The Jungle's Witness
The jungle held its breath.
A wild stallion stood at the edge of the ruined shrine, his ears twitching, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and scorched stone. His coat was the colour of fresh-spilled crimson, his mane tangled with vines and old scars. He was no man's beast—he had outrun Vein-Touched hunters, kicked in the skulls of wolves, and drunk from streams where lesser creatures feared to tread.
And now, he watched the fallen giant.
The Emperor lay sprawled across the broken altar, his once-mighty form reduced to flesh and blood, his skin threaded with black veins. The dagger rested inches from his fingers, its glow dim but insistent, like a fading ember.
The stallion hesitated.
Then, with a snort, he stepped forward.
The Awakening
The Emperor's first sensation was heat.
Then—a wet nudge against his cheek.
His eyes flew open, his body lurching upright with a gasp. Instinctively, his hand shot toward the dagger—only to freeze as he met the dark, intelligent gaze of a blood-red stallion.
The horse didn't flinch. Didn't bolt. Just stared at him, ears forward, as if assessing whether this broken man was worth his time.
The Emperor exhaled, his muscles screaming in protest. His vision swam, his veins still burning with corruption. But the horse remained, solid and real, his coat gleaming like polished garnet in the fading light.
"...You're not running," the Emperor rasped.
The stallion snorted, as if offended by the suggestion.
A laugh—weak, but genuine—escaped the Emperor's lips. He reached out slowly, letting the horse scent him before resting his palm against the warm, sweat-damp neck. The stallion allowed it, his breath steady.
"Loyalty in a world like this?" The Emperor shook his head. "Either you're a fool... or I've been alone too long."
The horse flicked an ear, unimpressed.
The Naming
By dawn, the Emperor could stand.
The stallion had stayed close, grazing nearby but never wandering far, as if keeping watch. When the Emperor finally rose, the horse approached, nudging his shoulder with a force that nearly knocked him back over.
The Emperor steadied himself, studying the stallion properly now—the way his muscles moved beneath his red coat, the old scars that spoke of battles survived, the fire in his eyes that refused to be tamed.
"You've fought," the Emperor murmured. "Fought and lived."
The stallion tossed his head, as if in agreement.
A name came to him then—not something soft or domestic, but a title fit for a creature who had faced the jungle and won.
"Crimson Wing."
The stallion stilled, ears pricking forward.
The Emperor smirked. "You like that, do you?"
Crimson Wing snorted, stamping a hoof.
"Good." The Emperor bent—slowly, painfully—to retrieve the dagger. He sheathed it at his side, then turned back to the horse. "And since we're exchanging names..."
He placed a hand on his own chest.
"I am Alaric."
A pause. Then, with a grim smile—
"Alaric Crimson."
The Bond
They left the shrine together, the weight of centuries pressing upon Alaric's shoulders, yet lighter now that he was no longer stone. The forest around them was alive with the whispers of leaves and the distant calls of night creatures, a world that had moved on without him.
Alaric walked with a limp, his muscles stiff and unyielding, his body still wracked with the echoes of pain from his long imprisonment. Every step was a battle, but Crimson Wing matched his pace, never straying too far ahead. The stallion's presence was steady, an anchor in the storm of Alaric's thoughts. When the Emperor stumbled, his boot catching on an exposed root, Crimson Wing was there in an instant—a solid, warm weight to lean against, his dark eyes watchful.
By nightfall, they reached a shallow river, its surface shimmering under the pale moonlight. The water was cold and clear, cutting through the forest like a silver blade. Alaric knelt at the bank, his hands trembling as he cupped the water to his lips. The reflection that stared back at him was one he barely recognized—human again, after so long as a statue. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow with exhaustion and something deeper, something unspoken.
Crimson Wing waded in beside him, the current swirling around his legs, his dark coat glistening with droplets. He dipped his head to drink, his ears flicking at the sounds of the night.
Alaric watched him for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Then, quietly—
"I don't know if I can kill them all."
The admission hung in the air, raw and fragile. They were powerful. They were many.
Crimson Wing turned his head, meeting Alaric's gaze. There was no judgment in those dark eyes, only quiet understanding.
Alaric's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at his belt—the only weapon he had left, the only thing they hadn't stripped from him before his imprisonment. His grip tightened.
"But I can try."
Crimson Wing exhaled sharply through his nostrils, then nudged Alaric's shoulder—harder this time, insistent, as if to say: Then quit talking and move.
The Emperor laughed—a rough, unused sound, like stone grinding against stone. He pushed himself to his feet, his body protesting, but his resolve hardening.
Veinweave Regeneration
The corruption burned through Alaric's veins like black fire, a poison that no mortal should survive. But he was no mere mortal—he was the Stone Emperor, and his blood remembered its purpose.
Clenching his jaw, he called upon Veinweave Regeneration—an ancient art of his lineage, one that twisted life and death into a single thread. His blood moved beneath his skin, not as a passive river, but as a living force, weaving through muscle and bone like a master surgeon's needle. The blackened veins convulsed, then unraveled, the corruption forced out in thick, tar-like droplets that hissed as they struck the earth. His flesh stitched itself back together, sinew and skin reforming in shimmering crimson strands, as if his very blood had become a loom of renewal.
For a moment, he glowed—not with the sickly light of the Vein-Touched, but with the deep, pulsing radiance of a forge's heart. Then the light faded, leaving him whole.
Weak, yes. Exhausted, certainly.
But clean.
Crimson Wing watched him, nostrils flaring at the scent of purified blood. Alaric met his gaze, flexing his restored hand.
"Now," he murmured, "we hunt."
The Price of Power
The jungle exhaled as Alaric collapsed to one knee, his body trembling violently. Veinweave Regeneration had purged the corruption, but the cost was devastating. His veins stood out like dark lightning across his pallid skin, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Crimson Wing was at his side instantly, pressing his warm bulk against the Emperor's shaking form. Alaric gripped the stallion's mane like an anchor, his vision swimming.
Too much. Too soon.
Two Crimson Blood Genesis techniques in a single day, after centuries of dormancy, had pushed his mortal form to the brink. His blood felt thin, his bones hollow. The dagger at his side pulsed weakly—even its power was drained.
The stallion snorted, nudging him insistently. Alaric coughed, tasting copper.
"I know... I know," he rasped. "Not... much farther."
But his legs refused to obey. His body, once unbreakable stone, now betrayed him with human frailty.
Crimson Wing knelt.
It took Alaric a moment to understand. Then, with a pained laugh, he hauled himself onto the stallion's back, his arms barely strong enough to cling to the crimson mane.
The horse stood carefully, adjusting to the weight. He turned his head, dark eyes meeting Alaric's—You are not alone in this.
Alaric exhaled, his forehead resting against the stallion's neck. The warmth of living flesh, the steady heartbeat beneath his hands—these were things he had forgotten.
"South," he murmured.
To the village Kael had told him about. The only uncorrupted village. The place where Kael lived.
Crimson Wing moved, carrying his Emperor into the gathering dark.
The Road Ahead
The jungle whispered around them—a living, breathing thing. Vines curled like serpents from the canopy, and the air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming night-flowers. Strange calls echoed in the distance, half-bird, half-beast, a language Alaric had once known but now only half-remembered.
For the first time in centuries, he did not walk alone.
Somewhere to the north, beyond the tangled green and the mist-cloaked mountains, the Vein-Touched strongholds waited. Their walls were carved from black stone, their halls stained with the blood of forgotten oaths. Alaric could still see their faces—the ones who had betrayed him and left him screaming in silence. They would be there. Waiting. Unchanged.
And somewhere deeper, in the places where even the Vein-Touched dared not tread, the Shadow stirred. It had no name, only hunger. It had been patient. It had watched.
But for now—
There was a horse who bore him when his legs failed, when the weight of exhaustion dragged him toward the earth. Crimson Wing did not falter. He did not hesitate. When Alaric swayed in the saddle, the stallion adjusted his gait, steady as the tide.
There was a man who had been broken, unmade, but who would rise again—not as the proud Emperor he had once been, but as something fiercer. Something with nothing left to lose.
And there was a road—winding, treacherous, dappled with moonlight—that would not be walked in silence. Not this time.
Crimson Wing's hooves struck the earth like a drumbeat of war, rhythmic and unrelenting. Alaric clung to him, fingers tangled in the stallion's dark mane, his breath coming in ragged pulls. The jungle blurred around them, shadows melting into light.
He did not know if they would survive. He did not know if the world they sought still existed.
But they would follow the road anyway.
And they would meet whatever came with teeth bared.