The wounded were tended to. The dead were mourned in silence. And those still breathing mounted their steeds once again.
Chalice swung himself onto his horse with a practiced motion, reins in hand, his sword now dry and clean at his side. The fog of battle had lifted from the swamp, but a heavier quiet hung in the air. The kind that came after.
King Raevan rode up beside him. "We lost fewer than I expected," he said, voice low. "Still too many. But had you not been here, Chalice…"
The king trailed off.
Chalice gave a modest shrug, feigning detachment. "I was just faster."
Raevan chuckled. "Faster, he says. No one even touched you."
A few nearby soldiers offered tired, admiring looks. One muttered under his breath, "The young lord's a storm wrapped in skin…"
Chalice heard it. And for a moment, his lips curled up.
They like me.
He didn't show much, but his chest swelled quietly. He felt it—not the pride of a godling, but something warmer, softer. Human.
Sixteen winters in the mortal realm had dulled none of his edge, but it had carved something new inside him. Feelings. Attachments. Joys and fears and laughter that had nothing to do with divinity. It wasn't weakness. It was… living.
He rode in silence for a while, the army moving steadily forward now through thinner swamp and into thicker woods. Trees closed in around them like watchers. The air grew colder, heavier.
That's when Chalice saw it.
Up through the breaks in the dark branches—there. Rising like a blade into the heavens.
A tower.
No, the tower.
It pierced the cloud cover in the far distance, far taller than any citadel should be, wrapped in shadow, as if sunlight refused to touch it. It was not built of stone, nor wood, nor metal. Not mortal materials.
Chalice squinted. "What is that thing made of…?"
"I don't know," Raevan muttered. He had seen it too. "But that's not the Crimson Vale's citadel I remember."
The king raised a fist. The army slowed, archers tightening grips, mages murmuring protective spells. The horses grew uneasy, some stamping the dirt, snorting at the air.
Chalice scanned the treeline. No movement. But the silence had changed—it was no longer still, but watchful.
Raevan turned in his saddle. "Everyone. Be vigilant. This is not the same battlefield we prepared for."
The soldiers nodded. Some drew blades. Others simply prayed.
Chalice followed the command, but a scowl twisted his face. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, itching.
Something was wrong.
Deeply wrong.
It wasn't the fog. Or the quiet. Or the tower itself.
It was his blood.
His divine blood—normally still and patient—was buzzing. Like a warning bell struck beneath his skin.
This place is cursed, it told him. Tread lightly.
Chalice's expression darkened as they moved closer to the tower. Whatever waited at the Crimson Vale… wasn't just another clan.
It was something else.
Something that even a god's son felt the need to fear.
Chalice rode alone now.
The thick woods behind him faded into shadow as he approached the looming structure. He had split from the army under King Raevan's command—the main forces would draw the Crimson Vale's attention at the front gates. Chalice? He'd go where the enemy least expected.
The flank. Alone.
He spotted the looming rear of the citadel, massive walls half-swallowed by moss and time. A crooked path led up to a half-open gate, barely wide enough for a man on foot. That was enough.
As he dismounted, Chalice patted the horse's neck. "You're not much for stealth, old friend. Besides, you'd just get jealous watching me work."
The horse gave him a blank stare.
Chalice squinted. "Really? No laugh?"
Another blank blink.
He sighed dramatically. "Tough crowd."
With that, he stepped away, drawing the cloak tighter around himself, and slipped into the side entrance of the Crimson Vale's domain.
The moment his boot touched the stone floor inside—
Darkness.
It fell like a curtain. Not a dim hallway or a shadowed chamber—this was complete. Blacker than night, deeper than ink. A swallowing void that smothered sight, space, even sound.
Chalice's body reacted on instinct.
Blade out. Footwork measured. Breaths shallow. Every strand of muscle ready to snap into motion.
His golden hair caught the bare flicker of his own aura, glowing faintly as he slowly turned, sword glinting cold and sharp.
That's when he felt it.
Not heard. Felt.
A presence.
Behind him.
He pivoted—but there was no attack. Only a voice.
"Hello, Chalice."
It was low, somber. Not hostile. Not friendly either. Like the whisper of a grave long sealed.
Chalice didn't flinch. Didn't grip tighter. Instead, he smiled.
"Hey."
A chuckle followed, dark and dry. "You're not like him."
Chalice raised an eyebrow. "Like who?"
"Your father."
That gave Chalice pause.
He kept his stance loose, but his voice sharpened. "You knew my father?"
The voice sighed. It seemed to swirl in the air itself. "Know him? I'm his brother."
The darkness shifted—no sudden movement, just the feeling of shape, of space, of presence folding. A form now stood ahead, though not visible. The voice spoke again.
"I am the god of death."
Chalice blinked once. "You're my uncle?"
"I suppose… in mortal terms, yes."
Chalice relaxed slightly, but only slightly. "You descended just to say hi?"
"No," Death replied, gravely. "I came to warn you. It is impossible for you to win this war."
Chalice tilted his head. "Impossible, huh?"
"The Crimson Vale is guarded," Death continued. "Not by a creature of darkness, as most devils are. But one of light. And light has no natural weakness. Your sword, your skill, your bloodline… none of it will matter. Not against what waits in this tower."
Chalice stood in silence for a moment.
He remembered his father. Not in person—never in person—but in tales, in murals, in the way people trembled when they said his name. The war god who never retreated. Who fought the devil hordes with his bare hands. Who left behind a crying child because duty demanded it.
Did that blood run through his veins?
He smirked.
"I've never known the word 'impossible,'" Chalice said slowly. "I'm the son of war. The prince of battle. The golden lion. The sword born of heaven's edge. The storm that walks. The laughing thunder. The young lord of the northern flame."
He spun the blade once in his palm.
"I will win."
The shadows stood still.
Then—Death laughed.
It was deep and cold, but not unkind.
"Maybe you are like him after all," he said, almost wistful. "Maybe."
And then—nothing.
The darkness peeled back like a curtain, melting away. Chalice stood exactly where he had entered, sword in hand, golden hair catching the torchlight from a wall sconce that had somehow reignited.
He took a slow breath. The citadel's halls stretched before him.
The god of death was gone.
But the war had just begun.