Aelric stood at the shattered gates, sword raised high, blood staining his armor as the last defense of the outpost crumbled. Around him, the sky burned crimson, thick with the smoke of war. The clash of steel, the desperate cries of the wounded, and the bone-deep blare of war horns created a grim symphony of finality.
But then—like a whisper carried on the wind—it spread: "The king is dead."
The words raced through the battlefield, from soldier to soldier, carried on hushed voices and wide-eyed disbelief. The fighting faltered, blades hung mid-swing, breaths caught. Even the bloodthirsty momentum of the Golden Army broke, the tide freezing as the weight of those words settled like a shroud over the field.
Arch General Vjetromor—his golden cloak torn and his face ashen—rode slowly forward, breaking the unnatural stillness. Every eye turned as he dismounted with deliberate grace, his boots sinking into blood-soaked earth.
Aelric lowered his sword slightly, chest heaving. Their gazes locked—two men who had once shared purpose, now standing on the razor's edge of a realm's fate.
Vjetromor's voice rang out, strong, unwavering. "The king's light... is extinguished." He let the words hang in the air like a final tolling bell. "There shall be no more bloodshed."
The silence that followed was deafening. Men who had moments ago been ready to kill now stood still, hands slack on weapon hilts. Even the wind dared not blow.
Slowly, Vjetromor approached. With every step, the distance between past and future closed. He stopped before Aelric—pride, grief, and duty warring across his face. Then, with a heavy breath, he sank to one knee.
"I served one king. Now I serve another." His voice trembled, but his words carried the weight of generations. "All hail... King Aelric."
For a moment, Aelric could only stare, sword limp in his grip. Then, as if the realm itself exhaled, the Golden Army followed—kneeling, dropping swords, their voices rising in a single, unified chant.
"All hail King Aelric."
The cry spread like wildfire, rolling across the field, echoing off the ruined walls. The sound was not just surrender—it was acceptance, it was the birth of a new era forged in blood and sacrifice.
Aelric's gaze lifted toward the sky, where smoke swirled and clouds broke, letting sunlight pierce through. He let out a shaky breath, lowering his blade fully, his voice barely a whisper.
"May the gods forgive us all."
And so, where war had raged and kings had fallen, a new reign began—not with the clash of steel, but with the quiet, undeniable surrender of a kingdom ready for change.
The age of King Aelric had dawned.