The winds roared past steel feathers and rusted wings as the griffons soared in formation, beating across the night sky like a storm of warbirds. Beneath them stretched the endless sprawl of the western woodlands, dense and wild, where the roots themselves whispered secrets and predators hid in the treetops.
The knights rode beside the prisoners in saddles strapped to the outer flanks of the griffons. Halven, his silver cloak rippling, sat with one gauntlet wrapped around his halberd. A younger knight beside him, eyes wide with unease, finally spoke.
"Why do you think His Majesty's doing this? A hundred inmates? For one Cupid? Couldn't he have got his Champions? The strongest warriors in the kingdom under him?"
Halven didn't answer at first. He stared forward, his voice steady when it came.
"Because King Rellka cherishes what is his. His kingdom. His daughters. His name. And he knows what Cupid's can do. How deadly they are.
But they're not invincible.
They bleed like the rest of us."
He glanced at the horizon. "After what happened to the Princess, he swore no one close to him—or the Ironbone Kingdom—would ever fall to a Cupid again."
The young knight swallowed hard.
"You really think they'll succeed? These… inmates?"
Halven nodded slowly.
"These aren't drunkards and pickpockets. These are the worst of us.
Killers. Warlocks. Cursed-bloods.
Some of them conquered towns alone. Some of them turned on kings.
One hundred wolves versus one rose.
His Majesty is confident.
And he's not wrong."
Below them, the woodlands opened like a breathing wound, jagged with ridgelines and valleys, thorn-choked paths and twisted glades. And then—
A horn blew from the lead griffon.
Time.
A grizzled knight barked out:
"Off now! Hunt begins here!
Spread out! Stay together and you're just a bigger target!"
Chains were released. Magic locks undone.
One by one, the prisoners leapt.
Mak of House Briam dropped with a roar, iron bars spiraling from his skin, forming an armored ribcage around him as he conjured a double-headed hammer that shimmered with memories of pain.
Salai the Flamevein plunged with a whistling scream, drawing from his back a blade made of petrified screams, the edge humming as if it wanted to cry.
Darrick Redgore spun as he fell, bones clicking in and out of place as he snapped into a beast form mid-air, limbs elongating, eyes glowing red with wrath of old gods.
Dozens more followed, the night glowing with twisted shapes and auras.
One inmate sprouted skeletal wings made from broken chains and prison spoons, cackling madly.
Another cracked his knuckles and turned both arms into sharpened jaws.
Another pulled a thousand playing cards from his mouth and tossed them like razor hail as he fell.
Some laughed.
Some wept.
Some sang.
"We were born in rust and cage,
We bleed for war, we burn with rage—
Let the sky be split, the world undone,
We're prisoners no more—
We're the King's loaded gun!"
Below, Sen dropped like a stone, hands in his pockets, his dreadlocks swirling in the air. His smirk never wavered.
Beside him, Vexxen whispered something to the wind and conjured a long scythe from the gash he sliced across his palm. Blood hissed into shape, steaming into form—a weapon forged in rage and sorrow. The blade pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then came the wide, glorious, terrible shot.
One hundred prisoners.
Falling at once.
A rain of death. A storm of wrath.
A living curse descending upon the woodland below.
They stretched across the sky like a dark nebula, each glowing with their own cursed magic. One laughed as he conjured a violin of bones and played it mid-drop. Another screamed prayers to forgotten gods, body turning translucent. One burst into a hundred moths, flapping wildly. Another grew in size, tripling as his body became liquid steel.
And then—impact.
Like meteors, they hit the forest—branches cracked, stone split, leaves torn from boughs.
The hunt had begun.
…
Morning sunlight cut through the trees like spears of gold, heating the clearing where Kota and Lyzelle had camped. Kota stirred awake with a low grunt, sitting up with bedhead and a scowl like he'd fought sleep in his dreams. He stretched, bones cracking, one eye squinting against the light.
"Ugh… damn bugs," he muttered, scratching his neck and looking around. His stomach growled.
Lyzelle was already wide awake and squatting beside the campfire, chomping on a hunk of meat like an animal. Grease smeared her cheek, and her grin was ear to ear. "About time you woke up!" she cackled. "I already hunted, killed, gutted, and cooked breakfast. All before you had finished your beauty sleep."
Kota blinked, spotting the creature she'd roasted. Some kind of horned rabbit-boar hybrid—massive, with thick armored hide, claws, and saber-like teeth. She'd skewered it whole on a spit she'd made from sharpened tree branches, now blackened over the fire.
"You killed that thing?" Kota asked through a yawn. "Nice."
"Thank ya, thank ya. I suplexed it off a cliff!" she said proudly, holding up a dripping leg. "You should've seen it. I looked like a badass."
Kota took the meat she offered, chewing quietly. "Thanks," he muttered.
'It tastes amazing…'
Lyzelle dropped beside him and slapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him. "Today's a big day, Kota-! I've had all night to think, We're going to another town to find someone with astral magic!" She held her arms wide like she was presenting a prize. "One of those fancy types who can see the astral realm, where my home is."
Kota raised an eyebrow. "Aren't those people rare? Or hiding because of the witches?"
"Exactly! That's what makes it a quest!" she said, tossing a bone into the woods. "The witches want to reach the Tree of Ascendance. Astral types are like… golden tickets! They'll hunt them down, use them—I dunno! It's all bad."
Kota kept chewing. As he glanced up, Lyzelle leaned close and wiped a smear of grease off his cheek with her thumb, then licked it.
"You're such a baby," she smirked. "Can't even eat without getting messy."
He stared at her. "You just licked that off your thumb….?
"That's good meat!" she said, wiping her hands on her cloak. "And I'm not gonna stop doing what I do."
Kota scoffed but didn't argue. As she sat beside him, ranting about how she once ate raw lightning because it "looked tasty," his eyes drifted to her face. Her blindfold, stitched with faint glowing pink runes, covered her eyes—but the way the morning light hit her features, the way she smiled, it made something in his chest tighten.
He wondered, just for a second, what her eyes looked like beneath that cloth.
"You're staring," she said suddenly, her tone quieter now.
KATHOOM!
A thunderous explosion ripped through the camp. Blood splattered. Trees shattered. A massive magic lance wreathed in burning violet and electric blue aura exploded through Lyzelle's back, and she was launched like a ragdoll through the trees.
"LYZELLE!!" Kota shouted, his plate crashing to the dirt as he bolted. His boots pounded the earth, leaves and bark flying past as he darted between trunks, leaping over smashed roots. He saw her body spiraling, crashing through trees. He caught her mid-air, wrapping his arms around her protectively as they both slammed into the ground and skidded hard.
She was gasping, gripping his arm tightly, blood running from her mouth. "…Kota.."
"Don't talk..I'll get us out of this…" Kota couldn't be loud, the amount of shock he was in kept his voice low, feeling if he was too loud he would scare himself.
Lyzelle choked, "…Cupid's…are tough," she coughed, her voice ragged, "but if the bleeding doesn't stop… I'm done. We can't merge. Not like this….please…I'm sorry…I should've—."
"..Don't..Don't say sorry," Kota growled, his heart pounding so loud it shook his bones. He looked around in a panic, searching for anything to stop the bleeding—her blood soaking through his arms, warm and terrifying. His mind screamed a dozen different things at once.
'Who's attacking us…?! Another witch?!'
But then—another blast tore through the forest, another lance of corrupted magic. Trees exploded as Kota threw himself to the side with Lyzelle on his back, he was carrying her.
From the smoke and dust, he heard footsteps, laughter—dozens of them, men and women. Smirking. Mocking. He didn't know who they were. But he knew one thing: they came to kill.
Emotion surged like a wave, and he let it consume him.
The Cupid's power answered. From Kota's back, twin chained blades manifested—forged from the shattered remains of a divine Cupid's bow and the ribcage of a forgotten god of desire. The blades radiated with pink-white firelight, sparking with chaotic voltage, humming like a heartbeat on the edge of a scream.
Kota gripped the chains. And he moved.
He launched into the air, cloak whipping behind him. Below—two dozen inmates jumping right under him, spells conjuring, blades drawn, faces twisted with hunger.
Kota saw them all.
Lyzelle clutched his shoulder, blood in her throat. "Don't look at them…" She whispered. "Don't give them that….just keep moving…there's dozens more…out there waiting for us…cutting his off…"
'This is my fault, isn't it?' Lyzelle thought.
But Kota already had seen them. His eyes burned with fury.