A man stands tall in the light of the moon, surrounded by embers and smoke.
| Chapter I: The Billowing Cloak
A man stands tall in the light of the moon, surrounded by embers and smoke, his breath forming a small mist cloud as he exhales in the cold winter night. His cloak, black as the sky itself, billowing in the soft breeze. The eyes of the man shine like the brightest emeralds, and yet they look weary and red.
After an excruciating long silence the man finally exhales shakily and looks around him as he steps forward with his aching joints. The man heard only the sound of the stone debris rolling on the road as he kicked them out of his way, as he was looking around, all he saw was bodies littering the streets, he recognized some of them and yet he paid no mind to them, with each step he took it felt heavier to step another, until he reached his destination. He looked at his nemesis, crumpled and leaning at the stone wall, his lifeblood pouring from his side, and yet he felt no joy.
He felt like a hollow shell, like he was robbed of the only thing that made him a human, he had nothing left, it was all wasted in his path for revenge. He finally laid down on the ground in exhaustion and closed his eyes.
In truth the man envied the demise of his nemesis, for he had the one thing he wanted but could never have. Death.
The man awoke at noon, the town around him just as empty as the day before, houses still left in ruins, swords stained with blood litter the streets. This was a ghost town now, and yet he heard distant voices calling out orders.
'It's the royal army' he spoke in his mind, he stood up slowly, careful to make no unnecessary noise, his eyes stared lazily towards the approaching voices and the sound of the soldiers marching, the man clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He stood there like a statue for a minute and in the instant he opened his emerald green eyes he was gone in a wisp of smoke.