Chapter Twenty: Blood, Memory, and Fire
24th of June, Year 768 — Dream Calendar
City of Agren, Inner Keep
The silence was unbearable.
The kind of silence that crawled beneath the skin, that filled the cracks between shattered hearts and long-lost hopes. Andrew stood motionless, gazing at the girl he had dreamed of saving for over a decade. His heart pounded like a war drum.
"Natalia…" he breathed.
But her eyes—those familiar silver eyes—held no recognition. No warmth. No pain. Just emptiness. Curiosity.
And then she spoke, voice soft, distant, unfamiliar.
"Who are you?"
The words struck him harder than any blade ever could.
His breath caught. His hands trembled.
"It's me," he said, stepping forward. "It's Andrew. Your brother."
She tilted her head slowly, confusion growing.
"Brother…?"
There was a flicker of something, a faint echo in her expression—but it died too quickly. Her memories… gone.
He fell to his knees in front of her, the swords slipping from his hands with a dull clatter against the stone.
"What did he do to you…" he whispered, rage boiling beneath his skin.
It didn't take long for the pieces to fall into place. Andreas. Of course. That coward. That tyrant. He had seen the fall of Agren coming. He knew Andrew would reach her. So he had taken from him the one thing that mattered most—not her life.
Her memory.
Natalia's chains loosened under Mario's enchantment disruptor, and slowly, her arms fell free. She winced, not from pain, but from the foreignness of her own freedom.
Andrew looked up at Mario.
"Take her," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Get her as far from here as you can. Take her to the hidden city of Velmire. It's untouched. Still peaceful. She'll be safe there."
Mario blinked. "Andrew… what about you?"
Andrew stood, lifting his swords again. His eyes were no longer sorrowful.
They were filled with wrath.
"I don't need safety."
"I need revenge."
⸻
7th of August, Year 768
Four Days Later — Outskirts of Yundral Fortress
A new front opened in the east. Yundral—one of the last standing military strongholds before Andreas's capital. The battle began like all others—knights clashing, generals shouting. But what followed was not a campaign.
It was a war of attrition.
Years passed. Seasons blurred. Cities burned.
Andrew led the charge, not as a king, not as a general—but as a storm.
The war dragged for four years. Kingdoms shifted. Borders bled.
And finally—
⸻
12th of September, Year 772 — Dream Calendar
Yundral Fortress Falls
The walls of Yundral crumbled under enchanted siege fire and steel. Its banners were torn, its generals executed. No quarter was given. No prisoners taken.
Andrew stood at the peak of the broken citadel, staring into the blood-red horizon. His armor was cracked, soaked, scorched—but he stood tall. Above the corpses of enemies and the ashes of his pain.
Natalia was gone from him.
But Andreas was still out there.
Still breathing.
And now… Andrew marched not to liberate. Not to conquer.
But to end it all.
He turned to his army, voice rising like a war cry etched into time.
"We march. To the capital. We will take his throne…
And I will take his head."