Requiem of the Forgotten

The night was cold. The kind of cold that crept under armor and seeped into bones, quiet and merciless. My breath came out in faint clouds as we rode in silence, the only sounds the rhythmic stamp of hooves against dirt and the occasional creak of shifting leather.

Ahead of me, the so-called Legends moved like they belonged in a different world.

Antoine led at the front, his posture perfect, his gleaming silver armor catching the moonlight like it was sculpted for him and him alone. He rode with the confidence of someone who knew—not thought, but knew—that he was the strongest man here. That he was meant to be admired, envied, worshiped. And the worst part? Everyone knew it too.

He turned slightly in his saddle, his smirk practically glowing in the dark as he glanced at Velana beside him.

"Velana, did you see me take down that orc in the last training match? Pretty sure even you had to be impressed."

Velana didn't even glance at him. She sat straight-backed, poised, golden hair catching the faint glow of the torches some of the soldiers carried behind us.

"If you talked less and fought more, I might be."

Antoine grinned, completely unfazed.

"You like me more than you let on."

Velana exhaled slowly, a subtle sign of exasperation, but she didn't take the bait. She simply adjusted her grip on the reins, letting her silence be answer enough.

Behind them, Gorvak, the orc with scarred green skin and muscles thick as tree trunks, let out a low "Mhh." That was it. No opinion, no engagement, just the same deep, guttural noise he always made whenever Antoine ran his mouth.

Grimnir, the broad-shouldered dwarf with his long braided beard, actually snorted. He rolled a gold coin between his fingers, flicking it with an ease that told me he did this a lot. Probably during battles too.

"Boy," he muttered, not looking up, "if words were worth gold, you'd be the richest bastard in the world."

Antoine just laughed.

"Jealous, old man?"

Grimnir didn't answer. He just tucked the coin away and muttered something under his breath that I was sure was a curse.

Basha, the woman with braided hair and the kind of presence that made her feel like the real leader here, turned in her saddle to look at me.

"You good, darling?" she asked, her voice smooth and full of warmth. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

I blinked, realizing I'd been too busy observing to actually hide how stiff I was in the saddle.

"Just tired," I murmured.

Basha raised a brow. "Mhm. Tired. That's what they all say."

I didn't answer.

She gave me a playful nudge on the shoulder before facing forward again. "Well, you're here now. No turning back, sweetheart."

I swallowed hard. Yeah. No turning back. That was the problem.

The others didn't acknowledge me. The entire group moved as if I wasn't even there, talking amongst themselves, ignoring me entirely. I wasn't one of them. And I could feel it, pressing against my skin like something physical, something I couldn't shake off.

I didn't belong here.

They knew it.

I knew it.

And yet, I was here anyway.

Up ahead, the outline of the village came into view, barely more than a collection of skeletal wooden structures, half-built, abandoned, and silent.

Too silent.

I felt my stomach tighten.

Something was wrong.

The silence was the worst part.

Not the emptiness of the village. Not the wind that curled through the broken beams of half-built houses. Not even the way my breath felt too loud in my own ears. It was the silence—the absolute absence of life—that made my skin crawl.

No footprints. No scattered belongings. No bodies.

Just… nothing.

Antoine dismounted first, boots crunching against the dirt as he stretched like he had just woken from a nap. His fingers brushed over the hilt of his sword, lazy, casual, like none of this was serious.

"No one here," he mused, looking around like we had stumbled into a deserted vacation home. "Maybe they just killed themselves from the sheer terror of knowing we were coming."

Velana, still atop her horse, let out a sharp breath, the kind that wasn't quite a sigh but carried pure, unfiltered contempt.

"Don't be stupid," she muttered, scanning the rooftops with narrowed eyes. "The Darkness doesn't leave survivors."

Antoine just grinned, completely unfazed.

"Maybe this time it did."

Gorvak and Grimnir weren't listening. The orc had already dismounted, his heavy frame making the wooden planks beneath him groan in protest. His battle axe rested lazily against one shoulder, a massive, jagged thing that looked like it could split a house in half. Grimnir, the dwarf, didn't even bother to get off his horse. He sat there, twirling a coin in his fingers, completely uninterested.

Basha and Iron Ghost moved toward the back alleys, their figures disappearing into the shadows as they secured the area. Silass, the reptilian general, walked ahead with his usual quiet precision, his golden eyes flickering in the darkness.

And me?

I stood there like an idiot, my pulse pounding in my throat, every instinct screaming at me that something was wrong.

I didn't belong here.

This wasn't Dragontown, where the worst threat was building a house that wouldn't collapse in a strong breeze. This was war.

A faint noise cut through the stillness.

Not the wind.

Not an animal.

Something else.

A scrape. A whisper. A sound that didn't belong in any world that had light.

Velana froze. Antoine's grin flickered. Gorvak's hand tightened around his axe.

Then—they came.

The darkness moved.

Not like a shadow shifting from the clouds, but like something alive, something hungry. It poured out of the ruined houses, stretching, twisting, shifting into shapes that shouldn't exist.

No bodies. No flesh.

Just burning white eyes in shifting blackness, crawling from the walls, the roofs, the earth itself.

I couldn't count them.

Twenty? Thirty? More?

And this was just a small group?

Antoine's grin returned, wider than before. Excited.

"Oh, finally," he exhaled, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion. "I was getting bored."

Then, the fight began.

Velana moved first. No wasted motion, no hesitation. She raised her bow, pulled the string, and loosed an arrow so fast I barely saw it.

A perfect shot.

Straight through one of the shadow creatures.

It shrieked as it burned away, dissolving like ink in water.

Antoine laughed. His blade flashed in the moonlight as he moved—too fast, too effortless, slicing through the creatures like they were nothing.

Gorvak and Grimnir? Immovable. The orc's axe cleaved through the dark, tearing creatures in half with each swing. Grimnir fought differently—low, brutal, his hammer slamming into the ground, creating shocking waves of impact that sent the shadows splintering apart.

Silass and Iron Ghost fought with no wasted effort, their blades cutting through the chaos like it was just another drill.

And Basha?

Basha was a storm.

Her war hammer swung in massive arcs, smashing the creatures into oblivion, her movements wild and fearless.

Me?

I was frozen.

I had my sword in hand, my breath stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat, but I couldn't fucking move.

The others fought like this was routine.

Like this was normal.

But it wasn't.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't supposed to be real.

I was supposed to be back home.

I was supposed to be—

A shadow moved.

Faster than the rest.

Straight for me.

I felt my muscles lock. I couldn't react.

It was too fast, too wrong, too much—

Then—

Something yanked me backward.

Basha.

She shoved me out of the way as the creature lunged.

And in the same breath, the thing sank its claws straight into her chest.

I heard the breath leave her body.

I saw her eyes widen, just slightly. Not in fear. Not in pain. Just… surprise.

Then—she fell.

Her hammer hit the ground with a sickening thud, heavier than anything I had ever heard.

A second later, a flash of black steel tore through the battlefield—

Iron Ghost collapsed.

A blade of pure darkness ripped through his torso, cutting him down in one clean motion.

Two.

Two of them were gone.

Just like that.

The fight ended seconds later. The shadows were destroyed, burned away, nothing left but the eerie silence once more.

But it didn't matter.

Because Basha wasn't moving.

Iron Ghost wasn't moving.

Antoine stood over Basha's body.

His usual smile was gone.

His face was cold.

His gaze shifted—slowly, deliberately—to me.

And for the first time since meeting him, I saw it.

The mask cracked.

His disgust.

His hatred.

His rage.

I couldn't move.

Not because I was hurt—though I was. Every inch of my body felt like it had been through a shredder, my muscles screaming, my ribs aching with every shallow breath. But that wasn't why.

It was the way Antoine turned to face me, his expression shifting from the smug satisfaction of victory to something colder. Darker. There was no arrogance in his eyes anymore. Only rage.

And he was looking straight at me.

"That was your fucking fault."

My blood ran cold.

"Because of you—she's dead."

I barely had time to process the words before his fist collided with my face.

A sharp crack. A flash of white pain bursting through my skull.

The world tilted, my vision blurred, and before I could even stumble back, he grabbed my collar and yanked me off my feet. My hands clawed at his wrists, at his armor, but his grip was like iron.

"Do you even know what you are?" His voice was low, trembling—not with grief, but with something else. Something worse.

Hatred.

"You're a fucking parasite."

I gasped, trying to form words, but the next punch knocked the breath right out of me.

Then another.

And another.

Each blow drove deeper into my ribs, forcing the air from my lungs, each strike harder, angrier, more vicious than the last.

My knees buckled, but he didn't let me fall. He just kept hitting me.

Pain blurred into pain.

Blood filled my mouth, warm and metallic.

Somewhere, distantly, I could hear someone moving, but nobody stopped him.

He wasn't just beating me.

He was punishing me.

For being weak. For being here. For existing.

"We lost a legend," he snarled, his breath hot against my ear as he yanked me closer. "And for what? To save some useless fucking kid who should've died months ago?"

I coughed, trying to say something—anything—but the words drowned in the blood pooling on my tongue.

Another fist slammed into my stomach.

I folded over, wheezing, barely able to stay conscious.

The next hit came before I could even try to breathe.

Then—his hands were gone.

A sharp movement. A shift in the air.

Velana had stepped in.

She stood between us, her grip firm around Antoine's raised wrist.

"Enough."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the chaos like a blade.

Antoine froze, his breathing ragged. Then, slowly, his lips curled back into something that might've been a smirk—if there had been any humor left in him.

He wrenched his arm free.

And then he hit her.

A quick, sharp backhand to the face.

Velana's head snapped to the side, her golden hair whipping around her shoulders. She stumbled back, catching herself, her fingers pressing against her cheek where his gauntlet had struck.

Silence.

The kind that suffocated. The kind that made the air feel heavier, thicker, impossible to breathe.

Nobody moved.

Not even Grimnir, who just let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Boy thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants."

Antoine exhaled sharply, shaking the tension from his shoulders before spitting onto the dirt beside me.

"Leave him." His voice was calmer now, almost detached. Like he was done. Like I wasn't worth another second of his time.

"If he's worth anything, he'll get back up."

Then—they turned and walked away.

The world spun.

Pain throbbed through every inch of me, dull and crushing, and for a moment, all I could do was lay there.

The dirt was cold against my cheek.

The taste of blood lingered in my mouth.

My ears rang.

They were leaving.

And they didn't care.

Not about me.

Not about what just happened.

Not about anything.

A sharp breath rattled in my chest. My fingers twitched against the ground.

And then—I felt it.

Cold steel beneath my fingertips.

A sword.

It must've been one of the fallen weapons, discarded in the fight, half-buried in the dirt next to me.

Slowly, I curled my hand around the hilt.

The metal was solid. Real.

I swallowed, forcing down the taste of copper.

Then—I pushed myself up.

My vision swam.

My limbs felt like they were filled with lead.

But I stood.

And before I could think—before the pain, the fear, the exhaustion could stop me—I raised the sword and pointed it at Antoine's back.

"No."

He paused.

The others did too.

All of them turned—some amused, some indifferent.

Antoine's gaze flicked over me, unimpressed. Like I was a stain on his boot.

I swallowed hard.

My throat burned.

My body shook.

But I didn't lower the sword.

I held my ground.

Antoine scoffed, tilting his head. "You serious, kid?"

I clenched my jaw. I could barely stand, but I refused to look weak.

Antoine laughed, shaking his head. "You're pathetic. You really think you can stand against me? After that?"

I licked the blood off my lips, my breath ragged, and spat onto the ground between us.

"I don't give a fuck."

His grin twitched. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, asshole."

I adjusted my grip on the sword. My arms screamed, my ribs burned, but I didn't drop it.

"You think you can just beat the shit out of me and walk away? Like I'm nothing? Like I don't fucking exist?"

I took a step closer, and despite everything—despite how much my body was failing—I forced a smirk onto my face.

"Come on, Golden Boy. Fight me."

Antoine stared at me for a long moment.

Then—he laughed.

Loud. Mocking. Like I had just told the dumbest joke in existence.

"You really wanna die that badly?"

I didn't answer.

I just raised the sword higher.

His smirk faded.

Slowly, Antoine stepped forward, drawing his own blade with an almost leisurely movement. The steel glinted under the moonlight.

"You want a fight?" His voice dropped lower, quieter. Dangerous.

"Fine."

He lifted his sword—and pointed it straight at me.

"Let's see how much of a man you really are."