The valley had no name on any current map. It hadn't for centuries. To the Republic, it was a myth. To the Kingdom, a forbidden whisper. But to those who served in silence, it was called Vale Nocturne—the resting ground of dead kings and unborn gods.
The winds were colder here. Not natural cold. It crept beneath your skin, spoke in quiet urges, and made you forget why you came.
At the cliff's edge, overlooking ancient ruins swallowed by fog, a man in white and gold stood motionless. His face was hidden beneath a mask etched with symbols no longer taught. In his right hand, he held a cracked blade. In his left—a relic pulsing with Inn, unnatural and wrong. Neither Republic nor Kingdom had forged it.
He watched the skies blaze with fire—Alexandrian and Republican warplanes tangled in a brutal, beautiful dance of death. He smiled beneath the mask.
"Good," he whispered. "Let them burn."
Behind him, a group of robed acolytes knelt.
"My Lord Ashure, the winds confirm: The Flameward front has collapsed. The Kingdom gains ground."
"As predicted," Ashure replied calmly. "Let Alexandria believe in victory. A lion roars loudest before the spear reaches its heart."
One of the younger acolytes looked up, uncertain.
"But if the Kingdom wins—won't they consolidate power again? Rebuild what was broken?"
Ashure turned slowly.
"You still don't understand." His voice was smooth. Measured. Ancient. "This war was never about who governs. It's about erasing the idea that peace ever mattered."
He stepped forward, the relic in his hand humming violently.
"Both sides have bathed in blood. We merely ensured the river flowed faster."
Meanwhile, deep beneath the capital of Alexandria, Herzel descended into a sealed chamber with Grim.
The lights dimmed. Stone corridors gave way to metal. Glyphs from the Old Kingdom flickered on the walls.
"Where are we?" Herzel asked.
"The Vaults of Crownless Kings," Grim replied. "Few know this place still exists. Fewer still have the right to enter."
"Why now?"
"Because you've seen too much," Grim answered darkly. "And not enough."
They reached the inner sanctum—a circular hall surrounded by statues of ancient rulers. Each one wore a different mask. Each held a sword pierced through their own heart.
"I brought you here to show you what Alexandria was built on."
Herzel stared at the stone faces. "They… killed themselves?"
Grim nodded. "To contain a force they feared more than death."
From a sealed case in the center of the room, he drew out a scroll. Faded. Torn. On it was the mark Herzel had seen—the Severed Moon.
"Ashure," Grim said. "He was one of us. A general. A scholar. A believer."
Herzel's breath caught. "And now?"
Grim's voice dropped.
"Now he believes in nothing… but endings."
Suddenly, a low hum filled the air. The scroll pulsed—reacting to something outside.
Sirens.
Distant tremors.
Another bombing campaign… no—something worse.
Herzel looked at Grim. "He's not finished, is he?"
Grim's face was unreadable.
"Ashure never starts a war he doesn't already know the ending to."