Ori tread carefully through the dark forest. The moon sat high, blanketing the trees in a glowing blanket of soft light. The forest was dense, allowing only scattered spears of moonlight to break through. He was nervous—even questioning his sanity for actually agreeing to leave. "I should've thought harder about running off into the night like that. This quiet is unnerving. How can I even be sure I'll catch up to them in time?" He thought, stepping over a large fallen branch.
Ori knelt beside a set of tracks, brushing his fingers against the disturbed earth. The hoofprints were clear—Elira and the others had passed through here. But overlaid atop them were another set of tracks. Lighter. More numerous. Human, but with a strange gait. Stalkers—the types of things he learned to look for while hunting with Sir Girus in his youth.
His heart quickened at the realization. They were being followed.
He stood up and gave the immediate area a scan. The strange feeling that he was not alone began to seep into his mind. Whoever was tracking the others were watching him as well.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. The soft rustle of leaves overhead turned sharp, each sound magnified by his rising dread. He straightened, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe.
"Enough of this. Show yourself." His voice assertive despite the tremor in his chest.
Suddenly, a figure burst from the underbrush to his left—a flash of motion and steel. Catching the glint of a weapon from the corner of his eye, Ori quickly drew his weapon to block the attack. The force of the blow sent him sliding back several feet, nearly losing his footing, and his assailant—a lengthy figure clad in jagged light armor—lunged again.
His eyes widened at the sight of the attacker. He was familiar with that armor—the warped and twisted metal. He also recognized their unnatural movements. The dark army had made its way out here it seemed, but he didn't have time process it all as a blade came soaring toward his throat from the darkness.
Ori parried, but the assailant was quick, and far stronger than humanly possible. With just a few clashes, he knew he was outmatched. Each attack he blocked sent him in one direction or another. He was being quickly overwhelmed. His axe was old, and just barely protecting him from the onslaught. Soon the assassin was dashing around in every direction—swooping in and out of the brush with devilish speed. Then came a kick from straight ahead, landing square in his chest, and sending him flying into the tree behind him.
He crashed into it—bark scattering in all directions. The impact left him disoriented. Suddenly his head ached and his vision blurred. He struggled to stay standing. The forest seemed to sway abnormally while the assassin continued dashing. Suddenly the back of Ori's neck began to spark with violent light, causing him great pain. The mantle must have taken damage when he struck the tree. Sparks began shooting out of it, forcing him to reel in pain.
Arrggh!" he cried out, stumbling as the Mantle pulsed against his skin. Sparks of light flickered between the mantles cracks, and a faint humming sound filled the air.
The assailant hesitated, their eyes narrowing. They began to step back slowly as the flashes became more frequent.
Ori fell to his knees, clutching at the Mantle as it pulsed again, harder this time, sending a wave of pain through his body. His ears were ringing furiously, but through the static, he heard it: A voice neither male nor female, yet both.
"Bearer detected. Royal bloodline confirmed. Initiating communication protocol. Awaiting directive."
The voice was calm, clinical—entirely out of place.
Ori fought through the pain, gasping for the air to respond. "Wh-who's there?"
"I am the operational interface of Mantle Unit 0147. Please confirm your command."
The assailant stepped closer, their weapon raised.
"Shut up!" Ori yelled, though he was unsure of who or what he was yelling at.
"Error: unclear directive. Please rephrase."
"What—what are you talking about?" Ori clutched the Mantle as another jolt of light erupted from it.
The voice persisted, calm and direct despite his panic: "You appear to be in distress. Assistance is required. Command me to act."
"Command you? What the hell does that even—," Ori ducked as the assailant swung at him again, rolling awkwardly to avoid the strike.
"This unit is designed to respond to bearer directives. Command me to aid you, or your destruction is imminent."
"Dammit…Fine!" Ori shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Help me!"
"Acknowledged…Warning: Power output significantly decreased. Initiating reduced muscle augmentation. Please stand by."
The Mantle blazed with sudden light, a golden aura spreading outward like a shield. The assailant recoiled, blinded by the brilliance. Ori felt the weight of the Mantle lessen as energy surged through him—a warmth that chased away the pain.
"Directive achieved: Augment power output is at 12 percent." The voice sounded almost smug.
The assailant stumbled, clutching at their eyes. The light began traveling down Ori's axe, causing it to shimmer and vibrate. Then came a flash, and the once old and worn weapon had transformed into an elegant and mighty one. He held it up in astonishment, admiring the finishings on the hilt and blade. It was just like his old long sword, only in a different—newer form. The handle was now entirely made of gold with engravings running the length of it. The blade of the axe gleamed—now longer with a curved edge. It felt lighter—easier to swing—like it was crafted just for him. He then noticed the assassin still attempting to shield themselves from the light. Ori didn't hesitate. With renewed strength, he lunged forward, striking at the assassin who barely had time to defend. The attack cleaved the assassin in two with ease. Both halves of the body fell to ground and quickly began disintegrating into a dark mist. The sheer strength and speed of the attack surprised even him.
Breathing hard, Ori backed away, his axe still raised. "What… what just happened?"
"Limited assistance was provided. Note: power reserves are critically low. Prolonged engagement not advised."
Ori stared into the forest, his mind racing. "Who are you?"
"I am—" the voice began, but Ori cut it off.
"No, wait. What are you? And why are you in my head?"
"I am an artificial intelligence, confined to mantle unit 0147," the voice replied almost mechanically, the mantle glowing as it spoke.
Ori frowned. "An arti-what now?"
The voice grew silent for a moment, as if thinking of a proper response.
"Perhaps I should use a more metaphoric terminology. Considering closest equivalent …equivalent found. You may consider me a spirit of sorts—residing inside of your mantle."
"A spirit aye," Ori muttered, struggling to wrap his brain around the information. "Am I losing my mind? No…that did just happen. And you—spirit…you did this?"
"Negative," the voice replied. "Your actions were your own. I simply made them possible."
He didn't have time to figure out what that meant. His gaze flicked back to the tracks. Elira and the others were still ahead, and still possibly in danger.
He tightened his grip on his axe. "We'll figure this out later," he said to the Mantle.
"Acknowledged. Initiating standby mode."
The Mantle's light dimmed, leaving only faint warmth at the back of his neck. Ori didn't waste another moment, following the tracks at a run. Whatever this… spirit was, it had saved him. And he would need it again if he was going to save Elira and the others.
Ori crested the last rise, heart pounding from the strain of the mantle. He'd been running several minutes, resolved to find them before the assassins do. His body still ached from the earlier scuffle—where he'd taken a hit that now echoed inside his head as a strange, artificial whisper. He tried to ignore the voice—the strange symbols it flashed over his eyes, but it pulsed with static at the base of his skull.
"System strain detected," it warned in clipped, unfamiliar syllables. "Further combat at these levels is ill advised. Physical output nearing critical limits."
Ori gritted his teeth. He didn't understand most of what the voice was saying, only making out that he was in some sort of danger. He heard a loud noise—like a small cannon. He looked in the direction of the sound to see them down below in a moonlit clearing. Elira was the first to catch his eye, a blur of fluid motion and deadly precision. Her revolver gleamed as she fired, each shot finding its mark with uncanny accuracy. Her Mantle's influence was clear: her eyes darted faster than humanly possible, tracking each threat with surgical precision. The kick of her rifle-nosed revolver barely slowed her down as she spun to dodge a blade and countered with a blast from her compact shotgun.
She pressed a small switch under the trigger as she raised the revolver at an enemy trying to create distance. Suddenly small lenses began flipping upward on top of the barrel—growing is size from the nozzle back. The attacker leapt back. She steadied her aim while peering through the many lenses. Her right eye began glowing with several pink, swirling crosshairs that all met in the center of her iris. The roulette began to spin rapidly as if quickly storing up power. Then she fired—rattling the forest with an immense burst of wind, and clearing the assailant from view with the force of the shot. They were not done.
Kirin stood back-to-back with her, blade in hand, while Rylan attempted to protect them both with a shimmering magical shield. He stood further back with a floating grimoire beside him—pages flipping rapidly. There were too many foes, and Ori's new companions—friends, if he dared to hope—seemed to be overwhelmed.
He squinted in disbelief. Is she…using a mantle?
Elira pivoted gracefully, eyes narrowed behind the mantle's supernatural vision. She fired twice: one assailant fell instantly, another spun off into the brush, wounded and flailing. The way she moved—swift, confident, lethal—was mesmerizing. Even as the voice in Ori's head spat warnings about neurological strain and error codes, he couldn't look away from the deadly dance she performed with her weapons.
Rylan's arcane shield flashed as it met steel, saving Elira from a flanking strike. Kirin lunged low, dispatching a soldier who slipped past Rylan's barrier. But then, an assassin broke through—too fast, too close. Elira's guns could not turn in time. Rylan's barrier flickered, drained. Kirin was a half-step too late.
Ori launched forward before he could think. A gold streak flew through the air toward them like lightning. And with a horizontal cleave, he sliced the enemy in two just like the one before. The assassin's final strike froze mid-air, never completed. Ori's blade sheared cleanly through flesh and bone, splitting the attacker apart. A thick silence followed as the body dispersed into mist—the only sound the hiss of Elira's cooling revolver barrel and the ragged breathing of everyone present.
He stumbled to the ground. His landing could've used a bit of work, but he'd done it. The attack was over, and no one was harmed it seemed. The voice inside him began blurting static warnings: "Cognitive overload. Neural threshold exceeded." Red-rimmed messages ghosted across his vision, making him blink furiously. The golden aura dispersed—his axe back to its original form. His nose began to bleed, a warm trickle that he hadn't noticed yet.
"Ori?" Elira's voice broke the hush first. Astonishment, relief, and anger tangled in her tone. They'd tried to get him to come with them before. He'd refused, too wounded and uncertain. Yet here he was—a completely different man from the one they left back on the farm.
Rylan ran to him, one hand raised as if to stabilize the young king. "You followed us?" he asked, eyes wide. "And your mantle….it works?" He noticed the rivulet of blood running from Ori's nostril, and his expression darkened with worry.
Kirin stepped closer, blade still in hand, scanning the trees for more threats. "He's pushing himself too hard," she said softly. "Ori, can you stand?"
Ori opened his mouth to answer, but the voice inside him warned again, error messages cluttering his vision—red letters and fractured glyphs. "Critical failure. Neurological break immanent." Every breath was a struggle. He tried to speak, to say something about Lara's urging, about how he'd made his choice and wanted to help them. But the words came out slurred.
"I…I had to…" he croaked. "Couldn't let you…" His vision swam, Elira's concerned face fading in and out. The axe felt heavier than a mountain now. He tasted metal—his own blood on his lip.
Rylan braced him with an arm around his shoulders, carefully lowering him to his knees. "Easy, Ori. We've got you."
Elira looked around, making sure no new attackers lurked in the shadows, then holstered her revolver and crouched beside them. Her mantle let her see more than most, and what she saw now—the hitch in Ori's breathing, the tremors in his frame—made her frown in alarm. "You damn fool," she whispered, voice caught between relief and scolding. "You should've stayed safe."
Ori wanted to grin, or maybe reply with some witty quip, but he couldn't form the words. Everything blurred. The glowing runes and warnings in his mind's eye exploded into static, his thoughts splintering. He felt Rylan's grip tighten, heard Elira's calm but urgent instruction to prepare the boat, the splashing of the tides.
I…I'm…sorry…" Ori managed, voice trailing off. He sagged forward, the fight leaving him all at once. The night sky spun overhead—a dizzying canvas of moonlight and stars—and then darkness snuffed it all out.
When he slumped in Rylan's arms, unconscious, Elira exchanged a worried glance with Kirin. They all knew who Ori was, and now they saw how close he was to breaking. They'd wanted his help—no, needed it—but not at the cost of his life. As the distant echoes of the waves crashed against the shores, the three stood guard over the fallen king, unsure of what to do next but certain this fragile alliance now ran deeper than any of them had anticipated.
[The next morning…]
Ori awoke to the gentle rocking of the ship, a soft creak of wood accompanying the rhythmic sound of waves slapping against the hull. His first thought was disjointed—something about trees and a burning ache in his chest—but it vanished as soon as his senses sharpened. A salty breeze wafted through the open window, carrying the scent of the sea and the distant cry of gulls. The light filtering in was golden, glinting off rich red drapes and polished brass fixtures.
He groaned, shifting in the plush bed beneath him. The mattress was softer than anything he'd slept on in some time, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender. He blinked, taking in his surroundings: a carved oak desk, velvet curtains tied back with golden cords, and a chandelier swaying gently above. This wasn't just any cabin—it was a royal guest suite, the kind of place reserved for kings and diplomats.
For a moment, he let himself sink into the comfort, his muscles no longer aching and his skin no longer burning. But as he turned his head, something flickered in his vision: faint symbols, shifting and twisting like living hieroglyphs.
The disorientation hit him like a wave. He sat up too quickly, and the room tilted with him. The symbols grew sharper, filling his view with jagged red glyphs and foreign characters that scrolled like an ancient ledger.
"Critical systems rebooting," the now-familiar voice chimed in his head. "Please remain patient during this process."
Ori groaned, rubbing his temples. "I'm going mad," he muttered, staring at the symbols as they flashed and shimmered. "I've finally lost it."
"Incorrect," the voice replied in its usual calm tone. "You are perfectly sane, though your cognitive functions are under considerable strain. Rest is advisable."
"Rest?" Ori barked a laugh, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I've got words floating in front of my eyes, and you think I should rest?"
The symbols distorted, blurring together like a kaleidoscope of crimson light. Then, with a faint hum, they arranged themselves into a line that read: System Maintenance: 13% Complete.
Ori waved his hand in front of his face, trying to bat the glowing words away. "What even is this? Why are there…what are those, runes? Some kind of curse?"
"Not a curse," the voice corrected. "Think of them as…status reports. Your Mantle experienced catastrophic strain during the previous engagement. Recovery protocols are in effect."
"Status reports," Ori muttered, his patience wearing thin. "Great. And how exactly am I supposed to—"
"Make sense of it all?" the voice cut in, almost smugly. "This unit apologizes for any inconvenience. Would you prefer an alternate display mode? Perhaps…pictures?"
"Pictures?" Ori rubbed his face, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "What, like a painting of me falling on my face?"
"Noted," the Mantle replied. "Illustrative display mode activated."
Before Ori could protest, the symbols shifted again, arranging themselves into what looked like a crude stick figure—a slumped figure with tiny sparks shooting out of its back. Above it, a jagged bolt symbol flashed like a child's drawing of lightning. Beneath it, blocky text read: System Fried. Please Reboot.
Ori stared, speechless. Then, to his own surprise, he laughed—a short, sharp sound that felt foreign after the last year.
"You're messing with me now," he said, shaking his head.
"This unit strives to optimize bearer morale," the Mantle replied matter-of-factly. "Humor is an effective tool."
Ori opened his mouth to retort, but the cabin door creaked open, and he turned to see Elira stepping inside. She paused mid-step, one hand on the doorframe, her eyes narrowing.
"Who," she said slowly, "are you talking to?"
Ori froze. "I—uh—" He gestured vaguely at the Mantle's glowing glyphs, which of course were invisible to anyone else. "It's…complicated."
Elira crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Let me guess. The Mantle's talking to you now?"
"Yes," Ori said defensively. "And before you say anything, I'm not crazy."
Her lips quirked into the barest hint of a smirk. "Debatable."
Ori groaned, running a hand through his hair. "It's not funny. It's…a spirit. Or something. It keeps saying things I don't understand and showing me—" He gestured wildly at the air in front of him. "—this!"
Elira raised an eyebrow. "This…spirit. What's it saying now?"
"It's explaining what happened," Ori said, grimacing. "Something about me almost dying and needing a 'reboot.' It's using pictures now. Look." He pointed at the air.
Elira glanced around, her smirk widening. "Pictures. Right."
Ori threw up his hands. "You know what? Forget it."
"Bearer frustration detected," the Mantle's voice chimed in his head. "Attempting to rephrase. Warning: Simplified language may appear condescending."
Ori winced. "Don't you dare."
Elira tilted her head. "What?"
"Not you!" Ori snapped, glaring at nothing. "I was talking to—ugh, forget it!"
Elira shook her head, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" She moved to the window, looking out at the sea. "But you're alive, and that's more than I expected after last night."
Ori watched her for a moment, the tension easing from his temples. The mantle fell silent, its glyphs dimming as if to give him a break. For now, the sea and Elira's quiet presence were grounding enough. She stared out of the window in contemplation, and despite the awkward interaction before, he didn't feel out of place. He had much to figure out—much more to explain, but it could wait…at least until this moment passes.
Chapter end—