Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
Three years.
For three years, Riven Thornevald, King of Dravion, moved through the lands of Serpentis like a disease that did not bleed immediately. He did not come with armies. He did not light fires. He did not raise banners. His war was silent, slow, and precise.
Villages vanished.
Not through ash — but through emptiness.
His tactic was simple and perfectly cruel:
strike — silence — waiting.
A village was taken in minutes. The men died the same day. Any defense, no matter how small, shattered before it understood what was happening. Then the Dravion knights stayed. For weeks. For months.
The women were left alive — not out of mercy, but out of need.
The children — bound to their mothers' lives, hostages who were never meant to speak of escape.
When it was time to move on to the next village, the witnesses disappeared. Without traces. Without messengers.
That was how Serpentis did not know it was already losing.
Deepbark was next.
A coastal village with a small force, confident enough, expecting an attack from the sea — but they were surprised from the land. The plan was clear: a short stay. A few days of rest. Then — home.
But Deepbark had to fall first.
It was evening when Riven led his men forward. He did not shout. He gave no signal. He simply moved — and they followed.
The first three knights of the village guard did not even manage to draw their swords.
Riven swung his massive blade once.
The second swing was already bloody.
The third — fatal.
Three bodies fell in less than a second.
One knight was cut in half, as if made of wood. Another lost his head. The third collapsed with his chest crushed, without a sound.
Only then did the village realize it was under attack.
But it was too late.
The small force collapsed under the pressure. Screams were smothered beneath the steps of steel. The houses were left untouched. Nothing was set on fire. Deepbark had to look alive.
By midnight — all the men were dead.
The women were gathered. The children were bound before their eyes. The message was clear without being spoken.
That night, the village did not sleep.
The women were raped.
The children watched and learned what fear meant.
Riven did not attend. His work had been finished in the first moment when he broke the defense. Now he planned how long they would stay and when they would move on.
In the morning, one woman tried to escape.
They found her in the forest before noon.
She was raped once more.
Then killed.
That was when Riven gave the order.
All the women. All the children.
One — not.
A small boy, filthy, with eyes that no longer belonged to childhood. Riven stood before him and knelt.
"You will go to your king," he said quietly. "You will tell him I am here. That I have walked his land for a long time. That I took his villages, his people, and his silence. And that he knew nothing."
The child did not cry. He only nodded.
He ran into the forest.
He saw the murdered woman, but out of fear he only ran past her.
Behind him, Deepbark vanished.
At dawn, the ships sailed.
From Serpentis, like ghosts leaving a home that had never belonged to them. The sea was calm. Riven stood on the deck and looked ahead.
Three years.
And still undiscovered.
In the capital, Khar'Zun, the stone halls of the palace echoed with footsteps and metal. King Zahir Vashkar stood beside a long table covered in maps, while servants and officers withdrew one by one.
Before him stood Lord Varyn Thornevald, still carrying road dust on his cloak. He had just returned from conquest. His face was tired, but his posture — straight.
"You have no time to rest," Zahir said without looking at him. "We have work in Dustmere."
Varyn raised his eyes.
"On the road again?"
"Yes," the king replied. "That is where we will shape the next step. The North will not fall on its own."
Zahir leaned over the map.
"We leave immediately. Dustmere is not the final goal. It is the place where we decide where and how we strike next."
Varyn nodded. He knew this was not an invitation — but an order.
Riven Thornevald was sailing home when the pigeon landed heavily on the mast.
A knight took the letter and handed it to him without a word. Riven opened it.
His eyes narrowed.
Your brother is alive.
Varyn Thornevald.
Lord of Ashkar.
He conquered the city of Ravenrock in Serpentis.
Currently traveling to the village of Dustmere.
The paper crumpled in his fist.
"Turn the ship," he said coldly. "Toward Ashkar."
No one asked why.
Riven did not know the king would be there.
He knew only one thing:
his brother was on the wrong side.
Zahir arrived in the village.
Dustmere welcomed them with peace and ignorance.
The camps were raised the same day. In the central house, Zahir, Varyn, and the officers sat over the maps.
"We will stay briefly," Zahir said. "Three days."
Someone looked surprised.
"This is not a base," the king continued. "This is a place for planning."
He moved a marker north.
"The next destination will be a defensive point here. From there we will begin gathering an army."
Varyn looked at him.
"The people?"
"The men of the villages," Zahir replied coldly. "They will go in the front lines. Whoever survives becomes a soldier. Whoever does not — fulfills his duty."
"The women and children remain behind us," he added. "Order is built on sacrifice."
The plan was set. After three days — departure.
Then, at midday, noise erupted.
Metal. Screams. Blows.
"Attack!" echoed.
Zahir took his sword.
Varyn went out with him.
And then they saw him.
Riven Thornevald stood in the middle of the village.
Enormous. Bloody. Alive.
Knights fell around him like grass. Three — in an instant. No one could hold him back. When Zahir and Riven locked eyes, the world around them ceased to exist.
They moved toward each other.
Speed against strength.
An experienced king against a beast in a crown.
Their swords collided with a sound that cut the air.
Zahir was fast. He struck, withdrew, struck again.
Riven was force. Every swing was like a wall collapsing.
Then came the blow.
Riven's massive blade met Zahir's — and shattered it.
Riven swung immediately, intending to kill.
Zahir moved aside at the last moment and slammed his shoulder into Riven's arm, knocking the sword from his hand.
Steel fell.
What followed was a struggle of bare hands.
Zahir struck quickly, but it was like hitting a mountain. Riven grabbed him. Pressed him down.
Bones cracked.
Zahir screamed.
Riven released him.
The King of Ashkar fell to the ground.
Riven raised his foot — and crushed his head with all his weight.
The legend ended there.
Silence.
"RIVEN!"
Varyn ran toward him.
Riven swung his sword. Varyn did not block — he moved aside. He knew that if he took the blow, the sword would break.
They collided. Dirt, mud, fists.
Riven grabbed him by the head, held him, pressed him… then slammed him into the ground.
Varyn fell. He had no strength left.
At that moment, a knight rushed in to defend him.
Riven grabbed the knight by the head with one hand. Lifted him.
Squeezed.
The skull burst under the pressure.
The body fell.
Riven turned to his brother.
"If I wanted," he said quietly, "I would have killed you too."
He straightened.
"This time you live. Next time — if you stand in my way — there will be no mercy."
He turned and walked away.
While clashes still raged around him, swords striking and bodies falling, Riven Thornevald was already moving away.
He did not look back.
With a raised hand he gave a short signal.
"Withdraw."
The order passed through the ranks like a cold wave. The knights of Dravion began to retreat slowly, in discipline, covering one another while the fighting behind them still continued.
This was not a retreat.
It was an ending.
When the last ship pulled away from the shore, Riven stood on the deck, covered in blood and exhaustion.
After three years of conquest on foreign land, they were finally returning home.
Red Fang Outpost — the military stronghold of Ashkar — lay wrapped in quiet dust and golden morning wind when the news arrived.
The king is dead.
The princess read the report and rose immediately.
"The heir is in Khar'Zun," she said. "He is fifteen years old. And he is in danger."
She turned to the officers.
"We take the elite. We ride for the capital immediately."
Above the fortress, the banners were lowered.
And somewhere at sea, Riven Thornevald sailed home —
a king who left no ashes, only empty thrones.
End of Chapter 4.