The capital celebrated a victory carved from corpses.
Within the gilded walls of Cindralis, the jewel of the Vaelori Empire, the highborn drank deep from goblets etched with ancient gold while the cobbled streets echoed with parades, false praise, and shallow chants of the Crown's triumph. Banners waved. Priests cried blessings. Children mimicked soldiers in the alleys, wooden swords clashing in playful reenactments of the slaughter that had unfolded far to the north.
None of them knew the truth.
High above the reveling masses, within the obsidian towers of the Inner Keep, King Tellen Vire stood alone in his war chamber. Behind him, the walls were lined with silent guards and crimson-robed magisters whose eyes gleamed with arcane knowledge and fear.
Tellen's gaze fixed on the northern horizon.
He did not smile.
"The reports," he said coldly.
High Magister Relveth stepped forward, a scroll trembling in his weathered hands. "Confirmed, Your Majesty. The Seventh Legion is lost. Valebend has fallen. The rebels are broken, and the wardstone detonated as intended."
"Survivors?"
"None. The ritual's energy signature was absolute."
"And the knight?"
Relveth hesitated, pale lips twitching. "Drex Malven was seen among the final vanguard. He led the breach into the enemy's camp. His body... was not recovered."
Tellen's fingers drummed against the edge of the war table. "Not recovered. Not found. You mean to say—he may live."
"We... cannot be certain, Sire."
The King turned slowly. His face was carved from marble, emotionless—except for the tight pull at the corners of his eyes. "He bore the Haldrim sigil. He knew of the seal beneath the battlefield. If he lives... the pact may fracture."
Relveth's breath hitched. "We used the bloodbinding rite precisely. The soulstone shattered as scripted. There should be no remnant."
"You forget who he is." Tellen's voice was colder than the stone underfoot. "Drex Malven was not merely loyal. He was bound to the line of Haldrim by oath, blood, and curse. You cannot erase something forged from pain so easily."
He turned back to the window, staring into the dark sky as lightning flashed over distant mountains.
"If he rises... he won't be a man anymore."
"What would you have us do?" the magister whispered.
"Send the Ashbound," the King said, his voice like a blade unsheathed. "Mobilize every shade-tracker within the capital. Search the northern wastes. Bring me Drex Malven's head—or the cursed thing wearing his face."
Relveth bowed, fear seeping into his ancient bones. "Yes, my King."
"And Relveth…"
The magister froze mid-turn.
"If you fail me again, you won't live to offer excuses."
---
Three Days Later — The Red Hollow
The land was dead.
Once green and fertile, the Red Hollow was now a blackened expanse of ash and cracked soil, where bonegrass curled upward like claws and twisted trees bore no leaves. A century ago, a god had died here—bled dry by sorcerers desperate to rewrite fate. Nothing had grown since.
Drex walked alone through the silence.
He didn't remember how long he'd been moving—only that time no longer followed natural rhythm. He no longer hungered. He no longer slept. The air tasted of copper and dust, and the sigils branded into his flesh pulsed with a rhythm that matched no heartbeat he knew.
His armor, once silver, was now blackened by fire and blood. The crest of House Haldrim had been scorched away, replaced by crimson cracks in the steel that glowed faintly under the moon. His sword—no longer the knight's blade he once bore—hung at his side like a wound, the hilt cold as ice and warm as flame at once.
Something inside it pulsed.
Something that whispered in a language he didn't speak but felt in his bones.
Kill.
His fingers brushed the hilt. The voice stilled—but didn't vanish.
A wind rose across the hollow. It didn't carry dust this time.
It carried metal.
He turned his head slightly, one gauntleted hand dropping to his sword. Five figures crested the ridge behind him, cloaked in robes that flowed unnaturally, faces hidden behind mirrored masks. Their weapons were jagged, black-steel blades that hummed with forbidden enchantments.
The Ashbound.
He remembered the stories.
Crown-sanctioned enforcers. Silent killers born from shadow, trained to erase memory, soul, and lineage with a single strike. They did not ask questions. They did not speak. They only hunted.
The lead figure raised a hand—and pointed directly at him.
Drex did not move.
He knew what they were.
But they didn't know what he had become.
The first Ashbound launched forward, faster than a mortal could see. Drex's blade was in his hand before the sound of steel rang through the air. He stepped aside, pivoting on his heel with unnatural grace, and brought the blade down. A clean cut. The assassin's head struck the earth before the body did.
The blood steamed where it hit him.
The others paused.
They felt it now. The wrongness. The hunger in the air.
The next two came at once, blades crisscrossing, spells igniting. Drex's body moved on instinct—guided by something deeper, darker. His blade caught the first and twisted into the second, splitting one helm in two and severing the other's arm at the shoulder. Screams echoed—not from the Ashbound, but from the ground, where their blood hit and was swallowed.
The cursed sigils on Drex's arms flared crimson.
The final two hesitated. He saw it—fear. Even they, loyal to the Crown, knew when they'd made a mistake.
"You were sent to erase me," Drex said at last. His voice was gravel—low, sharp, and inhuman. "Tell your king—he failed."
He dashed forward in a blur. One parried—and shattered at the point of contact, his body unmade by raw force. The other tried to run.
Drex let him.
He stood among the corpses as the wind carried silence once more.
The blade at his side whispered louder now, fed by blood and fury.
He did not know where the road would lead next.
But he knew this:
The empire would burn.