The wind was still as Rave stood before the gates of Crimson Fall — a city draped in both fog and memory.
The Skinwalker's Mask, still humming faintly against his skin, had etched every scar, every detail of the man he once called teacher. Even the way Wil carried himself had been subconsciously absorbed. The gait, the posture, the small stiffness in the right shoulder — Rave had mimicked it all. He didn't like wearing this mask. But here, in the heart of the Shadowfen Dominion, sentiment was a liability.
Crimson Fall was no longer a city. It was a wound. And Rave was coming to reopen it.
The guards at the main gate — two stern-faced soldiers clad in wet iron and dull crimson cloaks — stiffened as he approached. Their eyes locked on him, and one of them stepped forward.
"Commander Wil?" the soldier asked, voice flickering between surprise and relief. "We were told you'd vanished beyond the Murkvale wilds. Is your mission complete?"
Rave nodded slightly, voice low, measured. "The mission's classified. I'll debrief the Nightshade Hall directly."
That was enough. The guards saluted in perfect sync and pulled open the rust-stained iron gate. It groaned like a dying beast, revealing the city beyond — a city Rave hadn't seen in nearly three years.
The first thing that hit him was the smell.
Rot, smoke, damp moss. And blood. Always faintly, somewhere in the background — the iron tinge of dried blood. The streets were slick with last night's rain, but the puddles never reflected cleanly. The sky above was the color of bruised flesh — a smudged palette of gray, violet, and brown.
To his left, a crooked market sprawled along the lower district wall. What used to be bright stalls and silken tents was now a network of tarps and crates, stitched together by desperate hands. Merchants shouted half-heartedly over one another — selling bitterroot, fermented grain, damp firewood. Everything was overpriced. Everything was underweight.
Children darted through the alleys, their faces gaunt but eyes sharp. Rave recognized the look — hunger sharpened into instinct. They reminded him of himself, once.
Above them all, the crimson banner of the Dominion hung like a bloodstain across the skyline, stretched between two tilting towers. The emblem — an iron crown pierced by twin spears — was faded, but its threat hadn't dulled.
He passed through district after district — the old docks, now bone-dry; the Weeping Terrace, where rusted statues of past martyrs leaked black rainwater from their eyes; the prayer spires of the old godless, now sealed shut with chains and Authority markings.
As he walked, whispers followed him.
"Is that—?"
"Nightmare Legion..."
"He's alive?"
Wil's identity had weight. Power. Rave wielded it cautiously, nodding when spoken to but never lingering. Too many eyes, too many memories he couldn't afford to awaken. There were people here who had known Wil. People who might notice what was missing beneath the mask.
He finally reached the base of the castle wall. It towered above him — a mountain of black stone and thorned iron. The wall alone was twice the height of most houses in the city, reinforced by a lattice of crimson steel. Atop it, guards in high-plated armor paced like shadows with eyes.
Beyond that wall lay the Crimson Keep — once the ruling seat of the region, now a fortress of Absolute Authority. That was where the five he'd come to kill resided.
Each one a monster. Each one had been there when his parents were hanged.
Rave's hands tightened into fists.
But not yet.
He needed time. Preparation. The Authority were no wandering beasts — they were trained, armed, and surrounded by soldiers loyal to death. To challenge them now would be suicide.
He turned away from the wall, heart hammering, and disappeared into a narrow side street in the mid-tier district.
Eventually, he reached a narrow inn tucked between two leaning buildings. Its sign — once gold-leafed — was now half burnt and read simply: The Hollow Root. It was quiet. Discreet. Exactly what he needed.
He stepped inside.
The innkeeper was a bald old man with eyes like cloudy quartz. He barely blinked as Rave entered.
"You look like hell," the old man rasped.
"Been there. Walked out," Rave replied, Wil's voice sharp and tired.
The man gave a dry chuckle and handed him a rusted key.
"Third floor. End of the hall. Don't make noise. And don't bleed on the floors. I just mopped."
The room was small but clean. A narrow bed with a moth-eaten blanket. A window barely large enough to fit his head through. Cracks in the stone wall formed strange patterns — like veins or old wounds.
Rave sat down heavily, finally letting the weight of the day settle over him.
He stared out the window at the city that had raised him, exiled him, and branded him an orphan.
"I came back for revenge," he whispered. "Not for memories."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded parchment — a rough map of the city he had drawn from memory. Five red markings, circled in ink.
The Stone Spire Courthouse, where executions were held. Where his parents had been hanged.
The Tarned Chapel, now a garrison for Authority enforcers.
The Whispering Barracks, old district headquarters for local Dominion forces.
The Ashen Forge, a prison-factory where rebels were tortured for information.
And finally... the Crimson Keep.
Each one held a member of the Authority. Each one was a grave he intended to dig.
But there was one problem.
The more he looked over the plan, the more anxious he became. His hand trembled.
The curse.
"Everyone he loves will die."
He looked at his arm where the bracelet still clung to his wrist. Cold. Silent. But always there.
It hadn't buzzed again since the night in the forest. But its promise echoed in his mind.
And he had grown fond of the horse. Of Noctis.
As if summoned by thought, there was a sudden pulse in his chest. Warm, like a candle flaring behind his ribs.
He staggered back.
From his core, a presence stirred. Light poured into his mind, and with it, a warmth he hadn't felt since... before. Before the blood and smoke.
Noctis.
The horse. The radiant, angelic creature. He hadn't known what to do with it when they approached the city. Noctis was too radiant, too obvious.
He'd whispered, "I can't take you with me, they'll kill you," and the horse had understood.
It had pressed its glowing forehead to his chest.
And disappeared.
Into him.
Somehow, Noctis had become part of his core — linked through an unspoken bond neither of them fully understood.
And now, from within, Noctis spoke not with words, but with warmth. Steadying him.
'You are not alone'.
Rave exhaled shakily. Sat down. Held his head in his hands.
It was too much. The memories. The pressure. The weight of two faces—his and Wil's. The thought that one wrong move and he'd be exposed. Executed.
Or worse.
But the warmth inside him reminded him: he had allies, even if they lived in his shadow.
"I'll burn this city down before I let them take anything else from me."
And with that final thought, he stood.
Outside the window, night had fallen. The castle glowed faintly in the distance like a wound cauterized but never healed.
Rave closed the curtain.
Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.