Chapter 0041: The Aftermath
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a blood-red glow over the battlefield. The ground was littered with the broken bodies of fallen soldiers, both enemy and ally. Smoke rose from the wreckage of siege weapons, and the stench of death hung heavily in the air.
Raiden stood at the center of it all, his sword now stained with the blood of his enemies. His armor was battered, his face smeared with dirt and sweat, but his eyes burned with the same intensity they always had. He had won the battle, but the weight of victory pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Beside him, Vaeryx surveyed the scene with a somber expression. "The battlefield is a cruel reminder," she said quietly. "For every victory, there is a cost. And the true price of war isn't paid in blood, but in what is lost in the aftermath."
Raiden's gaze softened for a moment, but he quickly shook off the fleeting thought. "We have a kingdom to rebuild," he replied. "The cost of this war... it is what we must bear."
The King's Decision
The following morning, Raiden called a council meeting within the kingdom's walls. The throne room, once a place of opulence and grandeur, now seemed more like a war council's den, with maps of the battlefield spread out across the floor. Tattered banners hung from the stone walls, and the faint smell of smoke still lingered in the air.
Raiden sat at the head of the long table, his hands steepled together. Vaeryx, Harric, and the other key commanders sat on either side, their faces grave as they surveyed the maps before them.
"We've won, but it was a close call," Raiden said, breaking the silence. "We cannot afford to become complacent. Thales may have lost this battle, but he's not finished yet. He'll regroup and strike again, and this time, he'll be more prepared."
Vaeryx nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. "We've seen his tactics. He's no fool. He's playing a long game, and if we don't act quickly, we could find ourselves fighting on multiple fronts."
Harric leaned forward, his eyes intense. "The question isn't whether he will attack again, but when. We need to be ready for his next move."
Raiden's fingers drummed lightly on the table. "We have two options. We can either take the fight to him, striking his strongholds before he has the chance to reorganize, or we can fortify our own kingdom and prepare for a prolonged siege."
The room fell silent as everyone considered his words. Both options carried risks. Raiden had led his people to victory once, but he knew that another war could very well tear apart everything they had fought for.
The Alliance Proposal
Before any decision could be made, a messenger entered the room, bowing deeply before Raiden. "Your Majesty," the messenger said breathlessly. "There is someone here to speak with you. A representative from the northern kingdoms."
Raiden exchanged a glance with Vaeryx. The northern kingdoms had always been a complex matter. While some had been allies in the past, others had remained neutral—or worse, hostile. He motioned for the messenger to allow the visitor in.
The doors opened, and a tall figure stepped into the throne room—a man dressed in the furs and leathers of the northern tribes, his face hardened by years of battle. His eyes, however, held an air of diplomacy, sharp and calculating.
"Lord Raiden," the man said, his voice low and respectful. "I am Roran of the North. I come with an offer of alliance."
Raiden's eyebrow arched. An alliance from the northern tribes was rare, and it was clear that Roran was no ordinary representative. He had the look of someone who had fought and survived countless wars.
"An alliance?" Raiden repeated, leaning forward. "What do you seek in return for this alliance?"
Roran's gaze was steady. "Thales is a threat not just to you, but to all of us. He seeks to conquer the entire continent, and no one will be safe if he succeeds. We offer our armies, our resources, and our knowledge of the terrain in exchange for your protection. If you agree, we will stand with you against him."
Vaeryx studied Roran carefully, sensing the weight of his words. "And if we decline?"
Roran's expression remained unchanged. "Then you fight alone. And when Thales is at your gates, you'll wish you'd taken this offer."
Raiden stood, his eyes narrowing as he considered the proposal. This was not just an offer of military support—it was a chance to forge a lasting alliance, one that could tip the scales in their favor. But it came with risks. The northern tribes were fierce, but they were also unpredictable.
Finally, Raiden nodded. "I accept your offer, Roran. We'll form this alliance. Together, we'll make sure Thales never threatens our lands again."
A Kingdom Reborn
Over the following weeks, the kingdom began to rebuild. The wounded were treated, the fallen were mourned, and the survivors slowly started to repair the damage done to their homes. The people, though tired, had a renewed sense of hope. Raiden had proven himself as a leader, and his victory on the battlefield had earned him the loyalty of his people.
The alliance with the northern kingdoms was formalized, and Raiden strengthened his defenses. New fortifications were built, and training camps were established to prepare for the next conflict.
Vaeryx worked tirelessly, sending emissaries to neighboring lands, securing trade routes, and ensuring that the kingdom's allies remained loyal. Harric trained new recruits, instilling in them the same discipline and resolve that had won them the last battle.
Raiden, meanwhile, took time to reflect on what had happened and what would come. He knew that the road ahead would be filled with more challenges, more battles, and more sacrifices. But the foundation had been laid. His kingdom was no longer just a dream—it was a reality. And it was a kingdom worth fighting for.
The wind howled through the valley as heavy clouds rolled in from the east, lightning crackling in the distance like the angry voice of the gods. Raiden stood atop the outer wall, his cloak billowing behind him. Below, the kingdom bustled—builders worked under torchlight, soldiers drilled, and supplies were distributed to the recovering villages.
But Raiden's focus was on the horizon. He could feel it—something was coming. Not Thales, not yet. Something... older. Deeper.
Vaeryx appeared beside him, silent for a long moment. "You feel it too, don't you?"
Raiden nodded. "The wind has changed. The land is restless."
"There are whispers in the north," she continued. "Roran's scouts found symbols carved into stone, deep in the frozen caves. Symbols of the Old Gods."
Raiden's eyes narrowed. "The Old Gods have been silent for centuries."
"Maybe not anymore."
Far beyond the borders of Raiden's kingdom, in a region untouched by war, a figure knelt before an ancient altar—weathered stone, etched with forgotten language. The man wore a cloak of black feathers, his face hidden beneath a skull-like mask. Around him, torches flickered with green flame, and a low chant echoed from unseen followers.
"The war of men weakens the balance," the masked figure whispered. "The seals grow thin."
A second figure stepped forward—a woman, her eyes glowing silver.
"The king rebuilds," she said. "But he does not know what he awakens. The blood spilled has stirred the Abyss."
The masked one rose. "Then it is time. Let the shadows move."
Raiden held council with Vaeryx, Harric, and Roran in the newly restored War Hall. Tensions were high—not just from rumors of shadowy threats, but from internal unrest.
"Our spies report strange behavior in the southern villages," Harric said, placing a scroll on the table. "Fevered dreams. Whole families vanishing. Black markings on walls."
Roran frowned. "The same markings we found in the north. The same symbols carved into the cave stones."
Raiden studied the drawings with a grim expression. "This isn't Thales. This is something else entirely."
"A cult?" Vaeryx asked.
"Worse," Roran said. "The Remnants. Followers of the Forgotten Gods. They believe war and chaos will bring their return."
"And what do they want with us?" Harric asked.
Raiden leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "They want to burn everything we've built—and summon something that was never meant to return."
Guided by an old map gifted by Roran's tribe, Raiden and Vaeryx descended into the forgotten catacombs beneath the citadel—long-lost archives sealed by the first kings.
They found books bound in dragon-hide, scrolls written in blood, and tales of gods who once walked among mortals—not as protectors, but as tyrants. One name appeared again and again:
"Na'therion — The Devourer of Kingdoms."
Raiden clenched his fists. "If these cultists are trying to bring this thing back, then we're no longer just fighting for our kingdom. We're fighting for the entire world."
As Raiden read aloud from the final scroll, far away in the ruins of a forgotten temple, a giant obelisk cracked open.
From the darkness within, something ancient stirred.
Its eyes opened—red, burning, eternal.
Rain lashed against the windows. The storm outside mirrored the unease boiling in Raiden's chest. The scrolls retrieved from the hidden library lay sprawled across the floor, glowing faintly in the torchlight. Each line spoke of doom, prophecy, and one central name—Na'therion.
Vaeryx entered quietly, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.
"He's not just a god," she whispered. "He was a conqueror of realms. The Devourer of Kingdoms. Entire continents vanished in his time."
Raiden looked up from the map he was marking. "And now the Remnants want to bring him back."
"They're not just cultists, Raiden. They're fanatics. Many have infiltrated kingdoms… even ours."
Raiden's gaze sharpened. "You think one is here?"
Vaeryx didn't answer immediately. Instead, she handed him a torn sigil—burnt at the edges, smeared with dark wax.
"Found in a servant's quarters. Hidden beneath the floorboards."
Raiden's fists tightened.
Far to the north, deep within the earth, the great obelisk continued to split apart. The air was thick with power—raw, oppressive.
A cultist knelt in blood-stained robes, arms lifted in worship. Behind him, the creature they had waited for—Na'therion—began to take form. Not fully corporeal yet, but its essence leaked through the veil between worlds.
"Your kingdom rises," whispered the cultist. "So shall your hunger."
A deep rumble echoed from the chasm, shaking the stones loose.
"Soon," a voice rumbled—not with sound, but within the minds of all who dared listen. "Feed me the spark of kings… and I shall burn the stars."
Back in the capital, a closed-door meeting took a dark turn.
Raiden had summoned only his most trusted: Vaeryx, Harric, Roran, and Elwin—the royal alchemist.
But halfway through the strategy session, Elwin's voice faltered. His hands trembled as he reached for his satchel. And then—
Vaeryx's scream split the silence as Elwin drew a vial etched in obsidian runes—marked with the Remnants' seal.
In one fluid motion, Raiden rolled aside as the vial exploded in a burst of shadowy flame. Chaos erupted—guards stormed in, Harric tackled Elwin to the ground, and Vaeryx shielded Raiden with her own body.
Blood poured from Elwin's nose, his eyes flickering with unnatural light. "The Sleeper has opened his eyes…" he hissed. "And soon, your kingdom shall be his first feast."
Raiden stepped forward, sword drawn, but not to kill—he needed answers.
"Elwin, why?" he asked, voice steel.
The traitor laughed through cracked lips. "Because even gods kneel to Na'therion. You… are just a spark in the dark."
Then, Elwin convulsed—and his body was torn apart by a burst of shadow energy.
Later that night, Raiden stood at the top of the central tower, gazing over his city. Lights flickered in the streets. People danced, unaware of the storm inching closer.
Vaeryx approached him. "He's waking."
"I know," Raiden said, jaw clenched. "And if we wait… we'll lose everything before the first sword is drawn."
"So what do we do?"
Raiden turned to her, eyes alight with a fury not seen before.
"We stop waiting."
He placed his hand on the map, tracing a path northward—to the old lands, to the source.
"We find the temple. We destroy the obelisk. And if Na'therion wakes… I'll put him back to sleep with my own hands."
That night, Raiden dreamed.
He stood in a throne room made of bone. Fire raged around him. On the throne sat a towering shadow with crimson eyes—Na'therion.
"You come to fight fate," the god whispered. "But you are already part of my return."
Raiden clenched his fists. "I won't let you destroy what I've built."
Na'therion leaned forward.
"You built it on the ashes of my dominion. And now… I've come to reclaim what's mine."
Raiden woke with a gasp—fire flickering in his irises for just a moment before fading.
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(To be Continue...)