Chapter 12 - Gathering the Forgotten

The sun rose like a slow fire behind thick clouds, spilling weak light over lands broken by time, war, and forgotten dreams. The air was heavy with the smell of ash and old blood, and the earth itself seemed to tremble under the weight of what was coming. Ceyr moved through the ruins of fallen cities, his steps silent but full of purpose, each footfall shaking the cracked stones like the heartbeat of a waking god. His body was a map of glowing runes, ancient symbols burning beneath his skin, pulsing with the cursed power of the throne he had claimed. But this power was not enough, no king could rule on strength alone, and Ceyr knew the truth deep in his bones — he needed more than power. He needed an army, a force made not just of soldiers, but of those who had been forgotten by the world, those cast aside by fate, by kings, by gods. He reached out with his senses, stretching them like dark threads across the land, listening to the cries hidden in shadows and silence. From the deepest caves where monstrous beasts with burning eyes watched patiently, from the shattered temples where chained spirits whispered secrets of ancient wars, from desolate villages where cursed children huddled beneath broken roofs, all answered his call. They came in the thousands, the tens of thousands, crawling from darkness, from exile, from pain, drawn to the power that promised them more than survival — a chance to rewrite their fate, a chance to rise with the Devourer King and claim a place in the new world. The ground beneath them cracked and groaned as this army gathered like a storm about to break, a living sea of shadows and fire and hope twisted together in fierce determination. Ceyr stood before them, his eyes burning brighter than the dawn, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade, promising not mercy, not peace, but revolution, a world torn down and rebuilt from ash and bone, and the forgotten roared back their agreement, a sound so fierce and wild it shook the very sky, waking slumbering powers buried deep beneath the earth, powers that hummed with ancient magic long lost to memory. But far beyond the horizon, the kingdoms watched with fear and fury, their towers of glass and steel trembling as the Archlords met in urgent councils, their faces pale and voices filled with dread. They had tried to kill Ceyr, to break him before he could rise, but he had survived the Trial, and now he commanded a force unlike any before, a force that did not seek conquest for gold or glory but sought to shatter the chains of a broken world. As night fell, the sky roared with thunder and lightning, the stars hidden behind swirling clouds, and Ceyr raised his hand, and the earth responded. Mountains cracked, rivers changed course, and forests bent low like they were bowing to a new master. Around him, the shadows swirled and danced, reaching out like dark fingers, and his army moved forward, unstoppable, driven by a hunger not just for survival but for freedom and power and vengeance. Each step echoed with the promise that the world's old order was ending, that a new dawn was coming — but it would not be gentle. It would burn. It would roar. It would devour. And Ceyr, the Devourer King, was leading the way into that dawn, a storm that no one could stop, a shadow that would swallow the sun itself. The forgotten had risen, and the world would tremble forever.