War was never worth dying for—not to Auren, the fourteen year old boy who only wished for a world void of pain. Of course, Auren acknowledged that for some, it was an honor. An honor to stand before their kingdom's heart with their chests bare, inviting the spears of their enemies to pierce at their skin. It was always so violent.

And much to his dismay, his older brother—Zarion—accepted this honour without a moment's hesitation. Auren could still recall when Zarion, with his chin held up high, waved goodbye to their peace, turned his back on their family, and allowed battle to consume his purpose.

Within the first year that Auren waited for his return, he had received word from army officials that his brother had been captured by the enemy. Auren's heart sank. For the next two years, no one knew if Zarion was even alive or not.

Until that one fateful morning, when a man had entered the doors. It was not Zarion, at least, not anymore. It was a stranger, a shell of the man he once was, body stiff, built like a weapon, his face marred with a pain no one could understand unless they had seen it themselves.

Auren was livid.

War had done this to his brother, the night—those moonlit monsters—had done this to his brother. Oh, how he wished to enter Luthian Noctora's castle doors and show every person inside a hell so bright that even the sun could not compete with its eternal flames.

In two years, he would become eligible to join Solvaria's army force, and in that time, Auren would undergo a change so drastic that even the stranger living under the same roof hardly recognized him.

By the time Auren stood at the castle gates—nineteen, sword in hand, armor that still felt foreign on his skin—the boy who once feared violence was replaced with a man who handled it like a weapon.

When the battles finally came, when the fields became painted with crimson, Auren quickly realized that learning to kill was the easy part. Wanting to kill—that was something else entirely.

And yet... He did

But despite his insatiable want for pain, the one thing that never faltered—the one line he never let himself cross—was capture. Auren refused to be taken. The nightmares Zarion had, those hollow, dead-eyes stares into nothing, were burned into Auren's memory. He would not suffer the same fate.

That fear made him reckless.

It showed itself the day his squad was sent to ambush a supply caravan moving through enemy-occupied territory. The fight should have been quick, but Luthian Noctora forces were waiting, hidden in the shadows like the creatures they were. And when one of his few comrades was attacked, dragged away with his hands tied together, something snapped in Auren's mind.

His sword lifted before his thoughts caught up, without plan, without strategy. Just blind rage. Auren dove straight into adversary lines, cutting down anyone close enough to reach.

But rage was not a shield.

Blood poured hot from his side, down his leg, pooling in his boot. His vision blurred, and yet, his stubbornness pulled him through. He refused to fall where they could grab him, refused the same fate as his brother, as his comrades.

So, with the little strength he had left in his weakened body, he dragged himself away from the fight, crawling through mud, past broken weapons and motionless bodies. Auren collapsed beneath the roots of a tree, half-hidden by undergrowth.

When his unconsciousness lifted, the sound of footsteps replaced the distant clang of war, light and caution.

Auren's instincts snapped his body upright as the stranger knelt close to him. Luthian attire. His eyes darted around his surroundings, only now noticing the tents from afar, the moon symbol painted on the cloth.

Shit. He was still in enemy territory. And there was one right in front of him.

Except, a white cross was stitched into their sleeve. They weren't armed. A medic... but still foe. No matter how their hand hovered—steady, almost gentle—he would not accept help from them.

"Just leave me. I would rather die than end up as one of your puppets."