The wind carried the stench of rot and death long before Franklin crossed the ruined ramparts. Every gust thrust shards of dust into his lungs, reminding him that this crownless land, once his to protect, was now nothing but a tomb. Roads that once rang with travelers' laughter lay deserted; farmsteads were emptied of husks cracked by drought and plague. He pressed his hood low, the coarse linen chafing against immortal skin grown unused to such squalor.
By day's end, he slipped among ragged survivors in a makeshift camp beyond the eastern gate. Their fevered coughs rose in a cruel harmony, and each lifeless stare accused him of a crime he had not yet committed. An old woman spat at his cloak as Franklin approached the fire's dying embers. "Witch's blood," she hissed. "They say the king who ran from his oath returns to feast on the dying."
He said nothing. Immortality had taught him silence's sharpest edge. He observed her trembling hand, felt the tremors of guilt and shame that thrummed beneath every fevered whisper, a distant echo of his own. He let the accusation hang, then walked on, the camp dissolving behind him like a half-remembered nightmare.
Darkness swallowed the city walls by the time Franklin reached the gates. Once emblazoned with his father's golden crest, black banners fluttered, broken and stained. Torchlight flickered at the towers where Banji's soldiers kept watch: hulking men in crimson armor, faces hardened by cruelty. They scanned each peasant's face and counted trinkets for coins, but a beggar in threadbare robes drew no interest.
At the western gate, a hush fell as he stepped forward. Two guards barred his path, axes gleaming. The older one spat. "Your turn's up. The blood price runs tonight."
Franklin's throat tightened. The Blood Tithe Banji's monstrous ritual had begun again: children stolen from hovels, dragged beneath the castle keep to feed the tyrant's magic. He bowed his head, feigning despair. "I have nothing," he whispered. "Nothing but my tongue."
"You talk too much," the younger guard snapped, but raised his spear to jostle Franklin onward. The beggar shuffled past.
Within the courtyard, a lantern's sickly glow revealed rows of trembling children bound with blood-red cords. Each cord pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat stolen by dark enchantments. Mothers wept, and fathers wept impotently through iron bars. Franklin's breath caught. This was Banji's dominion: fear and pain woven into every stone.
A shrill trumpet shattered the night. Soldiers snapped to attention, and a path opened at the top of the marble steps leading to the balcony. Franklin ducked into a shadowed alcove as Banji appeared, draped in a cloak of black silk, a cruel grin cutting across his pale face.
"People of Evergrave," Banji called, his voice amplified by foul runes carved into the balcony's edge. The Blood Tithe ensures our strength against the plague that ravages the land. Tonight, we sacrifice in the name of survival! Let no man weep, for without sacrifice, there is only oblivion!"
Children's keening cries echoed through his bones. Franklin's fists clenched, fingernails biting into immortal flesh. He had gazed upon suffering countless times, but tonight, the weight of every corpse he could not save pressed down on him like a mountain.
A flash of memory: his father's final words, offered in desperation before the pact "Live, my son, live and make them pay." The ancient entity's promise had sounded too sweet, too urgent. Now Solorth's mark crawled under Franklin's skin, a serpent coiled around his heart.
Franklin slipped past the circle of guards, every step a test of restraint. One touch would shatter his disguise, immortal power burning through the roadside grime. He followed Banji's gaze up the stairs and watched as the tyrant raised a ceremonial blade, its edge glowing with malevolent light.
Then, a sudden crash: a pair of sentries tumbled from above, trampled by panicked horses. Soldiers scattered, and a single scream rose above the chaos. Franklin seized his moment. He vaulted onto the balustrade, flames from torches guttering across his borrowed robe. Instincts roared through him battle, blood, and the unshakable urge to reclaim what was lost.
Banji's eyes widened. "The beggar"
Franklin sprang, his cloak swirling like a shadow unleashed. He landed before Banji, breath ragged, chest heaving with centuries of rage. The blade clattered to the marble floor.
"Brother," Franklin said, his voice low and raw. "It has been too long."
Soldiers recovered, weapons raised, but none dared act. Two kings stood at the heart of Evergrave's rot: one born to rule, one born to repent.
Banji's grin split his face. "Immortal-child," he sneered, "returned to play god? Your endless life has brought nothing but ruin."
Franklin's gaze flicked to the bound children. A single step toward them, and the crowd would surge. But the plague had weakened them; fear held sway. He needed to end this now. He crouched, placing a gentle hand on the marble floor, feeling the pulse of dark magic coiling beneath.
The air crackled. Flames roared higher, shadows dancing like demons. Franklin closed his eyes, tasting the serpent's heat in his veins. To break the curse, he would need to draw power from the same source his father had invoked. But first, he had to stop his brother's bloodshed.
He opened his eyes. "Enough," he said, raising his voice so every man and woman in the courtyard heard. "No more blood". This ends tonight."
For a breathless moment, nothing moved. Then Banji laughed, a sound as hollow as a tomb. "You lack the will, brother. Forfeit your crown, and kneel before your people. Prove you deserve the name of king."
Franklin stood, shoulder brushing Banji's ornate chest. "I will prove it by ending this curse. By saving what remains of our people, even if it costs me everything."
A distant bell tolled a summons from the cathedral where Solorth's influence ran deepest. The ritual had begun. Franklin's heart beat with unaccustomed fury: mortal fury, for the first time in centuries.
In the hush that followed, Franklin's disguise seemed to melt away. His posture straightened, and though his ragged robes clung to him still, an unearthly light shimmered beneath his flesh. The stolen child on the lowest step jerked against his bonds, as if caught by a whisper in the wind.
"Lead the way," Franklin said to Banji, voice steady. "Show me where you claim salvation, and I will show you redemption or ruin."
Banji's grin sharpened. "So be it. "But know this, brother: once you enter the cathedral, there is no turning back."
Franklin allowed the guards to guide him down the steps. Each child's tear-streaked face passed under his gaze, a mirror of his centuries of regret. Whatever awaited within those sacred walls fire, blade, or the whispering darkness of Solorth he would face it.
As the massive doors swung shut behind him, the wind carried one final truth: immortality was his curse, but mortality would be his sacrifice. And in that dark cathedral, the first move in the war against Solorth would be made.