Valdoria, 47 Days After the Final Pyre Turned Cold
The executions had ended.
But the screams still echoed in the streets of Vordros.
It had been over a month since the last of the bodies were burned in the square, their ashes scattered by the cold wind like cursed dust. Yet the empire had not healed.
It had rotted.
Trade had withered—caravans no longer dared pass through Valdoria's great gates. Foreign merchants from Elyndor and Xathir no longer paid gold for Vordanian iron or silk. Even the dockyards of Kaldoros, once a cacophony of hammers, sails, and songs, had fallen quiet. Half-built ships sat abandoned like broken bones. Fishermen whispered prayers before casting nets, afraid that even the sea had turned against them.
The markets of Varenthis, once loud with bartering voices, now resembled tombs. Bread had become a rare comfort. Meat? A myth. Children clutched the ribs of dogs in alleyways, hoping they wouldn't bark loud enough to attract the Dreadlion Guard. Every stranger, every shadow, was a potential informer.
The empire was not ruled now by gold or strength.
It was ruled by fear.
Aeltharion's great temple bells no longer rang.
Priests, once revered, now kept their heads down. Entire orders had been dissolved. The High Inquisitor, Veyron Saldor, had declared their silence during the executions as "complicity in dissent." Twelve priests had been burned alive in their own chapel. None dared speak again. The city of culture had become a mausoleum of broken oaths and unspoken sermons.
Drakenshield's barracks were swollen with frightened new recruits — conscripts, barely of age, forced into the legions. Some wept behind barrack walls. Others chanted Aurelion's name with glassy eyes, hoping faith would silence guilt.
Those who remembered the old empire—the golden age of Lucan Voss—knew this was not order.
It was despair with a crown.
In the farming villages surrounding Valdoria, things were worse.
The fields lay untended. Oxen wandered aimlessly. Families who lost their sons to the pyres now lived in eerie silence. No songs. No stories.
And in one such village, nestled under the shadow of the ancient hill fort of Harrowspire, sat a man once known across the realm.
The Fear Was a Fire That Wouldn't Die
In the cities, people did not cry out anymore. Even their grief was muted.
Women covered their faces with black veils — not for modesty, but for mourning they were forbidden to show. Men walked in straight lines, backs rigid, heads down.
Children no longer asked why the sky seemed darker, or why the guards wore thicker armor.
Even the wind through the palace arches carried unease.
The only sound that broke the stillness anymore came from the voice that caused it all.
Terror stalked the alleys of the capital. Markets that once bustled with life now whispered with hesitant footsteps. Merchants sold their goods under their breath, their hands shaking at the slightest clang of steel. Trade routes to Valdoria had slowed to a crawl. Caravans no longer risked passing through Kaldoros or Drakenshield without military escort, which came at a price that most traders could no longer afford.
Lord Treasurer Severian Vos stood in the shadowed balcony of the Treasury Spire, overlooking a city suffocating under dread. "Taxes are being withheld," he muttered to no one in particular. "Even the salt merchants of Varenthis refuse payment unless they are guaranteed safe passage."
High Chancellor Regulus Varn, ever the snake, only smiled. "Then make an example of a few. They'll remember what happens to disobedience."
But even his voice lacked its usual venom. The flames of fear had spread too far.
The empire's coin was weakening. The gold florin had lost a third of its value in a mere month. Ships docking in Kaldoros refused Vordanian currency, asking instead for Elyndoran crystal shards or desert spices from Xathir. The Dreadlion's name—once an emblem of might—was now invoked in hushed curses.
Inside the Holy Halls of Aeltharion, the priests held muted services. The Temple Bell, once rung at dawn, remained silent. Religious leaders feared speaking against the Emperor, but many secretly wondered: had Aurelion gone too far?
And in the village square, an image captured the fall of Vordanian spirit.
Jarn the One-Eyed, once a beloved storyteller known for tales of heroism and fire-breathed glory, now sat silently on the edge of a broken fountain. Children no longer gathered around him. His last tale had ended with the weeping of a boy whose father was hanged for sheltering a wounded stranger.
Jarn had not spoken since.
Across the borders, the other great kingdoms of the world watched with growing unease. The Kingdom of Andareth, closest to Vordania, tightened its patrols. King Edrik Althas summoned his court in Eldenfort. "A mad lion is still a lion," he warned. "And a mad lion bites without reason."
In the Zorithan Theocracy, High Priest Orlath Zareth gazed into the Obsidian Spire's black pool. The water shimmered with visions of fire and death. "The dread sun rises in the west," he whispered to Grand Magus Azhar Thorne. "We must prepare the Eternal Choir."
The Desert Dominion of Xathir responded differently. In Zar-Hadun, Warlord Kassim Darim laughed heartily over a spiced roast. "Let the Dreadlion kill his own people. It saves us the trouble." But even he tightened the garrison of Sandstorm Legions in Shal-Zaheer. In Hadros Oasis, High Sorcerer Iskar Rahim saw omens in the blood-red sands.
In Elyndor, Grandmaster Leonhardt stood atop Sanctum's Reach with his paladins. "We cannot intervene. Not yet. But this tyranny must not be allowed to spill into our sacred lands."
Meanwhile, in The Varian Wastes, Jarl Ulfgar Blackmane summoned his warlords. "Aurelion weakens his own roots," he growled, frost on his beard. "When his tree falls, we raid the heart."
But none dared move. Not yet.
On the Fifteeith day after the final execution, Aurelion himself emerged before the people. The square was lined with soldiers from the Dreadlion Guard, their crimson cloaks hiding the steel of their crossbows. Dread hung thick.
Aurelion wore black ceremonial robes embroidered in gold. His crown, heavier than ever, seemed forged from sorrow and rage. His voice, when it echoed through the square, held no empathy.
"You look at me with fear in your eyes," he began, his voice sharp and cold. "Good. Fear is the truest loyalty."
He paused, watching their bowed heads. "For three weeks, our empire has wept over traitors. But you did not weep when the Western Watchtower was turned into ash by cowards.You did not weep for order. So I wept for you—with fire."
No one dared look up.
"These executions were not cruelty. They were necessary."
Aurelion paced. "Traitors do not wear badges. They wear silence. They wear pity. Anyone who shields a rebel, who prays for the fallen, who thinks their sorrow matters more than Vordania's might—is a traitor."
He stopped before a child whose father had been among the dead.
"You will remember," he whispered, "that mercy is for gods. I am no god. I am your Emperor."
He turned back to the crowd.
"You will kneel. You will serve. And you will forget."
And they did.
Far beyond the reach of Vordania's claws—past its mountains, past the icy fringes of the Varian Wastes—a figure moved through a snow-swept trail.
Cloaked in thick robes, a man watched the crackling fire inside a northern tavern, listening from outside, hidden in the mist.
Inside, a group of travelers huddled around the hearth. Their voices low but trembling.
"Did you hear… the executions? Gods, they say it was over a thousand."
"They say even the priests died screaming. Just… gone. Like they never mattered."
"Aurelion's mad. He'll burn the world to ash if he thinks it looked at him wrong."
The robed figure closed his eyes.
Wind howled around him. Snow bit at his face. Yet he stood still.
He turned and vanished into the mist, a trail of disturbed snow in his wake.
Beneath the robe, the mark of a failed execution still burned across his chest, pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat.
Cassian had heard enough !