Chapter 1 – Dragonfly

  I don't remember falling.

  I propped myself against the trunk of a bent narra tree, its bark rough and damp against my back, my lungs dragging air in shallow, broken pulls.

  The night above me had been a deep, endless black, clouded in places, but the moon had been fighting its way free — pale and watchful behind drifting veils of gray.

  My hearing dulled to a distant hum. The world felt submerged, as if I were beneath water. I could not tell whether the ringing in my ears had come from the clash of steel or from the poison that crept through my blood.

  I fixed my gaze upward.

  The clouds thinned, and the moon revealed itself in patient silence. Its light spilled across the sky, washing the stars awake. I stared at them as though they were holes torn into the fabric of the night — small wounds leaking silver fire.

  My breathing began to slow.

  Then my eyes caught movement.

  A streak tore across the sky — swift, brilliant, gone in an instant. A falling star. I followed its path until it vanished into nothing, wondering where such a thing could possibly fall.

  Another light appeared.

  But this one did not fall.

  It drifted.

  It swayed against the wind in a strange, uneven rhythm, too deliberate to be a star. It glowed faintly, like a splinter of moonlight that had broken free and taken wing. As it drew nearer, I recognized it.

  A lunar dragonfly.

  Its wings shimmered with a translucent glow, each beat scattering pale dust into the air. It danced along invisible currents, turning and rising without effort, its body a slender shard of living silver. The moon caught on its delicate frame making it radiant.

  I watched it as though nothing else in the world existed.

  It rode the wind with careless grace, unburdened by the earth below. Free. Untethered. A wanderer in the sky.

  I wished, in that moment, that I could be like it — light enough to leave the ground behind.

  Free of duty. Free of blood. Free of pain.

  Without thinking, I lifted my arm toward it.

  My hand trembled violently. The dragonfly flickering in and out of my vision as my sight wavered. I tried to reach higher, as though I could pluck it from the sky and hold its freedom within my palm.

  My arm was soaked in blood.

  It gleamed black-red under the moonlight, slick and sticky down to my fingertips. My muscles shook from the strain of lifting it, and a sharp searing ache tore through my chest.

  The dragonfly drifted beyond my grasp.

  My breath returning in a harsh gasp.

  I lowered my gaze.

  A deep wound split across my chest, carved wide by a heavy blade. It stretched from rib to rib like a gaping mouth drinking air.

  Blood poured from it steadily, soaking through my red garments until the fabric clung wetly to my skin. Each breath made the wound ripple and burn.

  I traced the line of crimson down to the earth.

  To the battlefield that lay before me.

  Only now did my hearing begin to creep back. At first it was a faint crackling, like fire far away. Then the sounds sharpened — laboured breaths, steel scraping against steel, the wet thud of bodies colliding.

  A few men still fought.

  Two figures staggered at each other not far from where I sat. They hacked blindly, blades flashing dull in the moonlight. Their movements were sluggish, desperate. They were ghosts already, only their bodies refusing to admit it.

  Beyond them lay a sea of corpses.

  Garments. Red and green.

  The red were ours.

  The green were theirs.

  The earth had been trampled into mud, but the mud had been darker than it should have been. The smell hung thick in the air, of iron and soil and something sour beneath it all.

  My body began to feel distant. Numb. The pain dulled into something cold and hollow.

  I leaned my head back once more and stared at the moon.

  It had broken fully from the clouds now, regal and complete. Its light washed over the field, indifferent to the carnage below. The stars shimmered around it like attendants in quiet reverence.

  The moonlight touched my eyes, and for a moment, warmth spread through me. A faint pulse behind my brow; a whisper of silver stirring in the dark.

  I let the sounds of battle fade again until there was nothing left but the rhythm of my breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  In—

  A cough tore through me.

  Thick liquid surged up my throat. I doubled forward and spat black blood onto the ground. It steamed faintly in the night air. My vision blurring at the edges, dark creeping inward.

  Poison.

  The enemy blades were slick with it. I remember the sting now. The warmth spreading through my veins. The slow tightening of my chest.

  The world forced itself back into focus.

  The last clash of steel ended with a heavy collapse.

  Silence fell.

  I lifted my head slowly.

  There, at the center of the field, one figure remained upright.

  He was on his knees.

  One arm hung limply at his side — gone from the elbow down, bleeding profusely. The other gripped the hilt of his sword, the blade plunged deep into the soil to hold him steady. Blood covered him from shoulder to shin, but through the red I could still see the green of his attire.

  Green.

  I do not know how many of my brothers he killed tonight, but I see their mangled bodies around him. Too many to count.

  Even like that — broken, one-armed — he radiated something terrible. The kind of presence that lingers after the killing stops.

  Fear coiled in my gut.

  I scanned the field.

  No movement.

  No red standing.

  No green standing.

  Only him.

  And me.

  The moonlight sharpened the edges of his silhouette. His chest rose and fell unevenly. He swayed slightly, but he did not collapse.

  If he saw me, I was dead.

  If I did nothing, I was dead.

  My pulse throbbed in my temples. My wound burned. The poison crawled through my veins like cold fingers searching for my heart.

  He had to have it.

  An antidote.

  Men like him always carried one. A vial at the waist. A pouch at the neck.

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  Something.

  I pressed my palm into the earth and tried to push myself upright. Agony exploded across my chest. My arm nearly giving out beneath me. My vision swam.

  Move.

  I clenched my teeth and forced my body forward.

  Each breath was a blade.

  Each step a betrayal of flesh.

  But I rose.

  I pulled myself forward, dragging one knee beneath me. The wound across my chest tore wider and I gasped, vision flashing white.

  The green warrior has not noticed me yet. His head bowed. His breath a deathly rattle.

  The world swayed violently. This is my chance.

  One step.

  My legs threatened to fold.

  Another.

  I had taken only three steps before he noticed me.

  His head lifted.

  It was not a sharp movement — not sudden — but deliberate. Heavy. As if even that small action cost him something. Yet when his face turned toward me, when his eyes locked onto mine, the world snapped into brutal clarity.

  They were not the eyes of a dying man.

  They were the eyes of something that refused to fall.

  The killing intent that radiated from him struck me like a physical force. My heart lurched violently in my chest. My breath hitched. My knees buckled and I stumbled forward, crashing into the blood-soaked earth.

  For a moment I could not breathe.

  Those eyes.

  Cold. Focused. Predatory.

  Even kneeling. Even with one arm severed. Even with his life spilling into the soil.

  He was still a warrior.

  Fear clawed up my spine.

  But there was no retreat.

  The poison had already begun tightening its grip around my limbs. My fingers tingled. My toes felt distant. Each heartbeat thudded slower than the last.

  I was living on borrowed breaths.

  If I did not move now, I would die here among the rest — faceless, nameless, unfinished.

  I forced air into my lungs and roared.

  The sound tore from my throat raw and hoarse, more defiance than strength. I scrambled across the ground, my palm slipping in blood as I seized the nearest weapon — a chipped blade half-buried in the mud.

  The warrior in green shifted.

  He began to rise.

  Even maimed, he was trying to stand.

  That alone filled me with a fresh surge of dread.

  I pushed myself upright, vision swimming, and lurched forward. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. I dragged them into motion.

  He planted his sword deeper into the soil, using it as leverage. His body trembled as he tried to lift himself.

  I forced my feet to move faster.

  The moonlight caught on the steel in my hand. My breath came in ragged, animal bursts. My chest screamed in protest, the wound stretching, reopening with every stride.

  Before he could fully stand, I threw myself at him.

  I did not swing with finesse.

  I did not aim with precision.

  I hurled my entire body forward and drove the blade straight into his chest with every ounce of strength I had left.

  Steel met flesh.

  Resistance.

  Then give.

  The sound was wet and heavy as the blade punched through him. Our bodies collided and we crashed to the ground together. I landed atop him, the hilt of the sword pressed tight in my palms as I shoved downward until there was no more space to give.

  Blood erupted from his mouth in a violent spray, splattering across my face and chest. It poured from the wound in thick surges, hot and slick against my hands.

  I braced myself on the hilt, gasping, holding the blade buried deep inside him.

  He stared at me.

  His eyes no longer blazed.

  They were… calm.

  That terrified me more than his fury.

  There was no rage there. No hatred. No plea.

  Only a strange neutrality — as if he had already accepted something I could not yet understand.

  Why are you looking at me like that?

  Shouldn’t you hate me?

  Shouldn’t you curse me?

  His breathing faltered. His lips parted once, as though to speak, but nothing came. The light in his eyes dimmed slowly, like embers collapsing into ash.

  Then they stopped moving entirely.

  The night swallowed him.

  I remained there, crouched over his body, panting. My arms trembled violently, not from effort now, but from the release of it.

  He was dead.

  I had killed him.

  I pulled the blade free and staggered back, nearly falling again. My heart hammered erratically. The poison still churned in my veins, cold and invasive.

  Focus.

  I dropped to my knees beside him and began searching.

  His waistline was thick with straps and small pouches. My fingers fumbled as I tore them loose. Two small vials slid free, clinking softly against one another.

  I uncorked the first.

  The smell hit me instantly — sharp, bitter, foul.

  Poison.

  I sealed it again and tossed it aside.

  The second vial held a faint green liquid. It glimmered under the moonlight, cloudy but alive. I brought it to my nose.

  Herbs.

  Crushed roots.

  Something earthy and potent.

  I did not hesitate further.

  I tilted my head back and swallowed it whole.

  The taste was vile, bitter beyond reason, burning its way down my throat. I gagged, nearly vomiting it back up. But then—

  Warmth.

  It spread from my chest outward, slow but undeniable. The numbness in my fingers began to recede. My breathing deepened. The crushing weight around my heart loosened slightly.

  I began to laugh.

  It burst from me unexpectedly — cracked and ragged at first, then louder. It echoed strangely across the empty field.

  I had survived.

  Against him.

  Against the poison.

  Against fate itself.

  The absurdity of it made me laugh harder, until the sound bordered on hysteria. Blood smeared across my lips as I grinned at the sky.

  Eventually the laughter drained out of me in one long exhale.

  I leaned back and looked up once more.

  The moon shone in full, untouched by clouds. Serene. Noble. Watching.

  The battlefield had gone eerily quiet.

  Too quiet.

  No wind.

  No insects.

  No distant rustle of night creatures returning.

  The silence pressed in from all sides.

  That was not a good sign.

  My skin prickled.

  I pushed myself upright and turned back to the fallen warrior. I could not leave empty-handed. Not after this.

  His sword still stood embedded in the soil where he had used it to prop himself up.

  I wrenched it free.

  Then I stepped behind his body.

  I positioned myself at his head, steadying my breathing. My hands tightened around the hilt. My vision focused.

  One clean strike.

  I swung downward with force.

  The blade bit through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The head separated and rolled slightly before coming to rest in the mud, green attire darkened by blood.

  I stood there for a moment, staring.

  I had done it.

  I had taken the head of a formidable enemy.

  The weight of it settled into my chest — not pride, not yet — but something heavier. Final.

  I bound it quickly, securing it to my belt. My hands moved faster now, urgency overriding fatigue.

  I scanned the field for more.

  There were many corpses.

  Many potential trophies.

  But my gut twisted violently.

  Leave.

  Now.

  The air felt wrong.

  Heavy.

  Like the forest itself was holding its breath.

  I slung the sword across my back and began moving toward the treeline behind me. Each step felt steadier than before, but I did not mistake the antidote for salvation. I was still wounded. Still bleeding.

  The trees loomed ahead, dark and dense.

  I crossed into the forest.

  The moonlight thinned between the branches. Shadows swallowed me whole.

  I moved quickly toward our rendezvous point, feet crunching softly over leaves and twigs.

  Then—

  It hit me.

  A killing intent.

  So vast and suffocating that it froze the air in my lungs.

  Sweat broke across my skin instantly.

  My mind screamed.

  Danger.

  Not human.

  Not wounded.

  Not dying.

  Something had noticed.

  I did not look back.

  I ran.

  Branches whipped against my face as I tore deeper into the forest. My chest burned. My legs screamed. The head at my side thumped against my hip with every stride.

  Behind me—

  A roar split the night.

  It was not the cry of a man.

  It was deep. Ancient. Shaking the ground itself as it rolled through the trees. Birds exploded from the canopy in panicked flurries. The very air seemed to recoil from it.

  Whatever remained on that battlefield was no scavenger.

  It was something far worse.

  I ran faster.