Arcadia was a small kingdom in the Mirael Valley, the crown of nature, they called it. A lush land of ridges and rivers, fed by the heavenly Haytian Range. It was the Kingdom of Radiance. Even from the battlefield, the Tower of Radiance loomed in the distance, its golden spire cutting through the mist, clashing with the crimson and ash of war.

  Amid the falling rain, Ragnar stood alone on the battlefield, surrounded by blood and broken bodies. Crimson washed from his cloak in rivulets, but no amount of rain could cleanse the weight pressing on his shoulders. Ragnar remembered the old tales: that the Tower was divine, a path to the heavens, and that when its gates opened, the people of Arcadia would rise to greater heights beneath the light of God-King Amun. Yet on this day, Arcadia’s greatest trial, the Tower stood silent and closed. He was Ragnar, The Crimson Lord, feared and famed, not only as a general but as a battlemage. Magic, divine in nature, flowed through him as a blessing from the gods. Yet in this moment, it felt like a curse. His men were dying, torn apart by the despairing army of Moloch, champion of Shraak, The Despairing One.

  Ragnar remembered the stories whispered during his training: tales of how Shraak betrayed the Radiant God-King Amun and was sealed beyond the outer realms. But exile had not extinguished the flame of devotion. Shraak’s followers endured, festering in the shadows. And today, Ragnar stood amid the consequences of complacency, blood-soaked and bitter beneath a darkening sky.

  Amid his grim reflections, Ragnar heard a voice behind him.

  “Sir… uh, Lord Ragnar?”

  The voice was meek, hesitant. It belonged to a young woman. She wore a mage’s cloak, its emblem, a tree growing from an open book, marking her as an Enhancer: a support-class mage who specialized in weaving spells that empowered others.

  Ragnar turned. “Yes?”

  “Lord Ragnar, I’m Shayara. I’m here to report, my lord.”

  “We are on the battlefield, soldier,” Ragnar said firmly. “Do not call me ‘lord’ here. In this place, I am your general.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Spoke Shyara, immediately correcting herself, “General. Sir.”

  Ragnar studied her. She was trembling, barely holding herself together. Both hands clutched the report as if it were a lifeline, and fear flickered in her eyes, whether from his reputation or the horrors of the battlefield, he couldn’t tell.

  “You’re a new recruit,” he stated.

  “Joined today from the south camp, Sir. We were sent as reinforcements. They said you needed backup.”

  “Backup?” Ragnar echoed sharply. His tone shifted, laced with suspicion. “How many, and when did you arrive?”

  Shayara’s face fell further. “A hundred, sir. Mostly support mages. Lord Arabus made the request yesterday or so I was told.”

  Ragnar swore silently. Damn you, Arabus.

  That man was a fellow general, yet he was as cunning as he was cowardly. He would rather throw novices into slaughter than risk his own skin.

  “Report,” Ragnar commanded curtly.

  “We lost over five hundred soldiers on the eastern front, my lord, and at least a hundred more are injured. The central forces were shelled by artillery spells and ballistas. We managed to hold the line, but casualties reached another hundred dead and around two hundred and fifty wounded. On your front, the west, we recorded only twenty dead and fifty injured.”

  Shayara paused, then added, “I was also told to mention that this report was compiled by Sir Marius. It should be as accurate as possible.”

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  Ragnar exhaled sharply. These were his soldiers, his comrades he’d chosen himself. Death was inevitable on the battlefield, but that didn’t dull the ache. Still, something gnawed at him. Why were the casualties in the east so catastrophic? What in the abyss was Arabus doing?

  His sorrow twisted into anger.

  “I told you not to call me ‘lord,’” Ragnar snapped, his voice suddenly sharp. “If a soldier can’t follow basic orders, they have no place in the field. And if this list came from Marius, where in the abyss are the details? This is why I don’t want novices in the middle of war!”

  Tears welled in Shayara’s eyes and began to spill down her cheeks. Her head lowered, almost buried in her chest. “I—I’m sorry, General. It won’t happen again. Please allow me to serve. I have the full report here.”

  Ragnar inhaled, realizing he had lost his composure. She was only trying to do her duty.

  He softened. “A battlefield is life and death, soldier. Time, clarity, order. That’s what keeps people alive. That’s why I told you not to address me as ‘lord.’ Out here, I’m your commanding officer. Not a noble. That distinction matters. It reinforces structure, and structure is what keeps people alive.”

  Shayara gave a small nod.

  “It’s also an exercise,” he continued. “You want to save time? Then just say ‘Sir’. I don’t care. You decide the trade-off. Just don’t forget why the rule exists.”

  He turned. “Now, come with me. Give me the full details.”

  For the first time, Shayara looked up at him.

  She had heard the stories, whispers around the campfires of the southern outpost. They called him the Crimson Lord, said he was always soaked in blood, always the first into battle and the last to retreat. She had feared him. Feared the myth.

  And now here she was, being lectured by the Crimson Lord himself.

  Shayara flipped a page as she walked alongside Ragnar. The rain had paused for now, leaving a heavy silence over the blood-soaked path leading toward the western camp.

  “Uhm… it’s written here,” she began, voice cautious, “that the enemy deployed an illusory spell, one that twists the minds of its victims and fills them with despair. Soldiers of weak will died instantly. Most who resisted were left in a trance… and slaughtered by Moloch’s army. Only a few managed to overcome it.”

  She glanced at the next line. “It wasn’t until the arch-mage Arin cast Volcanic Age that the enemy finally retreated. But… he suffered backlash from invoking such a powerful spell. He’s in the healers’ care now.”

  Ragnar’s jaw tightened. Only one question came to his mind: Where in the abyss was Arabus?

  He had sensed the same illusory magic on the western front, but he’d countered it using Law of Regression, a fundamental law of magic. All anomalies regress to their fundamental origin.

  A spell of formidable power, capable of unraveling illusions and other arcane manipulations. And in this kingdom, only two mages could cast it, Ragnar himself, and Arabus.

  So why hadn’t Arabus countered it?

  Arin, while not capable of casting Law of Regression, was a powerful mage in his own right, blessed by Aver, the Lord of Flame and Sky. One of the rare few who could wield fire with such destructive potency. And now he was out of commission. The tide of war was shifting, fast.

  Ahead, Ragnar spotted a man slumped against a jagged rock. One of his legs was gone from the knee down. Several fingers were missing. A healer knelt beside him, working desperately.

  Ragnar’s heart sank. “Brahm,” he breathed.

  The man was as pale as snow. The ground beneath him soaked with blood.

  “Ah… General.” Brahm gave a weak cough, spitting up some blood. “I took forty-five of them down. Damn… didn’t make it to fifty.” He winced. “Tell this fool to stop wasting his magic on me. I’m finished. Better he save someone who still has a chance, eh.”

  Ragnar recognized the healer instantly. Grahm, Brahm’s younger brother.

  He placed a firm hand on Grahm’s trembling shoulder. “Let him go. If you keep pushing, you’ll fall too.”

  “I can’t, General,” Grahm said, voice cracking with grief. “I promised Mum I’d bring him back. I can’t stop now.”

  “You fool,” Brahm rasped, coughing again. “At least one of us should make it home to her. Tell him, General.”

  Ragnar nodded solemnly. “Grahm, as your commanding officer, I order you to stand down. Do not push yourself further.”

  Grahm’s face crumpled as he whispered, “Can we really not save him?”

  “I’m truly sorry,” Ragnar said quietly. “If there were hope, I wouldn’t ask you to stop.”

  Brahm smiled weakly. “Told you…”

  He turned his head toward Grahm. “Don’t waste it, brother. There are others who still need you.”

  The glow around Grahm’s hands faded as he let the spell die. Ragnar knelt beside Brahm.

  “I thank you,” he said, voice low and steady. “Your courage won’t be in vain. We will defeat Moloch. Go in peace, brother. And know this, your family will have my protection. I will do my best to care for them.”

  Brahm’s lips moved again, murmuring an old battle hymn.

  “With red wings on our back, with golden sword in hand, we drive away the darkness…”

  Ragnar and Grahm joined him, their voices steady:

  “…that befalls our land.

  Our enemies tremble at our might,

  Behold the power of the Crimson Knight.”

  Shayara stood in silence, watching the scene unfold. The man she had feared, the one they called the Crimson Lord, drenched in legend and blood, was not what she had imagined. He consoled the injured, prayed for the dying, and marched on, his pace steady, his command unshaken.