Chapter Nineteen: Reckless Fire
23rd of June, Year 768 — Dream Calendar
Eighth War of the Continent
Location: Eastern Front, Near the City of Agren
The dust swirled around them in thick, choking gusts as the sun pierced the battlefield with no mercy. The land before them stretched dry and desolate, carved with the scars of a thousand broken armies. It smelled of iron, sweat, and ruin.
Andrew, clad in blackened warplate with a crimson cloak fluttering like spilled blood behind him, stood atop the ridge overlooking the grand gates of Agren—the first bastion of Dream Land. The final wall before the heart of the empire once ruled by Andreas. Now fractured, contested, and rotting from within.
This was no noble campaign. This was war born of desperation.
"You're sure about this?"
The voice of Mario, his most trusted knight commander, cracked the heavy air. The man's armor was scarred and dented from dozens of battles, his tone somewhere between admiration and concern.
Andrew didn't look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the distant towers of Agren, shimmering beneath the cruel summer sun.
"No," Andrew said flatly. "This is madness. But we do it anyway."
He turned, facing Mario directly.
"We take Agren. Or we burn with it."
Mario gave a tight nod. "The knights are ready. They'll follow you wherever this leads, even to death. But Andrew… this isn't like you. There's no strategy here. No siege. Just storming the city gates with steel and fury."
"That's the point." Andrew's voice was ice wrapped around fire.
"If we wait, they'll reinforce. If we hesitate, they'll find her."
Mario's gaze narrowed. "Her?"
Andrew said nothing.
He turned back to the view of Agren. His thoughts were already far beyond its walls.
It had been twelve years since she vanished.
Natalia.
His sister. The reason he became a traitor. The reason he forged kingdoms and buried nations.
He remembered her as she was—soft-spoken, stubborn, with that quiet strength behind her smile. A spirit flame user born once every five generations. The power of the stars burned in her soul, and Andreas… Andreas had taken her.
He'd told no one.
Not even David.
The war had never been about conquest.
It was about rescue.
They rode at dawn.
Steel clashed as gates exploded inward under enchanted pressure. His knights, only eighty-five strong, tore into Agren like lightning given flesh—each handpicked, battle-tested, and loyal to death. Civilians fled, soldiers screamed, and the air became thick with chaos.
Andrew rode at the front, a sword in each hand—one steel, one silver—his armor soaked in the blood of his enemies within moments. He moved like vengeance itself.
Streets were taken. Barricades broken. Towers fell.
They made it to the inner keep by dusk, the rest of Agren consumed by war.
He stormed the central spire, slaughtering what few elite guards remained. His boots echoed against marble soaked in blood and ash. There, past the grand arched corridor, was a sealed gate. A cage designed to hold more than any human could contain.
He reached for it.
Magic resistance flared against his hand, pushing him back.
He drew a small stone from within his cloak—engraved with an ancient rune given to him by Andrei, his companion and mage-forger. He pressed it against the seal.
The runes glowed.
The door shuddered.
Then it opened.
Inside, surrounded by dead light and old enchantments, sat a girl in white robes, bound by glowing chains. Her eyes, even in exhaustion, still carried the fire of stars.
Natalia.
Her gaze met his. She blinked once. Her lips parted.
Andrew stepped inside, his voice quiet, trembling, barely human.
"Sister…"