Silence weighed down like a leaden shroud.
All around Kaelen, the survivors knelt, forming a broken circle in the cold dust. Their faces—etched by hunger, fear, and defeat—now lifted toward him, eyes wide with fragile, faltering faith.
They were few in number: barely a hundred souls. Soldiers in patched-together armor, women still bearing the scars of their last battles, young boys and girls whose hands trembled more with contained rage than with fear. A ragtag collection of the broken. His people.
Kaelen drew a deep breath, letting the cinder-choked air fill his lungs. He was not yet king. Not yet. But the weight of the black crown pressed on his brow in a way no oath ever could.
He slowly lowered his sword, the blade saluting these lost souls.
"Today, we are the outcasts," he announced in a voice that cleaved through the wind. "But tomorrow… tomorrow, we shall be masters of these lands."
The murmur that rose at first timidly swelled into a rumble, like heat gathering beneath ash. Fists rose. Tears streaked down weathered cheeks. Some fell to their knees, pounding the dead earth with their fists as if sealing an unspoken vow.
An old man emerged from the crowd. His frail frame seemed ready to shatter beneath the wind's fury, yet his eyes—two shards of obsidian—burned with ancient strength. He wore ragged robes embroidered with the symbol Kaelen recognized at once: the old steel-flower, lost emblem of the royal guard.
"Sire," he murmured, bowing low, voice trembling but resolute, "where will you raise your banner?"
Kaelen turned northward.
There, beyond the barren hills and the dead forests, loomed the Gray Mountains, their peaks like fangs tearing at a leaden sky. At their foot, half-buried in mist, lay Dornhal—the Black Citadel.
Once, it had been the beating heart of the empire. Today, it was nothing but a ruin whispered of in nightmares.
Kaelen closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the crown's dull throb against his skull. He had no choice.
"To Dornhal," he replied in a voice that brooked no argument.
"Dornhal…?" someone echoed, fear catching in their throat.
A ripple of worry coursed through the survivors. They knew the tales: a citadel haunted by shades, ancient curses, armies swallowed whole without a trace.
Kaelen descended the few broken steps of the terrace and strode among them, each footfall marking the gray dust with his imprint.
"Yes, Dornhal," he repeated.
"It's madness…" whispered a woman, clutching her heart.
Kaelen stopped before her. His eyes met hers—tired, wounded, but not yet extinguished.
"Madness is wandering without purpose until you die like dogs in the mud," he replied. "Madness is waiting for a miracle to fall from the sky."
He swept his gaze over the crowd.
"Dornhal is abandoned. Its walls lie in ruin. But its foundations… they still hold. And there we will plant our banner. There we will be reborn."
The wind howled around them, as if to challenge his words.
"Those who wish to flee, go now. No one will pursue you," Kaelen promised. "But those who stay…" He drew his sword and plunged it deep into the cracked earth. "Those who stay will become the fire that devours this world."
A heavy silence fell. Then, like a slow but inexorable tide, the survivors rose one by one.
A gaunt old man leaned on his axe and nodded. A young girl with dark eyes lifted her dagger to the sky. A former officer with a shattered shoulder knelt again, this time in solemn oath.
Kaelen felt a bitter smile tug at his lips.
This was not yet an army. Not yet. But it was a beginning.
And beneath the broken skies of the Shattered Realms, as the dying sun bled the horizon a funereal red, the Monarch raised his blade to the heavens.
"Forward," he murmured.
At his command, the ashes began to dance around them.
— To be continued…