The Marches had never been quiet lands, but now they were a battlefield without banners. Villages smoldered under the weight of raids, not from Veilspawn but from men. Factions of petty lords raised militias, mercenaries marched behind stolen sigils, and the name Kael Rivenhart was shouted in blood and smoke as both savior and scourge.
Kael and his companions cut through the heart of it, their path winding through ruins and whispers alike. Every town they entered was divided—half kneeling, half cursing.
It did not take long before blades were drawn.
The first clash came in the village of Cindralin. A group of armored riders thundered into the square, their black-and-gold tabards bearing the sigil of House Vaelor, a minor court sworn to the Sovereign Thrones. Their captain sneered at Kael the moment he dismounted.
"You bring the Marches to ruin," he spat, his voice sharp with hatred. "The Courts will hang your body on their gates before this month ends."
Kael said nothing at first. He only rested a hand on his blade, the crimson aura flickering faintly around him. Behind him, Lyra raised her bow with quiet precision, while Darric stepped forward, shield gleaming, to stand as the wall he had always promised to be.
The captain drew steel. "Seize him!"
The fight erupted.
Kael moved like storm and fire, his sword cleaving through the first knight in a single sweep. The crimson aura flared as he cut through shields and steel as though they were parchment. When a second knight lunged, Kael twisted, driving his blade upward in a crimson arc.
"Red Fang!" he roared, and the attack split armor and bone, the knight collapsing in a spray of crimson mist.
Darric slammed into two others, his shield cracking ribs, while Lyra's arrows struck eyeslits and joints, dropping armored foes with merciless precision. Isryn vanished in shadow, reappearing behind one knight only to slide her blade across his throat.
Within minutes, the square was red with bodies. The survivors fled, screaming Kael's name in terror rather than defiance.
When the dust settled, Kael wiped his blade, his crimson eyes narrowing. "They'll send more. Every skirmish we fight here is only sharpening the Courts' hunger."
Lyra's voice was quieter, edged with worry. "And every time you raise that blade, Kael, they believe more and more that you're not just a man—they believe you're a Sovereign reborn."
Kael turned to her, his voice flat. "Then let them believe what they want. I'll decide what I am."
Two days later, their path led them to the gates of Stonehollow, a fortress-city where one of the fractured Sovereign Courts had gathered to debate their next move. Banners of a dozen houses fluttered above the walls, each proclaiming loyalty not to a single king but to their own ambition.
Inside, the air reeked of politics—perfumed courtiers whispering like snakes, armored knights eyeing one another with suspicion. The great hall of Stonehollow echoed with voices raised in anger.
At the center, the Sovereign Court debated.
"Kael Rivenhart is a danger!" thundered Lord Vaelor himself, his face purple with rage. "He gathers rebels, burns villages, and spits on the Thrones!"
"He defeated Malrik's general," countered Lady Serenya, her voice cool and sharp as ice. "If the Veil rises again, who among us has the strength to meet it? Not you, Vaelor."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some saw Kael as weapon. Others as rival. Still others as omen.
And then the doors opened.
Kael entered, crimson cloak trailing behind him, his companions at his side. The entire court fell silent, dozens of eyes locking on him—some with awe, some with hatred, and some with the fear reserved only for prophecy.
Kael's crimson gaze swept the hall. "You argue over crowns while your lands burn," he said, his voice carrying through the chamber like thunder. "If you would test me, then do it here. But know this—if you raise your blades against me, I will not stop until your thrones lie in ashes."
The hall erupted in chaos—shouts, accusations, threats. But beneath it all, the whisper spread again, heavier than before.
Crimson King.