Two weapons fell. One shattered, yet both broke.

  Acme of the night was upon the Silent Heights—frostbitten peaks perched along the frontiers of Glaswold, the continent’s frigid biome. The moonlit sky, shrouded by cold and indifferent clouds, painted the hillscape in near-impenetrable darkness. Its loftiest peaks, true to their name, remained unparalleled in their stillness; no sound stirred across these frozen summits.

  Much like the Silent Heights' eternal lull, a corpse lay sprawled on the roadside. Its upper head was cleaved off with almost surgical precision, exposing the cloven brain from which fluids and blood seeped out. Its lifeless, vacant eyes remained wide open, frozen in revulsion and disbelief.

  No one spoke of its name or affiliations, of its ego or drive; no one cared for its desires or ambitions. It was just another lost soul in the cosmos of unbranded and unwanted.

  A man approached the corpse and gently closed its eyelids, offering a semblance of peace to the dead. But there would be no requiems, nor any mourning. With a small token of kindness, the man departed, leaving his comrade in eternal slumber alone to dream of blissful meadows and sky—or of hollow void and nothingness.

  The man followed two black cloaked figures into the woods, who were chasing an obscure figure draped in a similar but mangled fabric. Soon two more cloaked figures armed with bows and arrows joined the man in his pursuit. The archers briskly paid their respects to the man who curtly gestured back, and sheathed his two short swords.

  The archers knocked arrows and fired mid-running, but missed—the dense conifers blocked their aim. Though faster and nimbler, the pursuers could not close the gap; it even widened marginally.

  This anomaly was due to the plateau's slope, but it also meant a cliff loomed ahead. The pursuers knew this, as such instead of attempting to outpace their prey, they assumed a wide formation to eventually ensnare the fleeing man.

  The fleeing man exited the forest and reached the plateau's precipice—suddenly he came to a halt. Though there was a relatively less steep escarpment before the cliff end, it still spelled doom for the man's escape.

  Caught in a Scylla-Charybdis moment—a choice between impending doom and certain doom—he mused, Choosing between Soraya and Lucien for my post beats this any day.

  A familiar voice reverberated from deep inside the woods, "Corvus..."

  Corvus's heart raced, the hairs on his arms bristled. He tightened his grip on Kharos and steeled his nerves for the imminent clash.

  He could perceive only darkness within the woods and subtle rustling of dry leaves. Every moment that passed idly without any development made Corvus more unsettled and on edge.

  Soon two cloaked figures stepped outside, armed with swords, stopping at the edge of the forest—a few meters away from Corvus—they effectively cornered him.

  Corvus hissed, "Oathkeepers."

  The Oathkeepers did not offer any retort, quietly fixing their eyes at him unflinchingly.

  A few seconds passed when the rest of the Oathbounds emerged; two archers knocked their bows, resolutely aiming at Corvus. The man, in their midst, walked a few steps closer than the rest:

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  "Blood has been spilled, surrender is no longer on the table, Corvus. But, if our positions were reversed, I would've done the same as well. So, this is my last offer: yield and die painlessly, or resist in vain and die screaming in agony."

  The audacious accusation and the offer incensed Corvus, he dropped Kharos and approached Ewan. The archers had almost let loose, if not for Ewan's gesture stopping them.

  Standing face-to-face against Ewan, Corvus stared into his fierce, menacing eyes and grabbed him by collar as he spoke emphatically, "That brunet dying was hardly intentional. I was escaping an ambush! Wasn’t he the one charging at me like a bloody maniac over some trivial insult? How dare you blame me, bastard!”

  Ewan remained unmoved, not bothering to engage in a tirade. Corvus released Ewan's collar, exhaled calmly, then continued, "I accept your previous proposal; I'll yield but no harm comes to me. Refuse, and you've got a bitter, savage fight awaiting you. I may not win, but some of you shall die, Oathkeeper."

  Having finished, Corvus began moving steadily backwards towards his earlier position.

  Ewan replied, "Fine, I will consider that."

  His words drew side-eyes from the Oathkeepers, but they refrained from interrupting their Captain. He continued, "But you must —" Ewan's heart skipped a beat and eyes widened.

  Corvus had unceremoniously leapt onto the escarpment but not before flicking Kharos ahead of him.

  Hell! What was I thinking waiting for these bastards—I must've lost my mind. Jumping off the cliff was obviously the sane option, there's no battling those traitors—not in this state, at least.

  Corvus reckoned as he tried to grab Kharos, sliding just ahead of him.

  Corvus's stunt had caught the Oathkeepers off-guard, and even if it had not, they still would not have enough time to react. The archers were quick to react afterwards, shooting a barrage of arrows at Corvus relentlessly.

  Though most of the arrows failed to make any contact, two of the shots had found their mark; not fatal, but deep into his flesh.

  Undeterred by two more arrows sticking in his body, Corvus had bigger and deeper concerns, namely the fast-approaching cliff fall.

  Sliding off the escarpment at a breakneck speed, he skidded past Kharos. Pressing his hands on the cold, rugged surface, he tried to break the momentum; his palms abraded in the process, but he did slow down. Then the escarpment ended, and his free fall began.

  Along with his plunge, Kharos tumbled with him. Its razor-edged frame sliced through the air and came within his reach.

  Swiftly grabbing it, Corvus firmly planted Kharos into the cliff wall to control his descent. The glaciated walls offered little resistance to Kharos, though the lack of friction also slowed him only marginally.

  However, the fall was deep, and even a gradual loss of velocity would, in time, slow his plunge significantly.

  All he could do was hope the blacksmiths had perfected Kharos's sturdiness as they had its chilling edge. In the blink of an eye, his downward journey was halfway done, though was yet to blink even once.

  Strenuously gripping his glaive, Corvus steered his descent. He could not press too hard, lest Kharos scrape against the rock beneath, all the while avoiding the plateau's jagged outcrops. His gloves began to tear under the strain, leaving his palms bare to bear the brunt of the force, which soon chafed them bloody.

  With adrenaline surging and his mind primed for the imminent landfall, Corvus could not spare a second's attention to his bleeding back, gashed abdomen, throbbing arms or bloody palms, for that matter.

  Though his speed had declined, it was still enough to prove fatal. He pressed harder, driving Kharos deeper into the cliff wall—the already battered glaive snapped, echoing a sharp clangor. Unfastened, Corvus fell; he folded in on himself and braced for the impact.

  The snow-laden ground below cushioned his fall, sparing him from death—or severe injuries which, in his current state, would have meant the same. It could not, however, save him from a numbing collision that flung him across the ground.

  He let out a stifled shriek. As the adrenaline ebbed, pain and emotions flooded in, numbing him for a moment. His pulsating veins and breathless lungs calmed, due to a brief, forced rest.

  Corvus slumped on the ground, covered in dust, snow, and blood.

  A heartbeat later, he whispered an eulogy into the air:

  "Hundreds of lives taken yet you remained unblemished by even a single dent, but saving one life left you sheared into splinters... You truly were an instrument of death, Kharos."

  End of Arc 1: The Unbound Weapon

  Song of Betrayal.

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