The sharp jolt of pain tore through her sides, pulling her back into consciousness. She gasped, grimacing in pain as she clutched her abdomen and curled over on the ground like a newborn. Someone had kicked her awake. She coughed violently, tasting the blood and saliva in her mouth. When the pungent smell of iron, intertwined with the stench of burnt flesh, invaded her senses, Stena Baraja knew that it was over.

She was no stranger to this sensation. This was the aftermath of a battle—and they had lost. It all came back to her. As a Paladin, she swore to uphold righteousness and justice and sought to strike out against all that would threaten her people. And so, she did. They marched from the Great Wall and made camp near the southern mountain ranges of the Abelion Hills. Yet, they had waited. They knew we were coming. The ambush—it was a massacre.

She heard voices, but the words were garbled, unintelligible. Whatever had knocked her out had done its job well. No matter how hard she tried to focus, all she could make out were dull sounds and blurry, indistinct shapes moving around her.

I won't die here. I can't die here, she tried to tell herself. She found herself heavy, so heavy. How easy would it be to just lie down and accept her fate? But it didn't matter what she thought; she knew better. She needed to get up. Her body protested with sharp pain as she struggled to stand, the metallic clatter of the shackles around her wrists had barely registered in her ears.

Stena managed to push herself halfway up, her legs trembling under her when another brutal kick slammed into her stomach. The force sent her crashing back onto her knees, and nausea surged through her. Doubling over, she retched violently, her stomach emptying onto the ground. The bitter taste of bile mixed with the metallic tang of blood lingered.

After what felt like an eternity, the nausea subsided, and with it, the dull ringing and blurriness. The scene before her became clear, and she saw them: corpses and monsters.

Demihumans—more specifically, Feltrim, massive wolf-like creatures easily three heads taller than any grown man—roamed the ravaged field, unceremoniously stripping the armor and weapons from the dead like vultures.

Some Feltrim, with their long, razor-sharp claws, effortlessly tore large chunks of flesh from the corpses or ripped off entire arms or legs and gorged on them like a pack of starved hounds. Were they harassed by a madness of hunger or indulged in simple cruelty? She didn't know—and preferred to keep it that way.

Stena's hand trembled as she pressed it against the cold, blackened earth. The pyres of smoke from the rows of burnt tents shot high into the sky. How many hours had already passed?

One of them loomed over her—the same bastard that had beaten her awake, no doubt. In its hands, it held an ornate silver longsword—her sword. Stena's jaw clenched as she struggled against the shackles, fury rising in her chest. She wanted to spit every insult imaginable at this creature. It deserved no better.

"L-Lady Stena..."

Yet, a faint voice pulled her attention before she could say anything to the monster. Diego, her recently appointed squire, was still alive, though barely. He was young, more boy than man. Helplessly, he lay on the ground beside her, his legs splayed awkwardly behind him, and blood pooled below his body. Tears streamed down his face as his trembling hand reached out to her, like a child for its mother.

Stena looked at him pityingly, ready to offer words of encouragement or comfort, but found herself speechless. What could she possibly say? That everything would be alright? She couldn't delude herself into saying these words, not even for him.

His next breath never came.

There was a loud, sickening crunch that echoed in Stena's ears. Her eyes didn't turn away. Diego's skull caved inward, reduced to a bloody, unrecognizable mess when the Demihuman's foot came down. His hand twitched, a shuddering, wet gurgle escaping his broken body before his arm fell limp, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Stena's breath caught in her throat as her eyes welled up. Her chest heaved, the heart pounding painfully in her chest as the realization hit her. She wanted to scream, to rise, to break these chains, seize her blade, and take the head of this monster. Yet, her body wouldn't move. Why couldn't she move?

"Demihuman filth..." Stena's throat burned, her voice hoarse and rough from a day's worth of barking orders, yet dripping with unmistakable hatred. Her eyes never left what remained of Diego. "Your kind is a cancer."

The Feltrim snarled, its sharp eyes gleamed with fury and menace, the grip on the longsword tightened, and it raised the blade high, ready to deliver the killing blow.

Stena didn't flinch. Slowly, she bowed her head. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She would face death with acceptance. It was the least she could do to atone for her failure. Her thirst for battle drove her deep into the Abelion Hills, far from the comfort behind their walls. Was it hubris to believe she could build a better future, free of these monsters? Was this her punishment from the gods, a final lesson in humility before her soul was judged?

The sword fell—

Pabel, Neia…

—but there was no pain.

Something shifted. It became quiet.

Was she dead? No. It was something else.

Stena cautiously opened her eyes. She raised her head and noticed the other Feltrim stopped what they were doing, their ears perked up, their movements frozen as though they sensed something she couldn't.

Then, she saw.

A shadow moved, towering even over her punisher. A massive, black claw clutched the pilfered blade, and a faint trail of crimson trickled down its silver, razor-sharp edge. It looked as though it could snap the blade like a twig.

A deep, rumbling voice echoed.

"Not this one," it commanded, and, as if by some invisible force, the Feltrim that held the sword dropped it, fell to its knees, and bowed its head in submission, like a beaten dog.

Jet-black fur stirred gently in the cool breeze as chains—wrapped around its arms—clinked softly, like chimes. Its dark, burnished armor rattled lightly with every motion it took. Skulls, freshly hollowed and stripped of their skin, hung from its belt, still caked with dried blood.

Stena's mind raced. Would it kill her later? Would she be dragged back, a prisoner to be abused until they tired of her? Just kill me and be done with it, monster, is what she wanted to say. But something in its gaze made her hesitate. Crimson eyes, cold and sharp, bore into her. There was no mercy in them.

It was then that Stena recognized the figure before her—a monster among monsters.

Barghest.