The desert stretched, vast and endless, its sands burning white under the raw eye of the sun.

  The Humvee roared through the wasteland, wheels chewing through dust, heatwaves dancing off the metal hull like spirits escaping the underworld. Inside, it smelled of sweat, gun oil, and the faint, lingering scent of charred corpses.

  A Vanguard Humvee always smelled like death.

  Knight Braythar drove, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. Beside him, Knight Teorista sat silent, helmet resting in his lap, blindfold wrapped tight across his cursed eyes.

  In the back, Knight Varro Santos and Knight Roland Thorne sat like two wolves sharing a cage with a rabid dog.

  And the dog was Delacroix.

  The first Shadeborn Knight in the Legion’s history.

  The mistake.

  Santos shifted, adjusting the weight of his rifle across his lap, the metal rasping against his gauntlets.

  “Feels wrong, don’t it?” His voice was low, almost conversational.

  Thorne smirked. “What, the mission?”

  “No,” Santos murmured. He let the word stretch, curling his fingers against the grip of his rifle. “Him.”

  Araeius didn’t react.

  Delacroix didn’t move.

  Thorne exhaled, slow and measured. “You know, my father used to tell me stories about your kind,” he said, tilting his head as if studying something grotesque. “Said the old world had it right. That when they saw something unnatural, they put it down.”

  Santos nodded. “Because that’s what you do with mistakes.”

  No anger.

  No raised voices.

  Just calm, doctrinal certainty.

  Like they weren’t talking to a man.

  Like they were talking about a piece of rotting meat sitting in the middle of the truck.

  Thorne scratched idly at the plate of his gauntlet. “See, I’m struggling with something, foulblood. Maybe you can help me understand.”

  Delacroix tilted his head slightly. Not enough to look at him—just enough to acknowledge the question.

  Thorne leaned forward.

  “What the fuck are you still doing breathing?”

  The words hung in the air.

  Delacroix breathed in slowly. He could feel it, that familiar suffocation, that weight pressing against his skin, the one that had been there since the day he was born. His fingers curled, just slightly. Then he exhaled. A slow, humourless smile touched his lips.

  “I ask myself the same thing sometimes.”

  Santos's smirk twitched.

  Delacroix tilted his head back against the seat, relaxing.

  “

  I mean, by now, I should’ve been stabbed in the back by some righteous Legionnaire.” His voice was even, cool, unconcerned. “Or maybe I should’ve been sent to die in the first wave of some glorious charge. You know. Two birds, one stone.”

  No one laughed.

  Delacroix rolled his shoulders.

  “But for some reason… I just won’t fucking die.”

  His voice wasn’t a boast.

  It was a fact.

  Santos's fingers twitched against his rifle.

  Thorne’s jaw flexed.

  Araeius’ hands tightened on the wheel.

  A long silence.

  Then:

  “See, that’s the fucking problem, foulblood.”

  Santos's voice was quiet. Almost too quiet.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “You’re a mistake. And mistakes don’t get to survive.”

  Delacroix stayed still.

  Santos's voice didn’t rise, but his words carried weight, heavy as iron shackles.

  “You. Should not. Be here.”

  The tension became a living thing.

  The heat pressed against their skin, the air turned thick and suffocating, the Humvee’s engine filled the silence with a low, predatory growl.

  Santos and Thorne stared at Delacroix.

  Waiting.

  Daring him to challenge it.

  Delacroix’s lips parted slightly—

  And that’s when Araeius spoke.

  “Enough.”

  One word.

  One sharp, cutting thing that sliced clean through the tension.

  Santos and Thorne turned to look at him.

  Araeius kept his eyes on the road. His fingers flexed against the wheel, slow, deliberate movements.

  “All I know,” he said, his voice low, even, controlled, “is that between my trigger finger and Teorista’s swordplay…”

  His gaze didn’t move from the horizon.

  “You two might as well be fucking tourists.”

  Silence.

  Thorne exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes.

  Santos sat back slowly, shaking his head. “Flameborn,” he muttered, his voice full of something between disgust and amusement.

  Araeius said nothing. He kept his hands steady on the wheel. He didn’t need to look at Delacroix to know what the Shadeborn was thinking. Because they’d had this conversation before.

  Maybe not in words.

  But in the way the world was shaped around them.

  They’d been through this before.

  And they’d get through it again.

  At least, that’s what they thought.

  The Humvee pulled into the town square, dust curling around its wheels as it rolled to a stop in front of the alderman’s hall.

  Al-Miraj was quiet.

  Not dead. Not abandoned.

  But too quiet.

  The kind of quiet that settled in a man’s bones before his brain caught up.

  Buildings stood hunched around the square, stone and rusted tin roofs baking under the sun. A market stall lay overturned, its goods long since scavenged. Further ahead, a stray dog limped between alleyways, ribs sharp against its skin.

  But no people.

  No merchants.

  No children playing in the dust.

  Just silence.

  And silence was the first thing that should’ve told them to turn back.

  Araeius killed the engine.

  For a moment, the only sound was the soft ticking of cooling metal and the distant howl of desert wind.

  Then he turned in his seat.

  “Santos, take the street. Watch the alleys. If you see anyone moving, you call it in.”

  Santos frowned. “The hell do you think we’re walking into, sir?”

  “Not a fucking debate. Move.”

  Santos clicked his tongue but grabbed his rifle, hopping out of the truck. His boots hit the ground harder than necessary.

  “Thorne,” Araeius continued. “At the door. No one goes in or out unless I say so.”

  Thorne’s lip curled.

  Then, his gaze slid toward Delacroix.

  And there it was.

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  That momentary hesitation—the second where disgust twisted into something sharper.

  Thorne huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re bringing him in?”

  “You got a problem?”

  Thorne smirked, looking to Santos for backup. Santos took the bait.

  “Not a problem,” Santos said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Just funny. The rest of his kind get sent in first to die, but this one gets a seat at the table?”

  Araeius didn’t flinch.

  “Trust is earned.” His voice was cold. Absolute. “And unlike you two, Knight Teorista has earned mine.”

  Santos's smirk twitched.

  Thorne clicked his jaw but didn’t back down. “All due respect, sir, but—”

  “Get to your fucking posts.”

  Santos exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath.

  Araeius turned his head, slow and deliberate. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  Santos stopped walking.

  His jaw tensed.

  Then— “We hear you, sir.”

  Araeius watched them for one extra second before stepping toward the building.

  Delacroix followed, his boots crunching softly against the sand.

  He kept his voice low, dry, effortless.

  “Permission to put a stray round through the back of their heads?”

  Araeius snorted. “They keep this shit up, I’ll probably shoot them first.”

  Delacroix smirked—just barely. Then he pulled his rifle a little higher against his chest.

  Araeius nodded. “Come on. Let’s meet the alderman.”

  The air changed when they stepped inside.

  It smelled of dust, incense, and something metallic, like old copper left too long in the sun.

  The alderman stood waiting, hands resting on the wooden counter of his office. He was a man in his fifties, dressed in traditional Al-Zahir robes lined with fading gold trim. A rifle lay against the counter within arm’s reach.

  Araeius noticed that immediately.

  Delacroix saw it too.

  “Knight Braythar,” Araeius said, keeping his tone even. “Knight Teorista. Gallianese Vanguard, joint operation with the Al-Zahir government.”

  The alderman nodded once. Slow. Heavy.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “I see.”

  His fingers tapped once against the wooden counter.

  Then— “So, you were sent to kill us.”

  The words hit the air like gunfire.

  Araeius flinched. Just for a second.

  Delacroix went still.

  The alderman’s eyes locked onto them, calculating, weighing something they hadn’t seen yet.

  Then— his hand snapped for the rifle.

  Delacroix moved first.

  Boot forward. Elbow up. A single sharp motion—

  The rifle smacked against the counter, spinning from the alderman’s grip.

  A heartbeat later—

  Araeius fired.

  The bullet tore through the alderman’s chest, spinning him against the wall. He choked. Twitched. Then slid to the floor.

  Silence.

  Then—

  Gunfire erupted outside.

  The gunfire outside came in waves—short, panicked bursts, then silence. A rhythm.

  Thorne staggered into the room, clutching his side, his armor slick with blood. His rifle dangled from his shoulder, useless.

  “They’re everywhere,” he gasped. “Shooting from all fucking directions.”

  Araeius tensed. “Where’s Santos?”

  Thorne shook his head. No time for details. KIA.

  Araeius muttered, “Fuck.”

  The gunfire stopped.

  Too soon. Too coordinated.

  Delacroix’s head tilted slightly. “They’re repositioning,” he murmured. “They’ll move in any second. We need to—”

  “Should’ve been the darkie out there taking the bullets,” Thorne spat.

  Delacroix moved before he even thought about it.

  A fistful of Thorne’s collar—a shove against the wall—the cold press of a gun against his throat.

  “Say that again.”

  Thorne froze.

  Delacroix’s blindfolded gaze was unreadable, but his grip was solid. Calm. Precise.

  Not rage. Finality.

  “Enough,” Araeius snapped, yanking Delacroix back. “Not now. MOVE.”

  The door burst open.

  Five men rushed in, rifles swinging.

  Everything happened too fast.

  The first man barely got a step in before Delacroix’s knife buried itself in his throat.

  Araeius fired on reflex. The second man dropped, then the third, then the fourth.

  The fifth raised his rifle—

  Delacroix pulled his MAG52, levelled it at center mass, and fired.

  The gun barked.

  The last man folded backward, chest torn open.

  Then silence.

  Thorne stared at the bodies, panting. And for the first time, he saw it.

  Why the Legion whispered about Braythar and Teorista like they were an army of two.

  Araeius snapped his rifle to check ammo. “We need the stairs.”

  Delacroix reloaded without looking up.

  “Teorista,” Araeius ordered, “get Thorne.”

  Delacroix didn’t move.

  His gun was still warm in his hands.

  “I said get Thorne,” Araeius repeated.

  Delacroix sighed through his nose. Slowly, he slung his weapon over his shoulder, moving past the bodies.

  Then he looked at Thorne.

  And walked past him.

  Araeius grabbed Thorne and hauled him up instead.

  “Move.”

  They started up the stairs.

  And behind them, the bodies bled into the dust.

  The rooftop air stank of sweat and gunpowder.

  The gunfire below had gone quiet. Not gone—waiting.

  Delacroix didn’t take his eyes off the stairs. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

  Which was why he only half-noted the sound of a gun cocking behind him.

  “You shouldn’t be alive.”

  Araeius turned sharply.

  Thorne had his sidearm raised. His grip was shaky, fingers too slick with blood, but the barrel was dead steady.

  Pointed straight at Delacroix’s back.

  Delacroix exhaled through his nose. “If you’re gonna do it,” he murmured, calm as a goddamn Sunday morning, “then do it.”

  Thorne’s breathing was all wrong.

  Shallow. Frantic. Like an animal caught in a snare. His lips moved before his voice did.

  “Says so in the Scriptures.”

  Araeius took a slow step forward. “Thorne. Put the weapon down.”

  Thorne didn’t even blink.

  “Says so in the Scriptures,” he whispered again, eyes wild now. “Darkies are a bad omen. A stain. A curse. They shouldn’t be in the Legion. Shouldn’t be soldiers. Shouldn’t be anything.”

  The gun in his hand shook, but his conviction didn’t.

  “You shouldn’t be alive.”

  Delacroix still didn’t turn around.

  His grip tightened on his rifle, but only slightly. He shifted his weight—the barest readiness, the smallest calculation.

  Thorne’s hands twitched.

  He was gonna do it.

  Araeius lunged.

  The shot went off.

  A sharp thunderclap against the sky.

  The round fired wild, punching into empty air.

  Araeius had wrenched Thorne’s arm up at the last second, forcing the shot wide.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Araeius shouted, slamming Thorne’s arm down, disarming him with one brutal twist. The gun clattered to the rooftop.

  Thorne choked on something—rage, bile, pain.

  Araeius didn’t let go.

  “You’re pulling this shit now?” His voice was hoarse, furious.

  Thorne glared at him, teeth bared. His wound pulsed dark through his uniform.

  “He shouldn’t be here.”

  Delacroix spoke.

  Not to Thorne.To Araeius.

  “You wanna know why?”

  Araeius froze.

  Delacroix finally—finally—turned his head slightly. Not fully. Just enough to let the blindfolded gaze settle between them.

  “Because that’s how the world works.”

  His voice was low, matter-of-fact.

  “We darkies? If we’re not built to take bullets, we’re built to serve. Or we’re built to take shit from assholes like Thorne. Or we’re built to die.”

  Araeius didn’t respond.

  Didn’t know how.

  “It’s instinct for them,” Delacroix continued, his tone almost thoughtful. “Like a dog pissing on a tree. Thorne sees me breathing, and it doesn’t sit right with him. It’s almost… animal.”

  Thorne gritted his teeth, struggling against Araeius’ grip. But something in his eyes flickered.

  Not fear. Recognition.

  Like for the first time, he was realizing Delacroix wasn’t scared of him.

  And that? That was worse.

  A shadow shifted below.

  Delacroix’s head snapped back to the stairs.

  The barrel of his rifle tilted up a fraction of an inch.

  There—a sliver of movement. A hand.

  Not a gun.

  A mirror.

  Held just beyond the stairwell’s edge.

  They were testing him.

  Seeing if he was still watching.

  Delacroix fired once.

  A sharp, splintering crack—the mirror shattered.

  The hand jerked back out of sight.

  Below, there was movement. Voices.

  They weren’t charging anymore.They were reconsidering.

  Delacroix tilted his head.

  Good.

  Araeius let go of Thorne. Roughly.

  He moved to the rooftop’s edge, peering over.

  And that’s when he saw them.

  A crowd.

  Dozens of figures gathering in the town square below. Not all of them were armed.Not all of them were men.Some of them held makeshift weapons—knives, pipes, old rifles.

  They weren’t a trained militia.

  They were a mob.

  And when Araeius’ silhouette appeared against the rooftop, they opened fire.

  Bullets shrieked past his head.

  Araeius ducked hard, dropping low behind cover.

  “Fuck.”

  Delacroix didn’t flinch.

  He just reloaded.

  What felt like an eternity of waiting ended in thirty seconds of hell.

  The whump-whump-whump of approaching rotors split the sky.

  Then—a voice over comms.

  “Vanguard 1-1, we have eyes on your position. You are marked. Copy.”

  Araeius lit the flare, its harsh red glow swallowing the rooftop in bloody light.

  “Copy.” His voice felt hollow. “Light ‘em up.”

  The chopper tilted, the gunner adjusting position.

  Then the world went red.

  The .50 caliber rounds hit like a meteor storm.

  A man didn’t just fall when he was hit. He came apart. Ripped open. Limbs folded unnaturally, bodies flung back with wet, splitting sounds.

  Some ran.

  They didn’t make it far.

  Some tried to fight, lifting their weapons skyward, screaming defiance.

  They didn’t last long, either.

  And some?

  Some just held each other, too scared to run, too scared to breathe, waiting for it to end.

  It did.

  All at once, it was over.

  The chopper hovered over a dead square.

  The gunner flashed a thumbs-up.

  Araeius barely acknowledged it.

  "I’m grabbing Thorne. Cover us."

  Delacroix didn’t move.

  Araeius looked at him. “That an order?”

  Araeius set his jaw. “Yeah. It’s an order.”

  Delacroix exhaled. “Yes, sir.”

  The stairs were slick with blood.

  Bodies piled where they’d fallen. Some whole, some half-missing.

  A hand twitched.

  Delacroix paused.

  A man, sprawled on his back, coughing something wet. He reached—not for a weapon, but for Delacroix’s boot.

  His fingers barely brushed leather.

  His lips moved. Muttering. Asking something.

  It wasn’t in Common.Didn’t need to be.

  Delacroix didn’t speak Al-Zahiran.

  But he understood the look in his eyes.

  The same look they all had.

  Not anger. Not hatred.

  Just confusion.

  Why?

  Delacroix stepped over him.

  They saw them before they reached the square.

  Three men. Standing. Waiting.

  Delacroix raised his rifle.

  The men lifted their hands. Knelt.

  No sudden movements. No tricks. Just surrender.

  Araeius stepped forward. “Any of you speak Common?”

  The one in the middle nodded. He wore glasses, his hair graying at the temples. A learned face. A professor’s face.

  “I do.”

  Araeius’ fingers twitched near his trigger. “This a trap?”

  The man smiled thinly. “No.” A pause. Then—“We know when we’ve lost.”

  Delacroix’s eyes narrowed.

  The man’s gaze flicked slightly past them.

  Delacroix adjusted his aim.

  “What are you looking at?”

  The man hesitated. Then, softly—“Our families.”

  His voice was too calm. Too measured.

  “What’s left of them.”

  Araeius stiffened.

  The man sighed, adjusting his glasses.

  “We’ve come together to surrender, Knight. So that they might yet live.”

  Araeius’ gun didn’t lower.

  “You’re terrorists.”

  The professor blinked at him.

  Then—slowly, softly—he chuckled.

  Delacroix felt his stomach drop.

  That wasn’t the laugh of a defeated man.

  That was the laugh of a man who understood something they didn’t.

  “Do you even know why you’re here?”

  Araeius’ grip tightened. “We were told—”

  “No.” The professor shook his head. “You were ordered.”

  Araeius said nothing.

  “Out here, no one cares if we live or die.” The professor’s voice was quiet. “But when we thrive without them? That’s when they notice.”

  Delacroix stared at him.

  Araeius’ face hardened. “What are you saying?”

  The man sighed.

  “I was a professor at the University of Aman. I came here to build a light source. A way for these people to combat the dark.”

  Araeius swallowed.

  The words felt wrong.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Is it?”

  The professor tilted his head.

  “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Knight. But know this—” he gestured toward the dead, the burning square, the bodies.

  “These people were just trying to survive.”

  Silence.

  Then, softly—“And now they won’t.”

  The professor lowered his head.

  “Mercy would serve no purpose now. So please.” His voice was steady. “Kill us.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “If not you, they’ll send someone else. But this way, at least our families will see another sunrise.”

  Araeius’ gun stayed raised.

  His finger didn’t move.

  Delacroix stepped past him.

  Three shots.

  One. Two. Three.

  Quick. Clean.

  The bodies slumped forward, blood soaking the sand.

  Delacroix holstered his handgun.

  Turned to Araeius.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  His voice was flat. Hollow.

  He nodded to the horizon. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Araeius didn’t follow immediately.

  Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  Just stared.

  At the blood on the sand.At the hands still bound in surrender.At everything they had done.

  His stomach twisted.

  For the first time since they landed, Knight Araeius Braythar felt like the enemy.