The night in the Dominion had a way of settling into the bones — not cold, exactly, but heavy, as if the air itself remembered every scream, every oath, every betrayal this city had ever swallowed. Kael walked alone along the remnants of the eastern ramparts, the ones that overlooked the river where the enemy banners had last been seen retreating. The stone beneath his boots was cracked, some of it blackened, some of it still smelling faintly of burnt flesh and old smoke. The rain had not yet come, though the sky promised it. It always promised it now.People whispered that the Dominion would never know clean sunlight again until Kael decided it would.He didn’t know how he felt about that.Down below, the watch fires flickered in uneven lines. He could hear the soldiers murmuring — some laughing in relief, others speaking in low, fearful tones. They did not know how close the city had been to absolute death. They did not know how close it still was.Behind him, he heard Mira’s footst

The torches in the old council chamber burned low, melting into long stems of wax that leaned like wilted flowers. The stone walls held the cold of the mountains, and the floor still bore old scratches from the last era of swords. Outside, the wind gathered like a restless audience, dragging its fingers across the rusted iron windows. The world had changed. Armies had fallen. Streets that once sang with market bells were now mud and ashes. But here, in this room once reserved for kings, twelve figures sat wrapped in thick cloaks, their faces hidden, their voices low and guarded, like monks whispering over a grave.They believed their empire died two winters ago.They believed their king died with it.They believed wrong.Elias stood in the shadows near the doorway, the hood of a traveler’s cloak drawn low. He could smell the cold dust of the room, the old incense burned for tradition’s sake, the dry wool of cloaks that had not seen sunlight in days. His heart should have pounded — but

Before sunrise, the mountain air held a quiet sharpness, the kind that made breath look like smoke and footsteps sound louder than they should. The world was still, as though everything were holding its breath, waiting for something to resume. Elias stood at the ridge overlooking what had once been a trade valley. The slopes below were threaded with thin paths, carved long ago by smugglers and shepherds. Few remembered them now. Even fewer dared travel them.But those who did were coming.He didn’t wear the cloak of the Emperor—no gold threads, no crest of authority. Just a dark wool coat that had been mended several times. His hair was tied back. His sword was sheathed. He looked less like a ruler and more like a man who had walked through fire and refused to let it consume him.Mara stood beside him, hands in her sleeves for warmth. She was silent, but her presence was steady—solid the way a foundation is. She didn’t ask if he was ready. She didn’t need to. She simply stayed at his

The city did not wake the way it used to.There had once been mornings where the capital breathed like a living thing — merchants calling to one another as stalls were rolled open, children darting through alleyways with laughter sharp as birdsong, guards exchanging casual greetings as they made their rounds.Now, the city woke with silence.Not dead silence — but the heavy, watching silence of people who speak only when spoken to, who move only when necessary, who have learned to hide their thoughts behind lowered eyes.And the occupiers felt it.They could not name it.They could not articulate it.But they felt it — the way one feels a storm before clouds gather.The new Commander, General Valen, stood at the balcony of the repurposed Senate Hall, staring down at the marketplace. His armor gleamed, polished to a mirror shine. His cloak hung perfectly still behind him — the morning wind seemingly unwilling to touch him.He scanned the crowd, searching for something he could not desc

The wind ran sharp across the broken valley, dragging dust and ash in thin, whispering streams along the ground. The world below the ridge looked pale in the early dawn, as though the land itself was tired of trying to remember what it used to be. Khaine stood at the edge of the stone outcrop, cloak unmoving, eyes set on the fading horizon where the capital once rose like a crown. His face did not move, not even when a small stone slipped under his boot and tumbled down the cliff. Once, he would have reacted—caught it, laughed, scolded fate for daring to intrude. Now, there was only stillness inside him, like a well with no water left to draw.Behind him, the rebuilt camp whispered with quiet activity. Tools scraped. Metal clanged. Horses snorted tired breaths into the cold. His soldiers—no, his survivors—waited for instructions they no longer expected to be gentle or forgiving. They had learned. Khaine did not raise his voice anymore, nor did he encourage, nor reassure. He spoke only