The fortress of Blackveil had stood for centuries, its obsidian walls unbroken by time or war. Now, it burned.
Alric stood atop the battlements, his sword slick with blood, the Will of the Kings pulsing like a second heartbeat. Below, the armies of the False King—usurper of the Regime's throne—poured through the shattered gates. They wore the colors of the fallen Lady of the Regime, but their banners bore a new sigil: a serpent coiled around a broken crown.
They will not take this city.
His soldiers fought with desperate fury, but for every enemy that fell, three more took their place. The air reeked of smoke and iron, the screams of the dying a constant chorus.
Then came the horn.
A sound so deep it shook the stones beneath his feet.
From the enemy ranks emerged a figure clad in gilded armor—General Veymar, the Butcher of the North. And behind him, dragged in chains, was—
"Lira."
Alric's breath left him. His mentor, his closest friend, the woman who had taught him to wield shadows as deftly as a blade—now broken, her face bloodied but her eyes still defiant.
Veymar's voice boomed across the battlefield. "Lay down your sword, Bearer of the Will, or watch her die."
Alric's grip tightened. The ring burned.
Lira met his gaze—and smiled. Then, with a strength that defied her wounds, she twisted in her captor's grip and drove a hidden dagger into his throat.
The retaliation was instant.
A spear tore through her chest.
Alric's roar of anguish drowned out the battle. Shadows erupted from him, a storm of darkness that devoured the enemy ranks. But when the fury faded, it was too late.
Lira was gone.
And the fortress fell.
The night after Blackveil's fall was silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
Alric walked alone through the ruins, his boots crunching over broken stone and charred bone. The False King's forces had withdrawn—not out of mercy, but because there was nothing left to conquer. The fortress was a tomb, its defenders slaughtered, its walls reduced to smoldering husks.
And Lira was dead.
The memory of her last moments played behind his eyes like a cursed vision. The way she had smiled at him—not in fear, not in sorrow, but with pride, as if to say, "This is how a warrior dies."
His hands shook. The ring on his finger pulsed, its power whispering promises of vengeance.
"You could burn them all," it murmured in the voice of the long-dead kings. "You could make them suffer as you suffer."
He clenched his fist. No. Not like this. Not with the shadows gnawing at his soul.
But then—
A sound.
Faint. A whimper.
Alric turned, his blade already in hand. Behind a collapsed pillar, half-buried in rubble, lay a child. A boy, no older than eight, his face streaked with soot and tears. One of the fortress's orphans, one of the many who had hidden in the lower chambers when the siege began.
The boy's eyes widened as he saw Alric. He tried to scramble back, but his leg was trapped beneath a fallen beam.
Alric knelt beside him. The boy flinched.
"Easy," Alric said, his voice rough from smoke and screaming. "I won't hurt you."
With a grunt, he lifted the beam, freeing the boy's leg. It was bruised, maybe broken, but not beyond healing.
The child stared at him. "You're the Shadow King."
A title Alric had never wanted. A title that meant nothing now.
"Not anymore," he said.
The boy swallowed hard. "They killed everyone."
Alric didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
Instead, he reached out a hand. "Come on. We can't stay here."
The boy hesitated, then took it.
As they limped through the ruins, Alric's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the False King's war banners still fluttered in the distance.
This wasn't over.
And the next time they met, Alric wouldn't just fight.
He would end him.