Chapter Thirty-Eight – Ashes Across the Sea
Year 789 | Dream Calendar | Month of Crimson Leaves
The sea had boiled for hours.
What was once called the Ivory Continent, known for its ivory spires, scholarly towers, and magical academies, now stood in ruins. Not even the sky held its usual colors anymore—just gray, stretched thin, like the world had been stripped of its breath.
Andrew stood at the edge of the smoldering shoreline, his cape flapping in winds that were not winds, but the shifting breath of shadow made flesh. His armor was sleek and blackened, threads of silver running like veins through it—alive. His long silver hair was tied back in a single streaked braid, his face untouched by age, but far more terrifying than any time in his past. His eyes were twin voids.
At his feet lay what remained of the Council of the Ivory Mages.
Their robes burned. Their towers cracked. The once-untouchable magicians of the world's most advanced civilization had knelt before him—and perished with one wave of his hand when they refused to swear loyalty.
A voice behind him spoke.
"They never stood a chance."
It was Mihai, cloaked in newer robes—no longer regal, no longer proud. Just obedient.
Andrew didn't respond at first.
Then, he turned, his voice soft and deep like the low hum of a coming storm.
"They refused to see the truth. They buried their power in books and tomes. When the storm came, they were still debating on how to spell 'fate.'"
Mihai gave a slight nod.
"And now?" he asked.
Andrew raised his hand. From the crater of the destroyed mage academy, dozens of shadows began to rise. They were not mere phantoms—these were souls of fallen warriors, bound and reforged. Magic and steel, muscle and memory, all consumed and returned with shadowfire burning in their eyes.
"The Onyx Legion," Andrew whispered. "Swordmasters, battle mages, archmages… all chosen from those who gave me a worthy fight before they fell."
One of the figures stepped forward—half armor, half smoke. Its sword was jagged and ever-shifting, like it was being remade with every heartbeat. This one had been Master Kiron, a battle mage who once held an entire coastline by himself.
Now he knelt, head bowed.
"Lord Andrew," he said in a voice hollowed by undeath. "The Legion awaits your command."
Andrew's gaze drifted toward the burning horizon. "We will march south next. The Iron Continent has refused to send envoys. Let us see if their steel bends like flesh."
"But the boy?" Mihai asked carefully. "Kael?"
Andrew's expression darkened—though there was the faintest flicker of pain.
"He has time," Andrew said. "Let him walk the path a little longer. The world will show him who he really is. Or who he was meant to be."
Elsewhere… the Survivors
Far across the sea, a lone airship hovered in silence above the wreckage. Its magical shields strained, trembling under the immense dark pressure left in Andrew's wake.
Inside the ship stood a woman with a long green cloak and golden earrings shaped like suns. Her name was Alira Vey, the last diplomat of the Ivory Continent. Her hands trembled around a scroll sealed with the sigil of the Dream Empire—before it had fallen.
"We have to warn them," she whispered to her guards. "The mainland… they think this is just a war. They don't know what's coming."
The shadows below moved like waves.
Back in the Capital of Ashren
Andrei stood at the edge of his throne chamber, peering out through enchanted glass windows. He hadn't slept. Not since the storm of mana had wiped out an entire continent across the sea in one night.
"He's really back," Andrei muttered.
His advisor spoke cautiously. "Who?"
Andrei didn't answer at first.
Then, quietly, through clenched teeth: "Andrew."
Closing Moments
Andrew walked the ruins alone now. The shadows of the Onyx Legion faded behind him, kneeling in stillness until called upon.
In his hand, he held a fragment of a mirror.
It was cracked—old.
In it, his reflection looked almost human.
For a brief second, his lips parted.
"…Natalia," he whispered.
And then, silence.
Only the wind, and the burning of a world.