The Red Hunter

He wasn’t always this—a thing of ash, rage, and ruin. Once, he was a man. A soldier. A tiefling with sharp horns and sharper eyes, marching under the artificer banners of Treftiel. He believed, in his quiet, stoic way, that he was fighting for something greater than himself: progress, civilization, a future built from steel and ingenuity. He was no hero, no champion. Just a body in the endless machinery of war.

The war was apocalyptic. The druids, wielding the raw fury of the earth, unleashed hurricanes of bark and root against the artificers’ gleaming, relentless machines. In the final battle, amidst the storms and fire, the soldier’s gun fired a single, desperate shot. It pierced chaos, struck something ancient, and ended the war.

The Red. A primordial force older than trees, older than machines. It crawled into his veins without asking, consuming him with fire that could not be extinguished. The artificers won the war, and the soldier returned to Treftiel not as a victor, but as a vessel for something terrible.

At first, the people hailed him as a savior. But the nobles, the king—they knew what he had become. The Red was not a trophy to celebrate, but a weapon to fear. And what is fear if not something to be controlled? They saw in him a lowly tiefling with a power they believed should belong to a king, to the throne of Treftiel. Their fear became jealousy. Jealousy became betrayal.

A celebration was called in his honor, grand and glittering. Wine poured like rivers, silverware gleamed under chandelier light, and his name was toasted with false smiles. He should have known better. Should have seen the knives behind the laughter, the poison in the cups. But he didn’t. He wanted to believe in them. In the people he had fought to protect.

The betrayal was savage. They came at him with blades, with gunfire, with all the greed and ambition of a kingdom that consumes even its own. The Red answered. It didn’t ask for permission, didn’t care for hesitation. Fire erupted from his veins, turning the feast into an inferno. Noble blood boiled. Machines melted like wax. When the smoke cleared, the halls of Treftiel lay in ruins, and the soldier they had betrayed was gone.

He became the Red Hunter, a creature of molten rage and grim purpose.

Now, he walks the scorched ruins of Shivath, his form a shadow wreathed in crimson fire. He has no love, no hatred, no loyalty. Only a singular goal: to see Treftiel burn. Not just its towers, its machines, its wealth—but its people. Its memory. Its name. The betrayal runs too deep to settle for anything less than complete obliteration.

He sees Treftiel not as a place, but as a disease—a sickness carried in the blood of nobles and passed down through their children. Generations of complicity and ambition. They are all guilty. Every one of them. And guilt demands fire.

His warlocks flock to him like moths, drawn to the light of his power. They think they understand his pain, his purpose, but they don’t. They can’t. They are scavengers, feeding off his flames. And he lets them. He gives them pieces of the Red, knowing they will use it for their own designs. He doesn’t care.

Because he knows what comes next.

When Treftiel is nothing more than a memory, when its last stone crumbles into dust, his warlocks will turn their guns on him. The Red will demand it. The cycle will demand it. They will kill him, and one of them will take his place. He waits for that day, for the moment when the flames he carries will finally consume him. But not yet.

Not until the last noble name has been forgotten. Not until the last story of Treftiel dies. Not until the Red has had its full due.