Lastly, there was the seventh member of the dark elves — their leader, Eric. Brother to Sheila and the most vicious of them all, Eric wielded a cleaver unlike any other.
The blade glowed with immense heat, a fire that never quenched, burning with the fury of its origin. He once bragged about stealing it from one of the most fearsome soul beings, and he bore the scar to prove it.
Though the fire was quenched from his wound, the scar spread across his body, marring his flesh until his skin turned red as scarlet. To the touch, it felt less like living flesh and more like a molded statue, hardened and unnatural.
Eric no longer seemed like an elf, nor even a dark elf — he was something else entirely. His existence radiated despair and pain, a figure destined to embody destruction, a leader whose very presence reminded them that survival was built on pain, blood, and curses.
If Bark was impervious to pain, Eric acted as though he enjoyed it, almost like a masochist. His body carried a tremendous healing factor, making him the only one in the group who never truly needed Young's preservation.
His character was the strangest of all eight of them, for he generally behaved as though he didn't need anyone, as if the world beyond his sister and his enemies simply didn't exist. Eric never gave orders, never commanded them on what to do, nor even assigned tasks to his lieutenant or Sheila.
Instead, his leadership was silent, instinctive. When Eric moved, they all followed. When he stayed, they all stayed. His presence alone dictated the rhythm of the Exiles, a leader not by words or plans, but by sheer force of existence — a scarlet figure who embodied despair, pain, and authority without ever speaking it aloud.
All because of one reason — Eric was the most powerful. His strength was absolute, and anyone who dared to leave the Exiles was instantly treated as his enemy. That was the unspoken law of their fractured family.
So while Willow had gained something she had never truly had before — a new family, a group that fought and bled together — she had also bound herself to one of the most dangerous bands of individuals in her world. Every step with them was a step deeper into peril, every bond tied to curses and scars. And there was nothing she could do about it… until now.
Now, they were about to loot a massive amount of life energy from a heavily guarded caravan of soul beings. Unlike their usual raids, where they ambushed two to five targets and vanished into the shadows, this time they were preparing to face a multitude.
They weren't just striking a handful of enemies — they were going against tens, perhaps even over a hundred soul beings, a number so vast it felt like an army. It was something they had never attempted before, for despite their strength and cursed weapons making them more than a match for smaller groups, they had never gathered to wage open war.
The scale of the challenge was terrifying, yet the prize was irresistible, and the Exiles stood on the edge of a battle that could either elevate them into legends or destroy them completely.
There was a stark reason why dark elves — and elves in general — never dared attack beings like the soul beings.
The first was simple: they knew almost nothing about them, their origins cloaked in secrecy.
The second was far more unsettling: no one had ever discovered the true source of their power. For example, elves gained their strength from weapons bestowed upon them by their God, sacred gifts tied to divine worship. Soul beings, however, had no God, nor did they seem to worship any demon or higher entity.
Their existence defied the natural order, their power flowing from an unknown source that no scholar or warrior had ever explained. That analysis alone revealed the truth — soul beings were a strange, alien set of individuals, dangerous precisely because they were beyond understanding.
Another reason was that soul beings had always been stronger, unyielding, and organized with ranks of powerful individuals far beyond ordinary foes. Willow and her colleagues could take down weak‑class soul beings, and even low‑class ones if they fought carefully, but when it came to high‑class soul beings — skeleton knights, liches, and the dreaded soul vampires — they had to band together and pray they could bring even one down.
Against soul vampires especially, their chances were almost nonexistent, a pitiful 0.9% compared to the overwhelming 99% certainty of defeat. The sheer imbalance of power made every encounter with such beings a gamble with death, reminding the Exiles why elves and dark elves alike avoided open conflict with them.
And those were only the soul beings they knew. What was stopping the soul beings from gaining even stronger, more advanced individuals to swell their ranks? The thought alone was terrifying. Yet despite that looming possibility, the Exiles had no choice.
Their reserves of life energy were running dangerously low, and the number of isolated soul beings they could ambush had dwindled. Desperation forced their hand.
They had to strike the caravan — a massive convoy filled with multiple soul beings of different ranks, and possibly advanced ones hidden among them. It was a gamble against the unknown, a raid that could either replenish their dwindling supply of life energy or annihilate them entirely.
Willow had her own agenda for going against the caravan, even though the plan felt like suicide. After all, they were just eight dark elves declaring war on nearly a hundred soul beings.
Yet she suspected each of her colleagues — Young, Bark, Nect, Eric, and Sheila — carried hidden motives of their own for risking such madness. The only ones she believed had no secret agenda were KO and Sasha.
KO was likely obeying Eric's will as always, bound to his role as executioner. Sasha, on the other hand, probably had no idea what was truly happening; she was simply following along, clinging to the group to ensure her survival. Willow's doubts gnawed at her, for she knew that in a band like the Exiles, trust was as fragile as life itself.
As Willow checked where Sasha was hiding, lying low on the floor around a sand dune that barely obscured her from view, she noticed the girl's forced composure. Sasha wore a confident mask, but Willow knew better than anyone that she was probably the most afraid among them about what they were about to do.
The trembling in her posture betrayed her fear, even if her face did not. Willow turned away, steadying herself, and reminded herself why she was doing this — why she had chosen to walk into what felt like certain death. "Secure enough life energy for her survival, and lead the Exiles". That was her purpose, her burden, and her only path forward.