Their fists dropped after the bump, the gesture leaving a quiet satisfaction in the air. The breeze rustled the trees above them, brushing through leaves like a soft applause.
Iver stood up first, brushing the dirt off his pants with a sharp exhale.
Iver:
"...Think they're still awake?"
Ren: (groaning slightly as he rose)
"With Josh around? Probably louder than ever."
They exchanged a knowing glance. The kind only shared by people who'd been through war—literal or emotional—and were still standing.
As they turned back toward the path, the warm orange glow of the campfire came into view between the trees. Laughter echoed faintly—chaotic and genuine. It grew clearer with every step.
Josh: (in the distance)
"Okay but listen—if I eat five more of these, I will unlock my second form. I swear."
Jonax:
"You unlock indigestion, you idiot."
Rej: (cackling)
"I dare you, eat them all!"
Kristie: (mock offended)
"Nooo! That's Seri's food! Stop being an ogre, Josh!"
The camp was alive.
Ren slowed slightly, taking it in—everyone clustered around the fire, faces lit with flickering amber light. Even after everything... they were here. They were whole.
Iver noticed Ren's pause and looked at him sideways.
Iver:
"You good?"
Ren: (softly)
"...Yeah. I think I'm finally starting to be."
He took a deep breath—then stepped into the firelight.
Elly glanced up first, noticing the two of them emerging from the forest. She smiled gently.
Elly:
"Welcome back."
Marian: (grinning)
"Look who made up like awkward divorced dads."
Cedy:
"Group hug?"
Rica: (with a raised brow)
"Touch me and you'll lose a hand."
Laughter rippled through the group again. Ren smiled, more naturally this time.
Josh:
"You guys done being emo? Good. Sit down. You're not escaping campfire confession hour."
Kristie:
"Yeah! Rule number one—everyone spills something or you get pelted with mushrooms."
Ren exchanged one last glance with Iver, who just shrugged with a tired smile and walked toward the group.
Ren followed.
The night had been long. Heavy.
But the fire was warm. The people were louder than ever.
And maybe—just maybe—there was still healing left in this chaos.
...
The flames of the campfire danced lazily, laughter echoing into the night. Marshmallows burned, banter flared, and for a fleeting moment—everything felt... whole.
Then the wind changed.
Not cold. Not sharp.
Just... heavy. Like the forest itself had drawn a breath.
And then—he appeared.
Stepping out from the darkness like a stage actor hitting his mark, Lucien strolled into the light with a boyish grin, silver hair tousled, eyes shimmering with unnatural calm. His coat, long and regal, trailed behind him like a cloak of shadowlight. He looked like he belonged—yet absolutely did not.
Lucien:
"Evening~"
(He waved casually, as if they'd all been childhood friends.)
"Did someone say s'mores and soul-searching?"
Kristie: (startled)
"W-WHO?!"
Rica: (standing quickly)
"Who the hell are you?"
Ren's hand instinctively moved to his weapon—but even without moving, Lucien made it feel... pointless.
Marian: (eyes wide)
"Wait. Wait, wait—that's—"
Lucien: (tilting his head, grinning)
"Oh? A fan?"
Marian: (stepping forward with a shaky breath)
"That's Lucien... The Royal Vahlcrest. One of the Four."
The fire hissed.
Ren:
"A Vahlcrest?"
Elly:
"You mean his the Fourth? I thought he was only summoned during continental emergencies."
Marian: (nodding)
"Yeah. But he don't answer to kings. He just move on his own."
Lucien: (grinning wider)
"Well now, that's a flattering résumé."
Josh: (eyes wide, suddenly animated)
"Dude. Duuude—wait, wait, you guys don't know? Back when we were saving Jonax who was under control by the Sheperd and we have to fight her. He fought The Shepherd! Solo!"
Kristie:
"The cult Shepherd?!"
Josh: (nodding quickly)
"YES! I swear on my abs! Their battle split mountains. The sky cracked open! I saw it with my own eyes. It looked like a war between gods!"
Rej: (chiming in)
"It's true. There was a crater the size of a city when it ended. The Shepherd fled with three limbs dangling like torn flags, but he manage to escape with that mysterious butler that appeared."
Rica: (arms crossed, voice cold)
"And you expect us to believe that?"
She studied him, narrowed eyes locked on his unfading smile. He didn't radiate power—but the space around him felt thinner, as if it bent to accommodate him.
Rica:
"You don't look like someone who could split a mountain."
Lucien: (shrugging)
"Would it help if I juggled a few?"
But she didn't respond. Her instinct screamed danger. And yet—he was smiling. Casual. Playful. Almost likable.
Almost.
Lucien: (suddenly turning to Ren, voice dropping)
"Speaking of mountains..."
The shift was subtle. But the air tightened.
His cheerful tone remained—but the weight behind it darkened like oil behind glass.
Lucien:
"So about what happened back at Veiled Vale. About the Seven Aequinox."
Silence.
Lucien:
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"They were feared. Even we—the Vahlcrest—kept an eye on them. And now... they're gone."
He stepped closer to Ren. Smile unwavering. Eyes—studying.
Lucien:
"You say you killed them. Brutally massacared even."
Ren said nothing. But his jaw clenched.
Lucien:
"See, if it were me, no one would question it. But you? You're not one of us."
He leaned slightly, grin deepening into something sharp.
Lucien:
"So I have to ask..."
Lucien (cont'd):
"What are you, Ren? Which side are you?"
A few gasps around the fire. Elly and Kristie moved subtly, protectively. Rica looked like she was already calculating scenarios.
Lucien: (softly now, like a blade unsheathing)
"You're not a soldier. You're not a savior. You're... a variable. A disaster with no leash."
He straightened again and spun on his heel, that light tone returning like a mask.
Lucien:
"But hey~ Don't let me ruin the party. Keep your marshmallows warm and your secrets warmer."
He walked off, humming.
But before fading into the shadows, he called over his shoulder:
Lucien:
"Remember: Royal eyes are watching~ Especially when the stars begin to fall."
And just like that—he was gone.
No leaves rustled. No step echoed.
The silence after him felt louder than thunder.
...
But as they enjoyed this brief moment of warmth, the pieces have already started moving. News have spread rapidly.
FADE IN.
A throne room of ivory and gold. Stained glass windows scatter the light like fractured rainbows. A Queen sits upon her high seat, elegant yet stern, flanked by motionless guards.
A messenger kneels before her, parchment trembling in hand.
Messenger:
"From the Kingdom of Lithriuim, Your Grace. Urgent."
She unfurls the letter, eyes scanning quickly—then stopping.
Her brows knit.
Queen:
"...The Seven Aequinox... are dead?"
She reads it again. Then again.
Queen (under her breath):
"One boy. From Stray Dawn."
A beat of silence. The court remains still.
Queen: (to herself, quietly)
"Impossible..."
She leans back, the parchment crinkling in her grip.
Queen:
"They were were capable of bringing down a Kingdom on their own yet... How could one lone warrior—?"
Her voice trails off.
A long silence.
And then—
Queen: (softly, intrigued)
"...What kind of storm is Lithriuim breeding?"
CUT TO BLACK.
...
The camera pans over maps and war banners. Red pins mark threats. One burns with fresh wax—just stabbed into the Kingdom of Lithriuim.
A massive man sits at the head of a war table, crown slung low, one hand tightening around his goblet as an aide whispers in his ear.
Aide:
"The Aequinox fell yesterday. No survivors. Source: two separate informants. The killer... a young warrior from Lithriuim."
The King SLAMS the goblet. Wine spills across the map.
King (growling):
"First, they claim Lucien. Now this?! Another monster crawling out of that god-cursed kingdom?"
He paces. Seething.
King:
"How many devils are they hiding behind diplomacy?"
He turns to the shadows where his generals linger.
King:
"Send a hawk to the Eye of Flames. If Lithriuim's creating gods, we'll remind them what kings can destroy."
Fade out with thunder rumbling beyond the fortress walls.
...
EXT. FOGSHORE OUTPOST – NIGHT
The sound of rain hammering against wooden shingles. Lanterns sway in the storm, casting flickers of light on mud-soaked roads. A weather-worn sign creaks above the door:
"The Broken Flagon"
INT. THE BROKEN FLAGON – CONTINUOUS
Warmth and rowdiness bleed into each other. Mugs clink, dice roll, laughter bursts.
Camera pans through the crowded tavern, weaving through mercenaries, sellswords, and half-drunken travelers huddled close.
It lands on a corner table of three adventurers — their gear still damp, steam rising from their cloaks.
Adventurer 1 — older, sharp-eyed, the type who speaks in rumors and facts with the same conviction — slams his mug down, spilling a bit of ale.
Adventurer 1:
"—I'm telling you, it's true. Dead. All of them. Gone in a single fight."
Adventurer 2, grizzled and skeptical, leans forward.
Adventurer 2 (gruff):
"Who?"
Adventurer 1:
"The Aequinox."
The table stills. Conversations around them blur into background noise.
From the third seat — a hooded figure — a slow shift. Adventurer 3, silent until now, lifts his head. He's young, no more than nineteen, but with haunted eyes, too old for his years.
His fists tremble.
Adventurer 3 (low, voice cracking):
"That can't be."
Adventurer 1 blinks, confused.
Adventurer 2 looks toward the boy, cautious.
Adventurer 3 (barely audible):
"My mark... was one of them."
He stands suddenly, the bench scraping back. His cloak falls slightly, revealing etched scars along his arms — each one branded with a symbol... one for every year since his family's death.
Adventurer 3 (voice rising):
"I trained. I suffered. I bled for this. Every day since I was twelve, I dreamt of driving my blade through his heart."
His voice breaks. He grips the table's edge.
"The Bastard of Embergate. He slaughtered my entire village. My family."
A long silence.
Around them, the tavern quiets as a few heads turn.
Adventurer 2 (carefully):
"You're talking about Aequinox Caden..."
Adventurer 3: (nods once, eyes wet)
"That monster wore our banners like trophies."
He yanks his pack off the floor, tightens his gauntlets, and throws his hood up.
Adventurer 3 (snarling):
"Now he's gone—and I have nothing left. Nothing but the one who took it from me."
Adventurer 1 (tentatively):
"You don't even know who he is. The report just says... a warrior from Lithriuim."
Adventurer 3 (without hesitation):
"Then I'll find him."
He storms toward the door, rage radiating from him like heat off a forge.
As he reaches the threshold, he stops. Turns slightly.
Adventurer 3 (softly, almost to himself):
"If I can't kill the monster who broke me...
...I'll kill the storm that swallowed him whole."
The door swings open. Rain blasts in.
Hard cut to black.
...
The rustling of leaves. A single figure sits perched on a branch high above the forest—an elf, long-haired, ageless, eyes half-closed.
A falcon lands silently nearby. Tied to its leg is a scroll.
He reads.
No words. No sigh.
Only a slight tightening of the eyes.
Elf (whispers):
"...The balance shifts."
Wind howls quietly through the trees.
He closes his eyes again. Listening.
Elf (softly):
"...A shadow long buried is stirring."
Lightning flashes in the distance. Fade out.
...
Candlelight flickers across ancient stone. Robed figures stand in a circle, faces masked. One leans lazily against a pillar, holding a glass of wine—watching. Listening.
A messenger kneels.
Messenger:
"It's confirmed. The Seven Aequinox are dead."
The figure smiles. Slowly. Deeply.
Wine swirls in his glass.
??? (smirking):
"And here I thought today would be boring."
He raises his glass.
??? (to the circle):
"Raise your masks, friends. The board just changed."
Camera pans around the circle—none speaking. Just nodding.
??? (grinning wider):
"Checkmate's coming early."
Fade to black.
...
INT. ABANDONED FORTRESS – UNDERGROUND SANCTUM – NIGHT
The gargantuan door creaks open, revealing a dark corridor lit only by pale blue flames flickering along the walls. The air smells of ash, old parchment, and ancient blood.
The Shepherd stumbles in, his once-pristine robes torn and bloodied. He clutches his side, blood soaking through his fingers, each breath labored. Beside him, the Butler—composed despite the ordeal—walks with calm precision, still holding the gleaming fourth Key.
Butler (softly):
"You need rest, my Lord. This wound won't heal with stubbornness."
The Shepherd says nothing, but his eyes flicker to the sealed vault at the far end—a door carved with thousands of runes, each one glowing faintly.
Butler (continued, now smiling):
"Four out of five, my Lord. Just one more... and the gate to Magnus opens. The New Order will begin, and your enemies—"
A sudden CLACK-CLACK-CLACK of heels interrupts them.
A shadowy female figure emerges from the hall—small in stature, yet every movement of hers drips with malice and grace.
Her suit is crisp. Her gloves spotless. Her voice like venom laced with sugar.
???:
"My, my... if it isn't the Shepherd. Or should I say... the bleeding mess formerly known as pride?"
The Shepherd tenses. She steps into view. Another Butler—but unlike the stoic one beside him, this one radiates playful malice.
Female Butler:
"You really do look like hell, Sheppy. And here I thought you were invincible."
Shepherd (growling):
"Not now, Veyla."
Veyla (mock-pouting):
"Aww, is my baby Sheppy gonna cry?"
She walks toward him slowly, then grins wide—too wide.
Veyla:
"Actually, you might want to save the tears. I've got some... unfortunate news."
She lifts a finger, mockingly pressing it to her lips in thought.
Veyla:
"Your precious little pets—the Seven Aequinox you loved barking orders at? All dead."
The Shepherd freezes.
Veyla (continued, savoring every word):
"Killed. By one boy. Ren—the Flame of Starborn. Heard of him?"
Shepherd (disbelieving):
"...That's impossible."
Veyla:
"Mmm. And yet... there they lie. Seven bloody corpses snuffed out in the snow."
She twirls her hand playfully, imitating falling bodies.
Veyla (mock sympathy):
"Poor Sheppy. You trained them, fed them, gave them cute little names... and poof. Gone."
The Shepherd's breathing grows erratic, his knuckles whitening.
Shepherd (voice cracking):
"They were... loyal. Strong. They couldn't have..."
Veyla (with a sharp grin):
"Oh, they could. And they did. Face it—you're not the only fire burning in this world anymore."
She steps closer, voice turning ice-cold as she bows low, mockingly formal now.
Veyla:
"You have a message. From your father."
The Shepherd's breath catches.
Veyla (reciting):
'Stop this little farce of yours. You have lost. Come home at once.'
Silence.
A low growl escapes the Shepherd's throat.
Shepherd (snarling):
"I haven't lost. I'm one Key away—just one! I can still—"
Veyla (cutting in, her tone sharp):
"Your Highness—"
Her words halt him.
Veyla (continued, voice quieter now, deadly serious):
"He is about to move."
Time seems to freeze.
The Shepherd's rage falters—replaced by something colder.
Dread.
Shepherd (voice low):
"You mean... Father is now making his move?"
Veyla steps aside, allowing the shadows behind her to take center frame.
A silhouette sits atop an obsidian throne, obscured by curtains of magical mist. A faint smirk dances on his youthful lips, though his eyes are far too ancient to match his face.
He swirls a glass of dark crimson wine—not wine—and sets it down beside him.
??? (sinister, calm):
"Let the boy play no longer."
CUT TO BLACK.
So that campfire was supposed to be a breather.
But personally I call it:
“Ren can’t have nice things for more than five minutes.”
Who’s going to be the first to knock over the next piece?
or the first falling tile?
then what exactly is he becoming?
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— Rein Silvers ????
