The air in the cramped, dripping cave tasted like rust and spoiled meat. The stench was palpable, a thick miasma of damp earth, mold, and the coppery reek of fresh blood that clung to the back of the throat. Skittering chitters echoed off the slime-slick walls, punctuated by the wet tearing sounds of carrion feeders disturbed from their feast. Before them, illuminated by the harsh, flickering light of the knights' torches, lay the source: a nest of Skitterlings – small, multi-limbed abominations with too many teeth and an unnerving intelligence in their beady eyes. They feasted on the half-devoured carcass of a deer, their chitinous limbs slick with gore.
Theron Blackwood stood at the fore, a dark silhouette against the torchlight, his broadsword held loosely at his side. Lieutenant Kain Ironward flanked him, grim-faced, while a cluster of newer recruits, their faces pale beneath their helms, shifted nervously behind them. The plan was simple: a swift, coordinated strike to eradicate the nest before it grew bolder, threatening nearby homesteads. Standard procedure. Routine, almost.
But routine felt brittle today. The cloying stench of blood and decay, usually a familiar backdrop to violence, today clawed at Theron's senses with visceral revulsion. It wasn't just the smell; it was the texture of it in the damp air, the sound of rending flesh, the sight of the glistening entrails. It felt obscene, invasive, scraping against nerves already frayed raw. And beneath the physical disgust, a deeper ache throbbed – the constant, hollow echo of deliberate distance.
He saw, not the Skitterlings, but the cloister courtyard. Elias walking past, grey robes pristine, gaze fixed resolutely ahead, radiating an aura of serene oblivion. As if I were air. As if nothing had ever passed between us. The icy rejection, the absolute silence where there had once been shared resonance, burned hotter than any demon fire. The frustration, the unwanted pang of something dangerously close to betrayal, coiled in his gut like a venomous serpent. Keep your distance. For your own cursed good. The words, his own, echoed bitterly in his skull.
"Commander?" Kain's voice, low and steady, cut through the fetid air. "On your mark."
Theron blinked, dragging his focus back to the present. The Skitterlings had noticed them. Dozens of beady eyes swiveled towards the light, a chorus of angry hisses rising. One particularly large specimen, its carapace scarred and dripping ichor, scuttled forward, mandibles clicking aggressively.
The sight, the sound, the stench… it collided violently with the image of Elias's cold indifference. A spark ignited deep within Theron's core. Not battle-focus. Rage. Pure, unadulterated fury. At the monsters. At the whispers. At the enforced isolation. At the silver-haired Cardinal who could dismiss him so utterly.
He didn't give the order. He didn't need to. With a guttural sound that was barely human, Theron moved.
It wasn't the controlled, efficient lethality of the Holy Commander. It was a blur of terrifying speed and unleashed power. He crossed the distance to the lead Skitterling in less than a heartbeat, his broadsword a silver arc in the torchlight. The strike wasn't precise; it was brutal. The blade didn't just cleave; it shattered the creature, spraying ichor and chitin fragments across the cave wall. Theron didn't pause. He was already among the swarm, a whirlwind of destruction.
His movements were faster than Kain had ever seen, fueled by a terrifying, almost feral energy. He moved with impossible agility, ducking under snapping mandibles, his sword a relentless engine of death. Bones crunched under his boots. Limbs were severed with single, savage blows. He didn't just kill; he obliterated. Where a controlled thrust would suffice, he used crushing overhead slams. Where a parry would deflect, he met attacks head-on with bone-jarring force, shattering limbs with his armored forearm.
The recruits watched, frozen in horrified awe. This wasn't their disciplined Commander. This was a force of nature, a being of pure, terrifying violence. The speed was unnatural. The strength was monstrous. Skitterlings that should have required coordinated effort were reduced to pulped remains in seconds under his onslaught.
Kain, reacting with ingrained reflexes, barked orders, directing the recruits to flank and contain, trying to salvage some semblance of the plan. But Theron was a storm, leaving little for the others to do but witness the carnage and avoid being caught in his path. Kain's grey eyes tracked his Commander, widening with dawning alarm. He saw the way Theron's muscles bunched and corded with impossible tension, the sheer ferocity of his blows that went beyond necessity into the realm of savage overkill.
Then Kain saw his eyes. As Theron spun, driving his blade through the thorax of the last large Skitterling, pinning it shrieking to the cave floor, the torchlight caught his face. His amber eyes, usually sharp and focused, were wide, the pupils contracted to pinpricks against the molten gold irises, like chips of obsidian floating in lava. It wasn't the focused gaze of a warrior; it was the feral stare of a cornered predator.
And the heat. It radiated from Theron in palpable waves, distorting the air around him like a desert mirage. Kain, standing several feet away, could feel it – a dry, intense warmth that had nothing to do with exertion. It rolled off Theron's body in waves, causing the damp cave air to shimmer around him. The stench of blood and ichor seemed to intensify, mixed with a new, unsettling scent – like hot metal and ozone.
Theron stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, his broadsword dripping black ichor onto the cave floor where it sizzled faintly. The silence that followed the last Skitterling's death rattle was profound, broken only by the dripping water and the ragged breathing of the terrified recruits. They stared at their Commander, their faces pale masks of fear beneath their helmets. This wasn't the man who led drills; this was something primal, dangerous, and utterly terrifying.
Theron slowly straightened, pulling his blade free from the twitching carcass. He didn't look at his men. His gaze, with those unnaturally contracted pupils, swept the destroyed nest, the shattered bodies, the gore-spattered walls. A low growl, more vibration than sound, rumbled deep in his chest. He seemed… disconnected. Lost in the aftermath of the fury that had consumed him.
Kain stepped forward cautiously, his hand raised slightly, palm out, a gesture of caution rather than threat. "Commander?" His voice was carefully neutral, but laced with deep, growing concern. "The nest is cleared."
Theron flinched minutely at the sound of Kain's voice, as if startled back to himself. He blinked rapidly, his gaze refocusing with visible effort. The pinprick pupils dilated slightly, though the molten gold still burned with unnatural intensity. The waves of heat radiating from him lessened fractionally, but the air around him still shimmered. He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly on the sword hilt, then at the carnage he had wrought – carnage far exceeding the threat.
He didn't speak. He took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to strain against an internal pressure. Without a word, without acknowledging his stunned men, Theron turned and strode towards the cave entrance, his movements stiff, almost jerky. The recruits hastily scrambled out of his path, pressing themselves against the slimy cave walls. The intense heat radiating from him made them flinch as he passed.
Kain watched him go, his own heart pounding with a different kind of fear. He saw the rigid set of Theron's shoulders, the unnatural stiffness in his gait, the way his knuckles were white on the sword hilt. He remembered the pinprick pupils, the waves of distorting heat, the terrifying speed and savagery. This wasn't battle prowess. This was the edge of something far more dangerous. This was the Commander wrestling with a force within himself that was perilously close to breaking free. The enforced distance from the Cardinal wasn't just causing emotional turmoil; it was eroding Theron's legendary control over the volatile power he harbored. The whispers were a threat, but Kain now realized with chilling clarity that the true danger might lie within Theron himself, a dragon straining against chains forged from isolation and pain. The edge of control had been breached, and Kain Ironward, the ever-loyal shadow, felt a cold dread seep into his bones.