The wind howled across the broken hills of Elderholt, where bones of old kingdoms jutted from the soil like forgotten teeth. Stormclouds swirled above as if the heavens themselves prepared for judgment. Kael stood at the edge of a ruined fortress, cape whipping behind him, both blades sheathed across his back, glowing faintly with slumbering heat and shadow.
Beside him, Lyra crouched on a shattered wall, scanning the far valley.
"Scouts confirm movement," she said. "But… no flags. No heralds. Just armor and silence."
"The Bannerless," Darric muttered, tightening the straps on his bracers. "Deserters. Traitors. Ghosts of the last rebellion."
"And now they march again," Kael said.
The Bannerless Host was once a legion sworn to the Eastern Marches. During the Sovereign's first purge, they refused to slaughter their own people and were branded cowards and heretics. Their leaders were executed, and those who survived fled into the wilds.
Now, years later, they were back—and they were not alone.
Kael watched their formation emerge from the northern cliffs. Hundreds, maybe thousands, their armor mismatched, their helms darkened. At the front strode a man taller than any mortal—The Broken Lord, a former high commander of the Sovereign's elite, now clad in jagged armor made from the bones of giants.
And on his back… hung the remains of a fallen war banner, burned to ash.
The two forces met at the edge of Dreadmoor Pass, a narrow ravine flanked by dead trees and black stone. Kael and his companions stood as a wall before the oncoming army, fewer than fifty against an endless tide.
"We don't have the numbers," Darric growled.
"We never did," Kael replied.
He drew Duskrend, and the sky cracked.
"But we have fire. And fire spreads."
With a cry that tore through the wind, Kael charged, blade howling with black lightning.
"Duskrend Tempest!"
The ground shattered beneath him as he slammed the blade into a wave of armored deserters, sending bodies flying. Sparks and blood danced in the air.
Lyra followed, slicing through the gaps Kael created, while Darric and the Flamebound held the flank, roaring their old battle hymns.
Kael leapt into the air and came down before the Broken Lord, blades drawn.
"You carry no banner," Kael said. "So why fight?"
The Broken Lord's voice echoed like iron striking iron.
"Because the world broke me—and now I return the favor."
He swung a massive axe—Kael dodged, sparks trailing behind him. The two warriors clashed, strike for strike, metal groaning under the weight of their power.
"Ashrend Waltz. Third Form—Cindershade!"
Kael's blade burst into flame and moved like flowing fire, cutting a molten arc across the giant's shoulder. The Broken Lord roared, staggered, then retaliated with a bone-crushing blow that sent Kael skidding back, armor cracked.
But Kael didn't fall.
Instead, he stood straight, blood in his mouth, fire in his eyes.
"You broke your oath. I forged mine in flame."
He crossed both blades—Ashrend and Duskrend—and let out a cry that shattered the wind.
"Ashen Judgment."
A pillar of fire and shadow erupted from Kael's body, searing through the front lines of the Bannerless Host. Enemy after enemy fell, screaming, armor melting, weapons turning to ash.
The Broken Lord fell to his knees, his helm rolling from his head.
"So… the heir truly rises."
"Not heir," Kael whispered, bringing both blades down in a single, merciful arc. "Executioner."
The battlefield fell silent, the ground scorched and littered with the fallen. Kael stood among the dead, breath heavy, blades steaming.
The surviving Bannerless dropped their weapons and knelt—not in allegiance, but in surrender.
"He doesn't need banners," one muttered. "He is the storm."
Lyra walked up beside Kael. "You've changed," she said.
Kael didn't answer. His red eyes watched the sky—where, far in the distance, smoke rose from the direction of Velryn, and a new enemy waited in the dark.