Fates oddity, p.19
Fate's oddity, page 19
They didn’t know what it was. Celestia hadn’t asked. Murasaki had seen the threads, but said nothing.
Not yet.
Ahead, the trees thinned.
A clearing.
A half-broken cart lay on its side. A horse carcass beside it. Buzzards watched from a distance.
“Something was here,” Murasaki said. “Recently.”
Krimson crouched by the wagon. “No blood on the wood. Whatever did this… pulled the victims out first.”
He touched the ground.
Still warm.
Then he stood, face impassive.
“We’re not alone.”
The first scream came from behind them.
Knives Beneath Flags
The beasts were unnatural.
Chimeras—half-wolf, half-lizard, fused with crude magic and reckless cruelty. But that wasn’t what made Krimson pause.
It was the symbols stitched to their tattered cloaks. Not random bandit markings. These were old military insignias—burned, defaced, but still visible.
Rebels.
Not outlaws.
Traitors.
“They’re not just some gang,” he muttered.
Murasaki stomped her foot, cracking the earth. “I knew it smelled wrong. These bastards were soldiers once.”
Celestia, lips pale, nodded. “Or someone gave them tools meant for soldiers.”
They barely had time to brace when the first beast sprang—fangs wide, body twitching with wild energy.
Murasaki stepped forward and met it head-on. Steel rang. Blood flew.
Krimson vanished.
He reappeared behind another beast, blade plunging into the base of its malformed skull. A flick of his wrist—another dropped.
Celestia cast with tight precision, sending a cone of freezing mist that slowed the last chimera’s charge. It slipped. Murasaki cleaved it in half.
But before the mist cleared, figures moved in the fog.
Humans this time. Armed with stolen gear, crude enchantments. One of them, a younger man with a burnt insignia sewn into his chest, froze the moment he saw Krimson.
“Blood—Bloodtrail?” he whispered.
Then he ran.
Murasaki tensed to chase.
“No,” Krimson said sharply. “Let him go.”
Celestia turned toward him, surprised. “What?”
“He’s heading home. Back to wherever they crawled from,” Krimson said, eyes sharp. “We follow him when the trail’s cold, and we find who’s pulling strings.”
He paused, eyes narrowing. “If they recognized me—recognized Bloodtrail—then they’re not just random deserters. That kind of intel doesn’t trickle down. These people are connected. Trained. High up enough to be a real problem if left alone.”
Murasaki grunted. “So we let the rat scurry back to the nest.”
“And then we smoke it out,” Krimson said.
Murasaki huffed but relented. “That’s smart. Hate it, but it’s smart.”
Celestia stepped closer, lowering her hands. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Krimson replied. “Dead men don’t talk. But scared men? They scream confessions.”
He crouched beside one of the fallen rebels, pulling aside the burned crest. He ran his fingers over it—recognition flickering in his eyes for a moment before he let it go.
“Someone gave these men orders once. Discipline doesn’t vanish on its own. Someone out there still believes this country owes them.”
Murasaki sheathed her axe. “We’re goin’ huntin’, then.”
Celestia’s voice was low. “We’re already in the woods.”
The deserter ran for hours.
His boots tore through mud and briar, lungs searing, heart thundering in his chest like war drums. He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. Not after that. Not after seeing him.
By the time he stumbled through the hidden cave mouth, nearly invisible in the rockface, his legs barely held him up. He fell forward onto the stone floor inside, gasping.
A lantern flared. Shapes moved.
Voices followed.
"Thought we lost another one," someone muttered. "He's back."
The deserter scrambled upright. "They sent him. Bloodtrail. Gods help me—he killed them like it was nothing."
Laughter echoed from deeper in the cave. Harsh. Dry.
"Good. Means we made it onto someone’s list."
A tall man stepped into the lantern light. Not armored—not anymore—but his bearing was unmistakably military. The remnants of an old uniform draped over one shoulder, stained and scorched. His face bore a long scar from temple to jaw.
Captain Veylan.
"You ran," Veylan said calmly.
"Sir—I thought—I thought I should warn—"
"You abandoned your brothers. You didn't even try."
The deserter’s mouth worked open and shut. “He’s not normal. We’ve heard of him—Bloodtrail. He worked for the crown. The king’s blade.”
Veylan leaned in. "We all used to work for the crown. You think that means anything now?"
Silence.
Another figure stepped into the circle of light. A woman, lean and sharp-eyed, carrying a staff of twisted iron. Her voice was colder than the cave walls.
"If they’ve sent Bloodtrail, it means they’ve recognized us. We’re not just shadows anymore."
Veylan nodded. "Then it’s time they saw what we stand for. We are not traitors. We are truth. This kingdom is built on lies—on blood soaked into stone and forgotten. We are the reckoning."
The deserter swallowed. "They’re going to find us."
"Let them come," Veylan said. "We’ll bury them here."
The cave entrance was silent when the trio arrived.
Murasaki sniffed once. “Steel, sweat, and… spite.”
“Definitely a military holdover,” Celestia muttered. “They reinforced this place. Not some random hideout.”
Krimson stood ahead of them, cloak trailing at his ankles, knives already in his hands.
“Last chance,” he said. “You want me to take the front, or vanish through the cracks?”
Murasaki cracked her neck. “I'll take left.”
Celestia’s fingers sparked with slow-building light. “Right. Don’t wait up.”
They entered together—three weapons, three wills.
The guards didn’t have time to shout. Krimson was a shadow between them, no wasted motion. One throat opened beneath his blade, the body already dropping before his foot hit the floor.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t hesitate.
Murasaki carved a path through the outer chamber, her axe a blur, roaring as she met a halberd head-on and shattered it.
Celestia caught arrows mid-flight, turning them to ash. Her spells burned clean—focused, deadly. No theatrics.
But Krimson…
Krimson moved like a ghost that hated being remembered.
One rebel tried to plead—Krimson buried a blade in his ribs before the sentence left his mouth.
Another tried to cast—blood bloomed at his neck before the incantation formed.
He was faster. Colder.
And they knew who he was.
“Bloodtrail,” someone hissed in fear.
He turned toward the voice, unblinking.
When the dust settled, only the three of them remained.
Bodies littered the stone floor. The walls were marked with ash and smoke.
Celestia didn’t say anything. Neither did Murasaki.
Krimson stood in the center of it all, blood on his boots, breathing calm.
He wasn’t proud.
But he was certain.
And for now—that was enough.
In the deepest chamber, torchlight flickered against stone walls marked with chalk maps and coded phrases.
The leaders waited.
Captain Veylan stood in full armor now, his scar catching the firelight like a brand. Beside him, the iron-staffed woman—Eline—whispered incantations under her breath. A third figure paced behind them, armored in black plate and helmed like a knight, silent but massive.
“They’re here,” Eline said.
“Good,” Veylan replied. “Let’s see what they’re really made of.”
The door burst open.
In the deepest chamber, torchlight flickered against stone walls marked with chalk maps and coded phrases.
The leaders waited.
Captain Veylan stood in full armor now, his scar catching the firelight like a brand.
Beside him, the iron-staffed woman—Eline—whispered incantations under her breath.
A third figure paced behind them, armored in black plate and helmed like a knight, silent but massive.
“They’re here,” Eline said.
“Good,” Veylan replied. “Let’s see what they’re really made of.”
The heavy door creaked open—but the trio didn’t strike.
Krimson stepped forward, knives at the ready but held low.
Veylan raised a hand. “Wait. We don’t have to fight. Bloodtrail, we’ve heard of you. We know what you’ve done. You’re not like them.”
Krimson said nothing.
Veylan continued. “You work in the shadows for a kingdom that hides its sins behind velvet and white stone.
The same nobles who bled Nox dry are still in power. The same families still feed off the people.
You think the king’s reforms fixed that?”
Eline stepped in. “Even your king murdered his own father to sit the throne, didn’t he? You of all people should know that. There’s still rot in Gaia.
And we’re trying to carve it out. With you, we could—”
Krimson raised a brow. “Why would I kill my own father?”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Eline blinked. “You—what?”
Even the knight paused his pacing.
Krimson gave a crooked smile—amused, but cold.
“Ah. Damn. Guess I spoiled the big twist.”
Veylan’s brow creased. “You’re… the prince?”
Krimson shrugged. “Eh. A prince. Not the crown-polishing, speech-giving kind. More like the bastard the palace forgot to kill.”
Eline’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not possible.”
He tilted his head, knives catching the torchlight.
“And yet—here I am. In the flesh.
And you’re making this kind of awkward.”
He took a step forward, casual as a stroll. “And now you’ve seen my face. Heard the family gossip. That makes this… complicated.”
Behind him, Celestia raised her hand—magic dancing between her fingers. Murasaki rolled her shoulders and shifted left, eyes locked on the knight.
Krimson sighed. “Hate to be rude, really. But I can’t have the punchline getting out before the setup.”
He met Veylan’s gaze, voice dropping like a dagger.
“You were never walking out of here.”
Then the blades came up.
And the chamber rang with war
Murasaki came first, her axe colliding with the knight’s greatsword in a shuddering clash that rang like a bell.
Krimson slipped through the gap behind her, knives flashing toward Eline—only for a barrier of twisted glass to intercept him.
Celestia followed, her spells bursting against Veylan’s guard, keeping him back.
It was not easy.
But it wasn’t hard.
The knight struck with brutal force—but Murasaki matched it, blow for blow—until she ducked low, swept his legs, and crushed his helm beneath the butt of her axe.
Eline’s spells danced dangerously, flaring black and scarlet.
But Krimson adapted—switching blades mid-fight—moving with such fluid speed he bypassed her final ward and drove a knife into her gut.
She gasped once, eyes wide—and crumpled.
Veylan fought like a man who’d led armies.
Celestia dueled him with spell and ward, relentless and precise—
“Fireball!” she cried, hurling a sphere of flame that detonated in a roar, engulfing half the chamber.
A shimmering Wall of Force flickered up just in time to divert a thrown dagger meant for her throat.
But Veylan endured.
He rose from the smoke, armor scorched, cape burning at the edges—his blade still steady, eyes burning hotter than the flames. He weathered her spells like a fortress under siege: slow to crack, but unshaken.
And then—Krimson was there.
A blade slid between ribs.
A hand covered his mouth.
Veylan died quiet.
When the silence returned, it was total.
No one else remained.
The rebellion in that cave ended not with banners or speeches—
but with steel,
blood,
and three shadows walking away from the corpses.
Together.
***
The guild hall was quieter than usual when they walked in.
Not silent—but subdued. Whispers drifted like smoke around the high rafters. Eyes followed them from booths and tables. Conversations paused, then resumed just a little too softly.
Krimson led the way, his cloak still stained at the edges. Celestia walked beside him, her hair a little out of place, a smear of dried blood on her sleeve. Murasaki brought up the rear, calm, collected, axe still resting across her shoulders like a warning.
At the front desk, a man was waiting.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean-shaven, with dark eyes that didn’t miss much. He wore a long blue coat trimmed with silver, and a polished chain of office rested neatly across his chest. The guild insignia gleamed above his heart, embroidered in fine gold thread.
As the trio approached, he looked them over—once, calmly—and offered a short nod.
“You must be the ones who took the northern woods assignment,” he said. “Guildmaster Reynard. Welcome to Silvanus.”
Murasaki stepped forward, chin high and grin broad. “Name’s Murasaki. First mission. First debrief.”
Celestia gave a polite smile behind her. Krimson said nothing.
Reynard’s gaze flicked across them, lingering on the dried blood at Krimson’s collar and the soot staining Celestia’s robe.
“You made an impression,” he said, folding his arms. “And you’re back earlier than expected.”
“You’re back earlier than expected,” he said, though his eyes flicked toward Krimson like he already knew why.
“We found the cause,” Krimson said, placing a folded parchment on the counter. “Rebel cell. Organized. Armed. Dead.”
Reynard opened the parchment. A sketched insignia. Coordinates. Confirmed kill markers.
“All of them?” he asked.
Celestia nodded. “Including the leaders. Captain Veylan. A mage named Eline. One heavy.”
Reynard let out a low whistle. “Veylan’s name’s been floating around for months. Thought he’d gone into exile.”
“He did,” Murasaki said. “Just not quietly.”
Reynard set the report aside. “There’s a bounty for traitors of that rank. It’ll be split among your party. Hazard bonus included.”
Krimson gave a curt nod.
But Reynard wasn’t finished.
“Some of the others are asking questions,” he said. “About what happened. About how quickly it ended.”
Krimson tilted his head. “Are we under some kind of review?”
Reynard shook his head. “Not officially. But you’re not like the rest of them. Most adventurers come here for coin and fame. You three came back with precision, no injuries, and left no one standing.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “That’s not normal.”
Murasaki shrugged. “Neither are we.”
Celestia smiled politely. “Maybe the guild should adjust its expectations.”
Reynard studied them for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I don’t care how you get it done—as long as you’re not leaving a mess we have to clean up. So far? You’re clean.”
Krimson turned to leave, but Reynard added one more thing.
““There’s talk already,” Reynard said. “About the white-haired one with the mismatched eyes. About Bloodtrail.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Krimson paused, then raised a brow. “Bloodtrail, huh? Wears red, leaves corpses? Sounds like a branding issue. Maybe he should pick a less dramatic name.”
Celestia glanced at him sideways. “You are wearing red. And we are fresh off a pile of corpses.”
Krimson gave an exaggerated shrug. “What can I say? Red hides the blood. And I happen to like dramatic cloaks.”
Murasaki folded her arms, grinning. “You’re not exactly helpin’ yer case, Alpha.”
Krimson smirked. “Hey, you'rethe one who called me Blood Trail the other day.”
Reynard watched him carefully but said nothing more.
Krimson turned, walking away without missing a beat—still grinning, still untouchable.
But the air behind him stayed heavy.
And the whispers only grew.
And the whispers resumed—louder this time.
World of Aeterya Codex Entry #27
Guildmaster Reynard and the Silvanus Adventurer’s Guild
In the bustling heart of Gaia’s capital, the Adventurer’s Guild of Silvanus stands as a beacon of opportunity, intrigue, and neutrality—a place where noble influence and political manipulation struggle to take root. Overseeing this careful balance is Guildmaster Reynard, whose quiet charisma and meticulous nature have made him one of the most respected and influential guildmasters on the continent.
Reynard’s background remains enigmatic, though whispers hint at a storied military past—one that he himself neither confirms nor denies. Tall, sharp-eyed, and perpetually composed, Reynard cultivates an aura of steady authority. His reputation is built upon fairness, discretion, and a willingness to take risks other guildmasters shy away from, as long as those risks serve the greater good or, at least, the guild's interests.
Under Reynard’s stewardship, the Silvanus guild operates uniquely compared to its counterparts. Rather than strict rankings or rigid hierarchies, Reynard favors reputation-based assignment of tasks. Proven adventurers receive higher-profile and riskier missions—not as rewards, but because Reynard trusts skill, subtlety, and discretion above all else.
