Chapter 17 - The Black Sun

Frostnov – In the Heart of the Town

Ser Valco Nightover stood in the center of Frostnov Square, issuing orders to the battalions, his voice steel, his eyes scanning the distant horizon where dark clouds foretold a storm of iron and fire.

The soldiers sharpened their swords, fixed their armor, and the knights prepared as though the battle was at the gates.

Suddenly, his deputy, Yunoi Nightover, rushed through the ranks, his face pale, eyes wide with terror, as if his heart wanted to leap from his chest.

He approached, panting, shouting in a voice tinged with fear: "Commander!! The enemy… the enemy is not heading toward us! They are not attacking the castle… nor the warehouses or garrisons… they are… they are heading for Nevaria!!"

Valco froze, as if time itself had stopped. He heard no clash of swords, no soldiers' footsteps, not even the roar of the cold wind… only the pounding of his heart, heavy as lead.

He murmured her name… first as a whisper, then in a hoarse, strained voice: "My lady… No!!"

She was there… Duchess Loriana Nightover, in her castle, with her young daughter. He did not wait to ask, did not think of the plan, nor turn to anyone.

He leapt onto his horse, shouting in a voice that thundered through hearts: "To the northeast!! Follow me!!!"

And he charged…

From the heart of Frostnov, he saw smoke rising in the distance, a cloud of death expanding on the horizon. As he drew closer, the enemy forces revealed themselves, cutting through the town with brutal power—black hordes flowing like a flood, torches consuming all they touched.

He tightened his reins, increased his speed, the cold wind slapping his face, yet his body burned from within. He shouted with all his might, as if his cry alone could halt the hell:

"Clear the way!!!"

Two and a half hours later…

They arrived.

But the town… was no longer a town.

Corpses of knights lay scattered in the streets, the ground soaked with blood blackened by fire.

The cries of grieving mothers echoed among the ruins, calling names that would never answer.

Houses were demolished, and even the air had turned to ash. But what froze the blood in his veins… was not this chaos.

It was the castle.

The Snowflower Castle… a blazing inferno, tongues of flame rising to touch the sky, like a tower of hell planted upon the earth.

His feet slipped from his horse, and he fell to his knees, head lowered, murmuring his lady's name in a strangled voice, smoke burning his lungs.

But his eyes soon ignited, and he clenched his teeth as if swearing to the heavens that he would not die before seeing her…

He charged into the burning castle, ignoring Yunoi's screams behind him: "Commander!! Wait!!"

Flames lashed at him like hands of fire trying to stop him, heat enough to melt iron, yet his feet did not falter. Burning wood fell before him, smoke stung his eyes until he could barely see, but he pressed on, step by step, toward the heart of hell…

The stones cracked beneath his feet, ashes swirled in the air like black snow… Ser Valco panted.

His panting was not from fatigue, but from the smoke… smoke that enveloped his chest like a hidden hand pressing without mercy. Air? There was none.

Fire? Everywhere. As if hell had erupted from beneath the earth and taken the castle as its throne.

He walked—no, ran—struggling through the second-floor corridors, heat lashing him like demon whips, burning his skin, scorching his face, melting something within him… not his flesh, but his heart.

Something told him to go there.

That door… the duchess's chamber. It was… glowing.

Yes, the door… not merely a spark, but a radiant white ember, as if behind it was not a room… but a dying star.

He approached. His hand, despite the burns, pushed the door open. The sound of the charred wood… like the screams of the dead.

Then… he saw her.

The chamber had collapsed.

The ceiling had given way, unable to bear the grief, the large falling stones like the fangs of a monstrous stone beast tearing through mercilessly.

The wood had turned to ash, the carpet burned to nothing but black traces on the floor.

Amid this ruin… she lay. Duchess Loriana Nightover.

Prone on the ground… under the rubble… as if the castle itself had committed suicide upon her.

Her pure white hair, which he had seen drift like snow vapor in the winter frost, was now stained with ash, blood, and debris… yet remained radiant, as if refusing to submit to death.

Her face… that noble, regal face, like a statue from a myth carved with divine precision…

Was caked with dust, split from forehead to chin… as if halved, yet still carrying a trace of dead beauty.

Her hand? Extended upward… as if trying to save someone… or seek help.

Or perhaps… she simply wanted to touch the light… one last time. Her body? No longer a body… but a living tomb.

Her bones nearly visible, her black dress reduced to burnt remnants clinging to her like the wing of a charred raven.

Valco knelt, hands trembling… yet did not weep.

Even tears had burned.

All he did… was scream.

A scream unlike any human sound.

As if the entire castle screamed with him.

Loriana had died.

And the castle, and all it represented… died with her.

Ashes of honor … smoke still rose from the windows of Snowflower Castle, as if it were slowly dying… its moan echoed across the frozen plains, the cold air heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and charred wood.

Outside, the soldiers stood. Some lowered their heads in despair, others stared at the horizon, clinging to fragile shards of hope, praying that Ser Valco would emerge, or… that someone might survive.

Yunoi Nightover, the young deputy commander, remained at the castle gate, towering like an icy statue that knew no flight. He did not move, did not speak… only waited.

Suddenly…

A shadow emerged from the flames.

Walking heavily, as if carrying a weight heavier than death itself. His cloak torn, half burned, his arm bleeding hot threads of blood that sizzled as they hit the frozen ground.

Ser Valco… emerged.

But he was not alone.

He carried something.

A body.

A corpse.

Shrouded in a tattered gray cloak, barely visible… until an arm slipped from beneath it, dangling to the ground like a burnt tree branch.

An arm no longer human… or no longer truly so.

It was ghastly white, cracked, as if made from ice and fire together. Its fingers twisted, nails reduced to black shards… yet it bore the remnants of royal rings unmistakable to any eye.

Yunoi froze. Then covered his mouth, desperately trying not to vomit, eyes wider than any human should bear.

The Duchess… Loriana… Nightover.

He fell to his knees before his commander, bleeding from everywhere. Valco's face half-melted, his skin blistered and burned, his eyes barely visible beneath the swelling, blood, and ash.

Yet… he was crying. Tears streaming down his scorched cheeks, merging with the wounds and deepening them, as he murmured, as if speaking to a grave: "I… I have failed you… forgive me… my lady…"

It was the first time…

The first time Yunoi had seen this great commander,

who had never faltered before kings, never retreated before armies…

collapse.

Without thinking, he reached for the commander's chest, trying to remove his armor… but Valco shouted, yanking his hand back, nearly burning it off.

Yunoi cried out in shock, swallowed his disbelief, then lunged at Valco and forcibly removed the armor… revealing what no one should see.

Dark red skin, cracked, burned to an unbelievable depth, bones visible on the shoulder, some flesh fused to the armor from the heat.

Yunoi gasped, as if his heart had stopped, then rose and shouted to the soldiers in terror: "Bring compresses and bandages immediately!!!"

Then he fell to the ground before his commander, trembling: "Commander, these burns must be treated immediately, or infection… your lungs may fail… you may lose consciousness and collapse… even your heart…"

But Valco, in a low, hoarse voice, as if death itself whispered through him, said without raising his head: "No… this… this is my shame now."

Yunoi fell silent.

As if the words had strangled him.

He saw in his commander's eyes something he had never understood before.

The feeling of a man who had not only survived failure… but endured its shame.

He sat before him in silence, unable to speak. All he did was look at the ground… just as Valco did.

For the first time… he understood.

Dreamcrown – The Royal Palace

What made this war a double tragedy was not just the enemy's superiority… but that the capital, with all the lords of its noble houses, did not move to save the provinces.

And the reason… was a party.

On the first night of the attack, a grand royal banquet was held in the palace. An official invitation from King Adrion Laivovich, the tenth ruler of Arcadia, to every lord, noble, and head of a prestigious family.

It was said to celebrate a "historic trade agreement," but the truth some learned too late was that the invitation was a temporal trap…

While they sipped wine in the throne hall and listened to music, the enemy was sweeping through the kingdom's ports and cutting off trade and supply routes.

Ironically, some nobles that night were discussing the restoration of their summer towers… which at that very moment were burning.

When the news reached the palace on the eighth day of the war, the king ordered all the lords to remain in the capital and defend the throne.

He told them: "If you leave, you will be slaughtered one by one. But if you stay, the capital will hold."

Yet the eyes of the men and women in the hall rippled with anger… for they saw the smoke rising over their lands, imagining their people screaming amid the flames.

And still… they stayed.

For they no longer had anything else but to stay. They had tied their honor and loyalty to the crown until it became more precious than their own lives, as if their fall meant the collapse of all remaining meaning in their existence. Some fought by will, others simply stood because flight was no longer an option, and returning without victory was, in their eyes, another death—slower and harsher.

On the tenth day… the circle of siege around the capital was complete, leaving them trapped between honor that could not be bought and death that could not be avoided.

From the west and northwest, the enemy army stood like a wall of living steel. From the walls, the Arcadians saw their faces under their helmets, and in their eyes they saw more than greed… there was a cold, hard determination, as if they had come to close a book that had long begged to be torn apart.

Elsewhere in the kingdom… on the fourth day of the war.

Saveros – Raispon

The eastern road to Raispon slept under the illusion of peace… until it was awakened by the sound of iron.

The invading army avoided Saveros; the merchants' haven, the land of deals and gold. War held no meaning for them here, nor was there blood worth shedding… only stone walls and alleys teeming with accounts, not heroics.

Instead, they chose to breach Raispon's eastern borders, and from there to the western boundaries of the capital, where they would meet their brothers from the Second Fleet.

At this moment… Viscountess Violet Starlum, called the Night Star, the youngest daughter of Countess Atris Starlum, rode her black horse, its coat gleaming under the pale winter sun.

Beside her, a white carriage lined with gold, drawn by a forty-year-old knight, Ser Rayovin Starlum, and inside sat Duchess Crissia, the elderly lady with blonde hair streaked with gray, and beside her, her daughter Reelin.

Inside the white carriage adorned with gold threads, Duchess Crissia Starlum leaned her elbow on the window sill, her aged face framed by pale blonde strands streaked with silver, smiling gently.

She spoke in a warm tone, as if whispering a personal secret: "Thank you, Violet… I feel I've burdened you by taking me to Saveros. My body refuses to go out without twenty guards surrounding me as if I were a mobile fortress… But the markets there—ah, the markets. Full of life, with the faces of simple people, their laughter and honest toil. Yes, nimble hands steal here and there, sometimes disturbing the peace of shoppers… but who can truly blame them? They were born into misery that taught them no other way. And yet… walking through those alleys is still lighter, truer, than sitting with those arrogant nobles."

Reelin gave a wry smile, then said in a lightly sarcastic tone as she sighed: "Mother… you are noble too, as you know…"

Crissia turned her face away: "That does not matter to me."

On her horse, Violet listened in silence, a warm smile playing on her lips, her glowing blue eyes following the horizon as if it were an open book.

She spoke lightly: "It's alright, Grandmother… I will accompany you anywhere, anytime."

Her shiny blonde hair whipped in the wind, brushing her face like tiny feathers, yet she did not move it away. There was something in her gaze beyond the road… a subtle feeling crawling from her heart to the tips of her fingers.

Something in the air was wrong.

She turned her head, first to the narrow dirt road bending slightly to their right, then to the cliff stretching to the left of the carriage, where a deep river twisted below.

She listened… no, it wasn't just the wind. Hooves… or perhaps heavy human footsteps, synchronized, as if the ground itself pulsed with them.

Her chest tightened. She gripped the horse's reins, then suddenly urged it forward with force. The horse leapt like a black mass cutting through the air, while Crissia turned from the carriage window in shock, shouting with a trembling voice: "Violet! What are you doing?!"

But the rider did not stop, speeding along with increasing urgency, as if running toward a dark certainty.

Within minutes, she reached the cliff edge, stopping her horse abruptly, standing still as if her feet were glued to the earth.

Her eyes widened… as if her heart had skipped a beat.

Below her, a torrent of iron and black-and-red leather stretched across the land, a full army crawling without pause, devouring the earth as night devours the last threads of dusk.

The banners of Nightforce and Evalin fluttered in the wind like tongues of cold flame.

Her head grew heavy, her breaths ragged, her heart pounding like a warning bell. She pressed her legs against the horse's sides, and it surged forward along the road back toward the carriage, the wind screaming in her ears.

Ser Rayovin Starlum, the thirty-year-old knight, sat holding the reins, a heavy feeling creeping into his heart… a mysterious sense that the very air was about to explode.

From afar, Violet could be seen atop her horse, shouting and gesturing violently for them to leave. The distance swallowed her voice, leaving only fractured echoes in the wind.

She drew closer, her eyes fixed on the right side of the road… and there, emerging from the dust, eighteen armored knights, like waves of steel descending from the ridge. The moment their eyes fell on the convoy, their bodies bent over their horses' necks, and battle cries erupted from their throats, cries that carried the promise of death.

Violet reached the carriage, her face glistening with sweat, her voice sharp: "Ser Rayovin! Southwest! Full speed!"

Duchess Crissia Starlum leaned from the window, her features filled with concern and astonishment: "Violet! What is happening?!"

But the answer came in the sudden movement of the carriage… it lurched along the uneven road as Rayovin gripped the reins with iron strength, knowing any hesitation meant annihilation.

The duchess kept shouting, calling to her granddaughter, who remained standing, staring at their backs as they fled.

When Violet turned toward the approaching knights, she felt the ground shake beneath their hooves. She charged her horse toward the nearby forest, drawing part of the threat away from the carriage. As she expected, the enemy split; six knights followed her, while the remaining twelve continued the chase of the carriage under their leader. The wind whipped her face, her heart pounding as if her chest were constricting. Twisted roots and towering trees surrounded her like an ancient war corridor. She glimpsed, through the branches, the shadows of twelve men pursuing the carriage on the other side.

She gritted her teeth and whispered: "Damn… I must finish these quickly… even Rayovin won't withstand them all."

At the forest's deepest point, she stopped her horse abruptly. Her breaths were heavy but steady. She turned back to see the six approaching knights, their eyes glinting behind their helmets.

She dismounted slowly, planting her feet firmly, hand on the hilt of her sword.

Their leader signaled his men to halt, a sly smile playing on his face as he appraised her from head to toe: "Giving up so soon, my dear?"

She stood silently, her tight black military uniform embroidered with silver and gold threads, covered by a black cloak with a crimson interior, and black feathers on her shoulders like a dark crow's wings.

But the silence shattered with a metallic ring… her sword was drawn from its sheath. The man laughed shortly, descending from his horse, followed by the others. Another voice pierced the forest: "There you are! You're late! What are you doing?!"

Another enemy knight approached swiftly. She turned toward him but did not complete the motion…

The leader behind her lunged forward, sword flashing in his left hand, aimed straight for her heart. Time seemed to compress; she shifted her body to the left with deadly grace, watching the blade pass uselessly before her.

In the same motion, her sword rose from below to above in a blink, slicing through the inner leather armor, then flesh, then bone, severing the arm entirely in one clean strike.

The arm flew through the air, landing on the ground with the sword.

The man's scream tore through the forest, blood gushing, staining the earth like spilled wine.

Violet did not give him a moment… she spun her body, sword arcing like a crescent, then struck downward in a lightning motion, decapitating him. His head fell to the damp ground, lodged in its final place.

The forest's leaves shivered with the cold wind, the headless leader's blood still oozing onto the wet grass. Violet Starlum, nineteen years old, stood firm, her sword glittering with starlight, breath heavy, blue eyes blazing with ferocity, her body dripping with her enemies' blood.

The six remaining knights prepared themselves, and the second commander charged from his horse with a savage roar, followed by his men's cries, their horses' hooves striking the ground like thunder.

The first knight to face her lunged with his sword raised high. Violet deflected it with a sideways movement, then bent and twisted her body half a turn, using the momentum to slash violently across his belly. His scream broke into fragmented gasps as he fell to the ground, clutching his entrails.

She did not stop but surged toward the knight on her right. They collided with a violent strike that made her arms tremble, exchanging blows at incredible speed. He was strong and skilled, but his grip on the sword was reckless. Violet angled her blade sharply from below, severing his four fingers. He screamed in retreat, but before his weapon could fall to the ground, she thrust her sword through his chest, stopping his heart.

The third came running madly from behind the second, while Violet still held her fallen opponent's shoulder. She shoved the corpse forcefully to the left, keeping her sword embedded, piercing the third knight's chest with a lateral wound that did not kill him instantly. He staggered from the pain, and in that moment, Violet drew her sword and spun in a swift arc, cutting his head cleanly in one strike.

But there was no time to breathe; an unexpected blade attacked from her right. She barely parried, the fourth knight's blood splattering across her face, obscuring her vision. She gripped her sword with both hands, one on the hilt, the other on the blade, tilting it downward to make the fifth knight's strike slide away, causing his sword to fall to the ground. Before he could regain his balance, she raised her sword and severed his head.

But… the sound of hooves rose ahead, and the second commander's scream shook her chest before reaching her ears. He charged at her with his horse, and she rolled to the left at the last moment. She hit the ground below the slope, tumbling until she collided with a tree trunk, pain igniting in her shoulder. She lifted her head to see the commander dismounting, approaching with heavy steps.

"I'll kill you, I'll tear your limbs off, one by one, you cursed brat!!" His broad sword gleamed under the moonlight, his wide shoulders reflecting the presence of a man seasoned by death. He was not merely a swordsman… he was a brutal fighter, blending sword skill with raw physical strikes.

Violet, breathing heavily, sword in her right hand, her left shoulder still aching from the fall, turned slowly to watch him. Her eyes tracked his feet and hands together, anticipating the strike.

He approached, circling her, his eyes burning with rage. "My name is Rivard Draxious, and the man you killed was my brother… Strivar Draxious!"

Violet breathed heavily, wiping the blood from her mouth: "Really… I'm sorry about that… which one do you mean?"

His eyes flared, and he lunged at her with a violent strike. Their swords collided, sparks flying, pushing her back until her back hit a tree. A fist struck the side of her head, but she tilted just in time, the blow missing her ear. The next strike was a kick to her stomach, knocking her to the ground. Blood filled her mouth as she regained her balance.

Rivard smirked, then launched a high horizontal strike. She raised her sword to block, her forearm trembling from the impact. Before she could recover, he shoved her forward with his shoulder, making her stumble backward. In that instant of lost balance, he spun his sword like lightning, his iron-padded fist crashing onto her right temple as she leaned away from the deadly blade.

Her head spun, her vision shaking. Before she could retreat, a side kick struck her abdomen, forcing her to one knee.

He stepped forward, instead of using his sword, grabbing her by her armor's collar and slamming his forehead against hers with force. The impact echoed in her ears, blood trickling from above her right eyebrow.

She staggered backward, but he gave her no chance, swinging a diagonal strike toward her right shoulder. She raised her sword at the last moment, but the force slammed her back against a tree, her arm jolting from the shock.

He raised his sword again, and with a quick glance, she realized he intended to cleave her in half with a vertical strike. She slid to the side on the ground, the blade tearing the bark of the tree behind her.

She drew her breath sharply, her eyes refocusing. She remembered her teacher's words: "When your opponent rages… watch his legs, for they mark the beginning of his end."

She observed his steps… noticing the weight on his right foot during strikes, his left shoulder lagging for a moment in turns.

At his first thrust, she did not attempt to block, but stepped back half a pace, letting his blade slide through the air.

She spun sharply around his left side, delivering a powerful kick to the back of his right knee, unbalancing him momentarily.

He roared, spun in anger, attacking with a flurry of rapid, wild strikes. She no longer blocked with brute force but absorbed the momentum, redirecting it along her blade, lessening the strain on her arms.

Seconds passed… with every dodge, she slipped her blade into gaps in his armor.

A short horizontal cut across his inner thigh. A deep scratch along his right forearm. A sharp prick to his left side where no full metal protection existed.

The strikes were not lethal, but calculated, gradually wearing him down.

His steps faltered, eyes widening with every drop of blood staining the ground. He tried a final overhead strike, but his right leg betrayed him, and he fell to one knee.

His face stood before her sword, panting, his body lacerated and bleeding, as if the pain had finally caught up.

Violet raised her sword steadily, placing it against his neck. He looked at her with half-dead eyes, then spat blood onto the ground.

"Do it…"

With one clean strike, his head was severed, blood flowing violently, drenching the ground beneath him.

She stepped back half a pace, breathing hard, her face and armor smeared with blood.

She paused, panting, and looked up to see the last knight, eyes wide with terror, hands trembling, before he turned and fled into the trees. Violet remained standing, gazing at the stars through the forest branches, whispering to herself: "I should go to Ser Valco… the duchess is in danger…"

But… behind her,

The ground trembled under thousands of footsteps. She turned, seeing a full enemy army filling the horizon, their leaders on horseback staring directly at her, dread creeping into her body. Her hands, her heart, her entire being began to shake…

Her limbs froze, a strange cold rising from her feet to her chest, her heart beating at a strange slowness… she whispered, her voice breaking in the air: "Mother… Father… Barbara… it was… a trap…"

She did not wait for an answer from a world long gone, leaving her behind. She gasped deeply, lifting her sword with weighted hands, as if raising the last of her willpower.

She stood in silence, facing her fate…

But the human tide surrounding her did not advance.

A wall of men, staring at her like judges at a condemned soul, the air between them so thick she could barely breathe.

Suddenly, the air rose with the moan of taut strings, and the sound of a single, continuous release, like death itself sighing.

The sky blackened with a hail of arrows, a deadly cloud blotting out light, descending upon her mercilessly.

It was not a fight… but a public execution.

The first arrow pierced her shoulder, pushing her back half a step, followed by another in her thigh, and a third tearing her side.

The strikes continued, each taking a piece of her body and soul, blood erupting beneath her armor like dark bursts, falling on the grass like red dew.

She did not scream… only a short, stifled sound escaped her lips, fading with the whistling wind.

She heard each arrow piercing her clearly, the hollow sound made as wood tore through flesh and bone, until her body became like a canvas pierced by a mad artist.

Her knees trembled, she fell to the muddy ground, her sword still in her hand, fingers stiff around the hilt, as if afraid to let go even in death.

She lifted her head with effort, the world around her dissolving in a fog of pain.

Above her, the sky was no longer sky… but a wounded canvas losing its colors, dawn creeping slowly, erasing the last shimmer of stars.

That pale, golden-tinged light poured between the clouds like warm blood, reflecting on her tears mixed with blood, as if the night itself wept with her.

Her chest shivered with ragged breaths, and she smiled faintly, broken, carrying what remained of her pride and soul.

In a whisper barely escaping her lips, she said: "Even the stars… vanish when their time comes."

Then she closed her eyes, her head falling slowly to the side, as dawn swallowed the last shadow of her existence.

And with the extinguishing of her final breath, the tale of the "Star of the Night" ended.

The wind passed over her body, lifting a lock of her blood-soaked golden hair, as if bidding her farewell… That evening, the sky did not cry… but it reddened completely, as if writing her name across the horizon in blood.

On the other side of the forest…

The wind carried with it the scent of blood and iron, as if whispering what had happened on the other side. Ser Rayovin Starlum stood firm, as solid as a stone wall, before the carriage carrying Duchess Crissia Starlum and her daughter Reelin. His hands gripped his sword, and his stern face concealed a trace of worry no one had seen since he bore the title of Star Guardian.

From among the pine trees, the group's leader advanced on his black horse, his eyes glinting with the coldness of a wolf about to strike its prey. He dismounted slowly, walking with steady steps until he stood before Rayovin, staring directly into his eyes.

He smiled tensely, then spoke in a sharp, disrespectful tone: "Rayovin Starlum… the knight they call the Star Guardian.

It would be an honor to cut your throat here… but—" He paused, stepped closer, his voice lowering to a hiss like a serpent: "—as you know, I am no honorable man."

With a swift signal, eleven men charged at once.

The ground trembled under their steps, and the clash of swords on metal roared like thunder through the furious night. Rayovin defended with his body before his sword, parrying an attack from the right, then thrust forward, piercing one man's throat, spinning to split another's chest. Blood spattered across his armor and face, his eyes unblinking.

The first fell, then the second, then the third… yet the flood did not cease. A treacherous blow pierced his side, another pinned his right shoulder with a sword lodged inside. Pain tore through his breath, yet he raised his sword with one hand—the sword he had sworn before his lord to use to protect this family to his last breath.

With one strike, he cleaved the head of a knight to his right… but before he could turn, a sword pierced his heart directly.

It was him… the leader. His face was marred by a deep wound, yet he smiled with the air of a victor. He drew his sword from Rayovin's chest, then slowly drove it back in, as if pain were part of the punishment. Blood gushed from Rayovin's mouth, his teeth turning crimson.

He raised his gaze with effort, turning behind him… toward the carriage. His eyes were nearly closed, his voice a whisper filled with regret: "Forgive me… my lady."

Inside the carriage, Duchess Crissia watched the scene, her gaze hard, yet her eyes glimmered with tears she would not let fall. Reelin's lips trembled, panic nearly choking her.

Rayovin fell to the wet ground, his body collapsing like a tree trunk after succumbing to the axe. The leader wiped the blood from his face slowly, his eyes shifting to the door that suddenly opened.

Crissia emerged, dragging her daughter with her, her steps steady despite the storm raging inside her heart.

She bent down, picked up two swords from the ground, handed one to Reelin, and whispered in an unyielding tone: "Take it… and fight. I won't let them touch a single hair on your head, as long as I still breathe… If death is our fate, then let us die as we wish… not as they demand."

Crissia Starlum raised her sword, her grip tightening until her fingers whitened.

She lifted her gaze toward the horizon, where the sky burned the color of blood, the sun slowly retreating behind dark clouds. A faint smile appeared on her lips, and in her eyes shone both longing and pain.

She whispered in a hoarse voice, barely audible to her daughter: "Deyame…"

As if summoning him from the folds of absence. Reelin cried silently, but when she met her mother's eyes, she understood. It was not a choice… it was a command. She gripped the sword with every ounce of strength left in her hands.

The enemy left them no chance.

They charged like wolves at their prey, and the sky above remained silent—no rain, no thunder… as if it too held its breath.

A stab to Crissia's chest knocked her down, yet her hand remained gripping the sword even as she fell to her knees. Reelin was struck before she could even scream, collapsing into her mother's arms, their blood mingling, and the two clung to each other even after life had left their bodies.

They did not depart as mere victims, used and dragged to slaughter… but as noble women, facing their end with heads held high, choosing cold steel as the last embrace before shame could reach them.

Astelaria – Narvix

Narvix had once been a land brimming with life… now, it had turned to ash floating in choking air, covered in a gray layer of burnt dust.

Houses were no longer homes, but blackened shells, embers leaking from their crumbling walls, and alleys had become passages of coal mixed with blood.

Screams pierced the whistle of the blazing wind—mothers calling for children who would never return, children crying for mothers they would never see again.

Amid that hell, Barbara Starlum—the youngest daughter of Countess Atris Starlum—huddled between half-burned barrels, her head between her knees, arms pressing her ears, trying to block out the screams of death. She could not… the sounds penetrated her body before reaching her ears, a cold stab in her small heart.

A shadow of steel emerged from the dust—a knight covered in ash and blood, staggering as he made his way through the fleeing crowds. He shouted her name, pushing aside men, passing mothers clutching their children, stumbling over scattered corpses but never stopping.

He finally saw her… there, among the rubble, like a lone flower in a burnt land.

He ran to her, dropped to a knee, extending his hand with a voice mixing plea and command: "Barbara! finally found you!! Come… I'll take you away. I swore to your mother to protect you, and I will not fail!"

She lifted her head slowly, her face wet with tears carving lines down her dirt-stained cheeks. She said nothing, only nodded, trembling; any other choice meant remaining in this hell.

He embraced her and lifted her lightly, as if her weight had slipped from his hands. He ran to his waiting horse amidst the rubble, set her before it, pulled the reins, and took off.

For two hours of continuous riding, the scene around them shifted from ruin to remnants, and from remnants to a silent forest unaware of the tragedy approaching.

When the knight reached the border of the territory, the mid-afternoon sun leaning over the distant horizon… he saw the full scene.

Below them, Narvix sprawled like a massive corpse consumed by flames, and beyond its thick smoke, enemy banners advanced in parallel lines like the fangs of an insatiable wolf.

Through the smoke, he glimpsed the banners dividing… half the forces continued toward Vulkorth, but the other half—the heavier, more numerous—slowly veered, like a torrent finding its true course.

The knight froze, his eyes widening in heavy silence…

He understood.

They were only the beginning. Their true target… was the capital.

In the calm before the storm, Ser Robert sat atop his powerful horse, his eyes watching the blazing horizon in silence. Beside him, Barbara held herself, gripping the horse's mane and clutching her knight's hands, seeking hope in his silence amidst the sea of tragedies.

He spoke softly, whispering to his sorrowful heart, each word a prayer lifted in the sanctuary of fate: "The first part of the army… likely made its way from the north. If that's true, it explains their current silence.

They'll wait for the second division at the western city limits…

The second division will need time to breach Vulkorth's fortifications before merging with the first.

I'll reach the capital before them… or at least, I'll try."

He looked at Barbara, his voice firm yet carrying hidden tenderness: "Hold tight, little one, we have a long road ahead."

He tightened the reins and unleashed his horse like a storm wind, challenging danger, racing toward an uncertain future where the fate of his homeland would be written in blood and fire.

Six hours passed like an eternity. Ser Robert knew no rest, urging his horse relentlessly toward the capital, as if carrying the burdens of history on its back.

Three days later, and now the seventh day since the war began…

Vulkorth – In the burned town of Ravenholm, a battle raged like no other in recorded history, named The Crimson Twilight.

The Malacard forces defended their land with all their strength and resolve, led by Arthur Malacard, eldest son and heir known as the Soul Hunter, alongside his younger brother James and Ser William Malacard, who left no defense unguarded.

At the heart of the battle, Arthur stood tall at the forefront, his sword cutting enemy heads relentlessly, men climbing over piled corpses as if treading upon their own deaths.

The violet twilight became a horrifying scene of crimson blood, every drop telling a story of countless sacrifices.

But the end was tragic. In a moment of weakness, five knights betrayed him, plunging swords into his back and chest, yet he did not fall until he saw the battalion leaders fleeing.

Their swords were withdrawn with force, blood exploding like a red river in all directions. Arthur fell from the hilltop, his body surrounded by enemy corpses, his closed eyes still watching the twilight, now the color of deep crimson.

Ser William Malacard screamed violently, witnessing the death of his lord and heir. He threw himself into the heart of the battle, cutting his way fiercely, but stumbled and fell after an enemy sword pierced his heart.

As for James, the younger brother, he stood trembling atop his horse, staring at his brother's corpse. Then he turned to the knights surrounding him, and with a voice that rang with both pain and determination, he led his battalion forward, fully aware that death was their fate, yet knowing that the fight was still a duty.

One by one they fell, yet they did not abandon the ground they had bled upon.

The invading forces continued their advance, marching over the hills piled high with corpses, breaching the town's defenses, and carving a path toward the northern borders of the capital—where the fate of a nation now unfolded, written in ink of suffering and sacrifice.

Dreamcrown – The Capital's Borders

The dawn of the eighth day carried a strange chill—not from the air, but from the weight of fate hanging over the city. Ser Robert Starlum arrived at the city's outskirts, his horse panting, his eyes burning from lack of sleep, and Barbara clinging to his coat as if afraid the world would swallow her whole.

Three more hours along roads crowded with soldiers and horses, and he finally reached the gates of the royal palace.

There, stood Ser Malcolm Roland, Lord of the Outer Gate, his body like a wall of steel, his eyes measuring who entered and exited with the caution of a besieged commander.

Ser Robert dismounted slowly, set Barbara down beside him, and advanced with steady steps despite the fatigue gnawing at his muscles. He spoke in a firm voice, blending the duty of a knight with the urgency of a messenger: "I have important news for His Majesty the King."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed as he leaned heavily on his sword, as if words would precede his lips. He said in military coldness: "If you mean the invaders… the news arrived at dawn. We are preparing for an inevitable battle here."

Robert froze, as if struck by lightning. "Here…!?" His voice rose slightly, charged with shock and anger. "The battle will take place here?! Won't we move to meet them?!"

Malcolm did not raise his voice but said, stepping back in measured pace: "These are the king's orders… return now."

Robert suddenly reached out and grabbed Malcolm's arm tightly, his gaze carrying anxious hope: "Wait! Please… this child, she is Countess Atris Starlum's daughter… what am I to do if she is denied entry?!"

Only then did Malcolm turn to Barbara. He looked into her tear-filled eyes and saw the fear and orphanhood hiding behind her childlike innocence.

He sighed deeply, then signaled the guards to open the heavy gate, its iron hinges groaning.

Malcolm stepped forward and carefully took Barbara from Robert, while her small fingers clung ever tighter to his hand. She suddenly lifted her hand toward him, as if begging him not to leave, as if she knew that anyone who departed in this war… did not return.

Robert smiled through his pain, bending slightly to meet her eyes: "Do not worry, little one… I will return as soon as I find your sister."

She said nothing, but her eyes said it all.

Then the gate closed behind them with a heavy clang, leaving Robert standing before it, the cold wind passing between him and the stone, carrying whispers of farewell.

The Ninth Day…

The sky above the capital was no longer a sky, but a heavy cloud of ash and smoke, almost touching the towers of the royal palace.

Along its western border, the great army of the enemy forces of Arcadia stood in tight formation, rows unending like a wall, their spears glinting under the pale light, their black banners fluttering in a cold wind that foretold ruin.

The encirclement was complete… a steel ring had closed tightly around the western side of the capital.

Five hours passed… enough for Arcadia's army to take their positions.

Knights from every noble family stood side by side, their armor reflecting the colors of the dead sky, their swords groaning under the weight of waiting.

Behind them, the regular soldiers and royal guards in their gleaming uniforms, refusing to let their shine be tainted by defeat.

In the distance, the royal palace loomed as a final refuge, its white walls pretending strength while listening to the roar of approaching death.

The city's inhabitants had become shadows behind their walls. Windows closed, doors barred, eyes staring into emptiness, fingers trembling over racing hearts. Children buried their faces in their mothers' arms, and elders whispered silent prayers to a sky that no longer listened.

From atop the defensive walls, the Arcadian knights saw the western horizon…

There, enemy commanders on dark horses sat as if kings of ruin, exchanging cold glances, waiting for a single signal to unleash their flood.

Behind them, thousands of soldiers stretched like a shoreless sea, spear and sword tips rising and falling like metallic waves under the wind of war.

On the hills, enemy ranks arched like a giant bow, drawn to its limit, ready to release a single arrow… a fiery, bloody arrow toward the heart of the land that had not seen its like for centuries.

The moment was saturated with silence… a silence before the explosion, a silence heavy on the chest as if to break it.

Everyone knew that when the sun set today, it might not rise over Arcadia as it once did.

Dawn was near, but the sky remained a heavy gray, as if it knew the light of this day would not come from the sun… but from fire.

At the southwestern border of the royal palace, Arcadia's army formed a narrow semicircle, thirty thousand men facing a black human wall of seventy thousand warriors from Evalin, Nightforce, and their allies.

The air itself was thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and fear, and the distant drums pulsed in the ground beneath their feet.

Ser Variss Sathray stood on the eastern flank, moving among his men, placing a hand on a shoulder here, adjusting a spear there.

In the west, Duke Deyamers Starlum adjusted his helmet, the wind teasing strands of his pale blond hair. His eyes were not on the enemy, but on his soldiers… as if he wished to memorize their faces, knowing many would never see them again.

When the first enemy legion broke through the lines, the earth spoke.

Felled trees toppled, black pits appeared under their feet, covered with green leaves, hiding jagged stakes like the fangs of monsters.

Men screamed, fell, their legs shattered before they could be buried under the bodies of fallen comrades.

Muddy pools swallowed knights in full armor, leaving nothing but final air bubbles.

Yet they did not stop.

Like a blood-colored flood, they crushed all in their path, even if it meant passing over the corpses of their brothers.

They reached the enemy, and steel met steel.

The sky was filled with sparks from swords, the ground drank blood as if thirsty for centuries. In the center of the field, Deyamers Starlum was the eye of the storm. His sword, the Sword of Heaven, gleamed like lightning, cleaving arms, splitting helmets, opening chests. His movements were not mere combat, but a dance written hundreds of years ago in Arcadia's ancient texts.

Each step told the enemy: "You shall not pass." But glory does not protect from betrayal.

After four hours of hell, Deyamers faced two veteran knights from Evalin, parrying their blows together while attacking as if his body knew no fatigue.

The first fell to a sword through the heart, and he kicked the second until he shattered on the ground. At the moment he raised his sword to strike the second knight, death came unseen…

A short blade pierced his neck from the right side, exiting the other, sending a crimson cascade of blood.

He froze, his great sword slipping from his hand, the sound like a funeral bell.

To his right stood Earl Forlad Blodris, Master of the Twin Blades, waving his short swords like crow wings.

He wiped blood from the edge of his blade with cold eyes, then saw a crimson serpent watching him through the chaos… Duke Blatir Vanheim.

Blatir was like a walking nightmare. His face hidden behind a snake-shaped bloodstained shield, his hand crushing a soldier's head against the ground until it splintered like a melon.

His eyes had not known mercy for a long time, and his voice only knew orders of death.

Forlad increased his speed, his steps striking the ground like successive stabs, standing before Blatir Vanheim like a man facing a wall of steel.

When the two met, the scene was like a dance of death.

Blatir swung his Crimson sword in a wide arc, the sheer force of the strike making the air around it scream. Forlad ducked at the last moment, feeling the blade's heat pass over his head, then lunged forward and raised his blade in a straight upward line, aiming for the crimson serpent's throat.

Blatir, with unblinking eyes, tilted his head sharply backward, as if his body sensed the danger before his mind did.

Then he pivoted half a turn on his heel and delivered a sudden kick, its weight like a hammer, striking Forlad's left arm.

A muffled cry of pain lodged in his chest as he was thrown two meters back, staggering as if he had lost his balance, his arm dangling lifelessly at his side, the bones groaning beneath the skin.

He did not allow the pain to dominate him; instead, he launched his right blade in a swift, snapping motion. The steel spun through the air like a flash of lightning, nearly slicing Blatir's cheek—but the latter tilted his head slightly, letting the blade pass behind him and bury itself in the ground.

Forlad gripped his remaining blade in his healthy hand, tightening his fist until his knuckles whitened, and surged toward his opponent.

His speed was not that of a soldier… but of a man fighting for his final breath.

His steps fell like successive shadows, his swings like unbreakable waves—rapid strikes targeting every vulnerable point: a thrust to the torso, a slash to the knee, a scratch on the forearm, a small cut at the waist… each wound a message.

Then came the deadly strike—a swift swing at the neck, the blade gleaming like moonlight before darkness could swallow it—but it missed.

Blatir had seen death in his opponent's eyes before the hand moved. He stepped back just in time; the blade passed mere breaths from his face, nearly severing a strand of hair on his cheek.

In that brief moment, with Forlad's arm still extended in the air, Blatir clamped onto his wrist with a grip like a trap, lifted the young man off the ground as a hunter lifts his prey, then hurled him down with the force of a stone falling from a tower.

His back hit the muddy earth; the air left his lungs in ragged gasps, and his healthy hand released the blade against his will. A moment of paralysis seized his body, as if the earth had swallowed him.

Blatir stepped forward slowly, raising his crimson sword until it hovered over the young man's chest. His gaze fixed, as if reading a silent confession in Forlad's eyes, the air around them heavier than a wall of lead… ready to end everything.

But a tense voice cut through the din of battle: "My father… was treacherously killed!"

Blatir paused, glancing at the young man panting beneath his sword.

Forlad spoke, eyes burning with hatred: "He left his house in peace, only to find fifty men at his door. He carried no sword… They stabbed him before his home. I came to war for his blood, but the killer is not here… the killer hides in his palace, on his tainted throne… After all, you who pledged his loyalty have betrayed him… you are truly hopeless scoundrels!"

Blatir was silent, a flicker of something between pity and disdain glimmering in his eyes.

Forlad did not wait for a reply. He seized his lone blade and swung it toward Blatir's thigh.

It did not reach.

The crimson sword pierced his chest before the strike could land, and his body froze for a moment before collapsing.

His eyes, staring at the smoke-choked moon, froze forever.

At the edges of the battlefield, life and death exchanged roles without order.

The soldiers of Arcadia fought, knowing they were doomed, while the soldiers of Evalin and Nightforce fell one by one, convinced that victory was in their hands. Blood ran through the shallow trenches, and the dead were piled so high that it was impossible to tell which banner they had served. As the clouds covered the sun, everyone understood that this day would not be remembered as a victory… but as a stain of blood in the memory of the kingdom.

From the perspective of the Arcadian knight John Deavon: "I had lost track of time. Perhaps an hour… perhaps an entire day.

All I knew was that my arms no longer felt like mine. They were two pieces of cold iron, heavy, drenched in blood. My hand no longer knew whether it held the sword or whether the sword held me.

The enemy's shouts filled my ears, their black eyes gleaming from behind helmets.

I saw fear on the faces of my comrades, but I could not blame them… we were half their numbers, half their strength, and a third of their luck.

I had not seen the sky for hours. Dust, smoke, and the glow of fire made the world a breathing red ceiling above our heads. We retreated slowly, every step backward heavier than a thousand steps forward. My breath came in ragged gasps, and the sword in my hand felt heavier than my own body.

Then… in the midst of this hell, came the crack.

It did not start as a scream, nor as a military order… but like a curse breaking in the heart of their ranks.

I was fighting a massive man when I saw his eyes widen suddenly, as if he could no longer see me.

He stepped back two paces, turned his head toward the rear of his army, and ran.

I raised my gaze and saw what he saw: the black banner of Evalin, atop their blood-stained black flags, and at its heart rested the 'Black Spider,' in deadly silence. Eight red eyes gleamed in the darkness like angry embers, falling to the ground.

But they did not fall alone… they fell covering the bodies of two I knew well from the stories of the Red Soldiers.

In that moment, amidst the fog and ash, the earth trembled under the hooves of black horses.

The enemy's right wing was led by two of their greatest warriors.

Duke Fiory Dreanmor, the Steppe Wolf himself. He was no ordinary man, but a force of nature embodied in human form. Tall, frighteningly lean, yet his ash-colored eyes carried the endless cold of the steppes and the experience of a hundred battles. His face was scarred, each mark telling stories of the barbarian spears of the steppe tribes and the swords of southern princes.

What Fiory did in the south was no ordinary campaign. It was a lesson in brutal strategy. In less than a year, he shattered the Southern Green Alliance that had resisted the kingdom of Nightforce for generations. He did not merely defeat their armies; he broke their will.

Beside him, Marquees Mearov Soulvend, the "Lord of the Earthquake," a man said to have fought three decades of wars without losing a single battle, his arm alone enough to fend off ten men.

These two were not just leaders, but living legends for the enemy… every step they took ensured their wing would never break.

But fate in war bows to no legend.

The battle was like a wing of death and fire.

I watched it as if in a dream.

It was not a quiet infiltration, but an assault like storming the gates of hell.

On a small hill, while the front lines collided and shattered like waves on the rocks of blood, a small group of Arcadian knights cut their way through. Leading them: Duke Rossipov Malacard, the Battle Beast, his body itself a map of scars; Duke Blatir Vanheim, the crimson serpent carrying a sword as if it were part of his arm; and Ser Darren Castro, the Iron Horn, merciless in combat, yet his heart knew no betrayal.

The plan was not to quietly break the enemy lines… but to thrust a sword into its heart while fully awake. The goal was clear: eliminate Fiory, the Steppe Wolf, and Mearov, Lord of The Earthquakes—the commanders who formed the backbone of the enemy's right wing.

The advance began amid living hell.

Arrows fell like rain, spears sank into both earth and flesh. One of our knights fell, his sword flying from his hand before three spears impaled him. Rossipov did not hesitate; he trampled the body with his horse and continued the charge.

When they reached the enemy's rear lines, the battle turned into open slaughter. No room for a single strike, but a cascade of blows, each countering another. The enemy fought fiercely, aware that protecting their commanders was a matter of life or death.

Blatir cut off the arm of a guard, then lifted the man by his waist and threw him like a living shield before another volley of arrows. Darren lunged at a massive soldier, snapping his neck with a single motion before moving to the next. Rossipov, amidst it all, swung his massive sword, each strike cleaving bodies in half, blood splattering the armor around him.

Then they appeared…

Fiory, wielding two heavy axes, each movement shaking the ground and crushing bones.

Talrin, faster than a storm, his sword flashing like lightning, cutting tendons before cutting flesh.

The clash of giants was like the collision of two planets.

Rossipov surged toward Fiory, his roar tearing through the chaos; his axe met two axes, then struck Fiory's knee, forcing the Earthquake Lord to bend, before plunging his weapon into his chest, silencing his final cry.

Blatir charged Talrin, exchanging over twenty blows in seconds, until Blatir managed to paralyze his arm with his sword and drove the blade into his heart.

But the price was heavy…

Darren himself received a spear thrust across his side while fending off reinforcements and nearly fell, if not for Blatir lifting him and pulling him back as Rossipov covered their retreat.

The enemy did not understand at first… they thought the leaders had retreated. But when they saw the bodies of the Earthquake Lord and the Steppe Wolf lying on the ground, the irreparable crack occurred.

Their men, who had been pressing furiously moments before, suddenly had no eyes to guide them, no spine to support them.

Their screams scattered, their orders conflicted, and their feet recoiled as if struck in soul before body.

As for us… we smelled blood—but this time, it was the blood of victory.

I felt the earth breathe again. I saw our men, who had dragged their feet from exhaustion, lift their heads suddenly. One cry erupted from among us, from the mouth of a young knight: "ADVANCE!... KILL THE BASTARDS!!"

We surged forward like a flood after a dam breaks. We were not greater in number, but we hungered more for victory. Our strikes became heavier, our feet faster, and our eyes burned with a fire that had not been there minutes before.

Forlad Bloodris, the Earl said to kill as he breathes, whose name robbed sleep from his enemies' eyes.

I saw him lying on his back, eyes open to a sky he could no longer see, his short blades buried in the dirt instead of blood.

I was not close, but I swear I felt the void he left in his company, as if a stone wall had collapsed suddenly in their midst.

Our battle paused for a moment, as if the very air held its breath. The enemy began to turn… one shouting the commander's name, another calling for retreat, a third trying to deny what they saw.

But the truth was there… the truth that pierces the soul without a sword: their leaders were dead.

In battles, the sword does not kill alone… absence kills too. When one whom all believed unfalling falls, half the hearts fall with him.

That was the crack. And from the crack… light entered. Not sunlight, but another light of hope… a light that ignites blood instead of warming it.

From hope… was born the assault that tore their wing, devouring the heart of their army until nothing remained but fragments.

Then, the heavy step became a leap, and the trembling swords became claws. We began to consume their left wing, inch by inch, while they tried to close the gap… but no one can fill the void of a dead commander. And amid this blood… a seed of hope was born.

I felt a burning in my chest… not fear, but something else, something that made my hand raise the sword again.

I lifted my head and shouted with all the strength in my throat: "Forward! They are headless!"

I did not know if anyone heard me, but suddenly, other voices joined… then dozens… then hundreds.

We became the flood.

I struck the first man before me across the neck, and saw him fall as if his feet no longer knew the ground.

I saw my friend Milan, who had been silent all day, charge forward laughing wildly, toppling an armored knight to the ground. Even the wounded, who had been crawling just minutes before, took up their swords and returned themselves to the fight.

Flames surrounded us on three sides, but now we were the fire.

Every step forward cost us a man, but we took three from them.

The blood on the ground had become thicker than spring rain, yet no one looked down.

It was then I realized the battle was not for the strongest… but for those most stubborn in staying upright.

And with every Arcadian cry, I felt the earth tremble beneath our feet, as if the kingdom itself were pushing us onward.

When we broke through the first of their retreating lines, I knew we had not won the war… but we had wrested victory from death for a moment, and that was enough to keep us alive until tomorrow.

After another four hours of bleeding earth, the sky had no color but the ash of war, and the air smelled only of iron and blood.

There, amid the rubble and flames, stood Aqua Nightover and Raymond Vanheim, sixteen-year-old boys, yet their faces carried the features of men who had witnessed the end of ages.

Raymond stood, his sword resting on the ground, his face smeared with blood long dried, not all of it from the enemy. He lifted his gaze to the moon, but it had hidden behind dark clouds, as if refusing to witness what was happening.

Aqua sat near the body.

The man—a giant from the northern clans, his face now a shattered mask of shock and pain—was not what he had expected. There was no glory in this killing, no thrill in a righteous victory. Only a creeping cold began in his heart and spread to his limbs, stealing every sense.

He exhaled in ragged gasps, turning them into futile clouds in the winter air. His wide, vacant eyes did not stare at the corpse at his feet, but at a distant middle ground, seeing everything and nothing. The world dissolved into a dull mixture of gray snow and red fog.

Then the memories came.

Not like a torrent, but sharp, clear images, unbearably vivid, playing out on the battlefield stage:

The mocking smile… his uncle Newt, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth trembling in that annoyingly confident way, as he effortlessly deflected Aqua's fiercest thrusts on the training field. His smile said: "Expected."

The sigh… a deep, weighted exhale, released by Newt whenever Aqua's pride overpowered his wisdom—a sound carrying the weight of thousands of battles and a disappointment heavier than any insult.

The grip… not the strict grip of a commander, but a confident hand on his shoulder after a defeat, a silent language telling him to stand, to rise, to continue.

Aqua collapsed on the body. The whole world disappeared. No battle, no snow, no sounds. Only that pale face, and the two eyes that would never open again.

His hands trembled as they touched his uncle's cold cheek. The cold pierced his gloves as if stinging his soul.

The first memory… summer. He was small. He fell from a horse. His arm hurt. Newt lifted him with one hand, no scolding, no groaning. He only said: "Pain is temporary. But shame from fleeing is forever."

He broke down. Hot tears ran down the chest of his uncle's cold armor. His voice came out hoarse, choking. "Why did you leave me?"

The second memory… a winter night. Newt teaching him how to balance the sword. His large hand placed the boy's small hand on the hilt. "The sword is not a tool for killing. It is an extension of your will. If your will falters, it is merely a piece of iron."

He looked at his personal sword, "Firesong." His hand trembled. The blade that had tasted his uncle's defeat hundreds of times now felt strange, like a child's toy, a symbol of his weakness, his failure, his inability to be an extension of a strong will like his uncle's.

The third memory… Newt sitting at his chair in the office, exhausted. He looked at Aqua not with the eyes of a commander, but with the eyes of an old man carrying the world on his shoulders. "One day, you will bear this weight. And you will know that crying is not shameful. The shame is allowing tears to blind you."

But now the tears blinded him. He rubbed his eyes harshly, but they did not stop.

In that moment, the crying ceased. Silence fell. The last memory surfaced… Newt standing tall on the field, his black sword absorbing the light under the rain. His voice thundered: "Death is not our enemy. Fear of death is the enemy. Fight, and do not fear falling. Fear only that there will be no will left for those who come after you to continue the fight."

With a motion combining violence and awe, he drove Firesong into the frozen ground with a clenched grip. It was a funeral for the boy he once was.

Then his gaze fell on something else. Lying near a fallen banner, half-buried in snow mixed with ash… there was Firesong.

His uncle's sword.

Black steel, like absolute night, absorbing the light around it. Its worn hilt stained with Newt's sweat and indelible handprint.

His trembling fingers closed around the grip. A fierce electric shiver ran through his arm. The sword was heavier than he could bear. Its balance was strange. As if he held part of his uncle's soul, and its weight crushed him from within.

Yet… he lifted it. Then he moved.

He became a hurricane of grief, a storm of black steel.

Firesong sang in his hands, a song of vengeance his former master would never have blessed.

The journey from Wintersoul to Dreamcrown was not mere travel—it was a breach into a world turned into living hell.

Six days. Six days of continuous running, his body a machine knowing no rest, only forward drive. His feet bled inside his boots, each step sharp pain blended with unbearable grief. He ate while running, slept only a few minutes, then awoke, haunted by nightmares of Wintersoul scenes as ghosts that never left him.

He could not see the path. He saw his uncle's face in every shadow, heard his voice in the wailing wind striking his exhausted and angry face. The smell of blood and smoke clung to his nose, clothes, hair… a part of him, always reminding him of what he had lost, and what he must do.

The horse he stole from the ruins of Wintersoul died beneath him on the third day of exhaustion, so he continued on foot. He advanced as if some dark, hidden force were pushing him from behind. Aqua was no longer the boy who knew doubt or fear; he had become a strange being, calm on the outside, but inside a volcano of silent pain and rage.

He reached the outskirts of Dreamcrown at dawn on the ninth day of the war. The scene was different, yet carried the same taste: the taste of death and destruction. The battle raged, men's screams, the clash of swords, the whinnying of wild horses… all collided at him like a wave of chaos.

But he did not hesitate. There was no need for planning or direction. There was only necessity.

He erupted into the battle, not as a soldier, but as a destructive natural force. His black sword, Firesong, moved as if it knew its path alone, cutting and carving a path through enemy lines with frightening coldness. There were no cries of heroism, no challenges, no pride. Only deadly silence, and the fixed gaze seeking one thing alone.

The men around him, friends and foes, paused to see him pass. His appearance inspired terror: a pale youth, eyes icy and emotionless, clothes torn and stained with old and new blood, moving at lightning speed with inhuman strength.

His entrance was not reinforcements; it was a harbinger of vengeance, proof that some defeats are not the end, but the beginning of a wrath that will not rest until poured in the blood of those who caused it.

Aqua did not fight with skill or plan, but with raw, desperate pain, making his moves unpredictable and terrifying. He carved a path through the battle… not to win the war, but to find one answer.

Aqua gripped Firesong tightly. The trembling ceased. This was not a will for revenge. This was a commandment. He was no longer the boy who cried. He had become the will that would continue the fight.

He rose. His eyes no longer looked to the past. Only to the brutal future he must forge with his hands.

And when his voice came… it was not a voice. It was something savage, animalistic, ripped from the depths of his chest, from a place he had never known: "Who killed him?!"

Firesong pierced a soldier's armor, splitting him in two.

"WHO KILLED THE MARQUEES?!"

His shout was pure wailing, electrifying in its raw pain, rising above the din of war. He was no longer a fighter… he was the embodiment of grief, a question seeking an answer amidst a sea of faceless enemies.

"Who dared betray him? WHO KILLED HIM?!!!!"

A strong grip pulled his armor back. Raymond Vanheim's blood-stained, anxious face pierced his blurred vision: "Aqua! Stop! Control yourself! You'll be killed!"

But the words were empty noise. Aqua was lost in his storm.

Across the field… someone heard the cry of the wounded animal.

Duke Yorgoth Rakalion.

A mountain of dark armor, drawing his broad sword from the skull of an Arcadian knight. He turned, and his cold, calculating eyes found the source of the cries… a small wolf, wailing in pain.

He smiled slowly. A cruel smile. Not mockery, but acknowledgment.

This is the prize.

This is the heir of the house he destroyed.

He began advancing, heavy steps, each like a drumbeat announcing the approach of doom.

Aqua still screamed and resisted Raymond's grip, about to throw himself back into the inferno…

But suddenly, a sharp voice, like a blade, mocking as the abyss itself, cut through his cries with unbearable clarity: "Looking for the Black Tiger's killer… little mouse?"

Aqua froze.

Every muscle in his body tensed.

The world vanished… the battle… Raymond's warnings… everything dissolved into mute void.

Slowly, with mechanical rigidity, he turned.

And when his eyes met Duke Yorgoth's, there was no longer anger in them.

The fog lifted… and all that remained were shards of ice, sharp and focused with unbearable horror.

The question his heart had screamed at last found its answer.

The hunt was over.

The confrontation had begun.

He returned to the present… The scene did not unfold in silence, but within the fading roar of battle, gradually receding as if the world itself lowered its voice in respect for this decisive moment. Aqua knelt on his knees, not from exhaustion, but under the weight of a reality finally crushed beneath his grasp. His breathing came out in strained gasps, as if trying to expel the last traces of that nightmare.

Before him, lying on the ground that was no longer soil but a dark, choking mud, was Duke Yorgoth Rakalion. He was no longer the towering, strutting giant, but a broken corpse. His cracked black armor revealed the fatal wound inflicted by Firesong—not a heroic strike, but a desperate, final lunge from Aqua, blending every ounce of his skill with all his hatred.

Yet strangely… vengeance had not cleansed him. He felt no warmth, no sense of justice fulfilled. Only a void harsher than the cold of Wintersoul itself.

His hands, encased in torn gloves and stained with both the Duke's blood and his own, still gripped Firesong's hilt, embedded in the enemy's chest. He could see the reflection of his wide eyes in the polished dark steel. They were no longer icy eyes. They were the eyes of a ghost.

His fingers slowly loosened their hold, painfully deliberate, as if letting go of a fragment of his own soul. He looked at Yorgoth's body, then to the gray sky, as if awaiting an answer from any god who might be listening. Nothing. Only the whistle of cold wind carrying the moans of the wounded.

He raised his gaze to see Raymond Vanheim standing a few paces away, silent. No joy in Raymond's eyes, no relief. Only exhaustion and deep sorrow. A look that said: "And now… was it worth it?"

Aqua knew the answer. No. It was not worth it. Because Newt would not return. Because Wintersoul would not rise again. Because the boy he had been had died there, on the walls of the burning homeland, never to return.

Aqua was a silent witness to a tasteless victory, to a revenge that only fed the monster inside him, leaving him hungrier than before.

The battle around him slowed, step by step. But the war within him had just begun—a war with no victor.

The scene did not unfold in a void but within a battlefield torn by chaos and the silence that follows a climax. The scent of dried blood choked the air, mingling with the faint whinnies of dying horses and the whispers of men losing their lives.

In a corner of the field stood Marquees Scarline Saifer. His movements were mechanical, disciplined, devoid of any human whim. He did not examine corpses; he archived defeat. His long sword still dripped dark blood as he raised it to pierce another face—not out of need, but out of possession. Every thrust, every cut, was a mark he left on the skin of history, a confirmation that he had been here, the victor.

In complete contrast, at the heart of this disaster, stood Earl Yukron Windsword. No longer the majestic commander, he had become a living monument to grief. His broad frame, once commanding presence, bowed slightly, as if the air itself had suddenly grown too heavy to bear. His normally sharp, blue eyes wandered from one face to another, seeking not loot or victory, but something unbearable to find.

Then… he stopped.

No scream. No sudden collapse. Only total stillness.

Yukron's gaze fell on a body that should never have been here. Houston. Not as he knew him—a handsome knight, his voice carrying hope and pride—but as a pale, fragile, broken being. The blue scarf of the Windsword family, once wrapped proudly around his neck, was now torn and stained with battle mud and deep crimson. The two strikes to his chest were not ordinary wounds; they were a fracture in the armor of the heart, piercing to the deepest point in Yukron's own soul.

He raised his hand, the same hand worn from years of wielding a sword and leading armies. It trembled slightly, involuntarily, before touching his son's cold forehead. The touch was not a gesture of mourning, but a silent inquiry, a desperate prayer to an unseen being that this was wrong, that he would awaken.

Then, as if looking at the lifeless face had become unbearable, he raised his other hand to cover his eyes. It was the movement of a child hiding from a nightmare—not because he believed it would vanish, but because he could no longer bear to see it. In this temporary darkness he created for himself, he was besieged by images of his son; the first step, the first time he rode a horse, the last laugh they shared before the war broke out.

Time stopped. The distant roar of the reveling battle became irrelevant. The world shrank to a small space between a father's hand and his dead son's face.

When he lowered his hand, no visible tears fell. Yet the wrinkles on his face deepened, and his eyes carried the stagnant blessing of bottomless pain. The silence surrounding him was louder than any scream.

Then he moved. His first steps away from the body were unnaturally heavy, as if the soul of every fallen soldier, every shredded hope, had been poured into his shoes. Each step was a monumental effort—not against gravity, but against the pull of despair that sought to drag him down to the earth, to be beside his son forever.

He did not weep. But his walk was the highest elegy the world could ever hear.

At the edge of the battlefield stood Virion Rosefeld, leaning on two stacked corpses, catching his ragged breath. In front of him sat Earl Lenardo Shadokel, his body near death, his left arm severed, and his torso open like a torn page. Virion gave a bitter smile. "Look at you… old man. Still refusing to fall even between life and death. It seems Nightforce men are harder than stone…"

Lenardo's hand trembled as he tried to reach his sword, but Virion rose slowly and plunged his blade into his heart. Lenardo's eyes widened for a moment… then the last light in them died, and he closed his eyelids in silence.

In the farthest corner, Ser Darren still fought, refusing rest, methodically finishing the last soldier. His sword sank more into the ground than into flesh, as if fatigue had conquered his deSere to fight.

When the clash of swords became only defeated echoes, and the horses' whinnies became intermittent groans, the air still hung heavy with the scent of forged iron and blood-soaked soil. Faint sunlight pierced the battle dust like pale fingers touching the face of ruin.

Duke Sathiron Blackmirth stood like a rock eroded by waves. His aged body bent under the weight of heavy armor, yet his back remained straight with will of iron. Blood that was not his own made his face resemble an ancient ritual mask, cracked by lines of time and fury. But his eyes… his eyes were glowing embers, seeking not victory, but assurance.

Ser Kelioth Blackmirth approached cautiously over the debris-strewn ground. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, trying to pierce the roar of the Duke's heavy breaths. "Are you alright, my lord?"

Sathiron turned slowly, as if moving his head required monumental effort. The look he gave was not only one of displeasure, but of disgust at the question itself. "What do you think!?" he roared, his voice hoarse from fighting and smoke. "I stand here at the back, surrounded by dozens of guards, while my men die! Of course I will be fine, you fool!"

Kelioth did not anger. He only exhaled and cast his gaze over the Duke's shoulder, toward the battlefield where men drew their last breaths. He understood that the lord's anger was not directed at him, but at his own failure, at the silk gloves he had been forced to wear by "strategy" while his heart longed to be at the front.

But Sathiron's eyes did not stop searching. "Have you seen my son?" he said, scanning the tired, filthy, wounded faces… looking for one face. He no longer heard Kelioth's answer to his last question: "Forgive me, my lord, I have not seen him since the Sixth Battalion attacked the East Wing. Chaos has reigned since then."

It was not the words that constricted his heart, but the silence that followed. That void of certainty. Then, he saw something. At the far edge of his awareness, where a ruined stone wall met the shadow of a collapsed tower.

Silvia.

She was sitting on the ground, curled in on herself. Her head between her knees, as if wanting to vanish from the world. She did not cry, did not wail. She was still in an unnatural way, like a statue of grief itself. The black cloak she wore, the emblem of the Blackmirth family, had been removed and laid on the ground beside her… like a temporary shroud.

"Silvia!" he shouted, his voice for the first time this evening carrying something other than anger; raw fear. "Silvia! Have you seen your brother?!"

He rushed toward her, tripping over his cuirass, heedless of the debris beneath his feet or his short, broken breaths. He stopped before her, his giant frame casting a shadow over her. "Silvia…" he murmured again, his voice softer, more pleading. "Where is Timothy…?"

She lifted her head.

The face that appeared to him was not the strong girl he knew. It was the face of a lost child, covered in layers of dust, blood, and tears that had drawn lines across her pale cheeks. Her shining silver eyes were swollen, gazing at him with unbearable guilt.

Then she exploded.

"F… Father… I… I… I'm… I'm sorry… I'm so… so sorry… father… I'm so, so sorry !!!…"

The words tore from her like shards, while her body shook like a leaf in a storm. She did not apologize because he had erred, but because she carried the news that would destroy him. She was the messenger, and the message was death.

In that moment, Sathiron was no longer a duke, a commander, a warrior. He was a father.

His world, built on strategy, dignity, and pride, began to crumble at his feet. Instinctively, he leaned his head toward what he had been desperately looking at moments ago… toward the black cloak spread on the ground.

There, under the dark cloth, there was a form. Human shape. And the faint gleam of a broken sword beside it. And a… dark stain, darker than black itself, spreading across the fine fabric. No explanation was necessary.

The entire battlefield, with all its noise and pain, had disappeared. There was only him, his broken daughter, and that silent form beneath the cloak.

Silence.

It was not the silence of acceptance. It was the silence before the storm. The silence that precedes the earthquake that will destroy everything.

It was not the silence of acceptance. It was the silence before the storm. The silence that precedes the earthquake that will destroy everything.

Dreamcrown – Inside the Royal palace

Duke Lucas Nightover entered the throne hall, followed by Ser Varisss Sathray, as if they dragged the shadows of war into the heart of the stone itself. Lucas was covered in a cloak of blood, with no distinction between the blood of enemies and the blood of his comrades. From his chest pocket, he drew a white handkerchief, stained crimson, and slowly wiped the drops clinging to his pale face, as if they refused to leave him.

The noble eyes ceased staring at the throne to fix themselves upon him. The silence in the hall was not respect—it was shock.

Someone whispered: "Did he fight alone? No one saw him… where did all this blood come from?"

Doubt passed from mouth to mouth until it became a muted murmur. At the door, Ser Variss stopped to speak with a guard, while Lucas continued forward with steady steps, moved only by the weight of the message he carried. He heard the whispers rise and cut through them with his deep voice, without looking back: "Close your gilded mouths… he who has not set foot on the battlefield, he who has not tasted blood, has no right to judge the ghosts that return from it."

Lucas closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, and then stood before the king, his icy eyes tearing down the walls around the throne. He spoke the word for which all those souls had fought: "We have won."

But King Adrion Laivovich did not lift his head. He was sunk between the arms of three women, like courtesans, laughing softly as if the blood outside the hall had never been spilled. Lucas's eyes met his for a brief moment, and he felt a bitterness never tasted even in the battlefields. He clenched his hands tightly and remained silent.

Then he saw one of them place her thigh on the edge of the throne, preparing to sit near the king. In that moment, everything changed in his eyes… the cold of ice turned into a black twilight of anger. He took a single step forward unconsciously, as if something inside him had been unleashed.

But the king's voice came sharp, rough, and cutting: "Stay where you are… Duke Nightover."

Lucas froze and returned to awareness. The woman who had been about to sit saw that look, that deadly spark behind the blue, and withdrew silently, as if pulling her hand from the mouth of fire. The king noticed her hesitation, sighed heavily, and gestured for them to leave.

He rose from the throne and descended slowly. His voice, as he passed Lucas, was sharp as a sword but with a lethal cold: "Do not you dare take such a step before me again."

Then he continued on his way, leaving behind the echo of his words in a hall that no longer knew whether it was a battlefield of victory or a theater of humiliation.

As dawn crept slowly, like a cold dagger cutting the arteries of darkness, a new sun was born over a kingdom that had bled slowly and heavily—ten days of hell scattered across its hills, carving lines of pain into the moments of history that would never fade.

The air carried only the scent of blood, and the heavy breaths of silence devouring the cries of the fallen in the darkness. Outside, shouts of victory rose, the sounds of joy and celebration reaching the streets, while the eyes of the fearful trembled in the crowd, searching for faces that had vanished, for souls extinguished, for bodies that might never return.

And despite the vivid colors and loud melodies, a single question lingered like a shadow weighing on hearts: Would the souls that had departed return? Would hearts be sated by the warmth of embrace, or would the castle stairways remain soaked in endless blood?

The war was over, but its price was unbearably high… heavier than all the broken swords, heavier than all the hearts that had shattered.

And in that moment, as the last cries of battle faded, silence became deadlier than any weapon…

A silence screaming the bitter truth… that victory comes not without loss, and that all who returned carried in their chests a wound only time—or death—could heal.

If there was a glimmer of hope in this new dawn, it was a glimmer ignited by unquenchable sorrow, and a memory that would not die…

And as the sun rose, so did the weight of memories, leaving the kingdom under a heavy sky… where none who fell were forgotten, and none who remained forgiven.

The name "War of the Black Sun" was not born from a celebrated victory, but from a cold death haunted by darkness.

It was not a passing title; it pierced the darkness where voices broke, dreams shattered, and night fell where the sun was supposed to shine.

On the day the battle erupted, the earth did not cease to tremble, nor did the blood stop flowing.

The sky, at a troubling moment, churned as if its heart had stopped beating, and black winds rose, deliberately hiding the sunlight behind a dark veil, as if nature itself bore witness to the magnitude of the tragedy that painted the sky.

That sun, which should have symbolized life and warmth, had become like an open wound—a disc of glowing coal above the heads of people who had become ghosts walking on blood-stained ground.

On the battlefield, under that terrifying darkness, resolve broke, bodies collapsed, and cheers fell silent, replaced by the groans of the wounded and the lamentations of the dead.

Survivors bore in their eyes the images of those left behind, their souls trapped between anger and despair, realizing they were not mere casualties of conflict, but witnesses to a moment that had frozen time, making the sun sink into its own darkness, with no return.

And amid this darkness, whispers began to rise from the lips of warriors, from dust and smoke, a name ringing like a funeral: "The Black Sun."

Thus was born the "War of the Black Sun," from blood spilled under a dead star, from heroes whose names vanished beneath its heavy shadow.

A name carrying the cold that pierced the bones, the flames that never died in hearts, and the terror that day had imprinted on souls, haunting all who survived it to their last breath.

A soft voice, like the flutter of a bird's wing, pierced the thick wall of her memory, between past and present: "Mother… why are you crying?"

Countess Abigail trembled as if waking from a deep dream. Her eyes, which had been staring into infinity, suddenly focused on the small face before her. "Cayun" was looking at her with a gaze that blended childlike curiosity and instinctive concern, his wide blue eyes reflecting the image of his mother shedding tears whose cause he could not understand.

With a trembling hand, but in a delicate, familiar motion, she lifted her fingers and wiped the tears from her cheeks. The smile that formed on her lips was fragile, like thin glass attempting to conceal a deep crack within.

Abigail's voice was soft and gentle, trying to hide the thunder still rumbling in her skull: "It's nothing, my little dragon… I just… remembered a somewhat sad story."

Cayun was unconvinced. He looked at the drawing in his hands, then at her tears, which were not entirely wiped away.

Cayun: "A story?… Like the story of the Black Sun War?"

Abigail's heart nearly stopped. She drew a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to lift an invisible weight. Then she sat beside him on the carpet, her black silk robe flowing around her like a pool of shadow.

Abigail: "Yes, my love. Like those stories… but sometimes, even in the darkest tales, there is a reason to remember them." She gently hugged him, sitting close, taking the drawing from his small hands. She looked at the Black Sun he had drawn.

Abigail, in a calm tone, trying to weave wisdom from pain: "This sun… it was not evil. It was sad. Sad because it had seen so many painful things. And I saw so many brave ones, like your brother, sacrificing everything to protect those they loved."

She paused for a moment, as if hearing whispers from the past.

Abigail: "We do not draw it or remember it because we love the pain… but because we do not want to forget. We do not forget those who sacrificed. We do not forget the price of the peace we live in now. Because forgetting… is true betrayal."

Cayun looked at the drawing, then at his mother, as if understanding something for the first time, even if he could not yet put it into words.

Abigail: "Tears are not a weakness, Cayun. They prove that our hearts still know the difference between right and wrong. Between darkness… and light."

She stood and kissed his forehead. Her tears had dried, but their trace remained in her eyes, like a mark from a past that would never vanish, yet would not dominate the future either.

And so, the Black Sun War, which had erupted seven years ago, remained a long shadow cast over the kingdom of Arcadia. It had not been merely a struggle for land or power, but an existential earthquake that shook the foundations of the old world, leaving behind fertile ground of wreckage and memory.

It was a war in which no one had truly won. It left behind a world resembling a vast field of open wounds, disguised under the banners of victors. Empty palaces with their thrones stood haunted by ghosts and absence. Families bore great names, yet their hearts were torn between pride in fallen ancestors and grief for children who would never return.

The Black Sun had officially set over the battlefields, yet it continued to rise every day—in the nightmares of survivors, in the silence of the departed, and in the eyes of children who inherited stories too heavy for their small shoulders. It became a memory celebrated in official speeches, mourned in closed rooms, and feared for its return in every quiet moment.

The kingdom had healed its superficial wounds, filled the trenches, and rebuilt the bridges.

But the peace that prevailed was fragile, steeped in bitterness and an unspoken fear that the black shadow which fell seven years ago might be merely a passing cloud before an even greater storm yet to come.