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Chapter Three: Ashes Beneath Her Feet
The Redlands were a graveyard of glory.
Asha rode alone across the dusty plain, the sun bleeding across the horizon like an open wound. Her black stallion's hooves kicked up dirt as she passed the remains of war—broken banners, rusted swords, bones half-buried in dry earth. Here, kings had once fought for thrones they never held. Now all that remained was silence.
She wore no sigil.
No colors.
Only black.
Her armor, battered and charred, bore faint traces of her house's crest—a lion engulfed in flame. But House Veylan was dead. And she had killed it.
The wind carried a whisper, faint and cruel: "Murderer… Betrayer…"
Asha didn't flinch. She heard those voices every day—both real and remembered.
She stopped at the top of a ridge. In the valley below stood the ruins of Fort Haldrin, once a bastion of her ancestors. Now, it was a skeleton of stone and ash.
This was where it began.
This was where they burned.
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Three years ago.
The banners of rebellion flew high over Haldrin.
Asha had been the youngest commander in Veylan history, leading her house's forces against the King's corruption. They had stood for justice, for reform, for the people.
And they were betrayed.
The gates were opened from within.
Soldiers slaughtered in their sleep.
Civilians rounded up and burned alive.
Asha barely survived. She remembered the flames licking the stone, the screams of her men, her mother's dying words.
She had escaped with blood on her hands and vengeance in her heart.
Since then, she had hunted those responsible. Nobles. Generals. Spies.
And one by one, they fell.
Until now, only silence remained.
---
She dismounted and entered the ruins of Haldrin.
The great hall was open to the sky, its roof long collapsed. Ivy and time had reclaimed the throne room. She walked among the rubble, pausing where the altar once stood.
She knelt, placing a worn ring on the cracked stone.
"For Father," she whispered. "For all of them."
The wind stirred.
But this time, it wasn't memory that answered.
It was breath.
Hot. Rotten. Close.
She stood quickly, sword unsheathed in one smooth motion.
From the shadows rose a figure—tall, twisted, its eyes burning green. Its skin was cracked stone. Its mouth split open in a grin far too wide.
A demon.
It wore the armor of a Veylan knight.
Her stomach dropped.
"Joras?" she breathed.
The demon growled, voice warped by hatred. "You left us."
"I tried to save you!"
"You survived. We didn't."
It lunged.
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Asha met the charge with a snarl, her sword clashing against the demon's claws. Sparks flew. She ducked under a swipe, drove her blade into its gut—but it didn't fall.
It shrieked, grabbing her by the throat and lifting her from the ground.
"You were supposed to die with us!" it hissed.
Asha gritted her teeth. With a roar, she jammed a dagger into its eye. The demon shrieked, releasing her. She landed hard, gasping—but wasted no time. With a war cry, she slashed across its chest, then plunged her sword into its heart.
The demon convulsed—then shattered into smoke and bone.
Ash drifted down.
---
Asha dropped to her knees.
Her hands shook. Not from fear—but from rage. Grief. Guilt.
They were becoming demons now.
The past was literally rising from the dead to consume the living.
She looked toward the sky.
And for the first time in years, she whispered a prayer. Not for peace.
But for answers.
---
That night, as she sat beside her fire outside the ruins, a flicker of magic danced in the flames.
A voice echoed faintly.
"You are not alone. The others stir. The veil is broken."
Asha's eyes narrowed.
"Then I'll find them," she murmured. "And we'll finish what should've ended long ago."
She stood, turned from the ruins, and rode east—toward the kingdom's heart.
Toward the storm.
---
Meanwhile, in the Capital — Caeldrim's Golden Hall
King Malric Altheran IV stood at the edge of the grand chamber's high window, overlooking the flickering lanterns of his city. His silver crown sat askew on his head. He hadn't slept in days.
Behind him, his council argued.
"The reports are clear!" snapped Lord Varyn, the Master of Whispers. "The watchtower at Mirevault was destroyed by a creature that did not bleed—did not die like anything mortal."
"Rumors and peasant tales," scoffed High Priest Emeron. "The stars blink often. It is no omen."
"The priests say that every time something terrible happens," muttered Lady Elenya, her voice colder than steel. "And what of the child who died in my court last week? They say a demon now stalks Velmora."
The king turned slowly, his voice heavy. "Are we under attack?"
"No kingdom dares march on us," said General Thorne, arms crossed. "But something… unnatural moves. We've had sightings from every province. Creatures that we thought belonged to myth."
Varyn stepped forward. "There's more, Your Majesty. Symbols—five of them—burned briefly in the northern sky. A starseer in the High Tower collapsed after seeing it. Her last words were: 'They are awakening.'"
The king's face darkened.
"Could it be the prophecy?" someone whispered.
That word silenced the room.
The king slammed his goblet onto the table. "We buried that story with the seers who started it. There are no chosen ones. No heroes. Only politics. Power. War."
Elenya leaned forward, lips curling in a smirk. "And yet… the demons do not care for politics."
The king said nothing.
He only stared at the map spread before them—where five old symbols had been drawn in fading ink, circles connecting distant corners of the realm.
And all of them were glowing.
---
Back at the ruins of Fort Haldrin, Asha mounted her horse, unaware that her presence had just lit one of those circles again after years of silence.
She rode east.
And far behind her, the wind whispered across the bones of the fallen.
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