Kael stood before his golem legion in the hidden chamber beneath Greyspire's western wall. Torches flickered against their cold, metallic bodies, casting jagged silhouettes on the stone. Rows upon rows of constructs stood silent, awaiting command—mage golems with their staves raised, artillery golems shaped like siege cannons, and the single-shot units with reinforced cores.
He moved between them, gauntlet brushing over the cold steel of their armor, inspecting each rune-etched plate and the humming crystals inside. The researchers had worked tirelessly. Mana streams pulsed in measured rhythm, cores stabilized, no flicker of failure.
"They are ready," Kael murmured, voice calm but edged with steel. "They will not falter. Not until the last man of that army is ash."
Yet even this force was not his greatest card.
He turned to a sealed doorway carved directly into the foundation beneath the city road. The dungeon's influence had hollowed out a vast chamber, concealed with layered wards. Within, an earth-shaking growl reverberated.
The lizard.
No longer the beastling that had once learned to channel mana through its spines, it now towered—the size of twenty-seven men, its scales gleaming like molten stone cooled by ash. Each breath steamed with cinders, its tail dragging sparks across the floor.
Kael placed a hand upon the sealing rune, the chamber quaking in answer. "You have grown. You are ready for freedom."
The beast's eyes gleamed with recognition. The bond between them thrummed like fire through Kael's veins. This would not be a creature confined to walls—it would be terror incarnate on the battlefield.
Yet Kael was not done. Beyond the living forces, the dead awaited. In his dungeon crypts, hundreds of corpses—bandits, assassins, mercenaries, and soldiers fallen in shadow—were suspended in necrotic sleep. He had not yet unleashed them. But he would. And when he did, they would taste only agony, as was their due.
"Greyspire's soil will drink their fear," Kael whispered, shadows curling at his feet.
Far away, within Kael's village, another storm stirred.
Sara lay upon her bed, breath shallow, her skin slick with sweat. Her mother and younger sister hovered near, eyes full of worry, unable to wake her. Her body glowed faintly, veins pulsing with an otherworldly light.
Umbra, perched in feline guise by the window, flicked its tail. "Master," its voice whispered through Kael's mind, "the girl's bloodline is stirring. She has fallen into the awakening sleep."
Kael paused mid-inspection, then extended his hand toward the distant link. Dark-blue sigils flared in his palm, and in the village, a barrier of protective mana spread over Sara's body.
"She is safe," Kael's voice echoed to Umbra. "This is nature's trial, not illness. Guard her well."
The little girl stood at the bedside, tiny fists clenched, eyes shimmering with worry. She touched Sara's hand, whispering softly. "Don't leave like this. Please wake up soon."
The pulse from Sara's body surged in response, as though her bloodline itself answered the child's plea.
Kael lowered his hand, shadows retreating. Another thread had been woven into his growing web of power.
But outside Greyspire, the enemy army was still marching. And soon, all pieces—golems, beasts, bloodlines, and shadows—would be tested in fire.
The enemy encampment stretched like a sea of steel and fire across the plains outside Greyspire. Countless tents lined the horizon, banners snapping in the wind. In the largest tent, the enemy commander lounged over a war table, his armored fingers drumming upon the strange stone chained at his side.
"Greyspire is nothing but farmland wrapped in crumbling walls," he said with a sneer, eyes glinting. "One strike will shatter their spirit. I'll send one thousand forward. Enough to terrify them into surrender before our blades even touch the stone."
His captains bowed. "As you command, General."
The First Wave
The horn sounded. A column of one thousand soldiers marched in flawless formation, banners waving as their boots thundered against the earth. They carried ladders, rams, and crude siege gear, confident that a city like Greyspire would crumble under mere pressure.
The general leaned forward on his seat, lips curling into a satisfied grin. "Let them tremble."
But Greyspire did not tremble.
Upon the walls, archers drew taut their bows. Spell circles flared under the command of mage companies, runes glowing across their robes. Behind them, rows of mage golems stood in silent readiness, their crystals throbbing with contained power.
Kael's influence rippled like a shadow through the ranks. At his silent signal, the air itself began to hum.
The enemy vanguard crossed within one hundred meters.
"Now," Kael whispered.
The sky lit with destruction.
Bolts of lightning tore from the mage golems, fireballs cascaded from the battlemages, and arrows of light rained down in merciless barrages. The air screamed with power as explosions ripped through the ground.
The soldiers had no time to react. Shields shattered, armor melted, bodies torn apart before their feet touched the shadow of the wall. What had been a proud column of one thousand turned to ash and ruin in less than a minute.
The stench of burnt steel and blood wafted across the plains.
On the distant ridge, the enemy general's smile froze. His fist clenched so tight the veins bulged against his gauntlet.
"Impossible…" he hissed.
Then his fury erupted.
"Send twenty thousand!" His voice thundered like a storm. "Crush them! Make Greyspire bleed until its rivers run red! Leave seventy-nine thousand in reserve—we will not squander the core of our might. But those twenty thousand will bury that cursed city!"
The horns blared again, darker this time.
Drums rolled across the battlefield as ranks upon ranks of soldiers began to march. Spears lowered, banners flapped like vultures circling carrion.
But those twenty thousand… were marching straight into horror.
And Greyspire's shadows waited.
The plains outside Greyspire fell into a suffocating silence. The smell of charred flesh lingered, drifting in black smoke that curled above the battlefield.
Then came the thunder of boots—twenty thousand strong.
Their formation stretched like an ocean of spears, armor gleaming under the dim light of the setting sun. They marched with discipline, eyes fixed ahead, but as the first ranks drew closer to Greyspire, the scene awaiting them stole the breath from their throats.
From the charred earth ahead, the fallen one thousand soldiers rose again.
Ash-streaked faces, empty eyes glowing with necrotic light, armor still scorched from their fiery deaths—Kael's necromancy had pulled them back from death itself. Now they shambled, staggered, and then broke into a horrifying charge straight toward their former comrades.
"D–Dead men… they're standing!" one soldier stammered, voice cracking.
"Hold the line!" the captain barked, fear etched in the lines of his face. "They are no longer our brothers. Kill every enemy in front of you!"
The clash was deafening. Steel struck steel, screams echoed across the plain as the undead legion tore into the living ranks. Panic spread like wildfire. Soldiers recoiled at the sight of familiar faces, now twisted and grotesque, cutting them down without hesitation.
Then the sky turned crimson.
A tremor rippled through the battlefield as the artillery golems unleashed their first full salvo. Flaming shells arced across the horizon, streaking like falling stars before crashing into the heart of the twenty-thousand. The earth shook. Explosions rippled outward in rings of fire and shrapnel, turning ordered formations into shredded chaos.
Greyspire's walls glowed with magical light, the mage golems and human spellcasters firing in rhythm, their combined barrage reducing the battlefield to a storm of carnage.
The cries of the dying drowned beneath the roar of artillery fire.
Far away, in the capital, Arlen watched through the crystal projection, his knuckles white against the chair he was seating. His eyes burned with rage as the images of his twenty thousand soldiers being ripped apart unfolded before him.
"This… this is Kael's doing," he spat, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "He dares mock me with this display of power?"
Back in the enemy's war camp, the commander's tent shook as a runner burst inside, dropping to his knees in terror.
"G-General! The second wave—t-twenty thousand strong—they've been completely annihilated!"
The commander rose to his feet, his chair crashing to the ground. His face twisted, veins bulging across his neck as his rage boiled over.
"Enough!" His roar silenced the entire tent. He seized the chained stone beside him, the runes etched into it glowing faintly red.
"It seems the time has come," he snarled. "I will unleash the Fire Dragon. But the summoning requires time… and blood."
He turned to his captains.
"Send the rest. All of them. Close in from every direction. Ten siege towers, one for each flank. Encircle Greyspire until no rat can escape its walls. Keep them drowning in men until the dragon awakens."
The captains bowed, though their faces paled at his words.
And so the orders went out.
The last of the enemy host—seventy-nine thousand soldiers—marched to surround Greyspire from all sides, the earth trembling beneath their boots. Siege towers, massive wooden behemoths, rolled forward like giants, casting shadows under the moonlight.
But Greyspire was no longer a city waiting for salvation.
It was a fortress of shadows, armed with steel, magic, and the will of one man who had returned from the abyss.
And the true war was only about to begin.