Szverak

Chapter 1

The moon hung low over the jagged horizon of Elyndor, casting a pallid glow that did little to pierce the encroaching shadows. Ares urged his dark stallion forward, the beast's hooves thudding softly against the packed earth of the forgotten trail. The air was thick with the scent of decay—rotting leaves mingled with the faint, metallic tang of blood that seemed to permeate every corner of this cursed world. He had ridden for days, chasing whispers of unrest from the last tavern he'd graced with his presence, where drunken fools spoke of villages vanishing into the maw of the wilds. As a Szverak, he was drawn to such tales like a moth to flame, though the flame often burned hotter for those who summoned him.

Ares was a man of dark complexion, his skin the deep hue of shadowed mahogany, forged in the unforgiving crucibles of the Learning Castle. But it was the scar that defined him—the White Scar, they called him. Three parallel lines, etched by the claws of a feral werebeast in his early hunts, raked across his face from his right temple, veering perilously close to his sharp, amber eyes—missing them by mere inches—before trailing down to end in a jagged flourish on his left chin. The wounds had festered for weeks, a testament to the beast's venomous taint, but his Szverak healing had prevailed. Now, the scars gleamed pale white against his dark skin, a stark reminder of survival, glowing faintly in the moonlight like veins of marble in obsidian. They itched sometimes, a phantom reminder of pain, but Ares wore them like a crown. "Makes me look distinguished," he'd quip to anyone who stared too long, though his humor often masked the grim resolve beneath.

The village came into view as he crested a low hill, but something was amiss. No lanterns flickered in the windows of the thatched huts; no smoke curled from chimneys despite the chill night air. Silence reigned, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through skeletal trees. Ares reined in his stallion, a massive creature named Obsidian, its coat as black as the voids between stars, muscles rippling under taut skin. The horse snorted, sensing the unease that prickled at Ares' ultra instinct—a gift among the elite Szverak, a preternatural awareness that whispered of danger before it struck.

In the distance, a faint glow beckoned, like a dying ember at the village's edge. Ares nudged Obsidian forward, the stallion's pace quickening as they approached. As they drew near, the light resolved into a cluster of torches held aloft by huddled figures. The villagers—perhaps two dozen souls, clad in ragged wool and furs—gathered at the forest's threshold, where ancient oaks twisted into grotesque shapes, their branches clawing at the sky. The air grew heavier here, laced with the acrid stench of fear-sweat and something fouler, like spoiled meat.

Ares dismounted with fluid grace, his boots sinking into the muddied ground. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his frame honed by years of grueling trials at the Learning Castle—where children like him, plucked from streets or surrendered by desperate parents, were molded into weapons. Not all survived; the "practical" lessons claimed many before they reached fifteen, bodies broken in mock battles or devoured by summoned lesser fiends. But Ares had endured, emerging stronger, faster, his body a vessel for stolen powers. He wore simple leathers reinforced with iron plates, scarred and patched from countless skirmishes, and at his belt hung a arsenal: a longsword forged from demon-bone, daggers etched with runes, and vials of his own preserved blood for when desperation called.
The village head, a wiry man with a grizzled beard and eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights, stepped forward as Ares approached. His face twisted into a scowl, torchlight dancing across his weathered features. "You ain't needed here, Szverak," he growled, spitting the title like a curse. "Turn your cursed hide around and ride on. We handle our own."

Ares' lips curled into a sardonic smile, his white scars pulling taut. "Is that so? Funny, because from where I'm standing, you lot look like you're about to wet yourselves. What's got you all gathered like lambs at slaughter?"
Before the head could retort, a wail pierced the night. A woman, her face streaked with tears and dirt, shoved past the crowd and flung herself at Ares' feet. She clutched at his boots, her nails scraping the leather. "Please, guardian! My child—my little Elara! The forest took her! That monster... it has her! You must help! Bring her back!"
The village head whirled on her, his voice a whipcrack. "Silence, Mira! You know the ways! The offering was made—"
But his words died as Ares fixed him with a stare, his amber eyes narrowing to slits. The Szverak's presence alone was intimidating—tales of their kind spread like plague, whispers of blood rituals and devoured hearts—but Ares amplified it, stepping closer until he loomed over the man. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt, fingers drumming a rhythm that promised violence. The air seemed to thicken, Ares' ultra instinct subtly projecting an aura of menace, making the head's knees buckle ever so slightly.