Dawn Of The Blood Sovereign

CHAPTER 4: THE BEDROCK OF ASH

The untamed tribes of the Outer Marches bowed easily. Forged in stone, lawlessness, and pure hatred of the crown, there were only two things they truly understood: gold and absolute military superiority.

In the span of the twelve moons that followed, the lawless land of Jolbon would transform.

At Vanya’s instruction, thousands of stone masons, blacksmiths, and miners descended on the jagged mountain pass called the Iron Spire.

Her gold purchased the best black granite from the quarries of the south; her trade network insured a steady flow of grain to sustain the enormous workforce. She was the architects of the empire’s bones, shifting pieces on a grand economic board with chillingly precise calculations.

Kaelen was its soul. And its weapon.

"He doesn't sleep," Logan murmured, standing on a timber scaffold overlooking the gigantic, growing fortifications.

The old captain watched Kaelen on the highest parapet of the half-built fortress. The wind howled through the canyon, ripping at the black cloak the prince wore, but Kaelen stood statue still, Sun-Cleaver in his grip.

Every day, hundreds of outcasts, runaway slaves, and broken soldiers from the High Kingdom arrived at its gates. They didn’t arrive for Vanya's gold; they arrived because they’d heard the rumors. They’d heard of the prince that could split a sparrow’s eye from three hundred paces in the darkest of nights. They’d heard of a God of War, born of the sun.

"He doesn't need to sleep," Vanya said, coming to stand next to Logan. White fox fur, thick against her leather armor, cascaded over her shoulders; her jade eyes swept across the monstrous construction site below. "His blood runs hotter than any smith’s forge. He is a man racing against time."

"Malakor's scouts are closing," Logan warned, lowering his voice. "The High Kingdom has broken the rebellion in the west, and every soldier of the crown has turned towards us. And when they march, it will not be an army, it will be the entire Eastern Cloud-fifty thousand iron-clad killers."

"Then we must build a wall they cannot climb," Vanya stated flatly.

She descended the scaffold, her boots thudding on the timbers. When she reached the wall, she found Kaelen. As she approached, Vanya felt the air temperature rise around him-a subtle, vibrating heat that always accompanied the presence of the demigod.

"The eastern wall will be completed by next moon," Vanya said, standing beside him, her gaze fixed on the vast valley stretched out below. "We call this place Aethelgard. The High Fortress. It has a strong ring to it. Almost defiant."

Kaelen didn’t turn his head. His gaze was locked on the horizon, where the dark clouds of an oncoming storm were coalescing. "A name does not stop steel, Vanya."

"Belief does," Vanya replied, stepping into his line of sight. "They see you and they see a god. They see a savior. With one more victory tomorrow, against Malakor’s scouts, the entire south will swear its fealty to Aethelgard before the end of the week."

Kaelen finally met her eyes. His irises flared with a brief, terrifying spark of molten gold. "You speak of war as though it were a transaction."

"All is a transaction, Kaelen," Vanya stated, a sharp, ambitious smile gracing her lips. "You provide the terror that breaks the enemy's will, and I provide the infrastructure that turns that terror into a lasting kingdom. We are building something that will outlast us both; don’t lose focus now."

"My focus has never wavered," Kaelen said, his voice a resonant hum that made the wind around them shudder. "Tomorrow, Malakor's elite scouts will enter the Red Basin. They believe they are hunting a broken, desperate exile."

He lifted the enormous dragon-bone bow, the silver-inlaid grip steady in his hand.

"I will show them they have stumbled into a slaughterhouse."

The next morning, the Red Basin lived up to its name.

Five hundred of Malakor’s finest heavy cavalry charged into the narrow, crimson-soil valley. Their black iron armor clanked in unison as they moved with the precision of a marching army, their lances raised high. At the forefront rode General Varus, a brutal warrior that had served the royal family for three decades.

"No sign of the rebel scum," Varus growled, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. "They said they were building a wall of stone. They're just peasants cowering behind-"

Shriek.

A sound like a vacuum being ripped open tore through the sky.

Before Varus could finish, a single, massive arrow forged of black steel and blessed with the pure gold of the sun shrieked from the high cliff. It descended with such terrible velocity that the wind pressure behind it gouged a trench in the dirt road.

The arrow struck the leading cavalryman, punching through his thick iron breastplate, through his warhorse, and deep into the earth below, detonating with a concussive blast of golden energy that sent twenty surrounding riders spiraling from their saddles.

"Ambush!" Varus roared, drawing his greatsword. "Defensive formation! Archers, find the ridge!"

But there was no volley. There was only one man.

Kaelen stepped out onto the cliff edge, watching the panic-stricken army below like an apex predator regarding prey caught in a pit. He nocked three arrows on the Sun-Cleaver simultaneously.

He pulled the string taut, drawing it back to his ear. The sky above him suddenly deepened, the gathering clouds shifting to a sickening, unnatural crimson as the god’s divine blood boiled through his veins.

"For Aethelgard," Kaelen whispered.

He released the string.

The three arrows didn't fly; they shattered, multiplying in mid-air, exploding into a deadly rain of hundreds of golden, glowing darts of pure kinetic energy. The valley erupted into a cacophony of tearing steel, screams, and crumbling rock.

Within minutes, the five hundred elite warriors of the High Kingdom were broken, fleeing remnants. General Varus, armor mangled and horse fallen, stared up at the cliff face in pure terror; he saw not a rogue prince, but a living deity of destruction.

Kaelen’s white mare, followed closely by Oi and the thousands of clan warriors who had come to witness the spectacle, trotted forward. The clan leaders stared at the wreckage and at Kaelen, and all fell to their knees, their swords plunging into the blood-soaked earth.

"They are yours," Vanya announced, her voice a strange mixture of awe and cold triumph, as she looked at the fallen soldiers. "The Outer Marches have a king."

Kaelen lowered the bow, his golden eyes reflecting the burning debris below.

"This is just the beginning," Kaelen said, his voice resonating across the silent valley. "Malakor will know that the sun does not set on Buyeo. It rises in Aethelgard."