The kingdoms fractured faster than Kael's blade could cut them back together. Word of the Iron Wolf's fall spread within days, carried by merchants, deserters, and spies. His death didn't quell the chaos—it emboldened others. Where one warlord fell, three more rose, each draping themselves in banners of blood and broken loyalty.
At the heart of this storm sat the remnants of thrones, men and women who had once ruled as kings, dukes, and sovereign lords. They now vied for scraps of power in council halls, war camps, and shadowed courts. Some turned to mercenaries, others to forbidden pacts, and a few dared whisper of uniting under Kael himself—though most spoke his name with equal parts fear and envy.
Kael and his companions entered Veyra's Crossing, a once-thriving trade hub now drowning in corruption. Soldiers bearing mismatched armor patrolled streets, enforcing the will of whoever had bought them most recently. Banners of competing claimants flew from every corner, each declaring themselves rightful rulers of the Shattered Kingdoms.
The air was heavy with tension. Drunken mercenaries brawled outside taverns. Children scavenged for scraps. A preacher screamed of the "Red Flame Sovereign" who would burn away the weak. Kael pulled his cloak tighter, but eyes still followed him—too many had begun to recognize the Brand glowing faintly through fabric and steel.
Darric muttered, "This place reeks of desperation. Every blade here is for hire, and every man here will sell his loyalty twice in a single night."
Lyra's gaze swept the rooftops. "And every arrow could be meant for us. Keep moving."
Isryn's voice was lower, calmer, but edged with urgency. "Kael, they know of you. The whispers are not contained. Some call you savior, others butcher. You will not pass through these lands unseen again."
Kael said nothing at first. His crimson eyes lingered on the ruined statues at the crossing's square—once proud depictions of kings, now shattered and painted over with crude symbols of rebellion. The Brand pulsed against his skin, an ever-present reminder that destiny had its claws in him.
Finally, he spoke. "Let them whisper. If their thrones are built on blood and greed, then I'll tear them down. One by one, if I must."
The companions didn't make it far before their presence drew predators. A dozen armored riders barred their path, clad in blackened mail, each carrying the sigil of the Ashen Crown—a faction of nobles who claimed descent from the oldest sovereign line. Their leader, a gaunt man with eyes like cold glass, dismounted and stepped forward.
"You wear the Brand," he said, his voice cutting through the air like steel. "By ancient decree, you are bound to kneel before the Ashen Crown. Refusal is treason."
Kael's hand drifted to Ashrend's hilt, his stare unflinching. "And if I refuse?"
The man smiled thinly. "Then your ashes will pave our path to legitimacy."
The riders lowered lances, the air bristling with violence. But Kael's companions already moved into position—Lyra with bow drawn, Darric shielding Kael's flank, Isryn weaving wards of light.
Kael unsheathed Ashrend slowly, its crimson glow spilling across the ground like liquid fire. "Then test your decree against mine."
The clash came swift. The Ashen Crown's riders charged, lances shattering against Darric's shield as Lyra's arrows split the night, piercing through helmets and mail. Isryn's wards absorbed the first wave of strikes, releasing shockwaves of searing energy that staggered horses and riders alike.
Kael surged forward, his blade cutting arcs of flame and lightning. He didn't waste movements—every strike was decisive, every parry a setup for brutal counters. His aura blazed crimson, a beacon in the chaos.
But the Ashen Crown fought with fanatic precision. Their gaunt leader revealed his own power, wreathed in gray flames that devoured both steel and spirit. His blade clashed with Ashrend, sparks showering the square as stone cracked beneath their feet.
"You cannot stand against the blood of sovereign kings!" the man roared.
Kael's eyes burned brighter. "Then bleed like the rest of them."
Their duel split the night, echoing through the ruined streets. The companions pressed harder, but the Ashen Crown's forces were disciplined, their loyalty absolute.
And for the first time since the fall of Malrik, Kael felt the pull of something greater—the realization that this wasn't just about scattered warlords anymore. Sovereign bloodlines were rising again, and they were converging on him.