The banners of Artherion still flew, proud and unshaken, above the battlements of Ironrest. Smoke lingered on the outskirts where the fires of skirmish had died hours before. The dawn broke crimson,not from the sun, but from the blood soaking the field where once comrades stood shoulder to shoulder.
It began not with a roar, but a whisper. Quiet orders passed like wind through high grass, barely spoken yet powerfully understood. A single word, repeated once, then thrice among the soldiers of the south battalion. A trigger. A betrayal rehearsed in shadows.
By the third hour of morning watch, under the haze of war-fatigue and dwindling vigilance, entire units turned.
They struck their brothers down without warning.
Steel pierced flesh.
Artherion blood flowed, not by enemy hand, but by betrayal.
Captain Hareth of the Goldwing Legion was among the first to fall, run through by his second-in-command, Sir Colen. His eyes didn't widen in pain, but in disbelief. He had raised that man from a mere squire.
"Why…?" he whispered.
Colen replied with nothing but a cold, measured twist of the blade.
The screams that followed were not of war, but treason. The loyal forces scrambled to regroup, confusion drowning their coordination. Shields raised too late, blades turned against comrades. Chaos tore the ranks.
The battle had begun, and it was the loyal hearts that bled first.
Sir Valon of the Duskline rose with seven of his loyal knights. They tried to form a shield wall to buy time for the wounded to flee. They lasted nearly twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of a desperate, unyielding stand, surrounded on all sides. Arrows rained. Axes slammed. A traitor's blade severed Valon's helm and skull in a single, treacherous strike.
The southern flank fell. One-third of the province's guard lay dead. And yet, even then, Artherion's soldiers did not break. They closed ranks. Reinforcements surged forward from the eastern watch-posts. A signal flare was sent.
Then the trap was sprung.
Beneath the blood-soaked soil, ancient runes awakened. Glyphs, long etched and hidden beneath the roots of Ironrest by Artherion's oldest architects, shimmered in gold.
A pulse.
A quake, soft yet absolute.
The ground beneath the betrayers rippled.
The traitors paused, many glancing down, confused.
Then the screams came.
The earth opened beneath them, not like a crack or collapse, but like jaws. Glowing seams swallowed them whole, silence dragging them down. No limbs escaped. No armor clattered. Just sudden, absolute disappearance.
A hundred. Then two. Then six hundred. Then more.
Gone.
The loyal forces staggered back, staring at the sudden emptiness. Their brothers and betrayers vanished. No corpses. No weapons.
Only dust.
And in the war tent of Dravenguard, King Ashkeroth roared with laughter as the first messages came through the black mirror.
"Artherion eats itself!" he cried. "It festers! They were weak!"
But the mirror pulsed.
King Ashkeroth commanded the traitors from the depths of tartarus to 'arise' by mere meditation.
They appeared in the world of the living, just before where king Ashkeroth sat.
Something more than necromancy
They were no longer themselves.
Their forms were darker. Elongated. Hollow-eyed, faces gaunt with void. Their bodies were cloaked in shadows that writhed as though hungry. Their souls, it seemed, no longer their own.
"Shadow generals," Saevan said, stepping forth. "Loyal. Eternal. Immortal. Their existence had one purpose, it was to serve him for all eternity.
"Our victory is carved from their own bones," he whispered. "Artherion will weep before they burn."
---
Far from the battlefield, nestled between ridges and rivers, lay the Artherion healing camps. Tents rose like domes of solace among the chaos of war. They pulsed with enchantments, wards of protection, sigils of healing, lanterns of starlight magic that cast a silver glow.
Here walked Mirelleth.
No longer garbed in the ashen grays of Dravenguard's servitude, yet not quite free. She bore a healer's belt now—pouches of salves, rolled bandages, flasks of lifeblood elixirs. Her hands were constantly stained with blood, not of battle, but of recovery.
Her touch was gentle. Her words quiet.
And her eyes always searched the ridge beyond the tents.
Because there, standing like a statue of judgment, was Lucien.
He hadn't spoken since the betrayal.
He hadn't moved much, either.
But the air around him vibrated. Not like heat. Not like storm.
Like presence.
Like his presence alone could stop the war.
He did not speak to captains. Nor consult scrolls.
He watched.
I fnally decided to approached him, my heart fluttered in my chest, not from love, but from sheer proximity to something beyond.
"You haven't rested," I said softly.
Lucien's voice was distant. "There is no rest. Not when hearts fall."
She hesitated. "I feel like you knew it would happen?"
"Yes, I knew. It is my father's will."
"And you let it?"
"Yes."
She took a step closer. "Why?"
"Because my father has elected to use this war as a means to purge the kingdom. He have known them that will betray him long before the planning for this war was laid."
I swallowed. "But so many died…"
Lucien turned.
His eyes, flames within ice. Burning, but unyielding.
"Better a thousand honest deaths than one crown held by a liar."
Silence passed.
I wanted to hold him. I felt like I wanted to scold him. But mostly, she wanted to understand and comfort him if I could.
"This war," I said. "It's not about conquest, is it?"
Lucien looked back toward the horizon.
"It's about thrones. Not made of stone, but of choice. Of loyalty."
He walked past me, the wind parting around him like reverence.
And I, for the first time, truly feared what he would do next.
---
That evening, under twin moons, Riven approached.
Lucien stood atop a ledge, arms folded behind his back.
"You waited too long," Riven said.
Lucien did not answer.
"The shadows grow. We lose ground we can't afford."
Lucien's voice was soft, but it carried. "And yet, we still stand."
"I saw the shadow general today," Riven added. "It wore my friend's face."
Lucien closed his eyes. "Then avenge him."
Riven's hand twitched near his blade.
But he didn't draw it.
Instead, he asked, "Will you wait until all Artherion burns?"
"No," Lucien said. "I wait until the fire reveals the gold."
Riven shook his head.
"You're not the man you once were."
Lucien turned. "I was never only a man."
He stepped forward.
"When the time comes, even you, Riven, must choose."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "And if I choose wrong?"
Lucien walked past him.
"You won't."
And the night held its breath as both warriors vanished into shadow.
To be continued...