Chapter Fifty-Four – Broken Walls and Burning Oaths
Vareth, once a proud and resilient city, now moved with the chill of fear and foreign rule. Soldiers in golden and crimson garb filled the streets—the Sultan's army, battle-worn and bloodied from the recent siege, now holding the charred walls of the last major stronghold before David's fortress.
Inside the once-pristine hall of Vareth's citadel, Sultan Mohammed the First sat upon a throne he had not earned, draped in silks and flanked by his surviving generals. Despite the city's fall, there was no joy on his face—only fury, humiliation, and the weight of something far worse: fear.
"Send the raven," he ordered without ceremony.
A scribe bowed deeply before rushing to inscribe the Sultan's orders.
"To the homeland," the Sultan continued, voice low and sharp. "I want every blade, every bow, every damn soul capable of carrying steel. All five hundred thousand of them."
The hall grew still.
"They are to march for Vareth immediately. Day and night. Tell the high command this is no longer about conquest. This is about survival. About showing this monster Andrew what true numbers look like."
One of his generals, still bandaged from the previous battle, stepped forward. "My lord… it will take three days for the full army to arrive. What do we do until then?"
The Sultan rose to his feet, eyes like wildfire. "We prepare."
He paced the room, cloak trailing like spilled blood behind him.
"I will not bow my head to any shadow-born freak again. Let the others quake in their fortress, let them hope the world ends before he finds them. I will crush them. All of them."
He turned to face his circle of advisors.
"The Free Lands… they're weak. Splintered. Scattered. But they still hate Andrew. Just like I do."
He smirked.
"If I must, I'll ally with them, temporarily. Let them be my sword against the Shadow King. I'll feed their hope, let them fight and bleed, and when Andrew falls—if he does—I'll grind them into dust."
A few generals exchanged cautious glances.
"Let them see what real numbers mean," he said, voice rising with growing intensity. "Five hundred thousand soldiers. Versus three thousand and a few weary, broken generals. It will be like crushing ants with a war hammer."
The hall echoed with his bitter laughter.
Shift of Shadows – The Fortress of David
The remnants of the Free Forces had retreated into the walls of Fort Riven, the ancient stone fortress built into the cliffs beyond Vareth. It was not made for glory. It was made for desperation.
In one of the fortress's upper rooms, Lira sat quietly beside a bed—her hand trembling as it rested over Kael's bandaged chest.
He hadn't stirred in a day.
His body bore the cost of the light power he had unleashed during the siege of Vareth. It had saved many. But it had nearly torn him apart.
Lira's tears fell silently, dripping onto Kael's pale skin. "Why did you do it?" she whispered. "Why didn't you let me protect you…?"
She clutched his hand tightly, her voice breaking. "I wasn't strong enough to stop you… and now I might lose you."
The room remained still, save for the shallow, ragged breaths of the man she loved.
Elsewhere in the Fortress
In the lower courtyard, Cristi stood shirtless in the rain, his blade clashing against a tree stump carved into the shape of a man. His strikes were wild at first—unfocused. But with every movement, he grew faster. More precise.
The flame of death simmered inside him. He didn't know it yet. But it stirred, waiting.
Nobody led the defense now. GreenWolf was gone, taken by Andrew. The other generals were wounded, scattered, or too inexperienced to lead. The troops were confused, low on morale, and facing an incoming storm.
The fortress had barely three thousand fighters, most of them injured or still recovering.
And then—he arrived.
The guards opened the front gate, rain-soaked and hesitant.
Tudor, once a general of Andreas, rode in with two thousand well-armed men. His eyes scanned the courtyard. Tired soldiers. Empty watchtowers. Broken spirits.
He dismounted without a word and walked through the fortress.
Cristi was the first to greet him.
"Tudor? What are you doing here?" the young man asked.
"I came to help," Tudor replied. "Because no one else can anymore."
He glanced up at the towers, then toward the keep where Kael was resting.
"He's unconscious, isn't he?"
Cristi nodded.
Tudor turned toward the command hall. "Then I'll lead the defense until he wakes."
As he walked away, he muttered more to himself than to anyone else:
"Kael's the only one who ever scratched that monster. Maybe… just maybe… he's the only one who can kill him."
And as the sky thundered and the wind howled, the defenders of the Free Lands began to prepare—not for victory, but for the last stand before the darkness arrived.