HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The wind carried the scent of ruin. Burnt cedar, charred flesh, and the faintest whisper of iron blood hung heavy over the Southern Plains. Once, this place had been alive — a valley of green terraces and river-fed soil, where the banners of the South fluttered proudly above the citadel walls. Now, the air itself seemed hollow, stripped of breath and mercy.

Ryon stood at the heart of it. Cloaked in shadows and blood, the Warlock of the South did not look like a savior. He looked like something born from the same darkness that had tried to consume the land. His crimson eyes, faintly glowing under the dim twilight, scanned the sea of corpses that stretched beyond the horizon. Smoke curled upward in thin, trembling fingers, as if the land itself was reaching toward him — pleading, accusing, alive in its suffering.

The battle had ended hours ago. The siege that had lasted three days and nights was over. But the silence that followed was worse.

Behind him, the banners of the South lay torn, half-buried beneath the mud and ashes. The air shimmered faintly where magic had torn through the world — patches of earth pulsing with latent energy, still weeping sparks. The cost had been unimaginable. Thousands dead. Dozens of villages wiped clean. And for what? Survival, perhaps. Victory, maybe. But as Ryon knelt, running a hand through the soot-covered soil, he could not tell the difference anymore.

"You shouldn't be here," came a voice — soft, trembling, yet defiant.

Ryon didn't turn immediately. He recognized that voice, fragile as glass, threaded with grief. It was Kaela — the healer who had stood beside him through the storm, her hands stained with too much blood to still tremble. She stood a few paces away, her cloak torn, her face streaked with ash. The light from the dying fires cast her in hues of red and gold, like a specter of mercy in a world that had forgotten the word.

He finally looked at her. "Where else would I go?"

Kaela's lips pressed into a thin line. "Anywhere that isn't here."

Her words were a plea, not an order. She stepped closer, each footfall sinking into the mud. Around them, the moans of the dying whispered through the dark. The healers worked in silence, their chants weaving faint threads of light across broken bodies. But for every soul they saved, two more faded into the earth.

"You can't save them all," Ryon said, voice quiet, heavy.

Kaela's hands shook. "I know that. But that doesn't mean I stop trying."

Ryon rose slowly, the folds of his cloak dragging through the wet ground. "Trying isn't enough anymore."

He moved past her, his boots leaving dark prints behind. Each step seemed to echo louder than the last, until the air itself bent around him — magic responding instinctively to his presence. The crimson sigils etched across his right arm glowed faintly through the torn fabric, pulsing like veins of molten fire.

Kaela watched him, her expression torn between anger and pity. "They call you savior," she whispered. "But sometimes I think they forget you're still human."

Ryon paused. "Maybe they're right not to."

She took a sharp breath, as if he'd struck her. "You don't mean that."

"I do." His gaze lifted to the horizon — to the black spires of smoke, to the broken line of the fortress walls. "Humanity is a luxury. One I can't afford anymore."

Silence stretched between them, brittle as glass.

Then, faintly, the ground trembled.

Ryon's eyes narrowed. At first, he thought it was the aftershock of battle magic — the land's wounded spirit groaning under strain. But then came the sound. Low. Distant. Measured. Drums.

Kaela stiffened. "No… no, it can't be—"

"It is," Ryon said, already turning toward the eastern ridge. "The North."

The words fell like stones into the quiet. Even the healers froze. Across the plains, torches began to flicker into view — first a handful, then dozens, then hundreds, forming a burning line against the horizon.

"They shouldn't be able to move this fast," Kaela whispered, disbelief cracking her voice. "We destroyed their supply lines—"

"Unless someone rebuilt them."

Her head snapped toward him. "You think there's a traitor?"

"I don't think," he said coldly. "I know."

He stepped forward, his expression hardening. The magic that had lain dormant beneath his skin surged awake — his veins flaring faintly with red light as the ground trembled beneath his boots.

The Warlock was awake again.

Behind him, Kaela caught his sleeve, desperation flashing in her eyes. "Ryon, wait! You're bleeding. You haven't rested in three days. You can't—"

"I don't have to," he said, not looking back. "The South doesn't need rest. It needs wrath."

She let him go.

And when he stepped into the darkness, the wind followed. The air split open in a shudder of crimson flame, coiling around him like a living serpent. The sigils across his arm erupted, burning brighter, spiraling up toward his neck and face. The sky above seemed to respond — clouds folding inward, the faint hum of thunder rolling across the plains.

The soldiers who remained rallied at the sight of him. What had been despair moments ago twisted into something fierce and desperate. Hope, born from fear.

"The Warlock stands!" one of the southern captains shouted, raising his blade.

And just like that, the South found its voice again.

The clash came an hour later.

The Northern vanguard swept down from the ridge like a tide of steel — their banners black with frost, their war horns echoing through the valley. The air turned cold, biting, unnatural.

Ryon stood at the forefront, cloak billowing in the wind. His sword — the Blade of the Veil — shimmered faintly, feeding on the magic that laced the storm above. His breath misted in the air as he whispered the old words, the ones he had sworn never to use again.

"Souls of the fallen," he murmured, "lend me your fury."

The ground responded.

From the ashes, the dead began to rise.

Not as ghouls or mindless husks — but as shadows of memory, spectral warriors bound by oath and vengeance. They lifted their spectral blades, their hollow eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness. Kaela, watching from behind the healer's lines, felt her knees weaken. It wasn't the first time she had seen him call the dead, but this time felt different — colder, heavier, as if the world itself recoiled.

Ryon raised his blade. "South, stand!"

And the plains ignited.

Magic tore through the battlefield in waves of red and black. Northern steel clashed against spectral flame, screams blending into thunder. Every movement Ryon made carved through ranks of soldiers — his blade a streak of light and death. He was not human here; he was a storm made flesh.

But with each strike, his strength bled away. The magic he wielded was forbidden for a reason. It fed on his essence — his life. The marks along his arm had crawled higher, wrapping around his throat like a serpent of fire.

Still, he didn't stop.

He couldn't.

When the Northern general finally stepped forward — a towering man in obsidian armor, helm carved with runes of frost — Ryon was already waiting. Their eyes met across the field.

"Warlock," the general called, voice booming like thunder. "You should've stayed buried in your ruins."

Ryon's reply was quiet. "And you should've stayed out of my land."

Then the world broke.

The two forces collided in a burst of light so bright it split the sky.

Fire met ice. Shadow met steel. And in that violent instant, the plains became a canvas of chaos — the mark of gods and monsters who had once been men.

Ryon felt the strike before he saw it. The general's blade cleaved through the air, coated in frost magic so dense it sang. He barely parried in time. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the field, flinging bodies aside like leaves in a storm.

He staggered, teeth gritted, his cloak burning at the edges. The general laughed — a deep, cold sound that reeked of arrogance.

"You bleed like the rest," he sneered. "So much for the legend of the South."

Ryon spat blood and smiled faintly. "Legends don't bleed. Men do. But only one of us walks away."

He thrust his blade forward.

And the war answered.

When it was over, dawn had already broken.

The Northern army was gone — shattered, retreating, their banners left burning in the mud. Ryon stood in the silence that followed, his body trembling, his blade buried in the earth.

He could barely stand. The sigils across his body had dimmed, flickering weakly. Around him, the spectral soldiers faded, their task complete, their whispers echoing faintly through the morning mist.

Kaela approached quietly, her steps hesitant. When she reached him, she didn't speak — she just reached out, brushing a trembling hand against his arm. The heat radiating from his skin made her flinch.

"Ryon," she whispered, "you can stop now."

He didn't answer. His eyes were distant, locked on something far beyond the horizon.

"Ryon…"

Finally, he exhaled. The sound was soft, weary — the sigh of a man who had given too much. "It's never over," he said quietly. "Not until the last oath is broken."

Kaela closed her eyes. "Then may the gods forgive us all."

And somewhere beyond the northern ridge, unseen and waiting, a figure cloaked in silver watched the battlefield. Her lips curved into a smile — cold, knowing.

"So," she whispered, the words barely a breath. "The Warlock still remembers how to burn."

Then she turned and vanished into the fog.