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Narrator: A surviving general of a conquered city-state.
There was a time when we laughed at the thought of Akrytos ever rising again. A rotting city led by mercenaries and myths, surrounded by vultures, ruled by corpses.
And yet—
That pale devil made it breathe again.
I was a general of Mykros, a city of proud walls and older bloodlines. When rumors reached us that Akrytos had risen under a boy-king, we dismissed them. A child with charm and steel, they said. A tyrant cloaked in beauty. A conqueror with dead eyes.
They were wrong.
He was worse.
He did not march like a king. He descended like judgment.
Cities do not fall in days—ours did. He split the gates with fire, bribed our eastern sentries, and used traitors like weapons. His soldiers didn't scream in battle; they sang—a hymn of blades and flame, of loyalty to a boy who looked like a prince but commanded like a god.
When I met him, I expected madness. What I found was clarity. Cold, ruthless clarity. He sat on my throne before the battle had ended, sipping wine like he was born there.
He gave us three choices: kneel, burn, or serve as reminders.
We chose to kneel. Some of us.
The others were nailed to the gates—still breathing.
They called him "The Silver Flame" then. Not just for his hair, but for how he spread—swift, beautiful, and impossible to extinguish.
One by one, the eastern city-states fell. Kaleth, Argion, Tros, and even proud Demiron. He didn't just conquer—he rewrote their histories, broke their idols, turned their leaders into hounds who kissed his shadow.
And the strange thing?
He never called it justice.
He never claimed to be righteous.
He never lied.
He simply said: "The strong must rise. The rest… must kneel."
By the time we realized what he was… it was too late.
The continent had a new warlord.
A tyrant with a crown of ash and a voice like velvet.
And gods help us, we followed him anyway.
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