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Jason slumbered peacefully in a dreamless dream, floating in a sea of darkness. It was not until he heard the noise of screams that shattered his tranquil state and stirred abruptly by the cold.

The young musketeer woke to the chill winds of ice and heat of corpses caught lit in the fire. He opened to meet the nightly sky, feeling the flakes of snow kissed his skin. Thick trees of obsidian, dead without leaves, stretched their branches out to him like jagged claws of death. He honestly wondered if he was killed. When he discerned to the pain, he expelled a breath of defeat.

Jason rose from his snowy bed to feel the strain on his body. His head disoriented, groggy. It was as if he earned a nasty blow or drank one too many drinks at the bar. All around him, chaos erupted at every corner. Blood and carnage scattered across the carpet snow, littered with the dead both friend and foe. Their cold, lifeless bodies slowly submerged in the ice, forever lost to the madness that engulfed them.

There was a bewildered look on the man's feature, unsure to where he was at this point. Just before being tossed into this winter hellscape, he recalled being at a fortress with its walls breached and brave men stormed through with righteous fury. As one of the many vanguards leading the attack, he and his men were to end the war. They almost succeeded until a burst of life swallowed everything whole.

As soon as his memory returned, a cold chill ran from Jason's spine. Paled with a sudden revelation, he jerked his head around in search for his men. Sideways and back, he did not find one of them and terror took over him.

Up on his feet, Jason struggled to adjust his balance. He reached out for his weapon, a musket from the ground, checked its condition and motioned forward, carrying the sense of urgency to find his men.

"Javin? Olpe? Angron? Where the blasted Savior are you?"

Jason wandered through the forest with a vigilant gaze, cautious and alert for signs of the enemy while at the same looking for his men. Years in the Legion have hardened the man's resolve, creating a capable combatant worthy in the rank. Yet in times of war, he began to understand that teamwork and cooperation were the culmination of an absolute impact that brought an Order to ruin. His men, his team, were just that impact and the force that earned a reputation as the bane of many.

His ears caught the sound of battle from the far distant, loud and persistent that war demanded them. While he was safe for the time being, he turned his attention on bodies that were not yet buried in the snow. A grim reminder gnawed at the back of his head, fearing that his team were among the cast. He shoved his thoughts aside with a shake of his head as he went straight to work.

As Jason kneeled to the ground and dug his fingers to clear the snow, it did not take long for the musketeer to identify the bodies.

Consistent in a myriad of colours, the Legion was from a thousand companies, each member a representative to the given name. Jason eyed to observe the proud uniform of gold and grey with a streak of black. The distinct markings of Palila. Merganser. Bustard. Even the famed company of Crested Ibis were among the fallen dead. It pained Jason much to witness the deaths of many brave soldiers, laid still and silent in a forsaken place.

Among the bodies that Jason uncovered were the traitors of the Scarlet Order. Their attires were a poor thing to look at, smeared in bloodstains that provided little protection against volley fire or a stab from a bayonet. These worthless savages formed the bulwark of the horde, slaves bought not through intimidation or brute force but by words of false promises of power. Little that Jason needed to know that he already figured about them. He could not help but feel pity for their existence but shoved his thoughts aside to remember what they were. A pack of traitors to be destroyed.

A rustle from the bushes caught Jason by the ear as he made a sharp turn with his weapon at aim. Out from the cover came two red grunts with a ravenous bloodlust, charging at him in wild shouts of fury.

Unfazed without hesitation, Jason pulled the trigger, and his musket burst forth of fire and metal. The shot arrowed and downed one to the head, leaving a spray of blood and gore in the wake. The second did not stutter to pause at the downed fellow as his eyes locked to the soldier with eager abandon. Arms reach, he swung his rusty axe to an all-out force.

The blow fell close to the kill, but Jason dodged as he ducked to thrust his bayonet, plunging the tip of its steel to the man's exposed flesh. It connected, and the battle ended in mere moments as the grunt went limp and feeble.

With a kick of his rugged boot, Jason pushed the corpse away as it plummeted to the snow. As he was quick to presume the fight was over, three more jumped from the rear. The first two wore the usual tattered robes daubed red with rusted tools as their weapons. Yet the third combatant was different, well-armoured in blood and gold. His eyes glowed a deep red behind the raven helmet. A Knight of Burgundy.

Jason refrained from muttering a curse and right away pulled a large pistol designed personally for the knight. He aimed straight at the raven warrior and fired a round of nickel-alloy. The shot made a hit, but the raven grabbed one of the slaves by the collar and brought the body in the direction of the incoming bullet. The slave's head jerked, slumped and exploded in a mess of gore as the raven tossed the headless corpse aside. A blade of obsidian black unsheathed from his scabbard as he soon joined the fray.

The second slave advanced to make a wide arc of his pickaxe, hoping that he would earn the glory of the kill. Jason spent less time with him as he dropped his used pistol and dodged for a vicious counter. With the butt of his musket, he bashed the teeth hard on the slave's mouth, bringing him down to a heap of snow. The slave didn't have a chance to rise back up again as Jason's bayonet plunged deep to his throat.

As blood spewed out dislodging his bayonet from the slave's neck, Jason turned his gaze upon the approaching raven and charged.

The raven warrior made a sound to what Jason presumed to be wild amusement of laughter. If that meant anything for the soldier, he cared little regardless. The two clashed at one another intending to kill, to slay, but in mere moments of contact, it was clear to Jason, who was the better dancer.

The raven parried the soldier's brutish blows like the grace of a seaborne mammal, toying with him to the point of insult. Jason knew right away that he was outmatched, outplayed against a well-seasoned veteran of the Knights of Burgundy. Any fool would see that Jason faced his end.

With a blade shone bright like a black pearl from the moonlight, the raven gripped tight around the handle. Smoke billowed from the edge of his sword, and he whispered something of a spell that made Jason quivered in fear.

Within moments, a spark burst into a flame, engulfing the blade in a fiery light. The raven wasted no time to admire the power flickered from his fingers as he lunged forward in raw ferocity.

Jason staggered, eyes stared at the flaming sword and pulled back for safe distant as his musket sheared in two by the raven's swipe. He fumbled to pull out his combat knife from his belt, but the raven was too quick, too fast for the average eye to see. Little too late to react, he watched the sword approach.

A painful cry erupted at the top of Jason's lungs as he crashed into the snow with his arm easily cleaned off by the elbow. He fell silent, squeezing the exposed cavity joint in pain. Still reeling the intense anguish, it didn't take long before he stared the warrior raising his fiery sword for the death blow.

"Savior, keep me…" Jason whispered to himself, his tone brimmed with the grim dread of death.

As the sword plummeted, Jason squinted his eyes and closed before the inevitable end.

And yet the blow did not come.

Jason heard the punctured sound of flesh and metal when a splatter of blood wet his face. He began to open his eyes, and the sight shook him to the core.

The raven stood still, hands lowered. A single sword from out of nowhere ran to the helmet like a knife through butter. Swift, precise and without any warning, he soon plummeted hard on the snow with the flame of his weapon died out, leaving a trail of smoke.

Jason stared at the raven corpse in bewilderment. He was about to mutter in a curse when he heard the crunch of snow coming from behind.

The soldier turned slowly. Behind the shadow of the trees stood a looming figure, walking straight at the injured man with each massive step. He had a calm, eerie presence in the air as if death itself. His armour encased the giant from top to bottom in ornate thing, lovingly edged of crystal white with scars as proof of battle. Besides the deep glow of blue that made Jason quivered with unease, the giant wielded a large halberd, stained with the blood of his enemies.

Jason dared not to stare too long at this magnificent knight. He looked down, bowing his head slightly in respect to the Knights of Partishan.

The pale knight approached steadily to the man, glancing but a slight before he pressed on to pass him. He went for the raven. Lowered to his knees, he grabbed firm of the handle and plucked his sword out from its head as traces of blood dotted his armour. After a moment to clean and sheathed his sword, the knight turned to the soldier.

"Can you walk?"

His voice rasped a gruff tone, too low to be human. Jason took a moment to stand, struggling to stay awake from the pain.

"Y-yes, my grand."

The knight studied the man's painful features, the colour of his uniform. He paid little heed to the wound.

"Good. Rest comes later. Your duty is not yet done, little Jay," the knight said, turning to the battles ahead.

==--==

The dying screams of a man's voice soon fell silent as an ornate sword yanked out from his chest. With a roar of defiance, the Lady of the illustrious House of Vera charged right into the chaos.

Dots of crimson and multi-coloured hues of combatants persisted to dominate one another in the forest. Some fall by blades, by guns or just dead after the entrance, their bodies but a twisted mangle form. Yet with the Scarlet forces dwindled sporadically during the final stages of the war, it would not take long before the Order faced total obliteration.

Valice Vera engaged at a nearby traitor with a swing of her sword, killing him in an instant before he could have the chance to strike. Her black and blue armour intermingled with the stains of blood shined bright in the moonlight. Death and destruction fell all around her, mounting by the number. She scanned the scene with her majestic blue eyes, steely and fierce. Few legionaries of the Jay company, assigned by her late father, stood guard at her side. Their sense of protectiveness and the reputation as fearsome, stubborn men of the Empire assured her that she was in good hands.

Though she had fought and bled along with her company, few if not some harboured a deep, silent resentment towards her. Not all of them had gotten used to her leadership, for she was not like her father.

A hand tapped on her shoulder. Valice turned sharply, her sword ready for the plunge. Instead, she stopped midway to notice the one man she revered and respect the most next to her father.

"Be careful now. Don't want you to regret it even further." A voice bellowed in a laugh.

A well-built figure donned in a full set of armour, ornate with the proud colours of black and blue of House Vera. As he unclasped to remove his feathered helmet, he placed it under his arm to reveal the features of an old, tired man and pearl white teeth of a smile.

Valice sighed and lowered her blade. "Advisor Oraas. How many times must I tell you to not sneak up on me," she looked down at the dead red grunt in seconds. "Especially not when we are in a battle."

The advisor scanned the scene of the apparent battle. He smiled, nodded and planted his blade on the snowy ground as the last signs of the enemy faded to silence.

"Not anymore it seems," he said obviously. The night is ours and victory is in hand. Those red bastards are done for."

Valice said nothing. She heard gunshots somewhere in the far distance as remnants of Blue Jays and several companies began to round up the enemy survivors and execute them at the spot. These dirtied, savage-looking men of the horde were beyond redemption. Brainwashed by years of grandeur and false promises of the Order, their fanaticism damned themselves to a pitiful existence and earned a deep hatred of the Legion.

"Yes. The Order's days are numbered," Valice said quietly. She sheathed her sword, features softened in bitter sorrow over the dead. "What foul madness have they done to us? Where in the Saviours are we? Never have we tread to this winter landscape."

"More like a hellish nightmare if you ask me." Oraas sniffed and wiped his nose with a leather glow. "This place gives me the shivers."

"I am not surprised," Valice chuckled, mischief lifted the corners of her mouth. "You always preferred to fight in the heat. But still, the question remained. Where are we?"

Oraas went silent. He had the same reaction as the Lady, unsure of what to think of this strange land. "I am not quite sure," he responded, shaking his head. "But what I do know is that we cannot stay here much longer. I have taken the liberty of sending several scouts once our dealings with these scum are done."

Valice nodded tersely. "Did they find anything worthy of notice?"

"No. The scouts did not. And that's the problem," the advisor said, his tone turned serious. He gestured his hand at the dead trees all around them. "The place is dense, milady. Scores and scores of these blacken things. It is of a sickly kind, tainted. I have talked to several Partishans about this. They advised we leave as soon as possible."

Valice grimaced at the mere mention of them. The Partishans, the pale knights of the Silver Cities. There was something how the way they looked and acted on the field that didn't feel right to her. It was as if she saw the dead emptiness in them that could never be filled. While she took no pains to hide her abhorrence, she had come to terms relying on their abilities, their keen sense of things to weaken or cancel out any foul powers that would harm her men.

Valice stared straight at the advisor, her eyes went hard. "Then we move without haste and without delay," she decided and handed her sword to a nearby Blue Jay as he held the bloodstain edge with a white rag. She motioned forward, and Oraas followed like her personal shadow. "Gather what men we have left and send more additional scouts. I want to know more about this realm. Afterwards, we move within the hour."

Oraas bent to comply and went to leave her as he roared a command to the Blue Jays. The soldiers stiffened, saluted and dispersed to spread the word at the remaining companies that were preoccupied with the traitors.

Alone in her moment of solitude, the Lady breathed the cold, sharp air and glanced back with a small smile on her dry lips. When she was a child, her parents left Oraas in his care while they busied themselves to the endless duties demanded by the Empire. The old man was committed, loyal to the House. Valice had come to rely on his advice, his experience in war whenever the chance. She would not know what would happen if the old man was not on her side.

Valice soon came to a stop to notice one of the Jays, dead with a bolt plunged to the chest. Kneeling down to one knee, she yanked an iron tag from the man's neck then closed his pale, frightened eyes.

==--==

Several soldiers in their hybrid shade of uniforms lay dead or dying in the snow as an uneasy sound of buzz lopped off their heads and limbs with inhuman precision.

The blade glowed in a terrible light like it was still in progress from the furnace. A man cloaked in crimson robes stood to scan the work of his destruction. His eyes behind the raven mask were fierce, studying each feature of a soldier now bloodied and limped. Some of them young enough to be their twenties.

"Fools," he whispered, his tone low with gritted teeth. "Damn, blinded fools."

The man's name was Aviel Amion, and he was the last, faithful member of the Order. Unlike the red knights, he was the voice of the masses, the bane of the shadowy fire. The Vermitus. The Black Crimson.

From death and steel, chaos and blood, Amion met them in a cold, frozen land, bereft of life. Uneasiness filled in his chest, and he breathed long and deep to find an understanding of his fate and the fate of his brothers.

As the last soldier fell with a sword plunged to the head, Amion turned to hear gunshots from the distant. Sparks of light crackled in the woods, and the roaring screams clashed at one another in a feverish struggle for victory however slight.

Amion chuckled grimly to this. At an impulse, he would have joined and died alongside them in one, final glorious moment. Instead, he stood, unmoving, turning his head to the wide-open field of ice. Dark thoughts loomed inside the back of his mind, and he considered the option that lay before him.

The war against the Empire was doomed from the start. Amion knew that, and so did the rest of his fellow crimsoniers. Yet none of the other brothers comprehend the terrible cost of their action until it was too late. Until the Order crumbled itself to the brink of ruin. He had long accepted his fate and waited for the sweet taste of release. He had been hoping for it since they were losing, retreating, dwindling in this futile war. It did not come as was this one. Not this time.

Since the start of the war, few crimsoniers voiced their concerns, and as it continued to drag on for years, half planned for desertion in which internal strife which caused the red knights to execute them one by one. The loss of many crimsoniers on that fateful day horrified Amion to the core, and he never forgave them for it. Though he hated them, despised the zealous knights that brought death and destruction of an empire, he could not help but feel a sense of pity.

For all their arrogance, for all their cruel machinations and avarice, they were still his brothers, and Amion loved each and every one of them no matter the fault. Yet that did not mean he would support them.

Amion made a decision and turned to the edge of the forest, its white field of snow was as far as the eye could see. Freedom was at his grasp, and he took it without a second thought.

With a crunch of snow, Amion stepped out from the forest and leapt to a new world ripe for the taking.