The cleansing of Cylion had taken the entire night, and when the first rays of a weeping sun finally tried to cut through the black columns of smoke, the streets were covered in pooling blood and dead bodies.

The stench of burning flesh filled the air, along with the flourish of scents of everything else that got razed by the walls of fire that ravaged through the once magnificent city. Crumbled buildings blocked streets and passageways, market stands and warehouses burned like giant torches, and searing gusts rushed through the narrow alleys and filled their lungs with hot ash.

Malvorn's troops had shown no mercy. Their generational rage had broken free of all chains, unleashing horrors they would never dare to speak of in front of their children. Screams of terror had filled the night as the Fateless soldiers roamed through the streets and broke into every house along the way, surprising their sleeping victims and killing every man, woman, and child before setting their beautiful homes ablaze.

They had all sullied their souls, collectively turning into versions of themselves they never thought possible. But when Malvorn gave the command to destroy everything and everyone in their path, they did not hesitate. Cylion's soldiers rushed at them from all sides, leaving their posts on the city wall to fight the raging storm in their midst, but their positional disadvantage was too great to recover from. Despite their superior weapons and armor, they were scattered and unorganized, allowing the Fateless warriors to round them up and dispatch them in small numbers at a time.

The soldiers in front of the palace had been the first to go. They put up a good fight, but were quickly overrun by the sheer number of enemies, which soon after broke down the massive portal door and flooded the royal residence like a swarm of deadly insects. Once inside, they had desecrated the pompous halls and hallways until streams of blood ran down the marble stairs like waterfalls, and the oil portraits wept at the havoc Malvorn's troops wreaked.

To Senya's surprise, Malvorn had ordered them to take Vaelorian captive so he could force the sly man to watch as his city burned to the ground, and every living being around him got cut down by weapons he paid for. While he didn't put up a fight, he didn't stop hurling insults and defamation at Malvorn — oath breaker, traitor, perjurer.

Eventually, though, when the flames started rising to the sky in a deadly dance, he got awfully quiet. His dark eyes lost their sharpness, and the thin line that marked his mouth turned into a gaping hole of disbelief, as he kneeled atop the outer palace staircase with Malvorn, Senya, and the officers of the Fateless army surrounding him.

A part of Senya was glad she didn't have to take part in the razing of Cylion, but instead could just remain by Malvorn's side and watch the infernal spectacle. It wasn't so much that she felt morally conflicted, but she recognized that fighting wasn't her strong suit — not in these circumstances, anyway. Her blade would find its victims in due time.

Even so, the glaring pain of an entire city had felt like a soothing hand on her own emotional turmoil. It felt exhilarating, yet calming at the same time. Seeing all the other Fateless express their pent-up anger made her realize she was not alone in her suffering. Killing thousands of innocents would not heal her mental wounds, but it would help numb the pain.

And then there was the rush that came with raw, sheer unlimited power. With the flick of a hand, Malvorn had doomed an entire population, and she'd been his accomplice. Never before had she felt such a surge of energy wash through her body and fill her veins with vigor as fierce as the raging inferno around them.

#

There was an eerie red glow above them when the morning sun finally hit the mist of dust and ash that covered the entire city like a burial shroud. The sulfurous air was so thick, Senya could barely breathe, and black smoke filled the royal avenue. Malvorn eventually broke his rapt silence and turned to Vaelorian, who was cowering on the hard floor with his manicured hands supporting him.

"Your hubris has brought this upon your city," Malvorn said with relish.

Vaelorian's head was hanging low like a limp puppet, but when he heard Malvorn speak, he mustered all the strength he had left and gazed at him with pure hatred.

"Speak to me not of hubris," he hissed between gritted teeth, then swallowed hard.

His dark hair was covered in dust, his magnificent robe stained.

"All these years," Malvorn continued, "I wished for nothing more than to see your arrogant face in the dirt where it belongs."

His voice was cruel and cold, expressing emotions that had been buried deep within him.

"We had a deal," Vaelorian repeated once more, but with fleeting resolve.

His voice cracked when he started coughing vigorously.

Above him, Malvorn laughed cynically.

"You always thought yourself something better. Vaelorian Dor, master of coin, soon-to-be king of Cylion. You never saw us as equals."

"How could I?" Vaelorian gasped. "Look at what you've done — you're a monster!"

Malvorn's expression hardened.

"And you are not?" he asked with so much sharpness the air seemed to crackle between them. "I know what you have done."

Vaelorian fell silent for a moment, then said: "I should've let you rot in this dark hole of yours."

Malvorn flashed his menacing teeth.

"You probably should've," he confirmed, then sighed theatrically. "And yet here we are. I am destined for greatness and you — well, your story ends here."

Malvorn leaned forward and gently grabbed the crown from Vaelorian's head. He raised it up to eye-level and inspected it for a moment.

"Such a pretty thing," he murmured pensively.

Then, he tossed it away with primal force, and it whirred through the searing air in a wide ark. When it hit the ground with a violent clink, it started bouncing and rolling over the marble pavement until it hit the blackened trunk of a scorched tree, where it lay lifelessly like all the other scattered belongings in the streets of Cylion.

"Goodbye, Vaelorian," Malvorn said prayerfully.

Vaelorian didn't respond, but instead just stared at his lost crown, coming to terms with his inevitable fate.

His skull made a gruesome sound as it cracked under the impact of Malvorn's armored fist, and his body tumbled down the marble staircase until it came to a halt a few steps below them, twisted and distorted, with his broken head quickly feeding into a crimson pool of thick blood. Malvorn remained frozen in place where his hand had ended Cylion's former ruler, then slowly eased back into a wide stance, red pulp dripping from his golden knuckles and onto the dust-covered marble.

After a long moment had passed, he turned his attention to Senya, whose eyes were still glued to Vaelorian's pitiful remains. She wondered if she should've asked him about the young Dor siblings she'd met, and whether he had seen her sister. The knowledge would've been of no consequence, but still.

"How do you feel?" Malvorn asked in a lowered voice.

Senya looked into his pale face and was met with beaming satisfaction. For the first time, Malvorn seemed content, even though she knew his quest was not finished just yet.

"Vindicated," she finally said, and Malvorn smiled a sinister smile at her.

"Good," he murmured, then put a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Senya couldn't help but notice the warmth it sent through her body.

"This was only the beginning. With Cylion gone, we can turn our attention to our true enemy."

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He gave her an intense stare, then lifted his hand.

"The Fateweavers will be more prepared than these fools," he rasped and gestured dismissively at the scattered bodies of dead guards. "Even so, they will be no match for the might of our army. We will crush them right under the eyes of their cursed God."

"When will we depart?"

Malvorn's gaze fell onto a group of Fateless soldiers that emerged from one of the large gates along the once magnificent avenue, their weapons and robes covered in blood and ash, their faces glistening from sweat. They were holding golden trinkets in their hands, treasures they thought would find their way home. Senya had to scoff at the sight — clearly, they lacked the vision to realize that they were never going to go home, or rather, that they were in the process of finding a new home for their kind. They would set the rules of this new world — they would define what was of value. To cling to what the surface dwellers thought precious was shortsighted at best.

"Today, we rest," Malvorn finally declared. "We feast on the spoils of our conquest, then we march on the Great Library come tomorrow."

Looking at the sea of burning buildings and crumbled rooftops, she wondered what spoils there were to be had. Malvorn seemed to read her mind, as he gestured at one of his officers to step closer, a haggard-looking man with pronounced features and a polished helmet he'd taken from one of the fallen guards.

"Once the city is cleansed, tell everyone to retreat to the palace," Malvorn ordered. "We will make camp there for the night. There should be plenty of provisions in their pantries, enough to give us strength for the path ahead."

He looked back at the group of Fateless and their trinkets.

"Burn everything else," he rasped, then turned his back on the razed city.

#

Later that day, Senya found herself strolling through the labyrinth of corridors, lobbies, and grand halls that made up the palace of Cylion. Being by far the largest building in town with an exterior fully made from stone, the king's former residence had survived the raging flames nearly unscathed. There had been a bloodbath on the inside, but Malvorn had ordered his troops to hold their torches and only purge the living. Now, Senya understood why. It bore a certain irony that they would reside in the palace of Cylion after what the Fateweavers had done to their own residence. And it was only fitting that they wiped out all staff members and servants, just like they had done to them. And eyes for an eye, she thought.

Euphoric Fateless had set up camp in most rooms she passed, and she could hear their exhilarated laughter through the open doors and archways. They would throw their dirt-covered bodies onto the soft beds and expensive upholstery, start fires with whatever books or fine clothing they could get their hands on, and make a sport out of throwing knives at portraits of past monarchs. The mood was one of victory, and none of them seemed to feel remorse over what they had done the night prior, even though the hallways were still littered with dead servants, and the carpets stained wherever their lifeless bodies had found their ends.

The only unclaimed room she saw on her stroll appeared to be one of a child, with playful tapestry covering the walls, and intricately crafted wooden toys next to a slim canopy bed with white bedding. When she peeked inside, she almost stepped on a lone stuffed animal that lay next to the entrance, a brown bear with fuzzy ears, dropped in a hurry. She picked up the fluffy creature and inspected it in the dim light of the hallway. Growing up, she'd never had any toys to play with, either because they were too expensive or because she wouldn't have had time to, anyway. Now, as she grabbed one of the furry paws with her fingers, she wondered what her childhood could've been like, had she grown up surrounded by splendor like this child had.

She walked over to the neatly made bed and placed the bear on top of it, resting its head against one of the soft pillows. On her way out, she shut the door with intent, like she was closing a coffin that was about to be put to eternal rest.

#

The heart of the palace was a long, skinny hall that even surpassed Malvorn's throne room in terms of size. Large columns flanked the middle aisle, each of them holding one torch in every direction. Most of them were extinguished now, and no one bothered to replace them. Mosaics of hunting scenes and glorious battles adorned the floor, some of them old and faded, others vibrant and fresh. There would be no more of them, she thought.

The steps to the throne were covered in dead guards, blood streaked across their polished breastplates and colorful tabards. A group of Fateless had gathered around the chair of power, taking turns sitting on it and laughing hard as they impersonated the deceased ruler. They had ditched their helmets and armor and were only wearing thin shirts and linen pants, their faces red from excitement and enthusiasm. They gestured at Senya to join them, but she ignored their shouts and instead left through a side entrance that led her into a small dining hall with a round table in the middle. The delicate chairs around it had been tossed over, and plates and glassware lay broken on the orange parquet floor. The bodies of two servants were piled up in one corner of the room next to a silver tray and a pair of luxurious chalices, with a large decanter shattered into pieces. Red wine mixed with crimson blood until they were barely distinguishable anymore.

#

Senya finished her tour by stopping at one of the large pantries and filling her pockets with whatever her heart and stomach desired. There was an abundance of bread and cured meats, vegetables she'd never even seen, and ground herbs that filled the room with complex scents. Other Fateless were eagerly filling their hands with however much they could carry, and some of the shelves were already starting to empty. She passed a group of men that had gathered around a set of wine casks, then made her way back to the residential tract, where she finally stopped in front of one of the many richly decorated saloons. A few of her comrades were already set up inside, turning the room into a make-shift campsite with pillows and food spread across the floor, and even a crackling fire in a tiled fireplace off to the side, fed by an emptied bookshelf next to it. Two women sat in front of the dancing flames with curtain poles they had used to skewer raw pieces of meat, which they were slowly rotating above the searing fire.

Senya sat down in one corner of the room next to a large grandfather clock and started munching on her stuffed pies and pieces of bread, both of which tasted better than most things she'd ever eaten in Morathen. She could sense the freshness, and the artisanal craftsmanship that had been put into them, and was almost sad that whoever baked them was now most certainly dead, possibly without having written down the recipe.

She watched the other Fateless as she embraced the wholesome food in her mouth, and some of them were watching here. Senya figured they remembered her from Malvorn's speech, and the execution of the Fateweaver Nerina. They probably didn't quite know what to make of her, but her closeness to Malvorn granted her a level of authority she wasn't used to. In the eyes of common Fateless, she was not one of them anymore, and she embraced that fact. Still, a life of humility was not easily revised, and so she still sat on the same floor as them and ate her food, just like they did. Maybe she was the bridge between social circles, just like Malvorn had said. She developed the thought while her mouth made quick work of two pies stuffed with vegetables of all kinds, and a thick creamy sauce to bring it all together.

"You are Malvorn's chosen," a soft voice said, and it took Senya a moment to realize it wasn't just in her head.

She swallowed and looked over, and her gaze was met with the face of a young man roughly her age, with dark skin and brown eyes. His jaw and cheeks were delicate, his hair tidier than most other men's she used to see in Morathen.

"Says who?" she asked and put down a dried date.

The man looked over his shoulder to where his friends were sitting, all of them acting like they weren't watching.

"Everyone," he whispered in awe.

When Senya didn't respond, he added: "Hey, look — if you want to, you can join us."

He pointed at the group of Fateless behind him.

"We found some delicious sweets in one of the pantries, and we'd be happy to share with you."

She gave him a weak smile and glanced at his soft hands. There was a slight tremor to them, and remnants of blood showed under his short fingernails.

"I see you've been busy," she said, and nodded at his shaking fingers.

As if the touch of her words had burned them, he instinctively retracted and hid his hands in his sleeves.

"We've all been carrying out Lord Malvorn's orders."

Senya chuckled. She wondered if Malvorn would feel honored or insulted by the use of this title.

"How many did you kill?" Senya asked casually.

The man hesitated and again looked over to his friends. This time, they weren't watching anymore.

"Three," he said with his head low, and Senya could see a wild blend of emotions emanate from the young man's face.

"Did they put up a fight?"

He swallowed hard and started massaging his hands in his sleeves. She didn't even know why she was asking, but the questions kept escaping her mouth in the most natural way.

"No," he admitted in a somber voice.

The excitement from earlier had left his smooth face, and instead, exposed the emotional aftermath of a night filled with terror.

Senya studied him for a moment. "Good," she finally said, and the young man looked at her in surprise.

"There is no honor in killing the unarmed," he muttered.

"Honor is for fools," she whispered, reciting what Malvorn had said to her when they first met.

The man scratched his hairless chin, unsure what to make of this advice.

"If you feel sorry for what you've done," Senya continued without looking at him, "then your previous life was too good to turn your back on it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked with a hint of defiance.

"You were a volunteer for Malvorn's army?" Senya asked in return.

He shrugged. "Yes, I signed up after his speech. After you showed us that we could all learn to become stronger."

Senya scoffed. "You don't learn to become stronger — it's just what life does to you with every hardship you have to face."

The young man opened his mouth, then closed it again. Eventually, he just stared at her.

"Why don't you go back to your friends?" Senya asked as if talking to a child.

After a brief moment, he shook his head and walked away, only to start whispering once he was back with his comrades.

Nyu sighed and looked at her hands.

She didn't want to be a hero, let alone someone's role model. She didn't need their sympathy or empathy, either. Least of all, she needed friends — having no one to care for but herself was liberating, and it gave her the freedom she needed to fuel the seething rage within her.

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