From the shattered remnants of a once-mighty fortress, a figure emerged.
A man—dripping blood, clad in fractured black steel, smoke rising from his armor as if the flames of war still clung to him.
In one iron-clad hand, he dragged a flailing figure by the hair. The man shrieked, twisted, begged—but it didn't matter. Arcose did not waver.
His face was carved in cold stone, unreadable. But his eyes—electric red, glowing with hate and hunger—told a different story.
These were the eyes of a man who had razed cities.
The blizzard howled around him, wild and white. Yet even the snow couldn't mask the hellish glow behind him. Avnon burned.
The kingdom's capital was reduced to ruin—a crown of fire devouring its own skull. The heavens themselves seemed aflame, casting crimson light across the broken world.
Below, at the foot of the charred black stairway, ten men and women knelt, shackled, bloodied, barely breathing.
Once, they had ruled this land. Lords and ladies of proud houses. Now, they bowed to a butcher.
Arcose stopped at the top of the stairs. His voice rumbled like a coming storm:
"Burn them."
It wasn't a shout. It didn't need to be. The words carried like thunder across the dead wind.
And then—
"ALL HEIL SATYA VES MASHIACH!"
"ALL HEIL ARCOSE, OUR SAVIOR!"
A roar erupted from the shadows—slaves turned soldiers, Barbarians turned zealots, their eyes glazed with faith and fire. Spears struck the ground in rhythm. Horses shrieked and reared. The sound was a storm unto itself.
Arcose lifted the man he'd dragged—the fallen king—and held him high by the throat.
"Look at your king."
His voice echoed through the city square, clear as bells, cold as steel.
"This is the man you feared. This… pathetic, weeping creature."
The king whimpered. Arcose sneered.
"But do not despair," he said, turning his gaze to the masses. "I will liberate you. From your fear. From your weakness. From yourselves."
And with a smooth motion—quick as a whip—he slit the king's throat.
The body dropped to the snow. Blood spilled like spilled wine, steam rising from the warmth of it—a last breath exhaled into the storm.
The crowd erupted. Spears slammed against stone. War drums beat like gods hammering at the gates of heaven.
But above the chaos—
A soft voice cut through the storm, delicate as falling ash:
"Was it all worth it?"
Arcose froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Standing behind him was Vivian.
No snow touched her. No blood stained her feet. She stood like a ghost stitched into the storm.
His voice, when it came, was rough. Almost human.
"I avenged you. That's all that matters."
She stepped closer. Her eyes held no warmth—only sorrow.
"Hundreds of thousands are dead," she whispered. "Are you sure I would've wanted that?"
Her voice trembled, fragile as cracked glass.
"How far are you willing to go? Is this still for me?"
Arcose's jaw tightened. He turned away—looked down at what he had built.
The city of ash. The army of zealots. The blood-drenched throne he'd carved from the bones of kings.
"Who are you to judge me?" he hissed. "You're already dead."
Vivian tilted her head gently.
"If that's true… how am I here?"
His breath caught.
He turned.
But she was gone.
Only the snow remained.
Falling across the dead and the living alike—soft, silent, merciless.