Voren's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

The wind cut through the trees like a whisper of knives, threading between the trunks and tugging at the heavy coats of the five figures moving through the snow. Their boots crunched softly, each step sinking into the frozen ground before pulling free again. The snowfall was light but relentless, blanketing the countryside in shifting white and dulling the distant horizon. Voren pulled his scarf higher over his face, his breath warm against the coarse fabric. His rifle hung loosely in his grip, the strap digging into his shoulder. “How much farther?” he asked, his voice barely carrying over the wind. “Less than an hour, If we keep the pace.” Kyrkos answered, marching just ahead. His broad frame moved with purpose, boots carving a steady path through the drifts. Lyrien snorted, shifting the weight of his pack. “Easier said than done in this darn cold.” He adjusted his grip on his rifle, the metal biting through his gloves. “How the heck does anyone live out here?” “No one does,” Rygal muttered. “That’s the point.” He walked near the rear, keeping an eye on their tracks as they slowly disappeared beneath the falling snow. Arin, the youngest, hugged his weapon close, gaze darting between the trees. Every branch twisted in the wind, casting shifting shadows over the frozen ground. The quiet gnawed at him. He swallowed hard. “Feels wrong,” he murmured. Kyrkos turned his head slightly. “What?” Arin hesitated before shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s too quiet.” “Snow does that,” Rygal said. But his tone wasn’t dismissive. He felt it too—that unnatural stillness. No birds. No distant rustling of small creatures in the underbrush. Just the whisper of snowfall and the wind curling between the trees. Voren exhaled slowly, scanning the endless stretch of white and gray ahead. The forest was thick, its branches heavy with ice, but soon the tree line would break. And beyond it— The Crimson Crossroads. He tightened his grip on his rifle and kept walking. The trees began to thin, revealing more of the overcast sky. The wind carried a low, hollow howl through the forest, distant but unnatural. The soldiers slowed, eyes scanning between the trunks. Voren held up a fist, signaling a stop. Everyone fell still. He listened, the cold biting at his exposed skin. Nothing but the wind. But the feeling from earlier—the quiet unease—had only grown stronger. Then Arin whispered, “Over there.” All five turned. Just beyond the next rise, half-buried in the snow, lay a dark shape. It was still at first, as if frozen in place, but as they stepped closer, its ribs rose and fell in shallow, wheezing breaths. “A wolf?” Lyrien muttered, gripping his rifle. It certainly had the shape of one, but something was… off. The creature’s fur was patchy, its body gaunt. Bone pressed against its skin, but in some places, the flesh had swollen into grotesque tumors, bulbous and raw. Sores crusted over its legs, where the fur had been eaten away entirely. Its mouth hung slightly open, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth. Kyrkos crouched, keeping a safe distance. “What the heck happened to it?” “Disease?” Rygal guessed, shifting his weight. Arin took a hesitant step forward, lowering his rifle slightly. “Maybe we should—” The wolf moved. A shudder rippled through its body, something unnatural, something that sent a crawling sensation up Voren’s spine. The creature’s limbs twitched, then stiffly pushed against the snow as if remembering how to move. Its head jerked up, fixing on them with pale, milky eyes. Then it snarled. The sound was wrong. Too deep, too strained, as if its throat was torn apart from the inside. “Back,” Voren ordered, raising his rifle. The wolf staggered to its feet. Now standing, they could see its full form—its ribs barely contained by stretched, gray-tinged skin, its hind legs trembling as though unused for years. Yet there was hunger in its stance. Its lips peeled back, foam and bile dripping from its maw. Then, with a lurching, broken motion— It charged. Arin barely got his rifle up in time. The shot cracked through the frozen air, hitting the wolf in the chest. But instead of crumpling, the creature barely stumbled before pushing forward again. Kyrkos fired next. The bullet struck its shoulder, sending it skidding sideways, but still, it did not stop. “Why isn’t it going down?” Lyrien yelled. The wolf lunged. Voren pulled his trigger— The shot rang out. The creature hit the ground. Voren exhaled, lowering his rifle slightly. The wolf twitched once, then went still, a pool of dark blood spreading across the snow. Lyrien swore. “What the heck was that?” The unease in his gut had curdled into something worse. The forest was silent again, but the air felt heavier. Voren stood over the wolf’s body, watching steam rise from the bloodstained snow. The thing should have died after the first shot. No animal kept moving like that—not with those wounds. “We keep moving,” he said finally, shaking off the unease. “We’re close.” The others hesitated but obeyed. They left the carcass behind, marching through the thinning trees until the ground leveled out. Ahead, the forest ended abruptly, giving way to a wide, open expanse. A network of roads crisscrossed in the snow, converging on the junction they had risked their lives to reach. The Crimson Crossroads. But it was empty. No Alister troops. No barricades. No allies waiting in the tree line. Just endless white stretching in every direction, the wind stirring loose drifts across the cracked asphalt. Voren’s gut twisted. “Where is everyone?” Lyrien muttered something under his breath. Arin pulled out his Circl. Static. No response. “Something’s not right,” Kyrkos said. They spread out, searching for any sign of what had happened. Tracks in the snow. Shell casings. Anything. But there was nothing—no signs of life, no struggle. Then a sound cut through the wind. A low, growing roar. Voren turned his gaze upward. A dark shape moved across the sky. A bomber. Alistarian. His breath caught. No—this wasn’t an attack force. This was an execution. A whistling filled the air. The first blast hit the center of the crossroads, a wall of fire and force throwing them backward. The second followed, then a third. The world became heat, light, and deafening sound. Voren hit the ground hard. His vision swam. His skin burned. As the sky turned to fire, he realized— They were never meant to leave this place alive.