The morning in the Valley of Dand began like any other.
Mist clung to the green slopes, curling around the hills in soft, lazy ribbons. The air smelled of wet grass and tilled earth. From the high ridges, one could see the patchwork of farmland — squares of golden barley, rows of leafy vegetables, orchards heavy with ripening fruit.
Children ran between the paddies, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Shepherds guided their flocks along narrow stone paths, their crooks tapping in a steady rhythm. In the center of the valley, a shallow river wound its way through the fields, its waters glinting like liquid silver in the sunlight.
Vid had never seen so much green in his life. Compared to Green Hollow — now only ashes in his memory — this place felt like the land from old tales, where nothing bad could reach.
Paras walked ahead of him along the dirt road, his bow slung casually over his shoulder. The old man's pace was steady, his eyes moving constantly, taking in every detail of the valley.
"Is it always like this here?" Vid asked, almost in a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might break the peace.
Paras nodded without looking back. "The Valley of Dand is a place of life. The soil is rich. The people… they know how to work it. But peace is not a thing that lasts forever."
They passed through the outer farms into the village proper. The houses were built of stone and timber, their roofs thick with thatch. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from an open bakery door. Traders sat in the small market square, selling baskets of vegetables, jars of honey, and bolts of dyed cloth.
It was market day. Farmers chatted as they exchanged goods. Children darted between stalls. A group of older men sat in the shade, playing a game with carved stones, slapping the pieces down and laughing at each other's mistakes.
For a moment, Vid allowed himself to forget. The smoke of his village, the Rakshas raiders, the bear — all of it faded in the sunlight.
Then the bell rang.
It was a deep, heavy sound, echoing through the valley. Once. Twice. Three times.
The market stilled. The laughter died.
Every head turned toward the wooden platform in the square, where the town's announcer — a wiry man in a long green tunic — was climbing the steps two at a time. He carried a brass horn in one hand and a scroll in the other.
When he reached the top, he blew the horn. Its blaring note rolled across the fields, startling birds into flight.
"People of Dand!" the announcer called, unrolling the scroll. His voice was loud, but there was an edge to it — the tone of someone who wished they were delivering better news. "By the order of His Majesty, Emperor Parth Vij of the Boomi Empire, hear this: the northern shores of Pascha are under attack."
A low murmur ran through the crowd. Paras's hand tightened slightly on the bowstring hanging at his side.
"The Rakshas Empire," the announcer continued, "has crossed the Sea of Naraga. Their ships have made landfall at Fort Aral, and their armies march south. All northern valleys are to evacuate at once."
Gasps broke out. Mothers pulled their children closer.
"The gates of Dand will be closed by nightfall," the announcer said. "Anyone remaining inside after that time will be left behind. Pack what you can carry. The emperor's men will guide you to the southern strongholds."
A heavy silence followed.
Then the questions began. "Where will we go?" "Is the army coming to protect us?" "How far are they?" The announcer only shook his head. "We have no more time. Move quickly."
Vid felt the air grow colder. He looked at Paras, expecting him to say something, but the old man's gaze was fixed on the horizon, toward the north.
Over the mountains, dark clouds were gathering.
The square erupted into motion. People rushed home, shouting orders to family members, pulling carts from sheds, wrapping food in cloth. Chickens squawked as they were crated. Goats bleated as they were tied to wagons.
Paras moved calmly through the chaos, steering Vid toward the edge of the village. "We need to find the main road south before it clogs with wagons," he said.
"Are the Rakshas really coming here?" Vid asked, his voice rising.
"Yes." Paras's tone left no room for doubt. "And they won't be gentle."
They passed a woman struggling to load sacks of grain onto a small cart. Vid stopped to help, hefting one over his shoulder despite the ache in his ribs. She gave him a grateful nod but didn't speak. Everyone's faces were drawn tight with urgency.
The village guards — a dozen men in simple leather armour — were rolling the great wooden gates of the valley into position. The hinges groaned. On the walls above, archers strung their bows.
Vid glanced north again. He couldn't see soldiers or ships, but in his mind, he saw the Rakshas — faces painted in blood, teeth bared, the stories his mother used to whisper to frighten him into behaving.
Paras stopped suddenly.
A column of riders was entering the village from the southern road — imperial messengers in green-and-gold armour, dust streaking their cloaks. The lead rider dismounted in front of the announcer, handed him a sealed message, then turned his horse toward the north without pausing for rest.
"More news," Paras murmured.
The announcer broke the seal, scanned the message, and called out again: "The emperor's command is urgent. The Rakshas have taken Fort Aral and are advancing faster than expected. Their vanguard may reach this valley within two days. I repeat — the gates will be shut by sundown today."
Two days.
Vid's stomach tightened. Green Hollow had been wiped out in less than an hour.
By midday, the road south was choked with people. Carts piled high with belongings creaked along, drawn by oxen. Families walked beside them, carrying what they could not load.
Vid and Paras stayed near the edge of the crowd. Paras's eyes swept the hills constantly, his posture relaxed but ready.
"What will happen to the ones who stay?" Vid asked quietly.
Paras's voice was flat. "They will not be here when the gates open again."
They passed a group of boys no older than Vid, each carrying a bundle of arrows. "For the wall guards," one of them explained when Vid looked at him. His face was pale.
As the southern ridge came into view, the horns sounded again — long, slow notes that rolled through the valley like waves. Vid turned for one last look. The green fields of Dand stretched away behind them, peaceful as ever in the sunlight. It was hard to believe an army was marching to destroy it.
But the dark clouds over the mountains were thicker now, and in their shadow, the peace felt like a fragile thing — something that could shatter at any moment.
The city of Rajabs had stood for four centuries, its walls a marvel of red stone quarried from the eastern cliffs. Its markets were famous for silks dyed in every shade of sunset, and its streets echoed with the sound of haggling merchants and temple bells.
But this morning, the bells were drowned by the thunder of hooves.
They came over the eastern dunes in a black tide — the Goric Riders of the Rakshas Empire's eastern regiment. Their banners were painted with snarling beasts, their armour patched from the spoils of a dozen conquered lands. The Gorics were born in the saddle, their limbs corded with muscle, their faces striped with war paint. In their hands, they carried curved sabres that flashed like lightning in the sun.
They hit the city gates before dawn, their horses smashing against the wooden barricades. Arrows rained from the walls, but the Gorics rode in tight formations, shields angled to catch the shafts. Then came the ladders, the hooks, the fire.
By midmorning, smoke poured from the rooftops. Screams carried across the market district as riders cut down anyone who ran. The Gorics did not loot slowly — they killed first, stripped later. Blood pooled in the cobbled alleys; bodies lay where they fell.
In the main square, a group of priests tried to shield the temple doors with their own bodies. The Goric leader — a towering man with braids down his back and a chain of enemy teeth around his neck — cut them down with two sweeping strokes, then ordered the temple set aflame.
The wind shifted. Ash began to fall like dark snow.
The Capital of the Boomi Empire — 380,000 Kilometers Away
Far to the west, the capital city of Boomipura glimmered under the midday sun. From the air, its white marble palaces, sprawling gardens, and ringed canals looked like a jewel set in gold. The streets bustled with merchants, scholars, and soldiers in ceremonial armor.
Inside the Hall of Nine Thrones, the mood was anything but bright.
Nine ministers sat in a half-circle before the Lion Throne, where Emperor Parth Vij leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Behind him hung the great banner of the Vij royal bloodline — a black lion on a field of crimson, its claws extended.
The Minister of War, an older man with a scar across his cheek, spoke first.
"Lord, our scouts confirm: the Rakshas Empire fields more than ten million troops, divided into four regiments. Each moves in a different direction — east, west, north, and south. Already they have taken twenty villages and ten cities. In just seven days, they've captured five hundred and eight kilometers of fortified territory."
Another minister added, "Rajabs burns even as we speak. The Goric Riders took it within a day."
A murmur of dismay rippled through the chamber.
The Minister of Defense rose. "The worst news is this: a force of fifty thousand Rakshas soldiers is moving into the Punidh Valley — our greenest lands, our grain store, and the most silent part of the empire. It spans twenty thousand kilometers. If we lose it, famine will follow. The Valley of Dand lies within it — ten villages, two cities. I have ordered immediate evacuation to its local king… but, Lord, this will not stop the Rakshas."
Parth Vij's gaze was steady. "The Rakshas Emperor sought an alliance with me — to fight against the United Associates of Nobles." He let the name hang in the air. "You all know what they are: the only empire that conducts elections, yet their elected president acts with the selfishness of a tyrant. I refused that alliance. I refused war-for-profit. Now they seek to swallow us whole."
The hall was silent but for the rustle of robes.
"Very well," Parth said at last. "They will not have Dand. They will not have Punidh. They will not have Boomi."
He stood, his crimson cloak falling around him like a river of blood.
"I call upon the Demi-God Vick'belson — the strongest warrior in the empire, the only man who can match the Rakshas warlords in single combat. He will ride to Dand Valley at once."
A messenger ran from the hall to carry the summons.
Parth's voice rose. "And I dispatch all nine other Elite Commanders — our Ten Shields — to the fronts most threatened. Each will face an enemy regiment and hold them. If Punidh falls, the Rakshas will have the heart of our land. If Dand falls…" He paused. "…then the green will turn to black."
The ministers bowed low.
"Go," the Emperor commanded. "The hour of steel has come."
The sun was warm but gentle that afternoon, spilling over the rooftops of Kundavar, a small town tucked within the folds of the Valley of Dand. From its narrow lanes, one could see the sweep of emerald meadows stretching to the horizon, dotted with cattle grazing lazily. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth, wild jasmine, and the faint tang of river water.
Vid and Paras sat at a low wooden table outside a roadside eatery. A great banyan tree shaded the spot, its roots curling like old fingers into the cobblestones. The clink of clay cups and the hiss of cooking oil mingled with the distant bleating of goats.
Before them lay simple plates of spiced lentils, fresh flatbread, and a small bowl of pickled mango. Paras tore his bread with deliberate calm, as if savoring not just the food, but the moment itself. His heavy bow rested against the wall behind him, its carved wood catching the sunlight in a muted glow.
"Now that your hands have stopped shaking," Paras said quietly, "can you tell me more about what happened to your hometown?"
Vid froze, bread halfway to his mouth. His eyes shifted to the fields beyond the street, where children were chasing each other through rows of wheat. For a moment, the laughter there seemed impossibly far away, like echoes from another lifetime.
When he spoke, his voice was low. "It was before dawn… I heard them before I saw them. The Rakshas — their armour clanged like chains. They moved through the forest like wolves. My father tried to bar the door, but…" His words caught. "They broke it down. I ran. I… I didn't look back."
Paras said nothing. He let the silence stand, like an open space in which truth could settle.
Vid's knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. "The others didn't make it. I heard the screams. I heard—" He stopped, a hot tear sliding down his cheek. "I thought if I found a god, maybe… maybe it would stop. But gods don't come for people like us."
The older man's gaze was steady but not unkind. "Not all gods wear crowns," he said, tearing another piece of bread. "And not all wars are won by prayers."
Around them, the Valley of Dand lived and breathed in its timeless rhythm. Golden light spilled over terraces of rice paddies, their waters shimmering like sheets of glass. White egrets waded in the shallows, stabbing at invisible prey. Clusters of homes, their thatched roofs darkened by age, dotted the landscape like islands in a green sea.
In the distance, the river Dandhara wound its silver body between the hills, feeding the fertile land. Its banks were lined with flowering neem trees, their blossoms drifting on the breeze. Farmers worked knee-deep in the fields, their songs rising and falling in harmony with the wind.
It was a place that seemed untouched by war.
Yet Paras's eyes kept flicking toward the northern road, where the horizon met the mountains. He knew the peace here was only a thin veil, and that the tide of steel from the Rakshas Empire could roll in without warning.
Vid, wiping his face with the back of his hand, followed his gaze. He didn't need to be told what Paras was thinking.
Somewhere in the quiet of that valley, both understood — the days of green were numbered.
Chapter 3:"The past of the Grey"
The banners of the Rakshas Empire snapped in the cold wind — black cloth embroidered with the snarling face of a beast that had no name in human tongues. Beneath them, fifty thousand warriors advanced in perfect, pounding rhythm. The ground shuddered under the weight of their march, the iron-shod hooves of their horses striking like war drums.
At their head rode a man draped in a cloak of wolf pelts, his chest bare save for the heavy chain of polished skulls that clattered against his ribs. Each skull had been cleaned to a bone-white sheen, the jawbones bound shut with blackened bronze.
His name was Ke'dil'cho, the Butcher of the Northern Reaches — a name whispered in villages like a curse, a name that froze the air in the lungs of soldiers.
Ke'dil'cho's eyes were the color of blood left too long in the sun, his skin tattooed with jagged runes that told of the thousands he had killed. He did not carry a sword at his side — only a massive obsidian axe strapped to his back, its edge chipped in places from bone.
The gates of Rajabs, once the proud eastern jewel of the Boomi Empire, lay smashed open. Smoke coiled upward from burning watchtowers, turning the dawn sky a bruised gray. The city streets, paved with pale stone, now ran with darker stains.
Ke'dil'cho strode through the central square, his boots leaving crimson prints. The warriors fanned out, rounding up survivors with spears at their backs. The wails of women and the cries of children filled the air like a dirge.
Upon the marble steps of the palace, the local king knelt, bound and bleeding. His crown lay discarded in the dirt, half-buried in ash.
Ke'dil'cho's voice was low and guttural, yet it carried to every corner of the square. "For defiance against the might of Naraga… for refusing to kneel… your name will be swallowed by the earth."
Without ceremony, he seized the king by the hair, lifted him to his feet, and with a single, brutal motion, drove his axe into the man's neck. The blade sang against bone; the crowd gasped, then went silent.
Ke'dil'cho caught the severed head in one hand. For a moment, he regarded it almost thoughtfully — then raised it high, tilting it back as his lips met the lifeless throat.
The act was not hunger, but ritual. Thick rivulets of blood ran down his jaw, staining his teeth. The Rakshas warriors roared in unison, striking their weapons against their shields.
As the fires consumed the last strongholds of Rajabs, Ke'dil'cho mounted his black warhorse. The beast was armored in overlapping plates of dark steel, each engraved with the fangs of a serpent.
He pointed south. "The Valley of Dand will fall within the week. Leave no field unburnt. Leave no child alive."
The army surged forward like a tide of iron and flesh.
Behind them, the city of Rajabs smoldered — a ruin swallowed by the smoke of its own funeral pyre. Ahead, the lush heart of the Boomi Empire awaited, unaware of the shadow that now moved to claim it.
he sun had dipped low over the Valley of Dand, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. Vid sat cross-legged on a flat stone, tearing small pieces of bread and dipping them into a bowl of thin stew. Across from him, Paras crouched near the fire, the old archer's shadow stretching long in the fading light.
"You said you were from the west," Paras prompted, his voice calm, yet sharp with curiosity. "How far from here?"
Vid hesitated, chewing slowly before answering.
"About one hundred and twenty kilometers. It… it feels like another lifetime now. It's been five days since I left."
Paras nodded silently, waiting. The crackle of the fire filled the pause.
Vid's gaze dropped to the dirt.
"My father is… was… one of the wealthiest men in our town. Land, cattle, even a small garrison of guards. But wealth there does not buy kindness. The town is divided — higher caste at the top, lower caste at the bottom, and those at the bottom…"
He swallowed hard, the bitterness in his voice clear.
"They were treated worse than the animals we kept. Beaten, underfed, used for labor from sunrise to dark. My father didn't question it — he enforced it."
Paras's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"My elder brother had just turned eighteen," Vid continued. "That meant it was time for him to marry. And not just anyone — the daughter of another high-caste family. A perfect alliance, my father called it. I called it a prison."
Vid's hands tightened around the wooden bowl.
"The day before the ceremony, the whole house was filled with music and colors. Silk banners, tables stacked with sweets, jewelry so bright you'd think the gods themselves had blessed the union."
He paused, his voice lowering.
"But I saw the bride's eyes. She didn't smile. She didn't laugh. She didn't want this. Her family was poor, lower caste once, but my father lifted them to 'respectability' in exchange for her hand. It wasn't love — it was ownership."
The fire popped, sending a small spray of embers into the air.
"I spoke up," Vid said, his voice trembling. "I told my father it was wrong. That no one should be forced to marry. He struck me. Told me I was too young to understand, too foolish to speak against the ways of our blood."
Paras leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And then?"
Vid stared into the fire, his tone darkening.
"Then… the Rakshas came."
The village of Vaarith had always been a quiet place — a cluster of sunburnt houses, clay walls, and smoke curling lazily from cooking fires. But on that day, the air did not smell of food.
It reeked of ash, iron, and the stench of fear.
Ke'dil'cho came at dawn.
They didn't sneak in.
They didn't hide in the treeline.
They walked straight through the northern gate — armor catching the pale light, boots crushing the dry earth — and behind them came the roar of their war horns.
The first arrow fell like lightning.
A farmer died where he stood, wheat spilling from his hands.
Then another, and another, until the dirt turned black with shadows and red with blood.
The people ran, but there was nowhere to go.
It didn't matter what caste they belonged to, what prayers they had whispered the night before — they all bled the same blood.
Merchants, warriors, priests, and children — no one was spared.
I saw my mother run toward me.
Her eyes were wild, her hands reaching for my face.
Before she could speak, the steel point of a spear erupted from her chest.
Her mouth opened in shock, not pain — and then she was gone.
Just gone.
Something in me snapped.
I wanted to fight, to burn their banners, to take their lives as they had taken hers.
I had always admired the great archers of the Boomi Empire.
Especially Leo Dawnson — Master of Vick'belson, the demi-god of the bow.
I dreamed of joining the greatest archer academy, to stand among legends.
But my father never let me.
"Your place is here," he'd say.
Now my father was gone too, cut down before my eyes.
I was left with nothing — no family, no home, no dream.
Only the smell of blood and the sound of the dying.
When the fires died and the screams faded, I found Paras sitting quietly beside me.
He watched the smoke drift into the night.
"It is not their fault," he said softly, "nor is it yours. This is fate."
His voice was calm, too calm for the ruin around us.
"Fate?" I spat the word. "Fate tore my family apart. Fate burned my home. Fate made me watch."
Paras looked at me then, his gaze heavy but not unkind.
"So why," he asked, "are you searching for a god? Do you think a god will fix what men have broken?"
I had no answer — only the weight of his question lingering in the silence, as the embers cooled in the dust.