Velzarith.
The Bonegnawer Mist.
Invisible to the naked eye, but hungering, patient, and eternal.
It was not a mist in truth, but a swarm — a vector birthed from chitin and venom, so small the world could not see them, yet so vast they could devour an army. The entomancers marched not as men, but as the silent plague-bearers of the Dominion. They spread the invisible cloud in waves, each breath of wind carrying it further across the Borderlands.
The soldiers of Elyndral did not see.
The soldiers of Elyndral did not feel.
Not yet.
For Elyndral was not unprepared.
From the high stone towers, their scouts had returned days ago with the whispers of war. Their armies, hardened by blood and iron, stood in ranks that stretched beyond the horizon. They were a kingdom of strength, bred in the shadow of mountains, trained for the cruelty of land where only the strong endured. Their bodies carried power enough to shatter stone, and their swords were not merely steel, but symbols of dominion.
At their head stood Princess Seliora.
Armor gleaming, hair bound in steel threads, her eyes were not the eyes of a child of court, but a commander carved by war itself. Her voice struck across the camp like thunder.
Every order cut, every word carried.
She was not merely born royal — she was born sovereign.
Across the ridges, higher than the soldiers, higher than the banners, upon a pale horse crowned in silver, stood Queen Luna.
The Moon of Elyndral.
Her gaze, serene and terrifying, swept across the land. She was not only a ruler, but a dominator of presence. Even as her soldiers raised their weapons, they looked to her, as if one glance could keep them alive, as if one breath of hers could shatter the enemy.
The Borderlands of Aelthwyn were the first to drown in iron.
Two days. That was all it took.
Two days for the Dominion's armies to march, for Elyndral's shields to strike.
Two days before the border burned.
But war does not end in days.
The Crimson Dominion pressed forward, yet the strength of Elyndral was not like any other. The men and women of the mountain kingdom did not fall as mortals — they stood like the ridges they came from. Their strength was not in spells, not in tricks, but in sheer flesh and bone.
Every sword that fell tore through three.
Every shield that broke carved space for ten.
Even when Velzarith hung in the air, invisible, whispering through their breath, it did not yet show.
The Bonegnawer Mist was patient.
It would take time.
And in that time, Elyndral showed what dominion meant.
On the third day, the Dominion gained Aelthwyn.
On the fourth, they pressed to the ridges.
But on the fifth day, Queen Luna's eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong.
The formations of Dominion were not merely pressing forward. They were circling, weaving, as if her army itself was being herded. Seliora's commands echoed sharp, but the rhythm of battle felt unnatural.
And then Luna saw it.
Not in the steel. Not in the men.
But in the earth.
The plants.
The grass at her horse's feet.
The vines that clung to the ridges.
They were wilting.
Slowly. Quietly. As if drained by an invisible hand.
Her breath stilled.
A queen was not merely a leader of men. She was ruler of land. She was dominator of soil.
The world itself spoke to her.
And now, the world whispered — poison.
---
The fifth day began with steel.
The clash of swords, the cries of soldiers, the banners ripping through wind.
But beneath it, something shifted.
Seliora's voice rose like fire.
Every command she gave struck like lightning.
Her soldiers moved in flawless rhythm, their shields tightening into walls, their spears rising like forests of steel. She stood amidst them not as a princess, but as a commander who had earned her right to command through blood.
"Hold the ridge. Break their formation. Do not let them breathe."
Her words were not shouted for glory. They were spoken with precision. Each syllable cut through chaos and found its place in the minds of her soldiers. She was young, but her presence was unshaken.
The Dominion pressed forward.
And yet, Seliora pressed harder.
Elyndral did not bend.
But Luna's eyes saw deeper.
The ridge itself trembled, but not with the clash of battle. She watched the way Dominion's mages moved — not striking, not pushing, only circling. As though they waited. As though their true strike was still hidden.
Her hands tightened on the reins.
She looked down.
The earth was not as it should be.
The vines were wilting further. The roots that had survived under rock for centuries began to shrivel, as if something in the very air drained them. The horses grew restless, their breaths short and broken. Even the trees in the far horizon seemed thinner, their leaves curling inward.
This was not war.
This was something else.
On the sixth day, her suspicion deepened.
The Dominion struck with renewed force.
But their blows lacked intent. Their soldiers fought as though their purpose was not victory, but delay.
Elyndral cut through them, yet every kill felt empty.
Every advance felt too easy.
The prey was playing predator.
And Luna's eyes did not lie.
The land was dying.
She stood tall in her saddle, voice cutting across her army:
"Something is wrong. Defend. Do not chase their retreat. Hold your ground."
Her soldiers hesitated. For Elyndral had never been commanded to defend. They were born to strike, born to conquer. But Luna's word was law. Even Seliora, fire blazing in her eyes, held her tongue.
For Luna was not merely queen.
She was dominator.
And when she spoke, the mountains themselves listened.
On the seventh day, the truth revealed itself in silence.
The soldiers of Elyndral, mighty as they were, began to cough. Their strength did not falter in one blow — no. It faltered slowly, cruelly, as though each breath carried a weight they could not shake. Their muscles stiffened, their wounds festered too quickly.
The Bonegnawer Mist had taken root.
Invisible. Patient.
It had crawled into their lungs, into their blood, into their marrow.
Seliora's fury burned.
Her voice shook the battlefield as she rallied them.
"Do not break! Even if the ground rots, Elyndral does not bend!"
Her soldiers roared.
They struck harder, faster, blood dripping from their blades, determination carved into their faces. They were not men and women anymore. They were the mountains themselves.
But Luna knew.
Her gaze swept the battlefield, her heart tightening like stone.
The Dominion had not come to fight.
The Dominion had come to poison.
Every day that passed, the land itself betrayed Elyndral more than the enemy's blades.
---
The eighth day dawned with fire in the sky.
Elyndral still stood.
Its soldiers still fought.
But their bodies carried unseen chains.
Their blades moved slower. Their strikes lost their edge. Wounds festered faster than they should. Armor felt heavier. Breath was harder to draw. And still, they fought — for Seliora's voice would not let them falter.
"Stand! You are the shield of the mountains! You are Elyndral's spine — unbroken, unyielding!"
Her commands were not desperate. They were sharp. Burning. Unrelenting. Her soldiers would rather die on the ridge than shame her words. And they fought as though every drop of blood was a vow.
But Luna… she saw.
Her eyes pierced deeper than rage.
The ninth day, she gave her order.
"Pull back. Hold the slope. Do not chase the Dominion beyond this ridge."
Her generals hesitated — for no queen of Elyndral had ever commanded retreat.
But Luna's voice was carved from iron.
She knew.
Every step the Dominion gave was not defeat. It was bait. Every clash of swords was not a struggle. It was distraction. And all the while, the land itself grew quieter.
The vines no longer writhed beneath her horse's hooves.
The trees no longer rustled.
The air smelled of ash, though no fire had burned.
Elyndral's queen raised her head high, eyes narrowing at the horizon.
"You think me blind. But the land speaks. It always speaks. And I will listen, even if no one else can."
Seliora's fire burned beside her.
The princess was no less commanding, her voice carrying over formations, her will refusing to break. But her fury was aimed outward, against the Dominion. Luna's fury was inward, against the silent poison she could not yet name.
The tenth day… silence spread across the battlefield.
The Dominion no longer pressed.
The Elyndral soldiers stood their ground, blades ready, shields raised.
The storm was waiting.
And far away, beneath the mountain ridges, beyond the screams and banners — in the heart of Elyndral's capital — death moved in silence.
The central palace, guarded by legions, should have been unbreakable.
Walls fortified with centuries of stone.
Corridors lined with steel.
The air heavy with the presence of soldiers loyal to the last breath.
Yet in ten seconds, every guard at the gate of inner palace fell.
Not with cries. Not with clash.
With silence.
Their throats slit in a single shadowed sweep.
No eyes saw. No ears heard.
Only the whisper of a blade that did not belong to itself.
The Hollow Dagger entered.
A nameless figure like creature.
A weapon, not a personnor a monster.
No emotions, only complete obedience like under hypnosis.
No thought.
No hesitation.
No identity.
The palace that had stood for generations bled without knowing what had struck it.
The war raged on the ridges, but Elyndral's heart was already pierced.
The Hollow Dagger did not falter.
It could not falter.
Obedience was carved deeper than soul.
And in the void beyond, where chains groaned and shadows wept — an ancient dragon stirred.
Kaelus's eyes flickered with grief uncontainable.
He had been forbidden. Bound. Stripped of choice. Even with power, he had saved no one. Not his kingdom. Not his daughter. Not even himself.
His cry shattered silence in the depths.
Not rage, but grief — a grief only the oldest of beings could know.
And from the void came a voice.
Soft. Mocking. Cruel.
"Hah… so boring... the same story keeps repeating. Why can't you all change the plots? Is it that difficult to change your fate? So amusing yet pitiful. You are her father and an ancient weapon. Why in every timeline you are powerless with chains, powerless with wings. Why are you always broken? Even across lives, even across time — why do you never save yourself? Has there ever been a time where you could save her or your lover? Never ! Even being powerful is worthless for you."
The war burned above.
The dagger moved below.
And in chains, a father wept.