Part 1: The Red Carpet
The main doors of the Royal Palace of Gaan were not merely barriers; they were a testament to the kingdom's obsession with permanence. Standing thirty feet high, they were hewn from the heartwood of the Great Iron Oaks of the North—trees that were said to be harder than granite and immune to rot. These slabs had been reinforced with bands of spell-forged platinum and inlaid with gold filigree depicting the lineage of the nineteen kings who had ruled before Leonus. Each face carved into the wood stared out with an expression of eternal vigilance, guarding the sanctity of the crown. Beyond the physical strength of the wood, the doors shimmered with a faint, iridescent film—a complex web of wards woven by the High Pope himself. These spells were designed to repel siege engines, disperse dragon fire, and boil the blood of any intruder who dared touch the royal seal with malice in their heart.
They lasted exactly three seconds against the Dog.
Alaric did not strike the doors. He did not summon a battering ram of blood or hurl a spike of solidified gore. He simply walked up the stairs, the heavy thud of his iron boots announcing his arrival, and placed his massive, armored palms against the wood.
The Sanguine Depravity that flowed through his veins was not just magic; it was the concept of entropy given form. It did not attack the structure of the wood; it attacked the time within it. The ancient preservation spells protecting the oak screamed and shattered in a shower of sparks that smelled of burning ozone. The corruption accelerated the aging of the organic material by a millennium in a single heartbeat. The ironwood turned a sickly grey, then a charcoal black, before disintegrating into a fine, choking ash that swirled in the night wind. The heavy platinum bands, finding nothing left to hold onto, clattered to the marble floor with a cacophony that sounded like a treasury spilling its guts.
Alaric stepped through the cloud of dust and ash, his silhouette framed by the gloom of the night outside, a jagged tear in the fabric of the palace's reality.
He entered the Grand Foyer.
If the city outside was a tomb, the Palace was a jewelry box designed by a madman.
The Grand Foyer was a cavernous space of overwhelming, nauseating opulence. The floors were a checkerboard of black obsidian and white marble, polished to a mirror sheen so perfect that walking on it felt like walking on a still lake. Massive crystal chandeliers, each holding a thousand magical candles that never melted, hung from the frescoed ceiling, bathing the room in a warm, golden light that banished all shadows. The air smelled of beeswax, lavender, and the faint, metallic tang of expensive polish. Thick, crimson velvet carpets ran down the center of the hall, leading to the grand double staircase that spiraled up to the Royal Apartments and the Throne Room—a path of blood-colored fabric meant for kings.
Blocking that staircase was the Royal Household Guard.
These were not the "Swans"—the ceremonial boys usually paraded for foreign dignitaries in their tight breeches and plumed hats. Those boys, sons of minor dukes who played at war, had fled hours ago, shedding their silks and running into the night, terrified of the rumors coming from the lower city.
These were the "Iron Lions."
There were fifty of them. They were men in their thirties and forties, veterans of the suppression campaigns in the south. They were encased in gilded plate armor that was thicker, heavier, and scarred from actual use. They did not wear helmets; they wanted the enemy to see their eyes, to see the lack of fear. They stood in absolute silence, their halberds leveled, their tower shields locked together to form a wall of gold and steel that stretched across the base of the stairs. These were the elite killers, the men who guarded the King's secrets, the men who cleaned up the Council's messes, the men who buried the bodies that the Kingdom needed to forget.
And standing at the front, his hand resting on the pommel of a greatsword, was Lord Commander Torian.
Alaric stopped. The red steam from his vents hissed, curling around his legs like a living serpent, reacting to the holy wards of the palace.
He knew Torian.
The recognition hit him harder than a physical blow, a shard of memory piercing the haze of the Hag's influence. Years ago, Torian had been Alaric's Second-in-Command. They had shared tents in the mud during the hill tribe rebellions, huddled together for warmth while the winter winds howled. They had covered each other's backs when the goblins swarmed the border forts, fighting back-to-back in a circle of dead enemies. Torian was the man who had handed Alaric his water skin after a long march, wiping the sweat from his eyes. Torian was the man who had stood beside Alaric at his wedding, smiling as Alaric pledged his life to Elara, handing him the ring with a wink.
And Torian was the man who had stood silent, eyes forward, hand on his sword, while the King's guards dragged Alaric away to the Copper Grove. He was the betrayal of silence. He was the friend who watched the knife go in and did nothing because it was "duty." He was the man who had chosen his pension and his rank over his honor.
Torian didn't speak. He didn't offer a surrender. He didn't apologize. He looked at the monster standing in the doorway—the blackened, rusted hulk dripping with red moss—and his expression didn't change. He simply drew his greatsword—a blade of folded Damascus steel that Alaric himself had helped him choose from the armory ten years ago.
Torian nodded once. A signal to kill.
"Look at him," the Blood Hag whispered in Alaric's mind, her voice trembling with a dark, erotic delight. It was a sound like oil bubbling in a pan. "The loyal dog. He watched you die, Alaric. He watched them chain you and he polished his boots the next morning. He ate the King's bread while you ate the mud. He slept in a warm bed while you froze in the roots. Peel him. Show him what loyalty looks like when it rots."
Alaric didn't need the Hag's push. The rage in his chest was a nuclear fire, a cold burning star that consumed all other thoughts. It wasn't just anger at Torian; it was anger at the wasted potential, at the corruption of brotherhood.
The fifty veterans braced. They expected a charge. They expected a mindless beast to throw itself against their shield wall, allowing them to use their superior numbers and reach weapons to dismantle him.
Alaric didn't charge. He opened the exhaust vents of his armor.
HISS.
A cloud of pressurized, boiling red blood-steam erupted from his suit, filling the foyer with a blinding crimson fog. It smelled of ozone, copper, and the damp earth of a grave. It obscured the chandeliers, turning the golden light into a bloody haze.
"Hold formation!" Torian's voice rang out, calm and authoritative, the voice of a man who had commanded battles. "Shields up! It's a visual screen! Brace for impact! Watch the flanks!"
It wasn't a screen. It was an environment.
Alaric moved through the fog like a shark in bloody water. The steam didn't blind him; the Sanguine Depravity allowed him to sense the heartbeat of every man in the room. He didn't attack the front, where the pikes were waiting. He moved to the right flank with a speed that defied physics for a creature of his size and weight. The steam swirled around him, turning him into a phantom.
He emerged from the mist on the right side of the phalanx.
He grabbed the end man—a seasoned sergeant named Kael—by the neck and the groin. With a roar that shook the crystals of the chandeliers overhead, Alaric lifted the fully armored knight into the air. The man weighed three hundred pounds in his gear. Alaric swung him like a club.
CRUNCH.
He used the living soldier as a flail. He smashed the man into his comrades. The sound of armor crumpling against armor was deafening, like a car crash in a tunnel. The man in Alaric's grip died instantly, his spine shattered, his internal organs liquefied by the impact. But Alaric didn't let go. He kept swinging the corpse, breaking the shield wall, knocking veterans aside like bowling pins. Shields bent, halberds snapped, and men were thrown across the polished floor, sliding on the marble.
The formation broke. The "Iron Lions" scrambled to adapt, turning to face the monster in their midst.
"Circle him! Cut the tendons! Aim for the joints!" Torian screamed, diving into the fray.
Swords hacked at Alaric. Halberds bit into his back. The steel rang off his fused carapace, chipping the paint but failing to penetrate the Sanguine-hardened iron. Sparks flew as blades struck the black metal, illuminating the red fog with staccato flashes of light.
Torian was there instantly. He moved with a fluid, lethal grace. He lunged, driving his greatsword into the gap between Alaric's pauldron and breastplate—a weak point he knew from their years of sparring.
The blade sank in. Four inches of steel buried in Alaric's shoulder, cutting into the dead meat beneath.
Torian twisted, expecting blood. Expecting the enemy to drop or recoil.
Alaric didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He turned his head slowly. The void of his visor stared at Torian.
Alaric reached up and grabbed the blade of the greatsword buried in his shoulder.
He pulled.
He dragged the sword deeper into his own body, stepping forward, forcing Torian to close the distance or lose his weapon.
Torian's eyes went wide with horror. He tried to let go of the hilt, but it was too late. Alaric's other hand shot out and seized Torian's breastplate.
The metal groaned under the grip. Alaric lifted the Commander off his feet, bringing him face-to-visor.
There were no words. There was no "Why?" or "I'm sorry." There was only the judgment of the dead.
Alaric headbutted him.
CLANG.
It was the sound of a hammer hitting an anvil. Torian's nose shattered. His forehead collapsed. His eyes rolled back.
Alaric didn't drop him. He pulled Torian close, embracing him in a mockery of brotherhood.
"Hug him, my pet," the Hag urged. "Squeeze the truth out of him. Warm him up."
Alaric triggered the Sanguine Depravity.
He didn't just drain Torian's life; he reversed the flow. He pumped the boiling, necrotic Sanguine fluid into the Commander.
Torian screamed. It was a sound that ripped his throat raw, a sound that silenced the rest of the room. His veins turned black, visible through the skin of his neck. His eyes boiled in their sockets. The corruption ravaged his body, turning his blood into acid, melting him from the inside out.
Alaric held him there, forcing the other guards to watch their Commander melt.
When Torian finally went limp, a smoking husk of a man, Alaric ripped the greatsword out of his own shoulder. The wound sealed instantly with black ichor.
Alaric dropped Torian's corpse onto the red carpet.
He looked at the remaining forty-nine men. They were terrified. They were veterans, yes, but they had never seen this. They had never seen a man hollowed out by a touch.
"Next."
The slaughter that followed was visceral. It was a release of a year's worth of torture. Alaric didn't use a weapon. He used his hands. He tore arms from sockets. He punched through breastplates to crush hearts. He grabbed a halberd and threw it like a javelin, skewering three men against the wall, leaving them pinned there like insects. He moved with the efficiency of a machine and the cruelty of a demon.
He painted the white marble with them. He turned the Grand Foyer into an abattoir.
When the last man fell, Alaric stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the broken bodies of the men who had once called him brother. The red carpet was soaked, the color deepening to black. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of blood falling from his gauntlets.
Alaric looked up the grand staircase.
Torian was dead. The Lions were dead.
The silence of the betrayal had been broken by the scream of the retribution.
Alaric began to climb the stairs.
Part 2: The Hollow Crown
Inside the Throne Room of Gaan, the air was cold.
It shouldn't have been. The room was heated by magical braziers that burned eternal fire, kept fed by the palace mages to ensure the King never felt a chill. The walls were insulated with heavy tapestries, and the floor was heated from below. But King Leonus felt frozen. The cold was inside him, radiating from the marrow of his bones, a deep permafrost of terror that no wine could thaw.
He was alone.
The Throne Room was a cavernous sanctuary of power, designed to make a man feel like a god. The ceiling was a dome of lapis lazuli painted with stars made of real diamonds, arranged in the constellation of the Lion. The floor was a mosaic map of the world, with Gaan at the center in gold, radiating lines of influence to the lesser nations. The Throne itself was a massive chair carved from the skull of an ancient dragon, gilded in sun-metal and cushioned with velvet. It was a room built to intimidate, to awe, to declare supremacy.
Now, it felt like a mausoleum.
Leonus stood in front of a tall dressing mirror near the dais. He was drunk. A goblet of heavy, fortified wine sat on a side table, half-empty. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely fasten the straps of his armor.
It wasn't just any armor. It was the Lion's Heart.
Forged three hundred years ago by the best smiths of the dwarven clans, it was a masterpiece. The breastplate was solid gold-plated mithril, sculpted to look like the muscular torso of a perfect warrior. The pauldrons were shaped like roaring lion heads with rubies for eyes. The cape was woven from the mane of a celestial beast. It was the most beautiful object in the kingdom.
It was also completely useless.
The gold was too soft to stop a warhammer. The mithril was too thin to stop a heavy lance. It was ceremonial armor, designed for coronations, parades, and portraits, not for fighting a revenant in a hallway. It was a costume, not protection.
"Damn it," Leonus cursed, fumbling with a buckle. He tore a fingernail. He sucked on the bleeding digit, the metallic taste of his own blood making him nauseous.
He could hear it.
Through the heavy oak doors, through the stone walls, he could hear the sounds from the Grand Foyer below.
He heard the heavy, wet crunch of armor collapsing. He heard the screams. He heard the sound of the world ending.
He knew those voices. He recognized the baritone shout of Commander Torian.
"Hold formation!"
Then, a silence. Then, a scream that sounded like a man being boiled alive.
Leonus dropped the buckle. He backed away from the mirror, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Torian is dead," he whispered. "He killed Torian. He killed the Lions. He's coming up the stairs."
He looked at his reflection. He saw a man of forty who looked sixty. His golden hair was thinning. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. He looked like a king in a play, wearing a costume that didn't fit, waiting for the curtain to fall on a tragedy.
"I did what I had to do," Leonus said to the mirror, his voice cracking. "I saved them. For a year, they ate. For a year, they had peace. It was a fair trade. One life for millions. It is the math of kings."
"The math is wrong, Leo," a voice whispered in his memory. It was Alaric's voice. The old Alaric. The brother who used to let him win at sparring so the King wouldn't look weak.
Leonus smashed the wine goblet against the wall. Red wine stained the white tapestry like a blood spatter.
"Shut up!" he screamed at the empty room. "You don't know the burden! You were just a soldier! I had to make the choice! I had to carry the weight!"
He scrambled to the small table next to the throne. On it sat a small velvet box left by the Pope before the coward fled to Kailos.
Leonus opened it.
Inside, nestled in black silk, was a vial of liquid. It glowed with a blinding, pure white light. It hummed with power, vibrating against the velvet.
The Vial of Holy Essence.
The note from Benedictus was still there, written in elegant script. "If the darkness comes, drink this. It is the light of a star, distilled. It will make you a vessel of the Gods. But be warned, Majesty: a vessel made of flesh cannot hold a star for long. It is a final measure."
Leonus picked up the vial. It was warm to the touch. It felt like holding a heartbeat.
"A vessel," Leonus whispered. "Yes. I am the Chosen. If I drink this... I will be stronger than him. I will burn the rot out of him. I will be the hero again."
He clutched the vial, his knuckles white. It was suicide. He knew it. The essence would burn his soul to ash within an hour. But an hour was all he needed. Better to burn out as a god than to be eaten as a man.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
A sound at the high window.
Leonus jumped, nearly dropping the vial. He spun around, drawing the ceremonial sword at his hip.
At the window, a large, black falcon was beating its wings against the glass. It wore a leather hood and carried a scroll case on its leg marked with the royal seal of the Kingdom of Dolbey.
Leonus ran to the window and threw the latch. The falcon tumbled in, exhausted, its feathers rimed with frost. It landed on the map table, gasping.
Leonus ripped the scroll from the case. His hands shook as he unrolled the parchment.
The message was not from his cousin. It was from the King of Dolbey, King Valdemar. It was short. It was brutal.
"To Leonus,
Your council is dead. Your kingdom is forfeit. You have failed.
My Legion crosses the bridge at dawn. We are not coming to save you. We are coming to clean up your mess.
My Champion, Lord Rougar, leads the vanguard. He has requested your head. I have granted it.
Surrender to the Beast or surrender to the Wolf. Either way, Gaan ends tonight.
— Valdemar."
Leonus stared at the letter.
Rougar. The Banished One. The cousin that the Former King and the Pope had exiled twenty years ago.
He remembered why. Rougar had been "Blessed by the Gods." He was born with a strength so unnatural, so overwhelming, that it frightened the priests. He was a weapon that couldn't be sheathed. If Rougar had become the Champion of Gaan, he would have won the wars. He would have killed the monsters. And if Gaan won the wars, there would be no despair. There would be no sacrifice. The "Farm" required weak knights to function. So they threw the Wolf out to keep the sheep docile.
"Rougar is coming," Leonus whispered. He looked at the mechanical clock on the wall. It was midnight.
"He will be here at dawn."
Six hours.
The strongest warrior in the human world was coming. If he could just hold out for six hours, Rougar would kill Alaric. Rougar was the only thing on earth that could stop the Dog.
Hope, hot and desperate, flooded his chest.
Then, the floor shook.
BOOM.
A sound from the Antechamber. The sound of heavy oak doors being smashed.
BOOM.
The sound of the magical barriers protecting the inner sanctum shattering like glass.
BOOM.
The sound of the monster breathing on the other side of the wall.
Leonus looked at the clock. Six hours.
He looked at the door. He had six minutes. Maybe less.
The hope turned into ash in his mouth. The letter was a joke. It was the universe telling him that he had wasted his greatest asset twenty years ago, and now, it was too late to call him back.
Leonus began to laugh. It was a wet, hysterical sound.
"Of course," he giggled, tears streaming down his face. "Of course he's here. He wouldn't let me wait. He never had any patience."
He looked at the Vial of Holy Essence.
He looked at the letter from King Valdemar.
He crumpled the letter and threw it into the fireplace. He watched the paper burn, the seal of Dolbey turning to ash.
"I don't need the Wolf," Leonus whispered, his voice trembling with a manic, terrified resolve. "I am the Lion. I am the King of Gaan. I will not hide in a corner."
He uncorked the vial. The smell of ozone and burning purity filled the room.
He didn't drink it yet. He held it in his left hand. He drew his golden sword with his right.
He walked to the dais. He climbed the steps to the dragon-skull throne. He turned to face the massive double doors of the Throne Room.
He stood there, a golden statue of fear, waiting for the brother he had murdered to come and kill him.
Part 3: The Breaking of the Seal
The Antechamber to the Throne Room was the final line of defense. It was a circular room, walls lined with the statues of the four Guardian Angels of Gaan. The floor was etched with a permanent Circle of Warding, a spell so complex it had taken ten years to enchant.
Standing in the center of the circle were the Royal Mages.
There were twelve of them. Men and women in robes of blue silk, their faces hidden by hoods. They were not combatants like the Battle Mages who had died with Vane. They were scholars, ward-weavers, the finest architectural spellcasters the Council's money could buy. They held staves of weirwood and crystal. They were chanting in unison, a low, vibrating hum that made the air heavy with static.
They had erected a Barrier of Prism Light—a wall of solid, shifting energy that blocked the archway leading from the Hall of Mirrors. It was a shield designed to withstand a dragon's breath, a metaphysical wall that separated the sacred from the profane.
Alaric stood on the other side of the barrier.
He was covered in the blood of the Iron Lions. Pieces of Torian's armor were fused to his gauntlets. He looked like a landslide of gore and iron.
He looked through the shimmering, multi-colored wall. He could see the mages. He could see their sweat running down their noses. He could see the terror in their eyes as they maintained the spell, their knuckles white on their staves.
"Pretty lights," the Hag mocked in his mind. "They think magic can stop the void. They think a fence can stop the ocean."
Alaric didn't attack the barrier with his fists. He didn't try to break it with force.
He walked into it.
As his armored chest touched the prism wall, the Sanguine moss on his plating flared. The black metal of his armor acted as a grounding rod for the entropy of the Blood Hag.
HISS.
The barrier screamed. It was a sound like tearing metal. The magical energy wasn't deflected; it was corrupted. The bright, rainbow colors of the wall turned a sickly, bruised purple, then a necrotic black.
Alaric kept walking. He pushed through the magic.
The feedback loop hit the mages instantly.
"Hold the line!" the High Mage screamed, blood pouring from his nose and eyes. "He's eating the weave! Push more mana! Burn your lifeforce if you have to!"
They poured their souls into the spell. It was a mistake. They were feeding the fire.
Alaric absorbed the energy. The mana intended to repel him was sucked into the vents of his armor, converted instantly into Sanguine fuel. He grew larger, the red steam billowing out in a massive cloud that filled the hallway.
He stepped through the barrier.
The spell collapsed.
The twelve mages screamed in unison as the magical backlash fried their nervous systems. Their staves shattered. They fell to the floor, convulsing, smoke rising from their robes as their own magic boiled them from the inside out.
Alaric stood in the center of the Antechamber. He didn't even look at the fallen mages. They were beneath his notice. They were just batteries that had short-circuited.
He looked at the final doors.
The Doors of the Throne.
They were thirty feet tall. Solid gold over iron. Carved with the face of the Sun God, the deity that Leonus claimed to represent. They were locked with five heavy bars on the inside and sealed with the King's personal sigil.
Alaric walked up to them.
He could smell him.
On the other side of that metal, he could smell the wine. He could smell the sweat. He could smell the specific, unique scent of Leonus—a smell of lavender, incense, and cowardice that Alaric had known for twenty years.
"He is waiting," the Hag whispered. "He thinks he is ready. He thinks he is a King. Strip him, Alaric. Peel the gold off him. Eat the heart."
Alaric placed his hands on the doors.
The gold turned grey. The corruption spread outward from his fingers like a spiderweb of rot. The beautiful carvings of the Sun God withered, the face sagging into a skull.
Alaric pushed.
The iron bars on the inside groaned. The stone frame of the doorway cracked.
CREAAAAAAK.
The sound was agonizing, a scream of metal being tortured beyond its limits.
With a final, tectonic shove, the hinges gave way.
BOOM.
The massive doors fell inward. They crashed onto the mosaic floor of the Throne Room, shattering the map of the world. Dust and gold flakes filled the air.
Alaric stepped over the fallen doors.
He walked into the Throne Room.
The silence in the room was absolute. The air was cold, chilled by the presence of the Revenant.
Alaric stopped ten paces into the room.
He looked up at the dais.
Standing there, in front of the Dragon Throne, was King Leonus.
He looked ridiculous. The Lion's Heart armor was too big for him. The cape was too long. The sword in his hand shook visibly. He was a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
But his eyes... his eyes were manic.
"You took your time," Leonus said. His voice was high, trembling, echoing in the vast space. "I expected you an hour ago."
Alaric didn't speak. He just breathed. Hiss. Click. Hiss. Click. The red steam vented rhythmically.
"You look terrible," Leonus laughed, a jagged, broken sound. "You look like... like something the dog threw up. Is that what you are now, Alaric? Just a dog?"
Alaric took a step.
"Stay back!" Leonus shrieked, raising the sword. "I am the King! I am the Anointed! You cannot touch me! I have the protection of the Gods!"
Alaric took another step.
"He is frightened," the Hag whispered. "But he has something. Look at his left hand."
Alaric's visor zoomed in. In Leonus's left hand, hidden behind the fold of his cape, was the vial. The white light pulsing inside it was blinding.
"Holy Essence," Alaric thought. The ultimate weapon of the Church. A suicide pill that granted godhood for a heartbeat.
"You think you can judge me?" Leonus shouted, tears streaming down his face. "I saved this kingdom! I made the hard choice! I sacrificed my brother to save my people! That makes me a hero, Alaric! That makes me a Saint!"
Alaric stopped at the base of the dais. He looked up at the golden figure.
He slowly reached up and unlatched his helmet.
A hiss of pressurized steam escaped as the seal broke. Alaric lifted the heavy, fused helmet off his head.
For the first time in a year, the face of Alaric was revealed.
It wasn't a face anymore. The skin was grey and translucent, pulled tight over the skull. The veins were black. The eyes... the eyes were gone. In their place were two burning pits of crimson fire. But the mouth... the mouth was still human enough to sneer.
Leonus gasped. He stepped back, hitting the throne.
"Alaric..."
Alaric opened his mouth. His voice wasn't the grinding rasp of the armor. It was a wet, dead whisper that carried more weight than a scream.
"Saint..."
Alaric dropped the helmet. It rang on the floor like a bell tolling the end of the world.
"Sinner."
Leonus screamed. He raised the vial to his lips.
"I CAST YOU OUT!" Leonus roared, and he drank the essence.
White fire erupted from the King's throat. His eyes burned away, replaced by beams of pure light. The gold armor began to melt, fusing to his flesh. He floated off the ground, a miniature sun born of desperation and stolen magic.
Alaric didn't flinch. He didn't look away from the blinding light.
The Dog smiled.
The Lion had put himself in the cage. And now, it was feeding time.