Althea

The sky over the western frontier of Eristen Vale burned a sickly red, the sun struggling to pierce through the miasma that clung to the rolling hills like a curse. Crops had withered in their fields. Livestock vanished in the night. And the villagers had stopped praying—too afraid that even the Light had turned its face from them.

Althea stood on a rise overlooking the blackened expanse, her cloak fluttering like a battle banner in the rising wind. Her armor glinted faintly beneath the blood-colored sky, and her hand rested on the hilt of Luxvaldr, whose faint, smug whisper echoed in her mind.

"I smell brimstone. And idiocy. We're definitely getting close."

Below them, just past the forested ridge, the veil was thinnest. That’s where the demons had entered—twenty-three confirmed, possibly more. Cloaked in human skin. Some already feeding. Their corruption spread like spilled ink, staining everything.

Behind her, the adventurer—young, uncertain, too green by Althea’s measure—shifted his weight and tried to hide the tremble in his fingers. He wore travel-worn leathers and a longsword at his hip that still had the price tag half-scratched off. A few weeks ago, he’d been hunting bandits. Now he was chasing nightmares.

Althea narrowed her eyes. He’ll break at the first scream, she thought.

“I hope you know what you’re walking into,” she said, not unkindly, but without cushioning the edge of her words. “These aren’t men with steel or greed. They are not enemies you can talk down or bribe. They don’t bleed red. And they don’t stop.”

“I—I’m ready,” he replied. His voice cracked. “I have your back.”

Althea turned her gaze back toward the cursed valley. He’s deadweight, she thought. The Church sent me to purge corruption, not babysit a hopeful with a death wish.

Still, she didn’t send him away. She never did. Even the weakest deserved a chance to rise, and sometimes, faith was found in the fire.

The trees below began to shiver unnaturally. A low howl carried on the wind, followed by a ripple of distorted laughter.

“Ah,” Luxvaldr purred in her mind. “The party’s begun. Shall we impress the child with a little divine wrath?”

Althea stepped forward, drawing her sword in one fluid motion. Fire kissed the edge of the blade, and light ignited behind her like a second sun.

"Stay behind me," she ordered flatly. "If you fall, I will not stop to catch you. If you run, I won’t chase you. But if you stand… if you fight… then by the Light, I’ll carve a path through hell beside you."

Then she charged—one woman against a legion, her golden hair catching the infernal wind, her armor ablaze with holy fire.

Behind her, the adventurer hesitated. Then he ran after her into the storm.

Virelia, in the hush of dusk, bathed in golden light, the kind that made stained-glass windows glow and temple bells ring softer. The Devil Slayer’s home—modest by most accounts, though it sat not far from the High Basilica—was warm with the scent of roasted garlic, hearthfire, and herbs gathered from her own small garden.

Althea, now thirty, moved with the same precision she once reserved for swordplay, slicing root vegetables with practiced ease. Her long golden hair was braided loosely down her back, a few strands brushing her freckled cheeks. Though age had not dulled her strength—her arms still bore the lithe, coiled power of a seasoned warrior—there was something softer about her now. Her blue eyes, once ice and fury, had deepened into something gentler. They held storms, yes—but also sunrise.

She stirred the stew slowly, the scent of venison and thyme curling into the air like incense. Her armor sat retired on a nearby stand, polished and radiant. Her sword, Luxvaldr, sulked quietly from its position on the wall.

“You’re spoiling him,” it muttered. “Mortal affection dulls your edge. You should be sparring.”

Althea ignored it, though the corner of her mouth lifted faintly.

Her thoughts wandered, as they often did during these quiet rituals, back to the Northern Plains of Ildrathar—a white, endless hell where the snow never melted and the sun forgot to rise. That place still lived in her bones. Cold. Blood. Screams caught in ice.

It had been a decade ago, give or take. Cultists of the Pale Eye had taken the region, turning it into a shrine of despair. Devils had erupted from black-glass fissures in the earth, hundreds of them. She’d been sent with a legion of paladins.

Only five survived.

He had appeared in the center of the battlefield like a force of nature—one of the fabled sixteen S-rank adventurers, said to be strong enough to raze kingdoms. Alone, without herald or name, he tore through the cult’s central circle like a divine calamity. His weapon—a blade longer than most men were tall—was rimmed with frost and fire. He didn’t speak as he fought. He danced with death.

She remembered staring at him as the snow turned red, struck dumb not by fear, but by recognition. This man… was not of this world. And yet, somehow, he felt familiar.

They’d fought back-to-back when the world cracked open, the two of them standing against a tide of writhing devils. Her shield shattered. His armor was blood-washed ruin. And when the final gate closed, they collapsed side by side, not speaking, just breathing. Alive. Together.

She had offered him a prayer. He had offered her a name. Neither had spoken of love. Not then. That came later—slowly, cautiously, like spring in a land that had forgotten warmth.

A quiet knock broke her reverie.

She looked up and smiled—not the smile of a paladin or a saint, but of a woman whose soul had known war and chosen peace.

“Come in,” she called gently, ladling stew into a pair of bowls. “I didn’t burn it this time.”

Behind her, the door opened, and boots crossed the floor with slow, powerful steps.

He said nothing.

He never had to.

Fifteen winters had hardened the marble streets of Virelia into paths of discipline, prayer, and divine expectation. Snow clung to the city’s rooftops, catching the pale morning light like frozen lace. The Church’s bells tolled faintly in the distance, calling the faithful to dawn service, while the gates at the eastern wall stood half-shuttered in the silence of early day.

Althea’s breath clouded in the cold, boots crunching over frostbitten stone as she moved with purpose beyond the temple quarter. She had woken with a chill in her chest and an ache in her bones that was more than cold—it was instinct. Something was wrong.

And she found it outside the city’s threshold.

There he was—her closest friend, her rival in sparring and thought, her shadow since they were children. The boy with the steady hands and the unreadable eyes. Taller than her now. Always calm, always deliberate. And always better.

He was dressed for travel, his cloak drawn tight, one hand resting casually on the hilt of the longsword at his side—the same sword he'd bested her with a dozen times over. It had become a whispered truth in the upper chambers of the Church that he might be crowned the first Sword Saint in over a century. His gift with the blade wasn’t just skill—it was grace. Divine or otherwise.

Althea stepped into his path, brows drawn, her own steel unsheathed in a swift, practiced motion. Not Luxvaldr, which had not yet bonded to her—but her standard training blade, worn and etched with sweat and sacrifice.

"You’re leaving," she said. It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t stop walking until she stood before him fully, sword angled defensively—not hostile, but firm. His expression didn’t change.

"You’re going to walk away from the Church," she added. "From us."

Still, he said nothing.

She studied his face, searching for something—anger, fear, pain. But he gave her nothing. Just the same frustrating, peaceful calm he always wore. True Neutral, the tutors called him, though no official affinity had ever been declared. He did not serve the Light. Nor did he revile it. He obeyed, and questioned, and then obeyed again—until now.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why now?"

His eyes flicked up toward the distant bell tower, then back to her. "Because I’m not meant to fight their wars, Althea."

"You’re meant to save people. To be more than I can be." Her voice cracked on the edge of the cold. "They were going to name you Sword Saint."

He shook his head faintly. “I don’t want their title.”

"You don’t get to decide that," she snapped. "The Light chooses its champions. And you—"

“I never asked to be chosen.”

The words were quiet, but they struck her like a hammer. She gritted her teeth, the cold now burning inside her chest.

"You walk through those gates, and you abandon everything we've bled for," she said. "You turn your back on the Light, and I can’t let you do that. I won’t."

She raised her sword, shifting into stance. Her breath hitched. Her grip was steady.

He exhaled softly and finally wrapped his fingers around his own hilt, but didn’t draw.

“I don’t want to fight you, Althea.”

"Then don’t run."

A long silence stretched between them. The city behind her, warm with sermons and song. The road behind him, long and cruel and lawless.

She saw the weight on his shoulders—the one he never spoke of. The weight of being chosen by something he did not worship. The burden of purpose when the soul doesn’t agree.

Finally, he drew his sword in one fluid motion, a glint of silver in the morning light.

“I’m not running,” he said. “I’m walking the path I was never allowed to choose.”

Althea swallowed. Her heart thundered. Then she stepped forward—ready to cross blades with the only person who’d ever truly understood her.

Not to kill.

But to stop him.

If she could.

The Plains of Haldras—once golden with wheat, now soaked in mud and blood—stretched endlessly beneath a storm-choked sky. Banners whipped in the wind, armor clanged like dull bells, and the air reeked of wet steel and charred flesh. The Church of Light’s crusade was in full swing, a righteous war proclaimed by divine decree. The High Clerics had spoken: the eastern kingdom had fallen to corruption, its people consorting with orcs, beastkin, and other inhuman races. Heretics. Monsters.

Althea of the Radiant Flame—the Devil Slayer, the Saint of the Blade, Champion of Virelia—had been sent to end the war swiftly. Her name alone had turned battles. Her presence was a storm cloaked in golden armor, her divine sword Luxvaldr gleaming on her back, humming with anticipatory flame.

She moved across the battlefield like a reaper of light, carving through the vanguard of the enemy without pause. Her heart was steady, her purpose absolute. This is the will of the Light, she told herself.

Until she saw him.

Amidst the smoke and war cries, he stood. No banner behind him, no command shouted at his back. But his presence was unmistakable—still, measured, serene as ever. His blade, drawn and slick with blood, hung loosely at his side. His cloak was torn, his armor worn and unadorned, but he stood untouched. Calm. Powerful.

Their eyes met across the ruin of the field.

He was no longer a boy fleeing city gates. He was a warrior now—one of the fabled few who could turn the tide of war with a single swing. A Sword Saint in everything but title.

Althea froze.

Behind her, soldiers roared her name, charging past. Before her, men fell beneath his blade—mercifully, never more than he needed. Always the same precision. No hate. Just defense.

And then, like fate demanded it, the battle parted between them.

They stood face-to-face, years apart, blades drawn again—but this time, it was not a spar.

Her voice was quiet, tight with emotion. "You joined them."

He nodded once, calm as ever. “I stood beside the innocent. That hasn’t changed.”

"You chose traitors—races the Church has condemned!"

“I chose people. Families. Children who were born looking different and were damned for it. You know better than this, Althea.”

She grit her teeth, gripping her sword. “You turned your back on the Light.”

“No.” His gaze didn’t flinch. “I turned my back on the men who twist it.”

Her breath caught. For a moment, the holy fire inside her flickered. Doubt crept in. But Luxvaldr pulsed with heat at her side, its voice low and stern in her mind.

“He has betrayed his covenant. Cut him down. Let mercy follow.”

She drew the blade. Light exploded across the battlefield, and screams dimmed in the glow. The wind howled. Snow began to fall—ash turned white by the Light’s fury.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I will.”

His expression softened—no fear, no anger. Just sorrow. “Then come.”

And she did.

Their blades met like the clash of gods.

The dream came again—suffocating and red.

Althea stood ankle-deep in a pool of blood, the corpses of comrades and monsters strewn around her like discarded armor. The sky above was black and starless, and the air was filled with the sound of crying metal and whispering ghosts. Her golden hair clung to her face, sticky with sweat and ash. Luxvaldr was quiet in her hand—too quiet. And all around her, eyes watched from the dark, waiting.

She woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, her heart thundering against her ribs like a war drum. The barracks were still dim, the heavy breath of sleeping paladins rising in tandem with the drafty cold. She sat up slowly, gripping the edge of the cot, trying to shake the vision from her mind.

Outside, the air was crisp with dew. A faint blush of light kissed the edges of the horizon—just before sunrise, when the world is caught between night’s silence and the dawn’s first hymn.

Althea walked to the old well on the outskirts of the training yard, hoping the cold water would drive the dream from her head. She bent to draw up the bucket, when a rhythmic thud echoed across the stone courtyard.

She turned—and froze.

There, bare-chested and bathed in dim orange light, stood her supervisor.

He was a man spoken of more in grumbling complaints than reverence, notorious for his drunkenness and midday naps. He reeked of mead more often than holy oil, and even the squires joked that the only thing heavier than his hammer was his breath in the morning. She’d long believed the stories that he’d once been someone grand, only to crumble under the weight of past glory.

But here he was, long before the temple bells, training.

His arms moved with terrifying grace as he swung a massive war hammer—its silvered head inscribed with ancient runes—into a poor, doomed straw dummy. Each blow struck like thunder, sending shockwaves through the earth. Not frenzied or brutish. Controlled. Measured.

Althea blinked, her breath catching. For a moment, she saw not the slovenly relic of a warrior—but the legend beneath the decay. A wielder of one of the 13 Holy Swords. His was the only one not a blade—Veritas, the Warhammer of Final Judgment.

She’d read about it once, during her novice years. Said to crack the skulls of demons with a single blow, and ring with a holy bell’s chime when striking the guilty. A weapon wielded by saints of wrath.

Althea stepped forward, cautious.

"I thought you stopped training years ago."

He didn’t turn. Another crack, and the dummy’s wooden spine shattered.

“I never stopped,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel. “Just hid it where no one would see.”

She hesitated, watching him raise the hammer again.

“You were watching the sunrise,” he continued, "but the sunrise was watching me first. You have the dreams again?”

She blinked. He never asked questions. Never cared. She nodded once.

“They won’t stop,” he said. “Not until the blood is yours.”

Then he turned to her. His eyes were sharp and painfully clear in the faint light—not dulled by drink, not clouded by years. He looked at her the way one soldier looks at another—one who’s seen the same abyss.

“Get ready, girl,” he said. “The Light tests its chosen hardest just before the world breaks.”

Then he turned back to the next dummy.

And the hammer fell again.

The training fields of Virelia had changed little over the decades. The same banners fluttered atop white-stone spires, the same echo of steel on steel rang through morning mists, and the same scent of oiled armor and sweat drifted lazily through the crisp air. But Althea had changed.

At fifty, she still wore her armor—though lighter now, more ceremonial than battle-forged. Her once golden-blonde hair had paled at the roots, streaked with elegant strands of silver that shimmered in the sun. Time had etched faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but her face retained the same ageless, luminous beauty that had once turned heads in court and battlefield alike. A beauty not of vanity, but of purpose—a living symbol of grace in strength, and strength in mercy.

She stood at the edge of the field, arms folded, watching the young man before her sweat through his drills. He was talented, as talented as she had once been. Raw. Arrogant. But quick, both in mind and blade. He would do well—if he could survive his own pride.

“You drop your elbow every time you reset,” she said, voice firm but calm. “You might as well paint a target on your ribs.”

The young man groaned, stepping back and wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ve done this form a hundred times.”

“And you’ve done it wrong a hundred times. Again.”

He hesitated, brow furrowed. “Is this how you trained when you were my age?”

Althea smiled faintly, eyes narrowing with amused memory. “Worse. My instructor once broke my wrist for calling a parry too slow.”

He blinked. “You’re joking.”

She stepped forward, picking up his dropped shield with ease—still possessing the superhuman strength that had earned her a dozen titles over the years. “The Church was less forgiving, then. We were raised to bleed early, so we wouldn’t die later.”

The young man looked at her with a strange sort of reverence. “And now you’re training me to take your place.”

Althea handed him the shield. Her hand, gloved but steady, rested briefly on his shoulder. “Not to be me, boy. The world only ever needed one Devil Slayer.” She paused, then added with gentle weight: “But it needs a leader now—someone who knows when to draw their blade, and when not to.”

He looked down, the weight of the title settling in like armor too large.

“What if I fail?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted to the sky, where doves from the nearby cathedral circled lazily. The wind tugged at her cloak. She thought of all she’d lost—friends, comrades, even parts of herself. But also what she’d built: the peace, the strength, the generations yet to come.

“Then you fail,” she said at last. “And you rise again. That’s what we do. Not because we are perfect—but because we must be steadfast.”

He nodded slowly, the fire in him tempered just slightly.

She turned, beginning to walk away.

“Althea,” he called. “Do you… ever miss the battlefield?”

She paused, looking out at the far edge of the horizon, where memory still flickered like dying torches.

“Every day,” she said. “But I love peace more.”

And with that, she left him in the field—his blade raised, his stance better, his doubt a little lighter.

Just as she had once been left, long ago.

Scenario: The Hollow in the Trees

The Veilwood was once serene—a forest of tall silver-barked trees, soft mossy ground, and whispered birdsong. But now, something festers at its heart.

The Church of Light has received troubling reports from border settlements: livestock found twisted and broken, strange growths in the woods, and an unnatural silence that spreads each night like a curtain. Hunters vanish. Children dream of red eyes behind bark. So the Church sends its champion.

Althea of the Radiant Flame steps into the gloom just after dawn, her boots crunching frost-laced pine needles. The air smells wrong—sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. Her hand rests lightly on Luxvaldr’s hilt.

“I don’t like it here,” the sword mutters, its voice curling into her mind like heat off a forge. “This place reeks of bile and untruth. Something foul stirs.”

She nods once. She feels it too. The Light within her prickles—alert, uneasy.

As she ventures deeper, the forest grows darker despite the rising sun. Trees lean unnaturally close, their trunks pulsing faintly with veins of reddish growth, like arteries under skin. She finds animals—squirrels, deer, birds—all lifeless, their bodies warped, as if something had tried to reshape them.

Then she hears it: a groaning breath, like a forest exhaling pain.

She crests a ridge and sees it.

Nestled in a hollow glade, coiled in roots and bramble, lies a monstrous form—hulking, misshapen, but vaguely beastlike. Its body is covered in tumors that pulse with foul light. Its head turns, revealing a malformed eye that watches her—not with malice, but agony.

“A demon,” she breathes, raising Luxvaldr.

“Obviously,” the sword scoffs. “Let’s burn it. Ten lashes of holy flame, minimum.”

But as she steps closer, her senses conflict. The creature doesn't rise to fight. It whimpers. Moans. Tries to retreat—but cannot move. Roots have grown through its limbs, anchoring it in place like a tree struck mid-transformation.

Althea lowers her sword slightly.

“No. Not a demon... not fully.”

She casts Reveal Corruption—her hand flaring with golden fire. The light washes over the beast—and it screams, but not in defiance. In relief. The tumors recoil from the light, writhing, sloughing off like dead bark. Beneath the monstrous form, she glimpses fur, muscle, bone. It was once a dire bear—a guardian of the forest, sacred to the druids.

“Someone twisted this creature,” she murmurs. “Not summoned... corrupted.”

Luxvaldr hums uneasily.

“This isn’t infernal. It’s something... older. Wilder. This reeks of druidcraft gone mad.”

And then she sees the mark carved into the trees—spiraling glyphs, warped runes of growth and decay. Not demonic—but blasphemous nature magic, bent beyond reason.

Althea raises her eyes. There’s more at work here. Someone fed this corruption. Someone is twisting life into unlife. The Church was wrong—this isn’t a demonic incursion.

It’s something worse.

“We don’t need holy fire,” she says softly. “We need truth.”

The sword grumbles.

“Truth doesn’t explode, though.”

“Not always.”

She touches the bear’s brow and begins to pray—not for destruction, but purification.

The flames this time burn white.