ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Just moments prior, Galen Magna had reappeared in the broken shell of Icua—Zone 10—courtesy of his flame-based teleportation spell. The space he arrived in was familiar. It was the exact location where the mysterious portal had once ripped him from this realm and spat him into that maddeningly peaceful dimension. Now, that same ground was covered in dust, debris, and the scorched remains of what clearly had been an all-out warzone.

He stepped forward through a jagged arch of half-melted stone, the scent of ozone and burned metal still lingering in the air. His crimson coat fluttered behind him, barely touched by soot or grime. His expression remained impassive as he looked over the desolation.

"Looks like Magnus had his own fun with a hybrid freak," Galen muttered, voice laced with faint irritation as his boots crunched over shattered cobblestone.

He paused at the wreckage of what had once been a multi-story structure, now just mangled beams and blackened stone. "Did he really have to level this much of the city just to win a fight? Even I wouldn't be this reckless." The way he said it was flat, as though lecturing a child over spilled milk.

Continuing his slow march through the ghost of a city, Galen noted the absence of movement—no signs of Gaia demons, hybrids, or even a residual threat. Everything had already been silenced. Whatever chaos had existed here had burned itself out. It was dead quiet.

Until he neared the outer edges of Icua.

That's when faint murmurs started brushing against his senses—human voices, strained but persistent. Galen turned his stride toward the noise without hesitation. Step by step, the ruins began to thin, and signs of life crept into view.

A makeshift camp revealed itself between scorched tree stumps and twisted scaffolding. Rough tents and scattered crates marked the temporary infirmary. Knights, healers, mages—wounded, exhausted, and grieving—moved between stretchers and medical tables. The air reeked of salves, blood, and charred flesh.

But what pulled Galen's eye most were the bodies. Dozens—no, nearly a hundred—lined up beneath clean, white sheets on the far left of the camp. Each one was carefully covered from head to toe, as if a respectful burial were owed despite the chaos of war. Soldiers, civilians, and anyone who hadn't made it through.

Galen stared at them for a second. Then blinked and kept walking.

There was no shift in his aura, no flicker of remorse or even a pause for grief. He strode forward like the dead weren't even there.

As he passed deeper into the heart of the infirmary, heads began to turn. One by one, injured knights looked up, nurses halted mid-treatment, and mages straightened as the unmistakable figure of Galen Magna moved past them.

Dozens of gazes locked onto him—each brimming with emotion.

Hope. Disbelief. Resentment. Relief. Rage. Awe.

Those who'd fought during the invasion saw salvation in him. Galen's return meant their odds just shifted, and in a battle as one-sided as Solara's, that meant everything. They didn't care that he hadn't been seen during the worst of it—because some of them had witnessed his sudden disappearance into that arcane portal. They knew he hadn't run. He had been taken.

But others weren't so generous.

Among the crowd were those who hadn't seen him vanish—only seen him absent. Their narrowed eyes held contempt, arms crossed with bitterness, lips curled in silent judgment. Whether it was ignorance or simple hatred, Galen couldn't have cared less.

He walked among them like a phantom through smoke, not once acknowledging a single glance or whispered word.

His path led him toward a young mage standing frozen near a field table stacked with potions and scrolls. Her robes were tattered, blood stained one sleeve, and her eyes were wide with disbelief. She hadn't looked away from him since he entered the camp.

Then, to her increasing panic, he began walking directly toward her.

Her breath hitched as he stopped just inches away, his towering figure casting a sharp shadow over her smaller frame. She barely stood five-seven, yet she felt even shorter under the weight of his gaze.

"You've got a cut, sir," she stammered, eyes flicking to the tear on the shoulder of his coat.

"It was just a branch," Galen replied without emotion, brushing off her concern like dust. "Where's Magnus?"

The mage flinched slightly at the directness of his tone, her emerald eyes struggling to hold contact with his crimson ones. "S-Sir Yaer is still in battle, in Solara," she said quickly, straightening herself as if trying not to appear weak.

Galen's eyes narrowed just a fraction—barely noticeable, but enough to reveal a sliver of intrigue. "Only Magnus?"

She swallowed. "No, sir. He's with Mage Moonstone and several knights from both the Tempest and Crescent Kingdoms."

That gave him pause.

Tempest and Crescent? The mention of the two kingdoms only made Galen understand Solara's desperation.

"I see," Galen murmured, gaze drifting southeast. Then he turned back to her, voice calm but firm. "Can you open a portal for me? Zone 15. Ilis."

"Yes, sir," the mage replied instantly.

"Then please do that for me."

Without another word, she raised her hand, whispering the incantation beneath her breath. The air shimmered as a portal blinked into existence beside them, its surface glowing a soft, spectral blue.

"Thank you," Galen said, already moving toward it.

But before he could step through, a voice—loud and commanding—rang out from across the camp.

"Galen Magna!"

Galen turned his head with a calm, mildly irritated expression to face a man approaching him—a knight, judging by the armor and insignia. The man was built like a boulder, thick-chested and broad-shouldered, with chestnut-brown hair and a short, scruffy beard. His right arm and lower torso were wrapped in bloodstained bandages, and a deep frown carved harsh lines across his face.

"You need something?" Galen asked, voice low and flat, hands still buried in his pockets, his mood clearly not tuned for any drama.

"Where the hell were you, huh?!" the knight barked, his tone hot with fury.

Another knight, younger and with a visible limp, hurried over and placed a firm hand on the angry man's shoulder. "Hey, don't do this," he warned quietly. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Get off me," the man snapped, shrugging the hand off with a violent twitch.

He stepped forward, pointing at Galen with one hand and then swinging his arm out toward the carnage on the ground—strewn corpses, ruined tents, still-smoking wreckage.

"This man—the so-called strongest knight in Amthar—vanished when we needed him most. Look around!" His voice cracked as he gestured again. "All of these brave men and women—dead. Even the children didn't make it out. My brother… he died because there was no one strong enough to step in. Because you weren't there!"

He stared directly into Galen's eyes, unflinching, seething.

"Tell me, what was so damn important that you had to disappear when your people needed you the most? Or is everything beneath you? Are all these lives just some passing inconvenience? Do you even care about the ones who died today?" His voice grew louder, almost shaking. "Screw that—do you even feel guilt? Shame? Any damn thing at all for failing to do what was expected of you?"

By now, every soul in the war camp had stopped moving. All eyes turned to Galen and the knight who dared challenge him.

But Galen didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stood there with the same unreadable gaze, expression carved from stone, hands still tucked into the depths of his coat.

And when the angry knight finally ran out of steam, Galen spoke.

"If you're looking to grieve your brother by blaming someone for your own failure to protect your blood," he said coldly, "then I suggest you find a better scapegoat."

His words hit like frostbite.

"You want to know if I feel guilt or shame?" Galen paused, then scoffed. "Of course I don't. Every knight and mage who fell today knew exactly what they signed up for. They knew the cost. This is war. Death's part of the contract."

He glanced around at the stunned crowd, then back at the man.

"And tell me—who the hell ever said my job was to protect Amthar?"

Silence flooded the camp, heavy and complete.

Then Galen let out a cold laugh under his breath.

"Each and every one of you could drop dead right now, and it wouldn't mean a damn thing to me. Your lives, your deaths—they do nothing for me. You're all just noise, background clutter. So I strongly suggest you keep your delusions in check, and don't ever let that kind of bullshit leave your mouth again."

Not a single breath stirred the air.

Galen turned away like nothing had happened, walking calmly toward the portal glowing behind him.

"Now go get your pathetic body healed," he muttered, and without another glance, stepped through the portal and vanished.