The city bled long before the swords began their slaughter.
From the northern wall of Ora, the proud capital of Uruk, Max Krios stood tall, his gaze fixed on the rising dust as allied banners approached—though none of them truly bore loyalty to Uruk anymore.
Horses neighed. Armor gleamed. And betrayal marched boldly beside conquest.
From behind him, Marcus appeared, his boots echoing softly on the stone. Dust clung to his armor like memory clings to guilt. He placed a firm hand on Max's shoulder.
"Well done, Max… You are now a man."
His voice was low, like the hiss of a blade unsheathing.
He leaned in and whispered:
"The throne… lies within your grasp."
Max could hardly contain his excitement. Guilt over killing his brother Alex faded beneath the weight of glory.
For the first time in his life, he felt seen. Recognized.
"Finally," he said with pride, "I will shape a kingdom… and carve my name into history."
Marcus merely smiled. Then turned and walked away, leading the Ashurian forces and his traitorous Uruk soldiers toward the palace.
From the shadows, General Nirsa watched.
Silent. Patient. Sharp.
As Max descended into the command tower to prepare for his "rule," she followed with steps as quiet as snowfall. He noticed her only when he turned to greet her inside the great war chamber.
"General Nirsa!" Max extended his hand with delight. "Together, we shall rebuild Uruk into something greater."
She didn't take his hand.
She drove her sword through his chest.
The blade pierced flesh and shattered ambition in one swift motion.
"W–why…?" Max gasped, blood spilling from his mouth.
She whispered:
"Orders from the King of Ashur. None of Karis' bloodline must survive."
He collapsed, eyes wide with shock and betrayal.
As darkness claimed him, regret etched itself into his features.
And then he died.
A pawn… used… and discarded.
Hell followed.
Marcus, leading Uruk's traitorous forces, and Nirsa, commanding Ashur's ruthless legions, stormed through the streets of Ora like a plague.
The few loyal soldiers were butchered.
Volunteers from farms and villages were burned alive.
Boys barely old enough to lift a sword were slaughtered in the town squares.
The blood of the innocent seeped into the gutters. Screams filled the sky.
And the air itself turned red.
Within the palace, Queen Lina Krios prepared herself for the inevitable.
But she had no idea that fate had already chosen her.
Beneath the palace, far below the golden halls and velvet-draped rooms, in a cold, damp cell hidden within the queen's wing, sat a prisoner.
Daniel Krios.
Shackled. Silent.
His long black hair veiled half his face, but his amethyst eyes still gleamed in the shadows… and his lips curled into the faintest smile.
A maid entered—young, plain, and forgettable. She carried a bucket of water and a rag.
"May I share something, my lord?" she whispered, voice trembling.
Daniel slowly looked up, as if he'd been waiting for her.
"The king is dead… Max betrayed us—and died as well. The capital has fallen. And soon… so will the palace."
His smile deepened.
"Did you complete your task?" he asked quietly.
She nodded.
"The Shadow Army… awaits your word."
A soft laugh escaped his throat.
Then he whispered:
"The first piece has fallen…"
He raised his head fully, and his violet gaze burned in the darkness.
"…Now, the second."
And in the burning veins of a dying kingdom,
a ghost… was beginning to rise.
The real war… had yet to begin.