Chapter 10 – Warpath of the Twelve
It all began with a ripple—a tremor that coursed with an almost sentient pulse through the leylines, those ancient pathways that interwoven across lands and oceans, stretching from one shimmering city to another, weaving through kingdoms that had long since forgotten the embrace of the heavens. This was no mere event; it was the awakening of the Vault, a phenomenon that sent tremors echoing across the expansive tapestry of the world, a signal not of magic, but of something far deeper: remembrance.
All across the realm, wherever the name of the Crownless resonated, preparations began in earnest for the oncoming storm of war. The collective memory of a time when power was raw and untempered flashed back into consciousness, igniting the embers of fear and anticipation alike.
Vel'Therin – Inner Sanctum
Within the shrouded confines of the Inner Sanctum, a single cloaked figure knelt reverently. The air hummed with energy as ethereal runes suspended in the space around him flickered to life, casting an otherworldly glow upon the stone walls. Twelve thrones, majestic but eerily vacant, encircled the figure. Yet, they pulsed with an undeniable aura, the very presence of the Twelve echoing in the stillness. Their voices came together in a chilling symphony, each tone strikingly different yet unified in purpose:
A voice filled with age and wisdom, another sharp with youthful indignation. Some beckoned with cruelty, while others offered a calm that belied their ominous intent. But beneath it all lay a singular command that reverberated through the air, chilling the very marrow of existence.
"Kill him."
"He survived the Vault," the figure replied, his voice edged with both defiance and desperation. "The crown accepted him. That has to be proof—"
"Proof of threat," another voice interjected. "Proof that fire still lingers. He is not a king; he is a flame we failed to extinguish."
A tense silence descended, heavy as the weight of inevitability.
"Dispatch the Hollow March."
The cloaked figure submitted a bow, his resolve hardening. "Understood."
Lower Spire – The Vault Exit
Kael sat alone in a contemplative silence, soaking in the gravity of the throne's memory that still clung to him, each heartbeat resonating with the echo of the first Crownless. The weight of destiny hung in the air.
"There was never a throne. Only the fire left behind by those brave enough to carry it."
Beside him, Seris was a study of focus and determination, methodically sharpening her blade with practiced rhythm, each stroke an act of preparation for the storm brewing on the horizon. She had said little since their escape from the Vault; her silence was both a shield and a sanctuary. Yet, she couldn't resist occasional sidelong glances, not out of worry for his state of being, but in search of any indications that he was transforming into something unfamiliar.
"You don't look like him," she finally remarked, her voice slicing through the stillness.
Kael turned to her, bewildered. "The Crownless?"
"No," she clarified. "The boy I dragged out of that leyflooded cave five weeks ago."
He offered a small, wistful smile. "That boy's still in here somewhere."
"I don't think he is," Seris replied, her tone carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom.
For the first time in their conversation, Kael found himself without a counterargument, and an unspoken understanding began to settle between them.
Suddenly, Tarin emerged from the ether, slicing through the shimmering veil of invisibility that had cloaked him.
"Bad news," he said immediately, urgency lacing his tone.
"Worse than the last twenty-four hours?" Kael asked, incredulous.
"Considerably."
With a swift motion, he tossed them a wax seal, still glistening with ley-ink, its dark sheen a harbinger of impending doom. Kael caught it deftly, recognizing the sigil of the Twelvefold Circle emblazoned upon its surface.
"Subject: Ardyn, Kael. Designation: Crownless. Status: Terminate on Sight. Deployment: Hollow March—Stage One."
Seris cursed under her breath, her eyes narrowing in fury. "They're sending Hollow Marchers?"
Tarin nodded grimly. "And it's not just scouts. They're deploying full-blooded Seraphim-Class."
At this, Kael's jaw dropped. "What are those?"
"Living weapons," Seris muttered darkly. "They used to be kings."
An oppressive silence settled like a heavy fog in the room, descending upon them all.
Then, with a newfound determination, Kael stood, his posture shifting in a way that was both subtle and profound. He exuded a sense of grounding that had previously eluded him. Not defiance, nor resignation, but a magnificent sense of being centered.
"Let them come," he declared boldly, his voice unwavering and resolute, echoing with the strength of granite carved over millennia. "I'm tired of living in the shadows, always ducking and dodging. It's time to face the storm."
Tarin blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback by the sheer intensity of his words. A rush of emotions flooded through him—doubt, admiration, and a flicker of fear. "You're serious?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as he sought to comprehend the magnitude of his companion's declaration. The weight of the moment hung in the air, thick with unspoken tension, making it difficult for him to gather his thoughts. Massed memories of hiding and running flashed in his mind, contrasting sharply with the courage that now radiated from his friend's demeanor.
Kael turned towards the western sky, his gaze fixed on the storm-choked horizon, where shadows hinted at the arrival of the first Marchers. "I know what I am now," he stated firmly. "They're intent on burning the world to bury me. So, I'll burn first."
Elsewhere – Northern Front, Skygrave Ridge
As dawn broke, the Hollow March commenced with cataclysmic intent. Across the fractured borderlands, dozens of formidable floating battle-engines hummed to life, their bells tolling an ominous foreboding. Cloud-ships descended from the skies, transforming once-vibrant cities into tombs of silence, as leyhounds were released to scatter like shadows among the populace.
Marchers didn't come to knock; they came to obliterate. And their relentless path was aimed squarely at Kael.
Meanwhile – The Sky Below
Deep in the ancient prison ruins nestled beneath the continent of Vareth, a woman shackled in chains stirred languorously. Her previously golden eyes flickered with a strange, ash-colored light, crackling with dark energy.
A sharp, predatory smile spread across her features, revealing a glint of something terrifying.
"The Crownless rises again…" she whispered with malevolent glee. "Tell the Twelve that their nightmare isn't over. It's merely waking up."
With a sudden violent rupture, the chains snapped apart.
The darkness splintered.
And as the echoes of her laughter mingled with the sounds of encroaching chaos, a second war began, threatening to shatter the fragile peace of the world.
To be continued...