Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The elite unit departed before sunrise.
The stone gates of Red Fang Outpost remained behind them, lit by pale desert light and wind carrying fine dust. The fortress was built to withstand a siege, not a farewell, but the morning still painted it with quiet weight — as if it knew that the people leaving were heading toward something that would not be easily survived.
At the front rode Princess Iskra Azhara.
Her armor was dark, worn red with black edges — the colors of Red Fang — and her cloak flowed behind her like a flame refusing to die. She did not speak much. She never had to. Her gaze was enough.
With her rode twenty-four elite fighters — people chosen not by title, but by survived battles. Each of them had more scars than memories of peace. On Iskra's right side rode her right hand, a warrior whose name was rarely spoken aloud — a man known for always remaining alive where others fell.
— To Khar'Zun, — Iskra said briefly, when the column formed.
No one asked why. The news had already reached the Outpost. The king was dead. The heir was a child. And Ashkar does not forgive weakness.
The road to the capital was long and heavy. The desert shifted into rocky slopes, then into dry plains, and finally into wide roads where armies had once marched. As they drew closer, the air grew thicker, filled with something that was not dust — fear.
Beneath the stone arches of the colosseum, Edric no longer knew how much time had passed.
The chamber beneath the colosseum was enormous — a former barracks turned into a waiting room for death. Stone pillars supported the ceiling, and torches burned along the walls, casting shadows like living creatures.
There were more than seventy fighters.
Only about twenty of them were from Edric's city — the last survivors. The remaining fifty were people from different lands: criminals, former warriors, slaves who had survived multiple fights. Some bore old scars, some fresh ones. Some stared indifferently. Others — hungrily.
For them, this was not their first battle.
For most of them — the colosseum was home.
Iron bars divided the chamber. On the other side stood a knight of Ashkar, his voice unwavering.
— You are here because you survived longer than the others, — he said. — But that means nothing. Tomorrow, some of you will die. If you refuse to fight — all of you will die.
Glances collided among the fighters. Some smiled. Some remained silent.
Edric felt the weight of the space. There was no hope here — only time running out.
— The fights will begin soon, — the knight continued. — Prepare yourselves.
He turned and disappeared.
The silence that remained was heavier than the threat.
When the elite unit finally saw the walls of Khar'Zun, the city no longer looked like a capital.
The gates were open, but not ceremonially — rather like a wound. People moved quickly, voices clashed, banners hung without order. Something was breaking from within.
— Something is wrong, — Iskra said quietly.
At the entrance, they were met by an old man in worn armor, with a back that had once been straight as a spear.
A retired knight. A former lord.
— Princess, — he said and bowed shallowly. — The city is… unstable.
— Where is Lord Varyn? — Iskra asked.
The old man lowered his head.
— Absent.
That was enough.
Without wasting time, he led them through the labyrinth of the castle. Not toward the throne hall — but toward the inner chambers, where what remained of order was kept.
Before the heir to the throne, Iskra knelt.
— My king, — she said clearly. — I am Iskra Azhara, princess of Red Fang Outpost. I came with my elite fighters in your protection.
The boy before her was only fifteen years old.
His eyes were red. His face — pale. The crown had not yet been placed upon him.
— Rise, — he said quietly. — Thank you.
In that moment, the fate of Ashkar hung by a thread.
Back in the colosseum, the tension was rising.
Several fighters from other lands — large, with scars not earned in training — began to laugh. Two of them approached Edrik's group.
— Knights? — one mocked. — This is not for you.
They shoved two knights standing closest.
— This place is not for you.
Edric stepped forward.
— Step away, — he said calmly. — We are not looking for trouble.
The laughter stopped.
— And who are you? — they moved closer. — Who gave you permission to speak?
One shoved him. Edric fell to his knees.
— Apologize.
He rose.
— No.
They shoved him again. This time harder. Spit struck his face.
— Trash, — the voice said. — You will never be a man.
They walked away, leaving him on the ground.
The two knights from his city approached and lifted him.
— Thank you, — one whispered. — But they… they are not like us.
Edric only nodded. He already knew that.
The news arrived with the body.
Lord Varyn entered the city, and behind him — a stretcher covered with dark cloth. People gathered. Whispered. Cried.
The heir pushed through the crowd.
When he saw his father's body, his knees gave way.
He wept quietly, but around him — gazes. Cold. Calculating.
Iskra pulled him away.
— Not here, — she whispered.
They led him to the throne hall.
The ceremony began as it had to. Honor for the dead king. Words about the blood flowing through the son.
The crown was raised.
Placed.
And immediately — removed.
— No, — the boy said in a breaking voice. — I do not want it.
Murmur. Then — rage.
— Coward!
— Unacceptable!
— Kill him!
Swords were drawn.
Iskra stepped in front of him. The elite unit formed a wall. The old knight also drew his sword.
— Back! — he shouted.
Chaos erupted.
Some knights defended the crown. Others — attacked it.
The king was pulled into the inner chambers as fighting raged through the halls.
When night fell, seven knights stood before them.
One withdrew, recognizing the old knight.
The other six attacked.
The old knight moved like a shadow from another time. The first fell with a pierced heart. The second was slashed, his shoulder hanging, but he did not fall.
Iskra reacted faster than thought. Her sword opened the third's throat.
The others retreated.
The king was alive.
But Ashkar — shattered.
By dawn, the castle was under control again.
The people and loyal knights pushed the rebellion beyond the walls. The gates were closed, and the streets fell silent, but the throne hall remained marked forever.
The throne was bloodied.
Bodies lay around it — knights in the colors of Ashkar, people who betrayed the crown and people who died trying to defend it. The blood had dried between the stone slabs, as if it wished to remain there — a witness.
The morning sun found the new king alone in the inner courtyard.
In his hands, he held a spear.
He trained furiously. Strike after strike, without pause, without breath. Each swing was filled with rage, with pain, with refusal to be weak. The spear cut through the air as if it were an enemy, as if the world itself stood before him.
Then — footsteps.
Iskra stood before him. She watched him in silence until he lowered the spear and took a deep breath.
There was no fear in his eyes anymore. Only resolve.
— From today, — she said, — I will be your personal trainer.
The king clenched the spear so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
— I will destroy all who stand in my way, — he said quietly, but with a voice that did not tremble. — And I will conquer all kingdoms.
Iskra did not smile.
She only knelt.
For before her did not stand a child…
but the beginning of a war the world would remember for centuries.
End of Chapter 5.