The thunderous echo of hoofbeats reverberated across the plains as scouts returned, dust rising in trails behind them. Their armor bore deep gashes, some of their mounts limped, and one man had no eyes—burned clean out by golden flame.
"It's not just a rumor," the surviving scout wheezed, collapsing before Callan. "The Golden Sovereign... he's awake. He's marching."
Callan's eyes narrowed. "Toward us?"
"No..." the scout rasped. "Toward Varranis."
Varranis—the bastion city of the central continent—was a fortress suspended in an illusion of peace. Its people had long believed themselves untouchable, shielded by treaties, coin, and the favor of the Emperor.
But even that illusion couldn't stop what had awakened.
The Golden Sovereign was not a king. Not anymore.
He was a god, once mortal, twisted by an ancient shard—one that had fused with him in the First Age and never let go. It turned him into a being of eternal radiance, whose very breath seared reality and whose blood turned men into gold-encased statues of agony.
Worse still: he wasn't seeking conquest.
He was seeking the throne.
"Let him go to Varranis," Solenne said grimly as she wrapped her bruised arm with bandages. "Let them see what blind loyalty to the Empire has earned them."
But Lysander shook his head. "He's not going to raze the city. He's going to bend it. Make it his own. Once Varranis bows, the rest of the eastern continent will follow. And with that shard fused into his body, not even a unified force could stop him."
Callan leaned against the war table, arms crossed. "Then we beat him to Varranis."
"And do what?" Solenne snapped. "Kill a sovereign infused with godhood?"
"Not kill," Callan murmured. "Break."
They departed at dawn, racing the rising sun.
Every town they passed bore stories of the Sovereign. In some, gold statues stood in the center of burning squares—families, lovers, children, all frozen in terror and molten gilding.
In others, people wept in reverence, mistaking him for a deliverer.
"It's not just power," Lysander whispered. "It's charisma. The shard in him… it manipulates worship."
By the time they reached the outskirts of Varranis, the Sovereign's army had already formed outside the gates.
But no siege engines.
No banners of war.
Just silence.
And then, golden fire erupted in the air—forming a figure that hovered above the plain like a deity of flame.
Callan stepped forward alone.
The air shimmered around him. Heat pulsed against his skin. His vision blurred at the edges.
Then the Golden Sovereign descended.
He wore no armor—just a robe of radiant silk that clung to him like molten sunlight. His skin glowed, and his eyes were like miniature suns. But beneath the divine illusion, Callan saw the truth.
He was burning.
Every second he lived, he suffered.
"You are not of this age," the Sovereign said, voice like bells melting into thunder. "You walk with old fury. You breathe ash and blade. But your time has passed."
Callan didn't blink. "And yours never ended, did it?"
The Sovereign smiled. "Why end a reign when eternity obeys?"
They fought without declaration.
The clash of wills ignited the air.
The Sovereign's flames spiraled into infernos, but Callan met them with the black blade—the shard he had claimed from the Hollow Kings now humming with resonance. Their powers struck like titans colliding, and the very ground beneath Varranis cracked.
Callan moved through memory—dodging not just flame, but emotion. The Sovereign's shard projected regret, pride, fear, and love all at once, trying to break his resolve.
But he pushed forward.
One cut at a time.
Each strike came with memories not his own—visions of a boy turned god, of betrayal, of endless pain wrapped in golden glory.
Until finally, Callan found the man behind the flame.
And whispered:
"Let go."
For a heartbeat, the Sovereign faltered.
And in that space, Lysander struck from the flank, driving a ceremonial dagger—crafted from anti-shard alloy—straight into his back.
The golden fire died.
The man collapsed, screaming, shedding divine flame like blood.
Solenne caught the falling shard as it tore free from his chest—burning her hands even through the wards.
And just like that, the Golden Sovereign was mortal again.
He wept, clutching his own face, blinded and burned, yet... relieved.
Varranis opened its gates not to him—but to Callan.
Not in gratitude.
Not in fear.
But in resignation.
The city had seen power—seen gods and generals, flame and fury. And yet they understood: Callan was the only one who fought not for dominion...
...but for reclamation.
That night, they buried the Sovereign beneath obsidian stone.
And Callan held his third shard in hand—still glowing faintly with divine heat.
Three had become four.
And far above the skies, deep within the Empire's sanctum, the Emperor opened his eyes.
"Let the war truly begin."