Somewhere far beyond the boundaries of Mediva, beyond the reach of its towers, its soldiers, and its saints, the Forest of Shadows brooded in silence. Its tall, ancient trees stood like the forgotten sentinels of an older world. Their trunks twisted and gnarled, branches clawing skyward as if yearning for light, yet they swallowed it whole. Sunlight was a stranger in this place. Only the brave or the damned tread this path willingly.
Atop a moss-covered boulder amidst the dense undergrowth stood a man like none other. He didn't need armor to look formidable, nor weapons to incite fear. The weight of his presence alone shifted the air around him. Straight, black hair draped in wild strands across his brow, a stark contrast to the icy calm of his pale blue eyes. He was a statue carved from resolve and war, unmarred by scars, not because he had avoided battle, but because he had mastered it.
A heavy fur-lined mantle hung across his shoulders, once a beast's pride, now a symbol of strength draped over a man who had long stopped fearing death. Broad and unyielding, he was the very image of power subdued and controlled. Every breath he took was measured, deliberate. Every blink, every twitch of muscle, held back the storm within.
This was Absalom, leader of the revolutionaries. The most hunted man in all of Mediva. A million-gold bounty rested on his head, more than enough to turn an entire District into nobility. He was the man who nearly brought his blade to the neck of both the Pope and Archbishop Salas. And yet, here he stood, not in a throne room, not behind an army, but alone… staring north.
He was always looking north these days.
Soft footsteps crunched the underbrush behind him. A presence he recognized approached, not cautiously but respectfully.
"You always look north when you're alone," came the voice. "Is there something there worth your gaze?"
Absalom didn't turn immediately. But when he did, the corners of his mouth curved into a quiet smile, one painted in grief.
"Welcome back, Mark."
Mark stepped forward from the shade, his cloak worn with travel, the dust of escape still clinging to him. He paused, taking in the sight of his leader, their symbol of resistance. But now, up close, he saw it clearly: the grief in Absalom's eyes. Silent, sharp grief. Not for himself, never for himself, but for those he lost.
Mark swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw clear. He had seen Absalom survive countless battles, carry burdens fit for ten men, and never once flinch. Yet now… something in him was breaking.
"Why didn't you stop him?" Mark asked, his voice cracking with restrained emotion. "You knew full well he wouldn't make it out of that city alive."
Absalom's eyes dropped, the weight of the question settling heavily on his shoulders.
"He wanted to die that way," Absalom said softly, the timber of his voice like rolling thunder held at bay. "He wasn't going to survive that disease anyway."
Mark turned away briefly, biting down on his lip. "He still had time…"
"He chose how his time would end." Absalom's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "We're all going to die, Mark. That's the one truth they can't take from us. The only question is—how? Will death choose for you? Or will you choose it?"
He paused. "Vasco made his choice. He lived—and died—on his terms. That, to me, is a noble death."
Mark stared at him, his own grief threatening to break free, but he swallowed it down. Slowly, he nodded, then whispered, "A noble death…"
The silence between them stretched, not awkward but heavy. Meaningful. Then Absalom turned once more, his gaze locked toward the distant North. The mountains, the cities, the towers of Mediva. The place where everything began.
"That day…" he murmured. "What did you see?"
Mark closed his eyes, as if to block out the memory.
"I saw…" he hesitated, "…a crowd drunk on self-righteousness. Saints preaching justice while stepping over corpses. The Daemirans… they were the victims, Absalom. Not the demons. Not us."
He stopped, then turned sharply. "Absalom!" he cried.
The revolutionary leader only slightly turned his head, listening.
"I once believed we were soldiers of light. That we were destined to cleanse the world of its shadows. But now… I wonder if we humans are not darker than the demons we fear."
Absalom gave a faint, bitter chuckle.
"Virtue and righteousness," he muttered, "are only masks worn by those who seek power—masks donned by the saints and the royals. The truth, Mark… the truth is far uglier than you ever imagined."
Mark said nothing, his silence a form of agreement.
"Perhaps that's why," Absalom continued, "God allows the darkness to torment us. To remind us of what we really are."
He turned then, fully facing Mark, his expression unreadable. Cold, but not cruel. Detached, but never heartless.
"That's why we create rules. To contain the beast within us. But the people of Mediva—they don't follow righteousness. They follow status. The Church? The royals? They don't believe in their ideals—they use them."
Mark narrowed his eyes.
"They'll sacrifice anything—anyone—for Mediva's sake," Absalom said flatly. "Righteousness, status, virtue… they aren't the end. They're the means."
A chill swept through the forest then, a gust that rustled the leaves and made the shadows stir. Mark looked down, clenching his fists. He had seen it too, he had lived it.
Absalom's voice was like a blade now, each word cutting cleanly.
"Mediva is a city built on blood and illusion. It must fall, so something better can rise."
Mark looked up, and for the first time in a long while, his eyes burned not with despair, but with clarity. With purpose.
"…Then let's make sure Vasco's death meant something."
Absalom nodded once, solemnly.
"We will."
In the Forest of Shadows, two men stood, bound by loss, fueled by fire, and united by a dream that would either save the world or burn it down.