tancred began, "Tell me what you know and I'll let you investigate this ordeal alongside us. This way you can confirm with your own eyes. You don't need to trust me, but I expect you to put in as much effort as you would during your normal duties."
Siegfried didn't answer at first.
"You will permit me to investigate," he echoed, his voice barely audible. "But, I am expected to report back to Aldinia."
Tancred tilted his head. "They will be notified. It's your choice."
He looked up then, finally meeting Tancred's gaze. There was no defiance in his eyes now—only a hollow clarity.
"Where shall I begin?"
"I want to know all of it. Don't skip any detail."
"It started when we reached Léveque Keep."
Siegfried spent the next couple of hours recounting his tale. Describing in detail the events that led up to the explosions and his squads encounter with the fiend.
Tancred said nothing, but his posture never slackened. He leaned forward just enough to show attention—hands folded, eyes sharp. No interruptions, no inquiries—just steady observation.
Siegfried didn't soften the details. He told it plainly. The panic. The fear.
The silence that followed his final word was taut, burdened with self judgment.
He sat back, drained. The story was out—but the weight of it hadn't lifted.
Tancred stared at him a while longer, contemplative. The thaumaturgic device that Siegfried had recovered lay in his grip, its glow faint but steady, pulsing with a quiet energy that seemed to match the tension in the room.
"Thank you." He said, reaching over and knocking on the side of the carriage.
A moment later, the door swung open, the armored-woman from earlier at the ready.
"Mia," Tancred addressed her. "Siegfried will be joining us, let Travis know—and find him a suitable weapon."
"Sir," Mia replied promptly, motioning for Siegfried to follow her.
He stood up, shooting Tancred a final look before stepping out of the carriage, back into the sunlight.
"Judging by the hilt, you wield a longsword, correct?" Mia asked, walking to the backside of the carriage.
"Indeed. It is the perfect blade for a Forcer," Siegfried replied bitterly, hand brushing the broken blade.
"Shame, that. I don't have a longsword, and not many swords in my collection. I'll give you your pick of what's there, and that'll have to be good enough." Mia said. "How early do you rise in the morning, then?"
"I practice my forms every morning before daybreak." Siegfried replied.
"Splendid," Mia remarked. "You'll be training with me from now on. I expect you to put in proper effort—don't think for a moment that your wounds will serve as an excuse."