The rain had not ceased. It poured endlessly from the bruised sky, thick sheets of silver falling on blood-soaked earth. Draven stood there, motionless for a moment, water trailing down his face, mixing with dried blood and the grime of war. The battlefield was still—silent save for the distant clash of swords and the whispers of dying men. He wiped his face with a trembling hand and looked ahead.

  There was no time to linger in reflection. The war was far from over.

  He walked forward, step by step, each footfall heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. The energy that surged through him—the Divine Eos—still throbbed violently in his chest, foreign and hostile. It didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like an invasion.

  Why now? Why give this to me only after tearing me apart? he thought, his jaw clenched as he pressed a hand to his chest. He could feel it—burning, snarling within him like a caged beast. The power felt unrefined, barely tempered, and certainly not gifted with grace.

  He remembered the figure, cloaked in shadows, its voice sharp like obsidian: "It was sealed within you from birth."

  A lie. It had to be. He was born empty. Born broken.

  Where was Eos then? he thought bitterly. When I was cast aside by my blood, when I begged for strength and was met with silence—where was that light then?

  His armor groaned with each movement, battered from the clash. The sigil of House Dawncrest was barely visible beneath layers of dirt and blood. It used to represent legacy. Now it felt like mockery. The cloak trailing behind him, soaked through and dragging in the mud, seemed more like a noose than a banner.

  The soldiers at the edge of the camp saw him approach. Their posture shifted subtly—not with reverence or relief, but caution. Fear. Even now, they didn’t understand what he had become. Perhaps they never would.

  They threw me into the fire. Told me it was honor. Gave me a commander’s title like a child is handed a toy to distract him from the gallows, Draven thought. His eyes scanned the rows of tattered tents and wounded men. They didn’t expect me to return.

  And yet, here he was.

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  The camp was a pale echo of a kingdom’s might—bodies shuffled like ghosts, tents sagged under rain, fires had gone cold. Morale was thinner than the steam rising from the soaked earth. As Draven passed, conversations ceased. Eyes dropped. Some looked on with suspicion, others with muted awe. But no one smiled. No one welcomed him.

  He didn’t need welcome.

  He didn’t need them.

  The soldiers remembered the Draven they had once known—the weak heir, the discarded one. They’d called him cursed. Hollow. Now, they didn’t know what to call him.

  The light from his skin, faint and pulsing, illuminated his path. His high cheekbones and sharp jaw were etched in shadow and silver, his drenched hair curling at the ends. Ethereal. Inhuman.

  He made his way through the ranks without a word. A few officers parted from their tents, unsure whether to address him or flee. A younger soldier stumbled forward, scroll clutched in hand, eyes wide with something that resembled fear more than reverence.

  "L-Lord Draven, the eastern front is collapsing," the boy said, voice thin. "They need reinforcements, the Nyx forces are—"

  Draven raised a hand, silencing him.

  "Then we stop them," he said coldly. His voice was quiet but firm, a current beneath the storm. It carried not confidence but certainty.

  He took the scroll, unfurling it slowly. The ink blurred at the edges from moisture, but he absorbed its content quickly. The eastern flank would fall within the day. Reinforcements were impossible in time. They were being bled dry.

  But it didn’t matter. Draven didn’t plan to reinforce the line.

  He planned to reclaim it.

  He turned, eyes sweeping the faces gathered around him. So many refused to meet his gaze. So many carried the same expression—the silent understanding that this man before them was not their ally. He was something far older, far darker, and infinitely more dangerous.

  And still, they would follow him. Not out of loyalty. Not out of respect.

  Because they had no other choice.

  This is not unity. It’s necessity, he thought. They see a sword. A weapon. And if I die tomorrow, they’ll simply find another edge to throw at the enemy.

  But they wouldn’t get that chance.

  He would carve victory into the bones of this war himself.

  "Prepare the army," he ordered. "We march at dawn. The east will not fall."

  There was no response. Only the shuffling of armor, the rustle of movement, the quiet ripple of orders being passed down. No celebration. No cheers. No cries of hope.

  Only obedience.

  Draven turned away from them and began to walk again, deeper into the camp, the storm pressing down around him like a cloak of judgment. His power pulsed in irregular beats now, flaring then dimming like a faulty star.

  Inside his mind, his thoughts continued to churn. The Divine Eos was sealed within me? Why? By who?

  He had begged for strength his entire life. He had wept in silence, torn muscle and bone, spilled blood for a shred of what others were born with. And now it revealed itself—not as a gift, but a curse.

  Did Eos know what would become of me? Did it lock the power away because I was unworthy? Or because it feared me?

  It didn’t matter.

  He would master it. Not to serve Eos. Not to honor House Dawncrest. But because he would never be weak again. Never be thrown aside.

  His fists clenched at his sides.

  You sealed this inside me... You knew.

  He remembered the shadowy figure’s words, the calmness in its voice, the way it stood between him and death. A savior? No. A manipulator. A force with its own purpose.

  You used me too, he thought darkly. You all did.

  Thunder cracked overhead.

  His eyes lifted toward the stormclouds. Somewhere above, the divine still watched. But Draven no longer cared.

  Let them watch.

  He would tear

  through both heavens and hell if he had to.

  This war was not over.

  It was just beginning.