The battle was over.
But war… war had just begun.
Smoke lingered over the broken field like a mourning shroud. Craters still glowed with lingering magic, and the wind carried the scent of scorched steel and burnt flesh. What had once been a green plain was now a graveyard, silent save for the rustle of torn banners and the groans of the wounded.
Althar walked alone through the aftermath.
He didn't wear his crown—not because he feared it, but because he respected it now. He understood the weight it carried. The voices had grown quiet within him—not because they were gone, but because they no longer screamed.
They listened.
They followed.
Just like the people now following him.
Ariya knelt beside a makeshift tent, murmuring a final prayer over a fallen soldier. She stood when she saw Althar approach, her silver armor smeared with dried blood.
"We lost a third of them," she said quietly. "But we held."
He nodded, gaze fixed on the sky. "Did we lose Rane?"
Ariya hesitated. "She's alive. Missing a leg. She asked if it was worth it."
Althar said nothing for a moment.
Then: "No victory is worth a limb. But if we run now, it will be her life next."
Ariya watched him carefully. "You've changed."
"So have all of us," he replied. "But not enough."
In the command tent, Seris had constructed a map using scorched parchment and shards of enemy banners. Her magic created flickering illusions of the surrounding regions—armies on the move, fortresses lighting signal fires, and one particular zone of silence.
The Obsidian Span.
A territory swallowed by shadow and rumor. No news entered or escaped from it. And now, a new sigil had appeared over it.
A black star.
"The Witch-Empress has made her move," Seris said, pushing the illusion forward.
A vast fortress emerged from the projection—Kaer Nyx, built on floating black rock and surrounded by eternal storm.
"She's offered sanctuary to every surviving Chain loyalist and Crimson Knight. They're converging on her stronghold."
Althar crossed his arms. "And she'll offer them more than sanctuary."
Seris nodded. "She wants the remaining crowns. And if she gets even one…"
"She won't," he said flatly.
But the truth hung in the air like smoke.
They were outnumbered.
Outresourced.
And the Empress had what they didn't:
A nation already built.
Rorek stomped into the tent, wiping blood from his blade with a greasy rag.
"I saw scouts fleeing east," he growled. "We've got less than a week before they rally again. The horde never stays broken for long."
Althar glanced at the map. "Then we don't wait. We move before they expect it."
Seris arched a brow. "You want to attack Kaer Nyx? We'll be shredded before we reach the gates."
Althar shook his head. "Not the fortress. The outer rim. Supply lines. Caravans. We can bleed them dry before they ever mount a siege."
"And if the Empress comes herself?" Ariya asked.
Althar didn't hesitate.
"Then I burn her soul."
That night, the Flameborn made camp near a half-collapsed watchtower. The wounded rested in enchanted slumber, the living shared their rations in silence, and the dead…
The dead were buried, each grave marked not with names, but with words.
"Remembered."
Althar stood watch long after the others had slept.
In the quiet, the Crown of Echoes stirred again. But this time, it didn't show war. It showed a child's drawing—a crude figure with a glowing sword and a crooked smile.
He remembered now.
It was a gift from a village girl, back before his death.
She had called him "hero."
He hadn't deserved it then.
He still didn't.
But maybe, one day…
As he turned to leave, a scout ran toward him, panting.
"My king," the young man gasped. "A message came through the shadow-net. From the Ashen Coast. You'll want to see this."
Althar took the scroll, broke the seal.
And read:
The Crown of Storms has surfaced.In the hands of a woman claiming to be your daughter.
The cold returned to his veins.
He crushed the scroll in one hand, jaw clenched.
"I never had a daughter," he muttered.
Seris, standing nearby, had heard. "Not in this life."
"But maybe in the one before," Ariya added softly, stepping out of the darkness.
Rorek laughed grimly. "Looks like your past is finally catching up."
Althar stared into the firelight.
"No," he said. "It's challenging me."