Gravehold sat within the ribs of a dead Titan—its skeleton turned into walls, its spine a throne dais. Fires burned from hollow skulls. Crimson banners fluttered in the sour wind.
Each faction held its own quarter, their emblems scarred into the earth.
The air was thick with tension and the stench of magic.
Then, as the third night fell, the winds changed.
The sky split with red lightning.
And the Crimson March arrived.
Adexander walked at the front, flanked by Igris in black steel and Kaien, twirling a blade of living flame. Raik followed, chewing on dried meat like this was just another pit stop.
The other factions looked up. And fell silent.
> "That's him," whispered a baron's aide. "The Crimson King… the one who shattered the Hollow Mirror…"
Varnix the Collector leaned from his bone-chariot, lips twitching into a grin.
> "How nostalgic," he murmured. "The prodigal executioner returns."
From the beast-riders' camp, a giant woman with antlers and blood-drenched furs stepped forward—Tyrvane's war-chief.
> "You claim the Crimson Throne?" she bellowed.
Adexander stepped onto the central dais.
> "I am the Crimson Throne."
The ground cracked beneath him.
The banners caught fire.
The old sigil—the mark of the Crimson Empire—ignited in the stone, visible to all.
Gasps erupted.
Varnix raised a jeweled goblet. "Well… now things are interesting."
The Ashbone leader spat molten blood.
> "Then prove it. Let the Trial of Dominion begin."