The moment stretched long enough for Alpha to feel it.
Not the battlefield, not the distant screams or the smell of blood in the air, he felt it.
Vanitas pulsed in his grip, not with the eager hunger of a weapon desperate for violence, but with something patient. Something inevitable. It wasn't asking if he would continue. It knew the answer.
That alone sent a cold thread down his spine.
The Hand of Veyr stood across from him, unreadable behind the dark steel of their helm. Their blade hung at their side, not in carelessness, but in measured restraint.
For the first time since the battle began, they hesitated.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant sounds of war.
Then, the Hand of Veyr spoke.
"You are not the same as before."
Alpha swallowed. He knew what they meant. Knew what they saw. He had felt it too.
He was fighting differently. Moving differently.
The sword had changed him.
Or worse.
It was still changing him.
"I could say the same about you," Alpha replied, rolling his shoulders, trying to ignore the way Vanitas felt. His fingers itched, his stance adjusted itself before he thought to do it. It was like his body already knew how this battle would play out.
The Hand of Veyr tilted their head slightly, as if considering his words. Then, without another breath of hesitation, they lunged.
Alpha moved on instinct.
Their blades met in a clash that sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield.
Vanitas didn't just parry. It adjusted, guided, shifted with him. Their weapons clashed, danced, carved through the space between them in a deadly rhythm neither had spoken yet both understood.
For the first time in this fight, Alpha was faster.
The Hand of Veyr adjusted their stance, but Alpha was already moving. He struck low, twisting at an angle he shouldn't have been able to predict, forcing them to retreat.
His breathing came steady. His heartbeat, calm.
That was wrong.
He shouldn't feel this way.
Not in a battle.
Not while fighting someone who had nearly killed him moments ago.
But Vanitas hummed in his grip, and Alpha knew—this was not his first time wielding it.
That thought sent a bolt of unease through him.
"How much have I forgotten?"
The distraction cost him.
The Hand of Veyr's blade flashed toward his ribs. Alpha barely twisted in time, the steel carving a shallow gash through his side.
Pain flared, real, sharp, grounding.
But it didn't slow him down.
Vanitas pulsed, and Alpha moved.
His blade cut through the air in a perfect arc. The Hand of Veyr raised their sword to block, but this time, Vanitas bit deep.
Sparks erupted as steel cut through steel.
The Hand of Veyr's sword cracked.
For the first time, they stepped back.
Alpha stood, breathing steady, watching as his enemy stared at their weapon. They hadn't expected that.
Neither had he.
The silence between them was deafening.
Then, something unexpected.
The Hand of Veyr chuckled.
It was not a pleasant sound. Not amusement.
Recognition.
"So this is what you are."
Alpha clenched his jaw. "And what is that?"
The Hand of Veyr straightened. The runes on their armor pulsed once, the energy shifting, settling.
"You do not know yet," they said, their voice calm, almost certain. "But you will."
Before Alpha could react, they raised their free hand.
A shockwave of magic blasted outward, throwing him back. The battlefield blurred, and he hit the ground hard, skidding through the dirt. By the time he pushed himself up, vision swimming
The Hand of Veyr was gone.
Alpha staggered to his feet, breath coming fast now, heart finally pounding as the weight of the fight settled on him.
They had left.
Not because he had won.
Because they had seen something in him.
He looked down at Vanitas, still pulsing in his grip, its silver veins thrumming with power.
He had questions.
And the worst part?
He wasn't sure if he wanted the answers.
...The City of Ash...
Alpha walked through the ruins of Iskaroth, his steps slow, deliberate. The scent of burning wood and magic still hung heavy in the air, curling in his lungs like smoke.
The city had once been a symbol of power. Now it was little more than a graveyard. Buildings stood half-destroyed, stone shattered, streets littered with the remnants of lives torn apart by war.
The weight of Vanitas in his grip was the only thing that felt real.
He should have been exhausted.
But he wasn't.
That should have scared him.
It didn't.
He reached the city square and stopped.
A figure sat among the ruins, hunched over a small fire. Their cloak was tattered, their boots caked in dust, and their face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.
Alpha's grip tightened on Vanitas.
The stranger did not move.
"Long way from the battlefield," they said, voice low, unreadable.
"So are you," Alpha replied.
A pause. Then, slowly, the stranger lifted their head.
Golden eyes met his.
And Alpha felt something shift.
Not in the air.
Not in the world.
In him.
The stranger studied him for a long moment before speaking again.
"You're carrying something dangerous."
Alpha exhaled, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of Vanitas against his palm. "You don't say."
The stranger didn't smile, but there was something close to amusement in their gaze.
"You don't know what you're holding, do you?"
Alpha hesitated.
Then, finally, he admitted the truth.
"No."
The stranger nodded, as if they had expected that.
Then they reached for something beneath their cloak.
Alpha tensed, ready to move, but they only pulled out a small, worn leather-bound book. They tossed it toward him.
He caught it on instinct.
"Read that," the stranger said, standing. "Then you'll understand."
Alpha glanced down at the book, then back at them. "And if I don't?"
The stranger turned, walking away without looking back.
"Then you won't live long enough for it to matter."