The sky was burning red when we returned.

Three of us, riding hard under dying light, cloaks flaring with dust and sweat. The birds had long stopped singing. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath. Soruan lay behind us, quiet and trembling.

And in my mind, I could still hear the sound.

That unnatural boom.

No lightning. No chant. No flame.

Just a man from the stars.

A Va'tar.

---

Camp Velkaris stood along the northern ridge—a temporary field bastion of spiked pikes and layered tents. Fires burned low, guarded by armored silhouettes. Banners fluttered above leather-roofed command tents, the sigil of the Black Hand stitched in crimson: a clenched fist above a broken sun.

We passed through the outer lines, unspeaking.

Guards snapped to attention. Eyes followed us. I caught mutters:

“He looks pale.”

“The scouts are back”

“Did something bad happen?”

Let them talk. I had a report to give.

Commander Varn was waiting.

---

He stood inside the command tent, stripped to his waist, arms tattooed with black runes that pulsed faintly under the firelight. Not decorative—functional. I knew that much. Everyone in the Legion did.

A warpriest stood beside him, fingers interlaced over a basin of steaming herbs. The tent smelled of salt and ashroot.

Varn turned as we entered. His face was carved from stone—barely older than I was, but twice the weight in scars. His voice was calm, but sharp.

“You’re late.”

I knelt. “Forgive the delay. I bring news... unexpected.”

“Report.”

---

I told him everything.

The village: still standing, though fragile. No real walls. No trained militia. Just farmers, elders, and scattered huts.

But then—

The Va'tar.

He wasn’t armored. No blade. No crest. And yet he stood taller than any man I’ve seen—two heads above even the village’s strongest. His skin was the color of scorched bronze, like metal left in the sun too long, and it had this... unnatural smoothness. Not like polished skin—like it had been sculptured.

His hair was charcoal gray—not from age, but by design. Each strand looked almost metallic, like forged wire rather than grown fiber. And his eyes... purple. Not tinted or cursed, but glowing faintly from within, as if Kav'ra itself was coursing through them, drawn outward with every glance.

He moved like a creature that didn’t need to think before acting. Not graceful—efficient. Calculated. When he stepped, it was like his weight didn’t match his size. Like the ground had to adjust around him.

And his hands—fingernails like obsidian stone. No dirt. No scent. Not even sweat.

I don’t know what he is.

And the sound.

When he struck the anvil, it was like the earth answered. The force was impossible—no chants, no channeling, no glyphs. Just force.

But we felt it in our bones.

The others nodded silently.

Varn’s expression didn’t change, but I saw it—one twitch of the eye.

“You think it was Kav'ra?” he asked.

The warpriest inhaled sharply.

I nodded. “It had to be. We saw no sigils. No conduit. No casting words. But it wasn't natural. No man makes the air move like that.”

The tent was still for a moment.

Then Varn said the word again—softer this time.

“Kav’ra.”

---

None of us dared speak when the warpriest stepped forward. He opened a satchel and retrieved a small, lacquered box bound with silver thread. Inside, glass vials shimmered with swirling liquid—pale blue, tinged with sparks of gold.

Enhancements.

“Scout-leader Rovek,” the priest said, bowing his head.

I stepped forward, arm out.

The priest uncorked a vial, and the scent of bitter ozone filled the air. He touched the liquid to my veins and began to chant—not loudly, not with grandeur. Just low, guttural syllables that scratched the air like claws.

The warmth hit instantly.

My vision sharpened. Muscles tightened. My heartbeat slowed—not with calm, but with readiness.

The Kav’ra was subtle in this form. A blessing woven into blood.

He did the same for my two men.

Varn nodded. “You’ll return as vanguard. Confirm the village’s defenses. Monitor the Va’tar. Do not engage.”

I hesitated. “Sir... if he is Kav’ra-touched, what are our orders?”

Varn turned to the map on the table—wooden pieces marked towns, rivers, borders. His hand hovered over Soruan’s sigil: a silver tree on faded cloth.

“Then we treat it like a breach.”

He turned to the aide at his side. “Ready a full platoon. Two squads forward, one in reserve. No cavalry yet.”

“Sir?” the aide asked, surprised. “For one village?”

“No.” He looked at me. “For one man.”

---

As I left the tent, I felt the Kav’ra still coursing through my limbs. Controlled. Powerful.

That man in Soruan—Kalen.

He dared to mess with us?

He's going to find out what happens when you mess with Velkar.