Chapter 13

Weeks passed. Time moved with a slow, almost painfully steady rhythm, yet for Vyth every day returned to the same moment. The moment when Ylena said no.

Since then, he often thought of Amarah. Sometimes at dawn, when the city was still asleep, other times during training, when the sound of the blade echoed across the empty grounds. The thought refused to fade. Amarah’s face, his voice, the restrained anger in battle, and his loyalty surfaced again and again in his mind, as if the past refused to let him go.

He did not know what hurt more. The pain of the loss, or the fact that Ylena denied him hope. He remained loyal, yet somewhere deep inside he felt betrayed. The faith that had once held him so firmly had begun to waver, and the silence that once calmed him now only pressed on his chest.

He recalled Ylena’s words, the calm and almost majestic voice in which he now sensed a coldness that felt unfamiliar. Maybe he was the one who had changed, or maybe the Goddess had turned her gaze away from him. Whatever the truth was, the distance was real.

Every day brought new questions, yet none brought answers. The armor he wore felt heavier, and the light that once meant protection now only reminded him of whom he belonged to, and whom he had lost his trust in.

Even though Vyth had learned to control his demonic side, the face he saw in the mirror still felt unfamiliar. He did not fear it, and he did not feel ashamed of it. He only knew that something in him had changed for good.

People accepted him, or at least that was what their words, gestures, and surface-level respect suggested. But when he looked at them, there was always a faint shade in their eyes that they could not hide. A brief, hesitant glance before they spoke to him.

Vyth did not blame them. He was not sure he himself would know how to look at someone who was no longer entirely human. But this knowledge slowly hollowed out what he had once called loyalty. Every day he stood among the Guardians, he felt himself drifting farther from them.

He was not tired of battles or duties. He was tired of proving himself again and again. That he was still himself. That he was still the man he once had been.

But the demonic power remained in him, always present, a quiet and pulsing reminder that the line he had crossed could never be erased completely. And the more he controlled it, the more he felt that something had been lost with it. Something he might never get back.

The silence of the night settled slowly over the city. In the streets of Glelrun only the wind could be heard as it moved along the stone walls and across the empty squares. The tower of the Temple cast a shadow across the main square, and the moonlight reflected softly on the pieces of the golden armor that Vyth had placed carefully beside each other in the room.

He had not slept in a long time. His thoughts kept returning to the same point, to Ylena’s decision. Every night he tried to accept it, but by now he knew it was only self-deception.

He stood up slowly. His fingers moved across the cold metal of the armor. It had once meant light, but now it felt like a chain. Still, he took it with him. Not because he still believed in it, but because its memory was part of who he had been.

The city was asleep when he stepped outside. He did not look back. He left no message or words behind, only silence. The guards on the night shift barely noticed him as he walked past. The moonlight glinted on the armor for a moment, then it disappeared into the dark.

Beyond the gate the cool wind reached him. Vyth stopped for a moment and let his gaze move across the towers of Glelrun, across the places where he had fought, where he had believed, where he had lost everything he once considered light.

"She will not decide for me anymore." he whispered quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Then he walked away.

He had been on the road for days. The paths slowly disappeared, replaced by wild, rocky ground. The trees grew sparse, and the earth turned into cold, colorless stone.

Vyth moved forward alone, the soft scrape of his armor the only sound breaking the silence. Sometimes he stopped to watch the horizon, where the sharp outlines of the mountains darkened under the clouds. The weather shifted without mercy. One day the wind tore at his cloak, the next a freezing rain struck down on him.

At night he lit a fire, but the flame burned weakly. The cold wind always found its way through the gaps in the armor plates, and the smell of smoke mixed with the damp scent of the rain. He sat in silence, his sword resting on his knee, trying to shut out the thoughts that returned to him every night.

Dawn always came slowly. In the gray light the landscape looked deserted, as if the world had forgotten this place. Still, Vyth continued. With every step he moved farther from Glelrun, from Ylena, and from everything that had defined him until now.

Every dawn he stood up again and continued the journey, knowing it might lead nowhere, yet for the first time, the choice was his.

He was deep in the forest now, where the treetops closed together so tightly that hardly any light reached the ground. The silence here was different from anywhere else. The air was heavy and damp, and the ground was covered in thick moss. Small fungi grew along the bark of the trees.

Vyth moved forward slowly until the outline of a building appeared between the trees. It was an old house overgrown with moss, half swallowed by the forest. The walls were covered in vegetation, the roof sagged, but it still stood.

The door creaked when he pushed it open. Inside, the dust lay thick on every surface. Old furniture remained in its place, as if someone might return at any moment, yet no one had for a long time. The air carried the scent of moisture and old memories. A broken mirror hung on the wall, cracked books lay on the table, and a candleholder still held the blackened remains of wax.

He walked through the rooms slowly, his fingers brushing the edge of the table and the cold surface of the stone wall.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he went up to the attic. It was dark above, but thin beams of light slipped through the gaps in the roof. In the corner lay an old chest, half open. Vyth knelt and lifted what he found inside. A black coat.

It was simple but carefully tailored. The fabric still felt strong. There was no symbol or decoration on it, only clean, plain lines.

Vyth ran his hand across the material. He could feel the weight of the past in it, yet there was a strange calm within it. As if the coat, once worn by someone else, had found a new purpose in his hands.

For a while he only stood there with the garment in his hands, then he put it on. The fabric settled quietly over his armor, as if it had always belonged to him.

In the cracked mirror he caught sight of himself. The light that had once surrounded him was gone. He was no longer a warrior standing in the glow of the Guardians.

He ran his hand along the edge of the coat. It did not shine, it did not draw attention. And that was exactly why it felt right.

Until now he had always belonged to someone. To the city, to the Guardians, to orders given to him. For the first time, he belonged to no one.

He looked out the window. Outside, the sky was slowly turning gray, and a layer of mist settled between the distant trees. The world looked quiet, but he knew this silence was only the calm before a storm.

He stepped through the door and did not look back.

The dark fabric of the coat moved softly behind him in the wind as he walked onto the road that now belonged only to him.

Vyth traveled from city to city, from village to village, never staying in one place for long. He did not seek fame, and he did not want anyone to know his name.Where help was needed, he stepped in. Sometimes he escorted a merchant along a dangerous road, other times he defended a village from attackers in the night. Monsters, raiders, wandering demons, he faced all of them, because it was the one thing he truly understood. The fight.

Those who saw him in battle looked at him with respect. Others whispered about him. The distorted face, the demonic mark he no longer hid, stirred fear in those who did not understand what he carried within him.Some spoke of him as a hero. Others claimed misfortune followed him.

Vyth argued with none of them.He simply did what needed to be done, then moved on.

Money never stayed with him for long. He spent it on food, new oil for his weapon, and what he needed to travel, then continued forward as if pulled by some unknown destination.

At night he sat beside the campfire. Sometimes he watched the light of the flames reflect on his sword and the shadows stretch across the ground. The firelight sometimes shaped faces in the ashes, memories he could not forget.

In the next month, Vyth arrived at a small settlement built deep in the mountains. The village had been attacked at night by raiders who used dark magic to intimidate the people. There was no one left to protect them.

When the attackers returned again, Vyth was already waiting.

He stood alone at the edge of the village. The raiders outnumbered him, but he did not step back.

His movements were fast and precise, and every strike carried the weight of experience.

By the time the fight was over, the ground was covered in blood. The raiders fled, and some never rose again. Vyth leaned on his sword, gasping for breath.

The villagers approached him with gratitude, but Vyth barely heard their words. Only one thought stayed in his mind.

If he had even two or three fighters at his side, people who knew how and when to move, this battle would have been much easier.

The system of the Guardians demanded discipline, rules that slowed and restricted him. But he wanted something different. A group where fighters could choose freely, yet stay together because they understood what they fought for.

That night he sat among the ruined houses, lit by the dim glow of the flames. In the smoke and silence the idea took shape. A group that belonged to no one, defined only by its actions. Mercenaries who helped where needed, not by command but by choice.

He looked up at the sky, where the stars still showed faintly behind the smoke.

The Mercenary Guild. The name echoed softly in his mind, and he knew this would be the beginning of a new path.

Vyth worked in an old, abandoned workshop. The coat lay on the table in front of him, the fabric showing a faint shine along the seams. He cut off the right sleeve up to the shoulder, then sewed the edge so it would not come apart. He put it on and moved his arm. It felt freer. The movements were lighter and more natural.

A black fingerless glove covered his right hand. The leather was firm but flexible enough to fit well. The grip did not slip, and his hand moved without restriction.

The sword he had obtained was larger than the one he had used before. Its blade was stronger, yet he could still handle it with one hand. He secured the sheath on his back with a brown strap that crossed his chest. He adjusted it until the sword’s handle rested just above his shoulder. After a few tries the motion became automatic. With a single swing he could draw the blade and slide it back in without a sound.

He added a brown belt to the coat, attaching a few small pouches to it. He wore simple black trousers and brown boots to move more easily. He did not want armor. From now on, speed and mobility were what mattered most.

He stepped outside the house. The yard was quiet. He took a few steps to get used to the new gear. The coat did not pull, the strap did not slip. Everything worked exactly as he had imagined.

He stopped for a moment and placed his hand on the sword’s handle.

This was no longer the armor of a Guardian. This was his.

From now on he would rely on speed and on keeping control at all times. The dark fabric of the coat moved lightly in the wind as he walked onto the dusty road.

It was the beginning of a new life.

The sun was already setting when Vyth reached the small village at the foot of the mountain. The place seemed quiet, but the air carried the smell of smoke and blood. The doors of the houses were shut, the streets were empty. Only a few shadows moved at the edge of the square, weapons in their hands.

In the center of the village a young woman knelt beside an injured man. Blood slowly seeped from the man’s chest, and a broken shield lay next to him. When Vyth stepped closer, the woman looked up at him in fear.

"You do not need to fear me." he said quietly. "What happened here?"

"Raiders." the woman answered with a trembling voice.

A shout echoed in the distance, and several figures ran out from the darkness. Vyth did not hesitate. His sword was in his hand with a single clean motion. The attackers were fast, but he was faster. The blade flashed as he struck the first one, then he stepped back and deflected the next blow with one hand. The fight was brief. When the noise faded, only a few motionless bodies remained on the ground.

Vyth slid the sword back into its sheath. A few villagers slowly stepped out from behind the houses. The woman who had watched over the wounded man now approached him.

"I do not know who you are, but thank you." she said softly.

Vyth did not answer for a moment. His eyes scanned the village, the smoke, the wreckage, the people who now looked to him for hope. He had once fought for the Guardians, for a name that no longer meant anything to him. But now, for the first time, he felt that this fight was different.

"You do not need to thank me." he said at last. "I only did what had to be done."

The woman nodded but still did not step back. "At least tell us who we owe our thanks to."

Vyth fell silent. The wind moved his coat, and dust swirled slowly around him. He looked at the ground for a moment, then spoke quietly.

"I am just a mercenary. Sometimes a man helps because someone must."

The woman hesitated, then took out a small pouch and tried to hand it to him.

Vyth shook his head. "I did not do it for money. I was only passing through."

The woman looked at him in confusion, but Vyth did not explain further. The soft movement of his coat drowned out her next words as he walked toward the edge of the village. The last light of the sun cast a long shadow behind him.

He was still alone, but he no longer felt like it. He knew that what he had done today would one day be the beginning of something greater.