Dawn arrived without warmth.
A pale line of light stretched across the horizon, barely cutting through the lingering mist that clung to the ground like a reluctant shroud.
Then the silence broke.
Shouts.
Footsteps.
Metal clashing.
Guards ran across the workfields, their formation no longer calm or controlled. Alarm spread quickly, rippling through their ranks as something unexpected unfolded across multiple points at once.
Smoke rose in thin streaks from scattered positions.
Chains were breaking.
Hundreds of slaves looked up in confusion as unfamiliar figures moved among them.
People in black masks.
Horned silhouettes that cut through the haze like living shadows.
They moved fast.
Deliberate.
Coordinated.
Blades flashed as they cut through restraints with precision, not wasting a single motion. Chains fell to the ground in clattering heaps. Guards who tried to intervene were met with swift resistance, pushed back or disarmed before they could react properly.
Voices rose.
"Move!"
"This way!"
"Stay together!"
The masked figures guided the freed slaves in organized streams, directing them away from the workfields and toward safer routes hidden within the terrain.
Grenzabell was not among the standing crowd.
But nearby, groups were being pulled free one after another, confusion slowly giving way to something unfamiliar in this place.
Movement without chains.
For the first time in a long while, the system that had held the camp together was cracking.
And the guards—
Were losing control.
Grenzabell forced himself upright, still disoriented, his body aching from the earlier dragging. The camp around him was no longer the same. Chaos had replaced routine.
Guards shouted orders, but their voices were drowned by sudden resistance. Weapons clashed, then stopped. One by one, guards were struck down, their bodies hitting the ground with heavy, final impacts. Some were thrown back violently into dirt walls, others collapsed mid-step, unconscious before they could react.
It was fast.
Brutal.
And controlled.
Grenzabell's eyes locked onto the source.
Four figures.
All female.
Clad in black masks with horned silhouettes, their presence calm amid the violence. They moved like they already knew every outcome before it happened. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
One of them stepped forward, extending her hand toward a group of children being held close by a cluster of slaves.
A faint shift in the air.
Then something opened beneath them.
Not physically.
Not visibly in a natural sense.
A dark space, like a shadow deepened beyond its limits, forming beneath the children.
The masked woman gestured once.
Gently.
The children were guided downward, dropping into the darkness without harm, vanishing as if swallowed by it.
Grenzabell's breath caught.
"…What…?"
His eyes widened.
He stepped forward slightly, chains clinking.
"That's not… possible…"
Another masked woman lifted a guard effortlessly, disarming him in a single motion before striking a precise blow that dropped him instantly. The guard's body went limp before it even hit the ground.
Grenzabell stared.
His voice came out low, confused, almost breaking.
"How… can humans do that…?"
He looked around, searching for answers.
But no one else seemed surprised.
Some slaves watched in quiet relief.
Others, still cautious, simply observed in silence.
A few even showed faint, restrained smiles.
Grenzabell turned back to the four figures, his thoughts struggling to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.
"…What is this…?"
He took another step forward.
No one answered him.
Not because they ignored him.
But because their attention was already elsewhere.
Focused on the rescue.
Calm.
Efficient.
Certain.
Grenzabell stood there, surrounded by falling guards and breaking chains, watching something that defied everything he thought he understood.
And for the first time since waking up—
Confusion wasn't the only thing he felt.
A question formed deeper than the rest.
Something closer to disbelief.
Something that made the world feel wider than he could grasp.
A voice cut across the field.
Cold.
Heavy.
Carrying authority without effort.
"Who dares attack the Kingdom of Dawn."
The words settled over the chaos like a blade being placed at the throat of the moment.
Movement slowed.
Even the fighting seemed to hesitate.
Grenzabell turned his head sharply toward the source.
At the edge of the field, standing amid scattered soldiers and halted motion, was the commander.
Gareth.
Black hair. Beard. Tired eyes that didn't widen, didn't harden, didn't react with surprise.
He simply looked.
His gaze rested on the four masked figures.
No rush.
No anger.
Just observation.
Then he stepped forward.
One pace.
Then another.
And stopped.
Behind him, two figures approached, separating from the remaining soldiers.
Lieutenant commanders.
The first had blonde hair with dark streaks along the sides, earrings catching faint light as he walked. Something rested in his mouth, chewed slowly as he glanced at the scene with a lazy, almost amused expression.
A faint sarcastic smile pulled at his lips.
The second had fully black hair, neat and sharp. His expression mirrored the first in tone but not in style. His smile was thinner, more controlled, yet just as unsettling.
Both men stood beside Gareth.
And both of them smiled.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
Mockingly.
The kind of smiles that didn't promise mercy.
Their eyes moved across the field, briefly meeting the slaves, the children, the rescued.
Fear rippled through those who noticed them.
Children instinctively stepped closer to whoever was nearest. Some slaves lowered their heads. Others froze, unable to look away.
Grenzabell felt it too.
That pressure.
That quiet, suffocating sense that these men were not here to negotiate.
Gareth remained still at the front.
The two lieutenants slightly behind him.
And the four masked women ahead.
The field had changed again.
Not into chaos.
But into something far more dangerous.
A silent confrontation where every side understood exactly what was at stake.
Two of the masked women stepped forward.
Their movements were quiet, but deliberate. Each step seemed to press the air itself into stillness. Behind them, their black capes shifted slightly with the motion.
As they advanced, the back of the capes became visible.
A banner.
Embroidered in pale thread against the dark fabric.
Broken chains, shattered into jagged pieces, scattered across the design. At the center, an open hand, palm facing upward, fingers slightly spread. The chains around it were cracked, torn apart, no longer binding it.
Not just freedom.
But defiance.
The symbol was not loud.
But it carried weight.
One of the women stopped a few steps ahead of the others.
Her mask tilted slightly as her gaze locked onto Gareth.
Her voice came calm.
Clear.
Direct.
"It's quite pathetic."
A pause.
Then, with quiet certainty,
"To see a slave become the thing he once hated the most."
The words landed.
Not shouted.
Not forced.
But precise enough to cut through everything else.
Gareth did not react immediately.
He stood still.
His eyes lowered slightly.
Not in submission.
Not in reflection.
Just… stillness.
A subtle shift passed through his expression.
Something faint.
Then gone.
He exhaled once.
Measured.
Without lifting his head, he spoke.
"Kill them."
His voice was flat.
Contained.
"Both of you."
The two lieutenants beside him didn't hesitate.
The blonde with the side streaks cracked his neck slightly, the faintest grin still on his face as he rolled the object in his mouth and stepped forward.
The dark-haired lieutenant followed, his smile sharpening rather than fading.
No discussion.
No confirmation.
They moved at once, their presence shifting from passive to lethal in an instant.
Gareth remained where he stood, his gaze still lowered for a brief moment longer.
The words had struck something.
And whatever it touched…
It had already decided the outcome.
Steel rang out like a struck bell, sharp and scattered across the open grounds.
The two lieutenants moved first.
Blonde hair flicking, earrings catching faint light, the sarcastic smile never leaving his face. The other stayed just as composed, black hair framing a grin that felt carved rather than worn.
They closed the distance toward the masked women.
But the moment their intent became clear, the battlefield shifted.
The guards behind the lieutenants reacted as one.
Not charging.
Not panicking.
Retreating.
A coordinated pullback, disciplined and fast, as if every step had been rehearsed. Boots hit the ground in unison, formation tightening as they turned away from the clash.
Orders were silent.
Instinctive.
The two lieutenants halted for a fraction of a second, then followed through with their advance.
Yet the four figures in black masks did not commit.
They moved instead.
Disappearing into motion, not fleeing blindly but slipping through gaps, redirecting angles, vanishing behind movement itself. Children and slaves were taken mid-chaos, dropped into unseen paths, carried away from the reach of the battlefield.
The lieutenants gave chase.
Their speed was sharp, aggressive, cutting through the space with practiced aggression.
But it wasn't enough.
The four were already gone.
The chase ended with empty ground.
Silence crept back in, replaced only by distant movement and the fading sound of organized withdrawal.
Back at the command encampment, the two lieutenants returned.
Not injured.
Not slowed.
But clearly displeased.
They walked in side by side, shoulders loose, expressions unchanged in shape, yet carrying something heavier underneath.
"Ran like prey," the blonde muttered, letting out a short laugh.
"Didn't even try to stand," the dark-haired one added, shaking his head slightly, amused rather than concerned.
Their laughter echoed briefly through the command space.
When they entered, Gareth was already there.
Waiting.
The air around him felt tight.
Controlled.
They began their report, but the moment the words reached him, something in his presence shifted.
His eyes lifted slightly.
A faint red glow surfaced behind his pupils.
Not fully unleashed.
Just enough to show what sat beneath the surface.
The table beside him fractured with a sudden crack.
Wood split cleanly down the middle.
The beer he had been holding shattered in his grip, glass breaking and liquid spilling across the surface in a slow spread.
Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the glow vanished.
His hand loosened.
His voice came low.
Contained.
"Explain."
Outside the command structure, what remained of the slave camp was visible.
Only around a hundred now.
Scattered.
Exhausted.
Watching from a distance.
The scale of what had been taken was undeniable.
The report reached Gareth's command line again, this time with urgency.
And this time, the tone changed.
Over nine hundred slaves had been taken.
In under three hours.
The words struck heavier than any weapon.
Gareth's expression tightened.
His patience snapped.
His voice rose into a roar that rolled through the camp like thunder.
"Over nine hundred… in under three hours?"
Silence answered him first.
Then one of the guards stepped forward, hesitating only briefly before speaking.
"Sir… for the past two weeks… slaves have been disappearing gradually."
Another step forward.
"They were reduced to around six hundred before anyone noticed."
A pause.
"We investigated… but found no trace. No patterns. No trails."
The camp fell quiet again.
The numbers hung in the air.
Not as statistics.
But as something far more unsettling.
A system that had been broken slowly, silently… and now revealed all at once.
The air seemed to tighten the moment Gareth stepped beyond the perimeter of the camp.
Behind him, the two lieutenants moved like shadows that had learned to think for themselves, their presence sharp, alert, ready to snap into violence if the world dared misstep. Boots pressed into dirt. Fabric shifted. Steel remained quiet but alive.
Ahead of them, the hundred slaves stood scattered at first, broken into loose clusters of uncertainty.
Then they saw him.
Something about Gareth's presence did not need explanation. It carried weight, not in sound, but in the way bodies remembered how to respond to something greater than instinct. Conversations died mid-breath. Eyes lifted. Shoulders straightened. Fear and curiosity collided and settled into stillness.
One by one, movement began.
Not chaos.
Order.
As if an invisible current had swept through them, pulling their scattered forms into alignment. Feet adjusted. Lines formed. Heads lowered slightly, not in submission alone, but in anticipation. A queue emerged, straight and unspoken, each person finding their place without being told.
Gareth stopped before them.
The faintest trace of wind passed, brushing against his coat, though the air itself felt heavier now, attentive.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
"I will offer a contract," he said, his tone measured, carrying just enough force to reach every ear without strain. "One that will not be given to all."
A pause.
The kind that tests breath itself.
"Only to the one who proves worthy to bear it."
His gaze moved across the line, slow and deliberate, not searching for faces, but for something deeper. Something that responded under the surface.
"Raise your hands," Gareth continued, "if you wish to become a Knight of Dawn."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then, like a ripple breaking through still water, hands began to rise.
Tentative at first. Then firmer. Then all at once.
Dozens. Then nearly all.
Arms lifted into the air, some trembling, some steady, some hesitant but determined. Hope flickered through them in uneven sparks, each person holding onto a different reason, but all reaching toward the same unseen possibility.
The line transformed into a forest of raised hands.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Expectant.
And in that moment, Gareth stood before them not just as a commander, but as a gate.