The battlefield lay silent in the wake of Kael's declaration.
A cold wind stirred the bloodied grass, brushing past the divine banners of the Holy Dominion. Their forces, clad in radiant armor that once inspired awe, stood frozen. Not in discipline. Not in reverence. In fear.
Kael's spear still trembled, impaled in the cracked stone ahead. Five knights lay around it, bodies twitching with the last flickers of life. Divine blood stained the earth—a vivid, golden ichor mixing with the darker crimson of men. Each knight had been anointed, protected by blessings older than the Dominion itself.
None of it had mattered.
High above, clouds churned, drawn toward the pull of something far greater than nature. Magic. Dominion. Death.
Gabriel the Unbroken, standing at the front lines, exhaled slowly. The breath steamed in the cooling air, his jaw tight with restrained fury. His massive greatsword rested against the ground, its edge already biting into the dirt.
"Did you see that?" he growled, his voice low, seething.
Beside him stood High Priest Variel, clad in robes of gleaming white threaded with celestial runes. He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on Kael's distant silhouette.
"That was no mortal's strike," Gabriel continued. "That… that was something far worse."
Variel's fingers moved slowly over the etched sigils of his staff. His expression remained composed, but his aura trembled—faint, but telling.
"He was once mortal," Variel murmured. "That much we know. But now?" His voice lowered further. "He walks a path even the gods cannot predict."
Gabriel clenched his fist. His golden eyes turned toward the ranks of paladins behind them. Some whispered prayers. Others stared blankly at the corpses ahead. These men had fought abyssal horrors, slain heretics, cleansed corrupted lands.
But this was different.
This was not the Abyss.
This was Kael.
Variel raised his voice, stern and clear. "Do not falter."
The words echoed through the ranks, cutting through the haze of fear.
"No matter how powerful the Black King has become, he stands in defiance of heaven. That alone ensures his fall. The Divine will not allow such blasphemy to remain."
His words held conviction, but even he could feel the chill crawling beneath his skin. Faith would be tested in the days ahead.
As the final light of day bled across the horizon, Kael's shadow stretched long across the earth. He turned, cloak billowing, and vanished into the evening wind—returning to Solmar like a storm passing over calm waters.
But the storm hadn't passed.
It had just begun.
The candlelight flickered across the polished marble of Empress Seraphina's chambers. Crimson drapes shivered with the wind that snuck through the open balcony. Outside, the sky was painted in twilight blues, but the storm on her mind was far darker.
She paced in silence. Her steps were soft but sharp, echoing faintly off the obsidian inlays of the floor. Her handmaidens stood at a distance, watching in quiet terror. Never had they seen their Empress like this—unnerved, restless, furious.
War had come. A war unlike any in the Empire's history.
She had seen many wars—led them, ended them, buried them. But none had the weight this one carried.
This was no mere conquest.
It was a reckoning.
She had chosen Kael. Pledged herself to him—not just in whispers and shadows but through action, through strategy. He was not a man easily followed… but he was a man no one could stop. She had seen the truth behind his gaze, the terrifying brilliance of a mind that saw the game board long before the pieces moved.
And yet…
If the gods themselves now moved against him…
What then?
Her hand clenched into a fist. She forced herself to stop pacing. No. That kind of doubt had no place within her.
She had made her choice.
If the heavens dared descend, then she would remind them why empires were not gifted by divinity but forged in ambition, blood, and iron.
She turned to her writing desk and pulled out parchment. Her hand moved quickly, fluidly, as she scrawled a series of coded orders.
Agents in the Eastern marches would sabotage Dominion supply lines. A noble family with ties to the Dominion clergy would be purged—quietly. The gates of Solmar would remain open to refugees… but only those who could offer resources, information, or blood.
Seraphina's eyes glinted in the candlelight.
Let the priests pray.
Let the paladins march.
She would carve a path through the Holy Dominion's heart before they ever reached Kael's gates.
Far below the mortal realm, deep within the Abyss where mortal reason lost shape, something stirred.
The name "Kael" echoed across the obsidian canyons and lakes of blood. Whispers carried it through the choking heat, through walls carved from bone and flame.
Within a cathedral of black stone and living fire, the demon lords gathered.
The central chamber was a coliseum of power and madness. Spires of flame rose to the ceiling. Eyes blinked from the walls—sentient, watchful, terrified. At the center, a massive throne carved from the skulls of slain celestials towered above all.
A beast sat upon it.
He was hunched, armored in molten metal, wings unfurled and wide enough to blot out the firelight. His eyes burned with a hatred too old to name.
"The heavens dare move against our king?" the beast rumbled, voice shaking the walls.
A softer voice responded, slithering from the shadows. "They forget their fear. Let us remind them."
One by one, the Abyssal Lords rose from their thrones. These were not demons born of chaos. They were conquerors, tacticians, ancient lords of a realm older than memory.
Kael had called.
And the Abyss would answer.
A thousand strong—the vanguard of the Holy Dominion's first crusade. Their armor gleamed with holy light, engraved with blessings said to protect them from all evil.
They marched toward Veylan, one of the outlying cities under Kael's rule. Their mission was clear:
Strike first. Strike hard. Break Kael's lines before his forces could fully mobilize.
But as they reached the city's gates, unease slithered into their hearts.
It was too quiet.
No cries of alarm. No soldiers manned the walls. The gates stood open, torches lit, but not a soul in sight.
Gabriel raised his hand. The column slowed, shields raised.
"Eyes sharp," he muttered. "This is wrong."
The paladins dismounted, blades drawn.
The first scream came from the rear. A knight fell, a dagger buried in his neck.
Then the shadows moved.
From rooftops. From alleys. From the cracks between stones.
They came.
Kael's assassins.
Trained in silence, born in darkness, they struck with surgical precision. Blades slipped through divine plate as if it were paper. Enchanted arrows fell from above. Smoke and shadow wrapped the streets.
Chaos erupted.
Gabriel roared orders, cutting down one assassin with a single swing of his greatsword. But for every one he struck down, three more of his men fell.
A paladin turned, only to find a spear of black energy piercing his chest—shattering enchanted armor, tearing through divine wards.
The Vanguard never stood a chance.
Two hundred dead in minutes.
And then… the street fell silent.
Boots echoed on stone.
A figure emerged from the darkness. Cloak of midnight. Eyes like twin infernos. A blade of voidlight in his hand.
Kael.
"Welcome to my domain," he said softly.
Gabriel raised his sword, blood on his face, grief in his eyes.
"Face me, Black King! If you are truly the monster they fear—prove it!"
Kael tilted his head. A smirk danced on his lips. "A warrior's challenge?"
He stepped forward. The ground cracked beneath his boots.
"Very well."
To be continued...