The tavern called "The Broken Crown" sat on the outskirts of Millhaven, a trading town that had managed to survive the war by paying tribute to whichever army happened to be passing through. It was a place where questions weren't asked and names weren't given, where men could drink away their sorrows and pretend that the world outside didn't exist.
Ren Valtair sat in the darkest corner of the common room, his weathered hands wrapped around a mug of ale that had long since gone flat. He was a man of middle years, his dark hair streaked with premature gray, his face lined with the weight of too many difficult decisions. Once, he had been known as the Iron Strategist, the tactical genius who could turn the tide of any battle. Now, he was simply another exile, another casualty of a war that had consumed everything he held dear.
He wore the rough clothes of a merchant, his sword hidden beneath a traveling cloak that had seen better days. To any casual observer, he was just another trader down on his luck, drowning his sorrows in cheap ale and cheaper company. But his eyes—sharp and intelligent, the color of autumn leaves—those eyes missed nothing.
"Another round, stranger?" The serving girl was young, perhaps sixteen, with the hollow cheeks and wary eyes of someone who had seen too much of the world's cruelty. She held a pitcher of ale in one hand and a forced smile on her lips.
"Thank you, but no," Ren replied, his voice cultured despite his rough appearance. "I've had enough for one evening."
The girl nodded and moved away, but not before Ren caught the flash of relief in her eyes. Good. At least some small kindness remained in this broken world.
He was about to leave when a group of soldiers entered the tavern, their armor marked with the sigil of the Demon Lord's army—a crown consumed by flames. They were loud, boisterous, their faces flushed with drink and victory. They had the look of men who had seen too much killing and had learned to find joy in it.
"Did you hear?" one of them was saying, his voice carrying across the common room. "The Lord spared a family in Sanctum Luminous. Just let them walk away."
"You're drunk, Garrett," another replied. "The Demon Lord doesn't spare anyone. It's not in his nature."
"I saw it with my own eyes," Garrett insisted. "Father, mother, two little ones. He had his sword raised, ready to strike, and then... nothing. Just turned around and walked away."
Ren's grip tightened on his mug, and he forced himself to remain perfectly still. These soldiers were talking about something impossible—the Demon Lord showing mercy. It couldn't be true. Could it?
"Even if it is true," a third soldier said, "it doesn't change anything. He's still the monster who burned half the continent. One moment of weakness doesn't erase seven years of slaughter."
"But what if it's not weakness?" Garrett's voice dropped to a whisper. "What if it's something else? What if he's... changing?"
The other soldiers laughed, but it was forced, hollow. They had all heard the stories, the whispers that ran through the ranks like wildfire. Their lord was acting strangely, showing hesitation where once there had been only cold determination. Some said he was growing weak. Others whispered that he was remembering something he had tried to forget.
Ren finished his ale and stood, leaving a few copper coins on the table. He walked past the soldiers without a glance, just another unremarkable figure in the crowd. But inside, his mind was racing.
If the stories were true—if the Demon Lord was indeed showing mercy—then perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps the man he had once called brother was not as lost as everyone believed.
He made his way through the darkened streets of Millhaven, his footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. The town was quiet at this hour, most of its citizens safe behind locked doors and barred windows. But Ren knew the shadows well, and he moved through them like a ghost.
His destination was an abandoned shrine on the outskirts of town, dedicated to Aethon, the god of wisdom and memory. The building had been desecrated years ago, its windows broken, its altar defiled. But it was isolated, forgotten—the perfect place for a man who needed to think.
He pushed open the rusted door and stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The shrine was in ruins, its walls covered with the graffiti of vandals and the stains of neglect. But at the base of the broken altar, hidden beneath a loose stone, was a leather-bound journal.
Ren retrieved it with reverent care, his fingers tracing the worn binding. This was his life's work—the true history of the war, told from the perspective of someone who had been there from the beginning. He had spent years gathering testimonies, collecting evidence, piecing together the real story of what had happened to Duke Kael Viremont.
He opened the journal to a fresh page and began to write:
"Millhaven, 15th day of Harvestmoon, Year 7 of the War
Today I heard something that should be impossible—a report that the Demon Lord showed mercy. Multiple witnesses confirm that he spared a family during the siege of Sanctum Luminous, despite having every opportunity to kill them.
If this is true, it represents the first crack in the facade he has maintained for seven years. The question is: what caused it? And more importantly, what does it mean for the future?
I have spent these years in exile, gathering the truth about what really happened in the Western Vale. I know who was responsible for the betrayal. I know the names of the lords who conspired against him. I know the depths of their treachery and the price he paid for their ambition.
But I also remember the man he used to be. Kael Viremont was my closest friend, my brother in all but blood. He was kind, just, beloved by his people. He would have died before harming an innocent.
If that man is truly gone, then mercy is impossible. But if he still exists, somewhere beneath the darkness that has consumed him, then perhaps there is hope yet.
I must find him. I must try to reach him. Not to stop him—I know that is beyond my power. But to remind him who he used to be. To show him that he still has a choice.
The world sees only the monster. But I remember the man. And I will not let that memory die."
Ren closed the journal and tucked it back into its hiding place. As he prepared to leave, something caught his eye—a small object lying half-buried in the dust beside the altar. He knelt and brushed it clean, revealing a sigil ring of silver and sapphire.
His breath caught in his throat. He knew this ring. He had seen it countless times, worn on the hand of a man who had once been called the Gentle Duke. The sigil of House Viremont—a silver tree beneath a star-filled sky.
"How did you come to be here?" he whispered to the ring, turning it over in his palm. "What journey have you taken from the halls of power to this forgotten shrine?"
He slipped the ring into his pocket, a talisman against the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. Whatever force had brought it to this place, whatever meaning it held, he would find out. He would trace its path back to its source, and perhaps, in doing so, he would find his way back to the man who had once worn it.
As he walked back toward the town, Ren's mind was already working, formulating plans. He would need to be careful—the Demon Lord had agents everywhere, and a single mistake could cost him his life. But he had advantages too. He knew Kael better than anyone, knew how he thought, how he fought, how he loved.
And somewhere, buried beneath years of pain and darkness, he believed that knowledge still mattered.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of rain and distant smoke. In the east, the sky was beginning to lighten, heralding the dawn of another day in a world at war.
But for the first time in seven years, Ren Valtair allowed himself to hope.
In his pocket, the ring of House Viremont seemed to pulse with its own inner light, a reminder that even in the darkest night, the stars still shine.