The storm over Veyrath's cliffs had not eased since morning. Black waves battered the jagged rocks below, as if the sea itself sought to rip the land apart. In the high watchtower, Altharion stood alone, cloak snapping in the wind, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon. Somewhere beyond that line of gray water, his enemies gathered. Somewhere out there, the last chain holding the realms together was about to break.
The messenger's words still rang in his ears. The Fourth Seal has fallen.
It had been inevitable, yet the finality of it clawed at him. He could almost feel the ripple in the world's magic, the subtle shift that signaled something ancient stirring. He did not fear death, but he feared what would come after—when the balance was gone and chaos ruled.
A voice, low and rough, broke his thoughts.
"You've been standing here for hours. Staring at the ocean won't stop what's coming."
Altharion turned to see Kaelen, his second-in-command, stepping into the tower chamber. Rain slicked the man's dark hair, and his armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
"I am not trying to stop it," Altharion said evenly. "I am trying to see where the tide will break first."
Kaelen frowned, walking closer. "The scouts report enemy ships already crossing the southern passage. We'll have maybe two days before they reach the shore."
"Then we'll meet them at the cliffs," Altharion replied. "Make them bleed for every step."
Kaelen hesitated. "And the people in the lowlands?"
For a long moment, Altharion said nothing. His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "Evacuate them. Every village, every farm. No one stays."
It was a decision that would cost him in the eyes of many—abandoning fertile lands and homes. But he knew this wasn't just a battle. This was the opening move of a war that would burn through kingdoms.
As Kaelen left to give the orders, Altharion descended the tower, his boots echoing in the stone corridors. The fortress felt heavier tonight, as though the walls themselves sensed the approaching tide. Servants moved quickly, packing supplies. Blacksmiths hammered out the last of the spears. The air smelled of oil, iron, and tension.
In the war room, a great map of the realms lay spread across the table. Red markers showed where the enemy had taken ground; black ones marked lost fortresses. Veyrath stood like the last nail in the coffin, surrounded on three sides by hostile forces.
A shadow moved at the edge of the room. "You've waited too long," a voice whispered.
He didn't startle—he knew that voice. Turning, he saw her: Serenya, the shadow-walker, stepping out from a patch of darkness as though it were a doorway. Her eyes glowed faintly violet, reflecting secrets she would never speak aloud.
"They'll come with fire," she said, walking to the map. "And with something worse than soldiers."
"I know."
"You can't hold them here forever, Altharion. If the Fifth Seal breaks—"
"It won't." His voice was firm, but inside he felt the uncertainty gnawing at him. "Not while I still stand."
Serenya studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Then I hope you're ready to stand against gods, not just men."
Before he could answer, she vanished into shadow again, leaving only the faint scent of ash behind.
Night fell heavy over Veyrath, and the wind howled through the battlements. Altharion returned to the highest wall and looked again at the sea. Far on the horizon, black shapes moved—ships, dozens of them, cutting through the waves like blades.
The storm was no longer just in the sky. It was coming for him. And he intended to meet it head-on.