Forged in Ashes

The vast throne room stretched endlessly, its towering walls adorned with banners of past conquests, each a testament to battles won and lands taken. The flickering glow of great iron braziers cast restless shadows across the assembled figures—warriors, nobles, and scholars, all standing in reverent silence before their king.

At the far end, seated upon a throne carved from the bones of his enemies, sat King Vaedros of Ganoth. His presence alone was suffocating. Clad in battle-worn black and gold armor, his crimson eyes burned like embers beneath the heavy crown upon his brow. But it was not just his mortal strength that made him fearsome—it was the power that raged within him.

Behind his throne, a colossal, formless entity loomed, shifting between smoke and shadow. His Spirit, a being of war and slaughter, pulsed with hunger, as though sensing the promise of battle in the air.

Vaedros exhaled slowly, then rose to his feet, his voice rolling through the chamber like distant thunder.

"We stand upon the precipice of yet another war."

His gaze swept across the room, settling on those gathered before him. "Ganoth is the mightiest of all lands, and yet there are still those who defy us. Why?" His voice deepened, reverberating through the chamber. "Because the weak have forgotten their place."

A murmur rippled through the assembly. From among them, a robed figure stepped forward—High Mage Eldrin, his silver-streaked hair falling over his sharp features. A quiet storm stirred around him, unseen winds shifting the edges of his cloak. His Spirit, a tempest-born entity of wind and lightning, coiled in agitation at his back, sensing its master's unease.

"My King," Eldrin began, his voice steady but edged with caution. "There are whispers—rumors that the Prophecy of the Two has resurfaced. The Scholars of Loth claim to have deciphered new texts. They say the ones who control Creation and Destruction shall soon rise."

A heavy silence followed his words.

Vaedros leaned forward, fingers gripping the hilt of his greatsword, which rested at his side. His Spirit flickered, a shadowed mass curling in irritation.

"You speak of that old fool's tale?" he asked, his voice laced with scorn. "Every generation, they whisper of these so-called beings, these saviors who will bring 'balance.' Yet my blade has brought more balance to this world than any myth ever could."

A deep voice rumbled from the crowd. "With respect, my King," said General Korvan, stepping forward. His armor bore the scars of a hundred battles, and behind him, his Spirit—a monstrous warbeast, shaped like a lion made of flame—stood at attention. "This prophecy is not spoken of in Loth alone. Nor, Kei, even Renute—all have begun preparing. Even the remnants of Lino stir with rumors." He hesitated before adding, "If there is truth to this, these beings could threaten our rule."

The brazier flames crackled as Vaedros let out a cold, humorless laugh.

"Let them come." His voice was steel, unyielding. "No force of creation nor destruction will stand before the warriors of Ganoth."

Eldrin did not flinch, though the storm at his back whispered in warning. "But my King," he said carefully, "what if they do not come as conquerors, but as saviors? What if their power is beyond even ours?"

The throne room darkened as the air thickened with power. The flames flickered, nearly snuffed out by the sheer weight of Vaedros's presence. His Spirit, the formless beast of war, grew larger, its eyes burning red. The pressure in the chamber became suffocating, forcing the weaker nobles to take a step back.

Then, he rose.

A storm of energy pulsed through the room, shaking the very foundations of the palace. His greatsword, taller than most men, gleamed wickedly in the firelight. The beast behind him loomed, a living shadow, feeding on the bloodlust that coursed through its master.

"Then we shall remind them why Ganoth reigns supreme." His voice carried like a war drum, sealing the fate of those who would oppose him. "If these beings do exist, I will carve their power from their very souls and wield it as my own."

Silence fell like a blade.

Beyond the great stone walls, a storm gathered in the heavens, thick clouds rolling over the land. It was as if the world itself was listening, waiting, preparing.

For soon, the prophecy would be tested.

And King Vaedros would ensure that Ganoth stood above all.

Later that day

The flickering light of the torches cast grotesque shadows upon the grand hall of Ganoth's palace. Pillars of stone, carved with the story of a thousand conquests, loomed above, silent witnesses to the coming battle between its leaders. The air was filled with tension, seething like a storm ready to break.

King Vaedros stood behind his back, ruby cloak fluttering slightly as he turned to confront his queen. His massive greatsword leaned against the end of the war table, blade still stained with rust from his previous campaign. Overpowering presence, force of nature that he was, his ruby-red eyes burned with frustration.

In front of him, Queen Nessun remained steadfast, the warmth in her eyes now replaced by steel. Her hands were clasped in front of her, but not in respect—rather in restraint. Her spirit, though unseen, churned with the unspoken authority that had always set her apart.

"You spoil the boy too much, Nessun," Vaedros snarled, his tone low and tinged with annoyance. "He is a prince, not some peasant. He should walk proud, knowing the world conforms to his desires."

Nessun let out a slow breath, choosing her words with care. "He should walk proud because he is good and fair, Vaedros. Not because he thinks himself better than others."

The king sneered, moving closer. "A humble king is a trampled king. Power does not willingly come—it only comes through will of force. If our son is to rule us, then he must learn that."

Nessun's nails bit harder. She had seen these words mouthed before, had seen her husband practice himself into this ruthless creature, and she didn't want their child to end up the same.

"He must understand that being powerful is a responsibility, not a privilege," she said, the tone level but firm. "If he is a mature man who believes that he is better than the people that he is to represent, he will be nothing but a tyrant."

Vaedros's expression hardened. His fists were clenched, and he simply glared at her. "And what would you have him be?" he sneered. "A weakling? A man who begs for the respect of his people and not demands it?"

Nessun lifted her chin, coming closer. "I would have him be a ruler whom they wish to obey, rather than one whom they fear. A king whom they win over, rather than whom they obey."

A hard breath. A flicker of something in Vaedros's eyes, something which had perhaps once been doubt. But it was gone as quickly as it emerged, buried under the gravitas of his own convictions.

"Love is fleeting, Nessun," he growled, voice like grinding stone. "Fear—fear holds men in check."

Nessun didn't blink. "And what will he do when that fear becomes hatred? When he has no friends, only foes?" Her voice was softer now, but no less compelling. "You believe you are building him strong, but you are building him alone."

Silence filled the space between them, thick as the stone walls that housed them. Vaedros's fingers rested on the hilt of his greatsword, but he did not draw it.

Finally, he spoke. "He is my son. He will be trained as I wish."

Nessun's words were softer, but they sliced like a blade.

"He is our son. And I will not let you make him into something cold and cruel."

She stepped closer now, her presence almost on a par with his own. "I will battle for his heart, Vaedros. No matter the price."

The king said nothing. His eyes remained on hers, unreadable, with something unstable and formless in them. But she did not break, did not falter.

The halls of Ganoth's palace stretched out long and cold, the torches barely managing to throw feeble shadows on the walls of mighty stone. The fortress of the strongest kingdom was built to fight, not to be warm. But in one of its numerous rooms, two boys reclined in worried stiffness, their speech barely above a whisper.

Prince Lionel of Ganoth slouched forward, his deep-red eyes glinting in the darkness. Azur sat facing him, arms crossed, dark eyes watchful. Both were tight, the echoes of a long-standing row still in their minds—a row between a ruthless king and a defiant queen.

"Did you hear them?" Lionel growled.

Azur nodded. "I always do."

Lionel scowled, his fists tightening into their knuckles. "My father thinks that strength is all that will ever matter. That a king has to rule with strength, and not with gentleness." He blew out an air, leaning back against the wall of stone. "My mother doesn't."

Azur remained quiet. He had discovered that one didn't speak too much when Lionel was talking about the king. No one did. But Lionel's tone was laced with something more than annoyance this night.

"You want to be strong, don't you?" Azur finally asked.

Lionel shot him a look, as if the very act of asking was ridiculous. "Of course. And so do you."

Azur stood up, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the ranks of weapons on the walls. Swords, spears, even dummy targets—weapons of war, all ready to be used. "Then let's train," he said.

Lionel grinned, springing to his feet. "Training, naturally. But after that, let's go somewhere nice."

Azur frowned. "Better?"

"The river cliffs," Lionel replied, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "No one patrols that place this late. We can push our Spirits to the limit, see what we're really capable of." His eyes glinted. "And maybe race down to the water. Bet I win."

Azur hesitated. It was mad. The cliffs were dangerous, the currents underneath even more so. But the passion in Lionel's eyes was infectious, and Azur felt himself swept up in enthusiasm in spite of himself.

A sneer danced on his lips. "If I win, you owe me a favor."

Lionel laughed. "You won't win, Azur. I am the prince of Ganoth!"

Azur's sneer increased. "We'll see about that."

Without a sound, the duo flew out of the chamber, their footsteps silent as they ran down palace corridors. The torches spun past them, cold winds blowing through yawning stone archways as they reached outer halls.

While Lionel and Azur disappeared into the shadows, far from view in the castle, a different conversation occurred—a far more serious one.

In Ganoth's war room, King Vaedros sat upon his iron throne, his red eyes staring at the map laid out before him across the massive stone table. Candles flickered around the room, their dim light casting angular shadows on the banners of conquered kingdoms. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, steel, and something more palpable—expectation.

Before him stood General Korvan, his battle-hardened armor still splattered from his last campaign. His Spirit, a wolf-like horror with eyes that glowed golden bright, stood behind him in the gloom, coiled as its master.

Korvan's deep, measured voice was calm. "The armies are ready, my King. Waiting for your word."

Vaedros traced his gauntleted hand over the map, his face unreadable. "And what of the other continents' reports?"

"Nor and Kei are stirring. They have grown restless with our triumph over Lino. Alliances are spoken of, but no one yet dares move against us." Korvan's lip curled. "Fear holds them in their place… at least for now."

Vaedros leaned back in his chair, breathing slowly. "Fear is a good thing, General. But it will not stay" The weak always find courage in time." He drummed the fingers of one hand on the table. "We have to move before them."

Korvan nodded. "So what is your pleasure?"

Vaedros's eyes burned like embers. "Kei will be the next to fall. Their warriors are powerful, but divided. If we act swiftly, they will break before they can unite."

Korvan nodded. "And the boy?"

There was a pause. Vaedros's eyes darkened.

"Azur?" he said, as if testing the name on his lips.

Korvan nodded slowly. "He is… promising. The prince is a quick learner. Too quick, some would say."

Vaedros smiled. "Good. That means he is ready for more." He glared out the window, where the moon rode high over Ganoth's towering walls. "He will not grow soft under my rule. He will become a weapon, just as I intend."

Korvan hesitated before speaking. "And Prince Lionel?"

Vaedros's expression did not change. "He is my son. He will know what needs to be done."

Korvan inclined his head. "Then I shall make certain that the army stands ready. The campaign to take Kei is at your word."

Vaedros's fingers clenched into a fist. "Then take your leave, General. Tomorrow, before sunrise, make sure that the world knows Ganoth does not require leave of anyone to take what is already ours."

Korvan spun on his heel, his Spirit's golden eyes burning as they strode out of the room.

Vaedros stood frozen for a moment, looking down at the map—at the kingdoms yet to fall under his banner.

The storm was at hand. And all the world would soon be engulfed in it.

Ganoth's war hall was dark, the flickering light of torches casting leaping shadows upon the stone walls. There was the scent of burning incense mixing with the ever-present sting of steel and sweat, the smell of a kingdom continually on its toes, ready for war. In the center of the hall, there was a wide obsidian table, inscribed upon its surface were the ten worlds of continents of the world, each kingdom bearing sigils of their ruling houses. Some of them already bore the blood-red stamp of Ganoth, conquered and subjugated under the dominance of its legions. The rest were still independent—for now.

King Vaedros was at the head of the table, clad in black and red armor, his red eyes scanning the map like a predator viewing its next meal. Across from him, General Korvan had arms crossed, his scarred face expressionless, though his intense gaze took it all in.

For many moments, neither of them said a word. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the flames. Then Vaedros raised a gauntleted hand and let his fingers trace the outline of the continent of Kei.

"When the winter snows begin to thaw, we depart," he stated, his voice firm, unyielding. "Three months. That is all they have."

Korvan observed him, then nodded. "The legions are ready. They crave war." His gaze shifted down to Kei, the first conquest. "But if we're going to strike, we'll have to strike with care. Kei is a fortress nation. Their cities are built on mountains, their warriors bred to fight. We will not breach their walls by force.".

Vaedros smiled, his gaze cold. "Then we won't shatter them. We will starve them. Cut off their trade routes. Burn their warehouses. Slay their fields before the harvest can be gathered. They will die before the first blade is ever driven."

Korvan nodded his head in approval. "A death of inches. They will turn on themselves before we ever lay eyes on their cities."

Vaedros's gaze shifted to Nor, the eastern naval empire.

"Nor will not sit idle while we take Kei," he continued. "Their navy is invincible. If they decide to act, they can cut off our supply lines before we are finished with Kei.".

Korvan's fingers tapped the tabletop. "Then we cripple them before they make a move. We send fire into their ports, sink their ships before they ever set sail from harbor. Without their fleet, they are nothing but a trading island of cowards."

A slow, satisfied nod from the king.

And Sai?" Korvan probed, his voice heightened with something more reserved now. The mystics' land and the land of assassins. The land that never fought in the open.

Vaedros breathed through his nose, his face darkening. "They will not fight us. They will poison our water, stab blades into our camps while we sleep. No, we can't fight Sai as we can the others." His eyes flashed with something colder than usual. "We send out our own shades first. We break them before they have time to break us.".

Korvan's smile was icy. "I have men for the job."

Their eyes met, and a mutual understanding silence slid between them.

Vaedros's eyes went south, to Mon, the great desert-continent, bloody red with warbands and nomadic clans.

"They are no threat," Vaedros growled. "Mon destroys itself without our help. Let them slaughter each other. When they are weakest, we will collect what is left.".

Korvan followed the king's gaze as it drifted toward Tai, Loth, and Pico—lands of warriors, scholars, and outcasts.

"Tai will not yield to us so readily," the general admitted. "Their soldiers are trained from birth. They are one of the few armies that could possibly equal us."

"Then we take the fight away from them before they even see the battlefield," Vaedros answered smoothly. "Famine. Plague. Let their strength wither before our swords even meet theirs."

Korvan waited for the first time that night but did not complain. His eyes turned to Loth, the continent of scholars and learning. "Loth may not need war. Their citizens value wisdom above all else. If we offer them a choice—obey us or perish—they will make a good choice."

Vaedros nodded once. "And if they do not?"

Korvan's expression was unreadable. "Then they will burn."

A long and heavy silence stretched between them before their eyes settled on the last continent—Renute.

The land of prophecy. The land of the unknown.

For the first time that night, no words burst out at once.

Finally, Korvan spoke, his voice softer now. "If the rumors are true…"

Vaedros's hand closed tighter around the hilt of his sword. "They are not."

Korvan eyed him intently, then nodded slowly. "Then we face them last."

The king exhaled, his gaze sweeping across the map once more. Kei would be removed first. Nor crippled before it could act. Sai broken in the shadows. Mon abandoned to perish. Tai smashed before they could fight. Loth turned or destroyed. Renute… last.

In three months' time, the first sword would be drawn.

Ganoth would stop at nothing until the world was theirs.