Light drifts and swims through the towering panes of stained glass set behind a mahogany throne, splintering into fractured colors that spill across the gray stone hall. The shifting hues crawl over the man seated there—white hair dyed in light, falling just before his shoulders, golden eyes burning even in the half-light. At his side, a panther—pitch black, its pelt consuming color—dozes with its flank pressed to the throne, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. The tail twitches once, cutting the air, then settles. The colors don’t touch it—they vanish into fur and are gone.

  In front of him, long tables stretch across the hall, dragged in for the gathering and now crowded with brass—some newly seated, others old fixtures hardened into the wood. Colors streak in jagged pieces over medals, buckles, and uniforms, painting them in reds, blues, and greens. The room stinks of smoke—whatever this world calls tobacco—mixed with sweat and oil. Voices hum restlessly, circling the same topic: a danger drawing closer with every day.

  My arms shift on the armrest. I rest my head against my fist, listening. Bickering, not debating.

  I’m the man in a colorful hall turned war room. Me and my machine are seeking a solution.

  A stout officer in his forties, gray-haired with a groomed beard, argues with one of the newly appointed majors brought in after the siege.

  The younger man, sharp-eyed, black-haired, radiates a primitive mana—untrained, but raw talent if I’m right.

  “We need to take this to the field,” the young one snaps.

  “No. They’re beasts. We have firearms. Why abandon a fortress?”

  “You fool, this is a tomb. Stay here and we’ll die where we stand.”

  “A fool? What! A boy with barely hair on his balls dares call me a fool?”

  “What! Old man—”

  Before the spat can boil over, Alfrick cuts in. “Enough! This is a war room, not a tavern brawl.”

  They fall quiet, still glaring.

  Entertaining.

  “Alfrick.”

  I beckon.

  He rises, stiff, awaiting the cue.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Stay seated,” I say. “Tell me—when do we expect our new guests of the monstrosity persuasion?”

  He lowers himself before answering.

  “Sir, the cursed spawn should arrive within a week. Perhaps a week and a half.”

  “The cursed spawn?” I tilt my head. “And their strength?”

  “Sir, they require thousands of souls to contain. Usually.”

  “Oh.” I drum my fingers on the throne’s armrest. “So that’s why Retrevia only sent two thousand here? Spread thin across their cities?”

  By the records, Retrevia fields eighty thousand between its settlements. Small by the scale of the maps—Romania-sized. Not nothing, though. And still they scraped together a token garrison for here.

  “No, sir,” Alfrick replies quickly. “The people revolted. With the flood looming, they refused to defend the fortress and leave their homes bare.”

  I lean back. “Oh? Then why did Kretoria send so little?”

  “The Kretorians were merely conducting their monthly skirmish. But reliable reports showed they reinforced—not with soldiers, but attack mages. That sparked panic in Retrevia’s brass. Fear bled down to the rank and file. The revolt followed. Only the interior villages answered the call.”

  “So Retrevia’s command tried to shove as many bodies into the fortress as they could, even with the flood coming. And the people told them to go to hell—revolted to guard their own homes instead.”

  Alfrick nods in affirmation.

  “Alright. And the reason Retrevia’s numbers don’t match their size or population?” I grin, sharp. “These monthly skirmishes—and the dumbasses giving orders.”

  I let out a mocking chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Alfrick nods again.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  Alfrick’s voice brushes my ear from beside me.

  “Sure about what, Alfrick?” I turn—nothing there.

  When I glance back, he’s still in his chair across the table, staring at me with a confused look.

  ‘Ah. The voices aren’t gone.’

  Shadows swell at the edges of my sight, crawling where I can’t quite catch them. The air stings cold. I drum harder on the armrest until control slides back in place.

  “Sir?” Alfrick’s brow furrows. The rest of the room stirs, puzzled.

  “Nothing,” I reply flatly.

  The tension eases a little—only a little. They’re used to my quirks, or at least they pretend to be.

  It seems this insanity has booked a spot in my head for a while.

  I clear my throat.

  “Any suggestions?”

  Alfrick glances at the brass, then back to me.

  “Sir, we’re poorly equipped for this. To put it plainly—we’re fucked.”

  “Just as we were fucked against the critters?”

  He hesitates. “A step up from that.”

  “Eeh, we’ll be fine.”

  I push myself up from the throne’s armrests. Voi lifts his head, lightless eyes slitting open.

  “Make the necessary plans and run them by me. And remember—” I grin, sharp, “I’ll be doing the heavy lifting. So keep that in mind, and rest assured everything will be just dandy.”

  The last word still hangs in the air as I stride out, heading for my chambers. Voi slips into my shadow, silent as death, matching each step.

  I walk to the staircase, light fading behind me as I climb.

  Finally, in my room, I sink into the chair.

  Cold seeps in. Shadows swell beyond what I can see. Another episode. Another affliction?

  “Pathetic.”

  Riegt’s voice. From behind. I turn, expecting nothing.

  Instead—there. A human shape, carved of shadow. Not like the flickers I’ve seen before. This one feels permanent.

  Different. Too solid.

  I stand and draw my sword. Grip firm, muscles tight, mana flooding in. I drop into stance and swing. The wind scatters papers, whips the drapes, tosses bedding, tips light furniture.

  The blade passes through. The shadow reconnects where I struck.

  Wrong. They always vanished before. Not today.

  “Something wrong?”

  The shadow asks.

  The voice is layered—every tone I’ve ever heard since waking here, yet not one I can name.

  “What are you?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

  “You.”