WAR GOD'S CRIMSON AWAKENING

Strom On The Horizon

The Ashen Wastes didn’t end cleanly. One mile the ground was cracked ash and bone; the next, stubborn grass pushed through, then scattered trees, until the barren scar gave way to ragged hills and the faint green of true wilderness. Elias walked for three days, sleeping little, eating what he could hunt with bare hands or Reaper’s edge. The bloodline kept him going wounds closed fast, hunger dulled to a manageable ache.

Thorne kept up a steady stream of commentary: battle critiques, ancient war stories, and the occasional barb about Elias’s “soft modern upbringing.” It was irritating. It was also the only company he had.

On the fourth dawn, smoke rose on the horizon thin, black, deliberate. Not a wildfire.

Elias crested a ridge and stopped.

Below, in a shallow valley, a small caravan had been ambushed. Six wagons circled defensively, canvas torn and burning. Bodies lay scattered merchants, guards, a few in uniform. Ash wolves prowled the edges, but they weren’t the main threat.

A dozen raiders in mismatched armor ringed the survivors. At their center stood a hulking man with a two-handed axe, laughing as he kicked a dying guard.

Thorne whistled low. “Border scum. They hunt the waste’s edge for easy pickings. Those uniforms Greyhaven academy recruits. Fresh meat on training expedition.”

Elias’s eyes narrowed on the survivors.

Five recruits still stood, backs to a wagon. Three men, two women all around his age, uniforms torn but holding formation. One of the women stood at the front: silver hair tied in a tight braid, violet eyes sharp even from this distance. She wielded a slender longsword crackling with faint storm mana, stance perfect despite a gash across her ribs staining the fabric dark.

Even wounded, she moved like lightning parrying a raider’s mace, riposting with a thrust that dropped the man choking on his own blood.

But they were losing. Outnumbered, exhausted.

Elias felt the rage stir, hot and immediate. Not the bloodline’s mindless fury something colder. These were kids like Mira could have been, if fate had been kinder.

He started down the ridge.

Thorne sighed. “Rescuing strangers already? You’re not even at the academy yet.”

“They need help.”

“They’ll owe you. Debts complicate things.”

Elias kept walking.

The raider leader noticed him first a lone figure in ragged servant’s clothes, greatsword across his back, walking calm as morning stroll.

“Fresh meat!” the big man bellowed, axe resting on his shoulder. “Take him alive. He’ll fetch a price.”

Three raiders broke off, grinning.

Elias didn’t slow.

The first swung a spiked club. Elias sidestepped, drew Crimson Reaper in a smooth arc, and removed the man’s arm at the elbow. Blood sprayed hot across his face. The raider’s scream cut short as Reaper’s backswing took his head.

The second hesitated. That was enough. Elias stepped in, blade piercing chest, twisting out in a wet crunch.

The third turned to run.

Elias let the aura flare just a pulse. Crimson mist coiled around him, and he was suddenly there, sword buried in the man’s spine. He yanked it free as the body dropped.

Silence fell across the valley.

The raider leader stared. The recruits stared. Even the wolves paused.

Then the leader laughed, deep and ugly. “A wild one. Boys kill him slow.”

The remaining nine charged.

Elias met them.

It wasn’t a fight. It was execution.

Reaper sang. Aura veiled him in red. War God’s Instinct painted every move before it happened. He danced through them severing tendons, opening throats, shattering weapons and the hands that held them. Blood soaked the ground until it squelched under his boots.

When the leader finally swung his axe in desperation, Elias caught the haft mid-swing, snapped it like kindling, and drove Reaper through the man’s chest. Pinned him to a wagon wheel and left him there, twitching.

The wolves fled.

Elias stood in the sudden quiet, breathing hard, aura fading. Bodies lay in pieces around him. The metallic reek of death hung thick.

Thorne’s voice was almost gentle. “Controlled. Good. You didn’t lose it.”

Elias wiped Reaper on a corpse’s cloak and sheathed it. Only then did he approach the survivors.

The recruits had lowered their weapons but kept formation. The silver-haired woman stepped forward, sword still pointed at him, violet eyes wary.

“Who are you?” she demanded. Voice steady despite the blood soaking her side. “And why intervene?”

Elias met her gaze. Up close, she was striking sharp features, pale skin dusted with ash, a faint scar across one cheek that only made her look fiercer. Nineteen, maybe twenty.

“Someone who hates raiders,” he said simply.

One of the male recruits a broad-shouldered boy with earth mana flickering weakly snorted. “Convenient timing.”

The woman shot him a look that silenced him. She studied Elias a moment longer, then lowered her blade.

“I am Liora Veyne, second-year cadet, Greyhaven War Academy.” She gestured to the others. “We were on a routine resource run. Got ambushed two days out.” Her mouth twisted. “Our instructor didn’t make it.”

Elias nodded. “I’m headed to Greyhaven.”

That earned surprised looks.

“You?” the earth cadet muttered. “You look like you crawled out of the wastes.”

“I did.”

Liora’s eyes flicked to the faint crimson scars on his arm, visible where his sleeve had torn. Something unreadable passed across her face.

“You saved our lives,” she said finally. “We owe you a debt.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

She bristled slightly pride, Elias realized. “Veyne Clan honors its debts.”

Thorne chuckled in his head. “Tsun already. This one’s going to be fun.”

Elias ignored him. “You’re hurt. Let me see.”

Liora hesitated, then lifted her torn uniform enough to reveal the gash deep, from ribs to hip, still seeping. The others averted their eyes politely.

Elias placed a hand near the wound, careful not to touch. He focused on Crimson Vitality, channeling a thread of regenerative energy. Warm red light flowed from his palm, knitting flesh, sealing the cut to a thin pink line.

Liora inhaled sharply, eyes widening. “How…?”

“Long story.”

She stared at him, something new in her expression curiosity, suspicion, maybe the first flicker of respect.

One of the other cadets cleared his throat. “We should move. Raiders travel in larger bands. More might come.”

Liora nodded, pulling her uniform closed. “We have a spare horse. You’ll ride with us.”

It wasn’t a question.

As they prepared the wagons salvaging what they could and burning the rest Liora fell into step beside Elias.

“You fight like no academy student I’ve seen,” she said quietly. “And that regeneration… that’s not common bloodline talent.”

Elias shrugged. “I’m not from an academy.”

“Obviously.” A pause. “My clan Veyne we’re storm descendants. Old line, older grudges. We don’t take kindly to debts, but we don’t forget allies either.”

She didn’t look at him as she spoke, focusing on tightening a strap.

“I was betrothed once,” she continued, voice flat. “Arranged. To a dragon-blood heir from the capital. Political. I was sixteen. He thought that meant ownership.” Her fingers tightened until knuckles went white. “I broke his jaw in front of both clans. The engagement ended. My father still hasn’t forgiven me for the insult.”

Elias glanced at her. The scar on her cheek he wondered.

“I chose the academy over marriage,” she said. “Chose the sword over politics. Some days I wonder if it was worth it.” She finally met his eyes. “But seeing what you just did… maybe there are still things worth fighting for.”

Thorne’s voice was wry. “Careful, boy. She’s got walls higher than yours.”

Elias didn’t reply. He just nodded.

As the caravan rolled toward Greyhaven, Liora rode beside him close enough that their knees occasionally brushed, neither moving away.

The wastes fell behind them. Ahead, the first true hills rose, green and alive.

And for the first time since his fall, Elias wasn’t walking alone.