The march to Seraphan was not marked by drums or flags, but by silence. Snow fell thick as ash across the Spine Mountains, blanketing the world in white—until the soldiers arrived, leaving black footprints behind.
Seraphan was no ordinary city.
It was a city carved into the stone, beneath the mountain itself, its walls etched with ancient language and republic banners long faded. A last bastion. A graveyard in waiting.
Prince Dutch rode ahead, solemn, surrounded by steel-clad escorts. Herzl, behind him, looked at the towering cliffs and the narrow paths winding toward the gates. He felt the weight of something older than the war—something that did not want to be disturbed.
"This is the end," whispered Anna, walking beside him. "For them or for us. Or both."
The Gates Open
Without warning, Seraphan's doors opened—not with resistance, but with invitation.
No defenders rushed out.
No shots fired.
No INN barriers rose.
Just silence.
Grim stood still at the edge of the opening, eyes narrowing. He placed his hand to the ground.
"The city isn't alive," he murmured. "It's listening."
The air grew heavier with every step.
Herzl tightened his grip on his weapon. Something was wrong. Too quiet. Too welcoming.
The Hall of Echoes
The inner chambers of Seraphan weren't military bunkers. They were temples. Statues of warriors and beasts stared down from high alcoves. And then they reached it: the Hall of Echoes.
A thousand voices whispered through the stone.
And from the center of the altar stood a lone woman.
Magister Veyra.
Draped in a tattered crimson robe, skin cracked like old porcelain, eyes shut and sewn. Her voice was like a blade of wind:
"You came here not for victory… but for meaning."
Dutch stepped forward.
"You killed our cities. You turned peace into fire. You're done."
Veyra smiled—softly. Sadly.
"Do you even remember why this war began?"
Her hands moved to the altar. Behind it, the massive object revealed itself.
Not a bomb. Not a weapon.
A tombstone, larger than any man, engraved with the names of both Republic and Kingdom soldiers. Thousands.
Some even from decades before the war began.
"The war started before we were born," she whispered. "It was written. Inherited. Forced down our throats with flags and hymns. I merely pulled back the curtain."
Dutch raised his pistol.
"You destroyed innocent lives."
"So did you," she replied.
A long silence.
"No one wins in this war. No one ever did."
The Unseen Explosion
But then—Grim stepped forward.
"Where is it?" he asked coldly.
Veyra paused.
"You of all people should know. You carry it."
Her voice cracked into a laugh.
"You still don't remember, do you?"
Suddenly, the room trembled.
A hidden device, beneath the altar, began to hum with cursed INN resonance—triggered not by time, but memory.
Grim's presence alone had awakened it.
"It was never meant to kill you," Veyra whispered. "It was meant to wake you."
The explosion wasn't fire or force. It was a surge of soul.
Everyone in the chamber dropped to their knees, overwhelmed by the memories of the dead—visions of battlefield screams, lost families, burning homes, the cost of war etched into their minds all at once.
Herzl collapsed, visions of children crying, mothers holding bloodied sons, brothers killing brothers… it broke him.
The Cost of Victory
The Kingdom's forces dragged their leaders out before the entire structure collapsed. Seraphan's roof fell inward, burying Veyra and her altar.
As the dust settled, Dutch stood in the snow, surrounded by what remained of his army.
They had won.
And yet—nothing felt like victory.
Last Scene: A Mask Slipping
That night, Grim stood alone at the ridge, overlooking Seraphan's remains.
A hand clutched at his temple.
He whispered to himself in a tongue not of men.
"Why did she say that?"
He looked at his reflection in a pool of melted snow.
For a moment—
Just a flicker—
His eyes weren't his own.
And behind him, unseen, the air shimmered… as if something older than this war watched from the mountain's shadow.