Kael stood alone on the highest balcony of the imperial palace, his silhouette carved in shadow by the pale light of twin moons. Below him sprawled the Empire—golden towers piercing the night sky, fire-lit streets pulsing with silent unrest, and beyond it all, the frozen frontier whispered its defiance in the wind.
The Frostveil Highlands.
Land of rebels. Land of ghosts. Soon to be a grave.
Behind him, footsteps. Soft, deliberate.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"You're leaving at dawn," Selene said, her voice low and smooth like silk drawn over steel.
"Yes," Kael replied, eyes still fixed on the distance. "The empire has left its mess unattended for too long."
A pause. Then she stepped beside him, her violet eyes glinting beneath her silver tiara. "You make it sound so easy."
Kael allowed a smirk. "That's because it is."
Selene's gaze lingered on his profile, her voice laced with something between curiosity and concern. "Every move you make sharpens the knives pointed at your back. Duke Alvar is not a man who takes defeat with grace."
Kael finally turned toward her, his eyes dark and calm. "He's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet."
She laughed—not loud, but real. "You're dangerous, Kael."
"You've always known that," he said. His voice was low, but not without meaning.
Selene didn't answer at first. Instead, she looked past him, toward the sleeping city that stretched into the horizon. Then quietly, "Ten thousand soldiers will accompany you. Enough to subdue the rebellion, if you're clever."
He nodded. "I don't plan to lose a single one."
Selene tilted her head slightly. "And if Alvar strikes while you're gone?"
"Then I thank him for saving me the effort."
Silence stretched again—taut, intimate. There was something unspoken in the air between them. An acknowledgment. A warning. A promise.
Then she turned, the moonlight catching in her hair like spun silver. "Do not disappoint me."
Kael watched her disappear into the palace's shadowed halls, her footsteps soft as falling snow.
He remained on the balcony a moment longer, eyes narrowed on the horizon. The empire was shifting. And he was the one turning the wheel.
Dawn.
The imperial gates groaned open under the weight of war.
Kael sat astride his black warhorse, cloaked in midnight silk and silver-etched armor. Before him stretched ten thousand soldiers—disciplined, silent, lethal. The banners of the Empire rippled like blood-stained silk in the wind.
Among the ranks, three stood apart:
* General Varian — broad-shouldered and grim-eyed, his weathered face etched with battlefield scars. He was a fortress in human form.
* Lady Saria — cloaked in shadows, her twin daggers gleaming like fangs. A ghost from the Southern Isles, beautiful and deadly.
* Elder Magnus — robed in deep crimson, his ancient staff carved with arcane runes. The mind of war in a frail old body.
Kael's gaze swept over them all. He saw strength. He saw fear. He saw loyalty.
And he saw spies.
Good. Let them watch. Let them whisper. Let them run to their masters.
When the fire rises, they will burn first.
He raised his gauntleted hand, voice carrying like thunder across the stone walls:
"We march."
The earth trembled under the boots of ten thousand.
And with them, Kael carried the storm.
To be continued...