The dawn bled red across the ruins. Smoke rose like banners as Kaelen stood at the head of his newly-forged host. Thousands strong—scarred veterans, broken conscripts, branded zealots—all bore his mark, a blackened ash-sigil burned into their flesh. Their eyes no longer looked to distant kings or fading banners. They looked to him.
Serenya strode beside him, the stolen Executioner blade strapped across her back, her grin sharp as ever. Behind them, drums of bone and steel thundered, echoing through the shattered city.
Kaelen raised his staff. The drums ceased. Silence rippled through the army like a tide.
"Children of ruin," his voice rang, amplified by the storm above, "you were cast aside by kings who bled you for their thrones. You were abandoned by a Sovereign who fed you to the Veil. No more."
A murmur swept the ranks. Kaelen's staff flared, crimson arcs lashing the sky.
"From ash, you rise. In fire, you endure. Follow me, and the world will burn before you."
The silence broke. A roar erupted, tens of thousands strong, shaking the ground itself. And with that, the March of Ash began.
Their first conquest lay but two days east: the border fortress of Darneth, one of the last loyalist outposts guarding the Ashen Marches. Its high walls had turned away raiders, bandits, even Sovereign rebels. But Darneth had never faced Kaelen.
The host arrived beneath stormclouds, their approach a dark wave of steel and banners of ash. The fortress horns wailed, and archers lined the battlements.
Kaelen stepped forward, alone, staff in hand. Arrows loosed in a black cloud. None reached him. His crimson aura flared, burning the shafts to cinders before they touched the ground.
He raised his staff, and the very earth cracked. From the ground erupted molten fissures, spewing fire and smoke that climbed the walls like serpents. Screams echoed as defenders fell, consumed in flames.
"Open the gates," Kaelen commanded, his voice carrying like thunder.
The gates did not open.
Serenya laughed low beside him. "Stubborn fools. Shall I break them?"
Kaelen's crimson eyes never left the burning ramparts. "No. They will open."
He lifted his staff, and the sky itself answered. Black lightning speared down, striking the gate with an explosion that split oak and iron alike. The gates shattered inward, and his host surged forward like wolves unleashed.
The battle lasted less than an hour. The fortress defenders fought bravely, but Kaelen's army was relentless—driven not by loyalty or coin, but by the binding brand of fear and fire. When the last defender fell, the fortress of Darneth belonged to him.
At dusk, the courtyard burned with pyres of the dead. The branded soldiers knelt as Kaelen mounted the broken battlements.
"Darneth is the first," he declared, his staff blazing with crimson fire. "But not the last. The Ashen Marches lie ahead. And beyond them—the boy who carries what is mine."
The host roared, and the storm above split with crimson lightning.
Kaelen watched the horizon, where the Ashen Marches awaited. Somewhere beyond, Kael was walking a different path—gathering allies, growing stronger.
Kaelen's grip tightened on his staff. The boy would not be allowed to falter. If Kael failed to master the fire, Kaelen would tear it from him himself.
The March had begun, and nothing would stop it until fire consumed all.