The road stretched through the woods crooked, and lined with the brittle bones of dead trees. The horseshoes clinked dully against old stone, each step muffled by dirt and moss. Overhead, the sky brooded behind clouds the color of ash.
Reinhart rode alone.
His cloak bore the sigil of the Severed Sun—an emblem most knew to fear. It was a golden circle, once bright, now dulled by ash and time. A perfect sun without rays, split clean down the middle as if cracked by a god's fury. It hung heavy over his chest like a silent promise: nothing touched by hell would survive him.
His armor was dark, layered with old soot and mud. He wore no helmet, letting the wind tug at his short brown hair. His face was all harsh lines and older than his years. Scars crisscrossed his cheek and jaw.
And where his left arm should have been, there was nothing.
Just an empty sleeve pinned neatly beneath his cloak, the fabric stiff with old wear. It was why some called him Reinhart the One-Armed—though never to his face. He had lost the limb years ago, during his anointing. The Sungod had taken it as payment. In return, Reinhart had been granted strength beyond any normal man, and the right to bear the Severed Sun.
He shifted in the saddle, the phantom ache still clinging to the missing limb. It was worse in the cold. The stump burned whenever he was close to a demon. A warning, perhaps.
"You should think about finding a successor."
The words echoed again. As persistent as a toothache.
"You're twenty-five, Reinhart. That's old, by the Order's standards. And unmarried. You're going to die alone with a sword in your gut and no one to carry your legacy."
He grunted.
"Better that than marry one of those wine-faced noble girls the commander keeps throwing at me," he muttered.
"They'd faint at the first exorcism."
It wasn't that he hated the idea of training a successor. But most boys couldn't even hold a sword straight without wetting themselves, let alone survive the blood rites.
And still… the commander kept pressing. As if Reinhart had time to train some sniveling brat while he was busy burning the world clean.
Above him, the branches began to thin. Through gaps in the trees, he could just make out the shape of chimneys and thatched roofs. The wind changed—carrying with it the scent of damp rot and something sweeter beneath.
"Village is close," he thought.
Reinhart had been sent alone. The mission was simple: a confirmed possession. The entire village had to be cleansed.
Possession came in many forms. Some villages went mad. Others went quiet. The worst were the ones that smiled too much. That laughed even as you cut them down.
Reinhart had seen it all.
Centuries ago, hell tore itself open and bled into the world. Demons poured out like infection from a wound. The gods turned silent, watching from above as mortals screamed below. It was Pope Luthian II who had acted—praying, begging, offering everything he had.
The Sungod answered. And thus, the Order of the Severed Sun was born.
Knights who made sacrifices to become weapons. Some gave their eyes. Others their tongues. Reinhart had given his left arm. It had been torn from him at the altar, bone and all.
His horse snorted, uneasy. The animal's hooves hesitated as they neared the broken gate of the village, a crow flapped overhead, then vanished into the dead sky.
Reinhart placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.
He looked up one last time. The clouds had swallowed the sun again. Only its pale light bled through, dim and directionless.
He urged his horse forward.