The blood-red dawn crept over Frostveil like a slow bleed from a dying god.
Where once stood the defiant heart of rebellion, now only smoke and silence remained. The fortress, carved into mountain stone and pride, lay broken. Its halls reeked of steel, ash, and the sour stench of shattered dreams.
Victory, swift and merciless.
Kael stood at the center of the great hall—once Alric's throne room, now a butcher's stage. Shattered banners hung in tatters overhead. The marble floor beneath his boots was slick with blood, reflecting crimson light like a polished wound.
Before him, the remnants of the rebellion knelt in chains. Warriors who once roared defiance now bowed their heads, broken not by sword, but by strategy. Every breath they drew was a reminder of their failure.
Lord Alric, the iron-spined warlord of the highlands, knelt at the front—his face bruised, his garments torn, pride leaking from him like blood from a fresh cut. Gone was the fire in his eyes. Only embers remained.
Kael stepped forward, his voice cold and even.
"You built this fortress to defy the Empire. Did you truly believe you could stand against me?"
Alric met his gaze, teeth gritted. "Frostveil was to be a sanctuary. A place free of imperial tyranny."
Kael's head tilted, golden eyes narrowing. "And yet your first acts of freedom were to burn villages, butcher merchants, and leave orphaned children in your wake. Tell me, Alric—how is that different from the tyranny you claimed to oppose?"
The warlord had no answer. Only silence.
Kael turned to Lady Saria, who stood at his side like a shadow with a smile. "Casualties?"
"Minimal," she said, brushing snow from her cloak. "Your trap was perfect. As always."
"And the prisoners?"
"A thousand. Most surrendered before their swords ever left their sheaths."
Kael nodded. "Good. They will be given a choice—serve the Empire… or die as traitors."
A ripple of despair passed through the prisoners. Alric said nothing. But his fists clenched.
Kael's boots echoed against the marble as he stepped closer. "But you, Alric… You knew the cost. You dragged your people into ruin for a dream that never existed. You raised a flag soaked in lies."
Alric raised his head. Defiance flickered, a dying flame. "Then finish it."
Kael drew his blade.
Not quickly. Not cleanly.
The sword slid from its sheath like judgment made flesh. One strike broke the warlord's knee. Another carved across his chest. Kael did not grant mercy. He granted meaning.
By the time Alric's head rolled across the blood-slick floor, silence had devoured the room.
The message was carved into stone and bone:
Defy Kael Rathen, and your legacy dies with you.
That night, the mountain fortress burned with imperial fire.
From the high balcony, Kael watched as Frostveil's banners were torn from their poles and fed to the flames. In their place, the black sigil of the Empire rose—wrought from iron, sharp as a blade.
Lady Saria joined him, her cloak billowing in the wind like a phantom.
"You were ruthless today," she said softly. "Efficient. But ruthless."
Kael's eyes remained on the horizon. "Mercy is a luxury. And luxuries are reserved for the victor."
She chuckled, a low, admiring sound. "You spared their soldiers."
"Because they were never the enemy," Kael replied. "They were pawns—manipulated, misguided. You don't destroy pawns. You convert them."
Saria turned her gaze to the burning banners below. "Sometimes I wonder if your enemies even understand they've already lost before the first blade is drawn."
Kael didn't respond.
Because he was already thinking of the next conquest.
Frostveil was never the goal.
It was merely a warning.
To be continued...