2025-10-09 22:01:28“Speak again, and I’ll feed your tongue to the horses.”
The threat cracked through the war tent like thunder. Karan’s voice was low but laced with a quiet rage that silenced the gathered chieftains. The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the iron scent of tension.
Before him, twelve Dortracy warlords sat around the firepit, their braids heavy with silver rings, their bodies inked with symbols of conquest. They were supposed to be allies—bound by the storm they had survived together but already, the fragile unity was splintering.
A chieftain with a lion pelt over his shoulders leaned forward. His name was Korvak, a brute with amber eyes and a smile too sharp to trust. “You’ve killed your brother, Stormborn. The plains are yours now. Take the crown, or step aside for those who will.”
Karan didn’t move. His hair, uncut since rebirth, hung in thick braids down his back—each streaked with ash from the battlefield. “There is no crown for me.”
Korvak sneered. “Then what are we following,a ghost?”
Serah stood by the tent’s entrance, watching the exchange closely. Her hand rested on the hilt of her curved blade, her expression unreadable.
Varr muttered under his breath, “He should slit that bastard’s throat before he finishes his sentence.”
Karan ignored them both. “The storm didn’t make me king,” he said. “It made me a warning.”
Korvak’s grin widened. “Warnings die with the wind.”
He rose suddenly, drawing his scimitar, and pointed it across the fire. The other warlords stirred, some cheering softly, others watching with wary eyes.
“Let’s see if the storm still favors you, brother,” Korvak growled.
The tent fell silent. Even the fire seemed to hesitate.
Karan’s eyes lifted slowly, meeting Korvak’s. No fear. No hesitation.
“Fine,” he said softly. “Step forward.”
Korvak lunged.
The clash was brutal, two blades meeting with a sound like thunderclaps. Sparks lit the air as Karan parried, twisted, and drove his elbow into Korvak’s jaw. The chieftain staggered back, spitting blood, laughing.
“Still fast,” Korvak grinned, circling. “But slower than the stories.”
Karan said nothing. He waited for the next charge.
When it came, he sidestepped, caught Korvak’s wrist, and drove his blade through the man’s forearm. The curved steel erupted through muscle and bone.
Korvak screamed.
The tent exploded in noise—shouts, steel drawn, bloodlust rising—but Karan’s voice cut through it all like ice.
“Enough!”
The word hit them like a wave. Wind burst through the tent, snuffing out the fire in an instant. The flame’s smoke curled around Karan’s silhouette, his eyes glowing faintly white again.
He tore his blade free, blood dripping down its curve. Korvak collapsed, clutching the wound.
“I don’t want your throne,” Karan said, voice low. “But I’ll cut down anyone who tries to wear it.”
No one spoke after that.
By dawn, the chieftains were gone. Some fled into the plains; others bent the knee in silence.
Karan stood outside the tent, looking toward the horizon. The morning wind carried the smell of rain and iron.
Serah joined him quietly. “You know what they’ll call you now.”
He didn’t look at her. “What’s that?”
“The Lion-Slayer.”
He exhaled slowly. “Then let them roar.”
She hesitated. “Korvak wasn’t acting alone. His clan—the Golden Pride—they’ve rallied behind someone new.”
Karan turned to her sharply. “Who?”
Her eyes flickered. “They call him the Lion-King. He wears Raikor’s armor.”
The words struck harder than a blade. Karan went still.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so too,” she said softly. “Until last night. Scouts saw him in the south marsh. He leads with Raikor’s standard—the twin spirals of the storm.”
Varr cursed behind them. “Then Raikor’s not dead?”
Serah shook her head. “Or someone wants us to think so.”
Karan’s fists clenched. “Either way, I’ll find him.”
They broke camp by midmorning. The warband that followed Karan now numbered less than a hundred, but they rode hard and silent. The plains stretched endless—golden grasses swaying like a sea beneath stormy skies.
Varr rode beside Karan. “You really think it’s him? After what happened at the Horn?”
Karan’s voice was low. “I saw him die.”
Varr snorted. “You died too.”
That shut him up for a moment.
Serah rode ahead, her cloak flaring in the wind. She spoke over her shoulder, “The Golden Pride have fortresses in the southern dunes. If the Lion-King is real, he’ll make his stand there.”
Karan nodded. “Then that’s where we start.”
He spurred his horse forward, the others following in a thunder of hooves.
As they rode, a strange chant rose from the men behind him—half prayer, half song. They were Dortracy words, old and rough on the tongue.
“Var’ash dor’rai, storm calls the blood! Var’ash dor’rai, the plains remember!”
The rhythm struck something deep in Karan’s chest. He didn’t join them, but the pulse of their voices filled him with fire.
By nightfall, they reached the edge of the southern dunes. The sands here were black, laced with shards of obsidian and old bones. The wind howled through broken ruins that jutted from the earth like the ribs of a dead god.
They made camp in silence.
Serah sat apart from the others, staring into the fire. The flames painted her face in amber light, softening the steel in her eyes.
Karan approached, his armor still dusted with blood. “You’ve been quiet.”
She didn’t look up. “You should have killed Korvak slower.”
He frowned. “You disapproved of me killing him at all.”
“I disapproved of making it look easy,” she said. “The others think you’re untouchable now. That makes them reckless. Dangerous.”
Karan crouched beside her. “You speak like you’ve led men before.”
She hesitated just a heartbeat too long. “I’ve watched enough to know how they break.”
He studied her quietly. “You’re hiding something, Serah.”
“Everyone is.”
He smiled faintly. “Then I hope yours doesn’t get us killed.”
She looked at him then, really looked—and for a moment, all the storms in the world seemed to pause.
“Maybe it’ll save you,” she whispered.
He was about to speak when a horn sounded in the distance. Deep, rolling, ancient.
The men froze. Varr stumbled from his bedroll. “That sound—”
Karan was already on his feet. “It’s the Lion’s call.”
They rode toward the noise under the blood-red moon. The dunes shifted beneath them, the air thick with
static.
As they crested a ridge, the sight below made Karan’s blood run cold.
An army stretched across the sands—banners of gold and black, thousands of warriors kneeling before a massive pyre. At its top stood a man in lion-engraved armor, the same burnished gold Karan had last seen on Raikor’s corpse.
The man raised his hand, and lightning danced across his fingers.
“Raikor…” Karan whispered.
Serah’s breath caught. “It can’t be.”
The figure turned then, and though the distance blurred his face, his voice carried clear and terrible across the wind.
“Dor’Karan! Brother!”
Karan’s heart stopped. That voice—he knew it. The cadence, the fury.
“Did you think the storm would choose only you?”
Raikor—or what wore his face—spread his arms wide. “The Lion reigns now! Bow, or be devoured!”
Lightning slammed into the sands beside him, and the dunes caught fire.
The Dortracy men behind Karan murmured prayers, some dropping to their knees in awe, others gripping weapons in terror.
Varr whispered, “If that’s not him, it’s something worse.”
Karan’s eyes burned with fury. “Then the storm has found a new voice.”
He turned his horse toward the blaze. “And I’ll silence it.”
By dawn, they were marching. Dust rose behind them like smoke. The army in the south waited, drums
pounding, gold banners glinting in the light.
Serah rode beside him, eyes fixed forward. “You can’t fight a god, Karan.”
“I don’t need to,” he said. “Just the man pretending to be one.”
Her hand brushed his reins, gentle but firm. “Then let me come with you when you find him. Please.”
He looked at her, and something unreadable passed between them. “You already are.”
That night, as they camped beneath the roaring winds, Serah sat alone again, her expression haunted. From
within her cloak, she drew a pendant shaped like a lion’s fang—hidden until now—and clenched it tightly.
Her voice trembled as she whispered the words of the Lion tongue:
“Kor’veth nai, dor sa’ar. For the Lion’s will, we serve.”
Behind her, unseen, Karan watched.
His voice was quiet, but his eyes were storms. “You should’ve told me, Serah.”
She froze, turning slowly. “Karan.....”
The wind howled between them, heavy with betrayal and prophecy.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, “we end the Lion’s Reign.”
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Chapter Twelve – “The Sands of Prophecy”
“The wind remembers every hoofprint, even those of ghosts.” “Water… we need water!” The cry rose from the back ranks as the Dortracy caravan dragged through the sands. The storm had carried them east — into the desert the shamans called Sareth Vaal, the Veil of the Gods. The air shimmered with heat; the horizon bled gold. Karan rode at the front, his stallion Kor’Vareth glistening with sweat, mane braided with black cords. The horse’s flanks bore old scars — the marks of their bond. Every Dortracy warrior carried such marks: one on the palm, one on the chest, where their horse’s first blood had touched them as infants. It was not mere tradition. Among the Dortracy, to lose one’s horse was to lose one’s soul. “Slow the march,” Karan ordered, voice cutting through the wind. “The herd breathes as one, or not at all.” He dismounted, running a hand along Kor’Vareth’s neck. The stallion pressed its muzzle against his shoulder — an intimate gesture, almost human. Their breaths
Chapter Eleven – “The Storm Throne”
“From death’s ashes, a storm remembers its name.” The wind screamed over the plains, tearing at banners blackened by ash and rain. Where once the Dortracy tents had stood, only mud and smoke remained. In the ruins, a lone rider moved among the dead, his horse limping, breath ragged. The sky above was the color of bruised iron. “Leave them,” Serah whispered, her voice hoarse. “They’re gone.” Around her, the survivors of the Blood Oath war limped through the wreckage. Men who had followed Karan Dor’rak now walked with hollow eyes, muttering the same curse: The gods have turned their faces. It had been three nights since Karan fell—pierced through by Raiko’s blade and swallowed by the storm that followed. The battle had ended in chaos: thunder tearing open the sky, flames devouring the plain, and then… silence. But silence was never simple among the Dortracy. In the center of the battlefield, where the lightning had struck, the ground pulsed faintly with warmth. Beneath the
Chapter Ten – “The Blood Oath”
The plains were black with thunder again.Rain hissed against scorched sand, washing the blood from the bones of men who had died twice once for kings, and once for ghosts.At the center of it rode Serah.Her cloak streamed behind her like tornstormcloud, her braid bound in silver thread, the faint glow beneath her skin pulsing with each heartbeat. To those who followed, she was no longer merely the Stormborn’s companion. She was the voice of the storm itself.They called her Kor’Serah, the Lightning Bride.But to Varr, who had known her before gods began whispering her name, she was still just the woman who buried a man she loved and refused to let him stay dead.The Dortracy camp lay beneath the ruins of the old fortress — Raikor’s fortress, once the Lion’s Crown. Smoke rose from cooking fires, the smell of roasted horseflesh thick in the damp air. The warriors sat in silence, sharpening blades, their tattoos glistening with rain.Serah stood before them on the old altar stone, her
Chapter Nine – “The Judas Pact”
The storm was gone.For three days, the sky over the plains stayed. clear, the air heavy with ash and silence. The bodies of men and horses lay scattered across the dunes like broken offerings to gods that no longer listened.Serah buried Karan herself.No priest, no song — only wind and salt on her lips. She tied his braid with a strip of her cloak, whispered the old Dortrac words over his grave.“Kor’vaan et shaar dor’kai. The wind knows your name.”When she was done, she stood there long after sunset, watching the last of the embers fade from the horizon. The storm might have chosen another, but the plains had not yet forgotten the man they had called Stormborn.Behind her, Varr limped forward, his arm bound in a blood-soaked sling. “The men are restless,” he said quietly. “They think the gods abandoned us. Some are saying Raikor’s spirit walks again.”“Let them talk,” Serah replied. “Fear is all they have left.”He studied her face. “And you? What do you have left?”She looked at
Chapter Eight – “The Price of Crowns”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”Karan’s voice was quiet, but the rage in it made the air tremble.Serah stood before him, the lion-fang pendant glinting in her hand. Around them, the dawn wind tore at the tent flaps. Warriors outside pretended not to listen, but every soul in the camp held its breath.“I hid it because you wouldn’t have listened,” she said.“I did listen,” he replied. “I trusted you.”Her gaze didn’t waver. “And I saved your life—twice.”He took a step closer. “While serving the Lion-King?”Serah’s jaw tightened. “I served Raikor once. Before you killed him. Before he became whatever walks the sands now.”The admission cracked the silence like thunder.Karan’s hand went to his sword, but he didn’t draw it. “So all this time—your loyalty, your help—it was guilt?”“It was choice,” she said sharply. “Raikor believed in domination. You fight for survival. Don’t confuse the two.”He studied her for a long moment, then turned away, voice low. “You speak of choice, but y
Chapter Seven – “The Lion’s Reign”
“Speak again, and I’ll feed your tongue to the horses.”The threat cracked through the war tent like thunder. Karan’s voice was low but laced with a quiet rage that silenced the gathered chieftains. The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the iron scent of tension.Before him, twelve Dortracy warlords sat around the firepit, their braids heavy with silver rings, their bodies inked with symbols of conquest. They were supposed to be allies—bound by the storm they had survived together but already, the fragile unity was splintering.A chieftain with a lion pelt over his shoulders leaned forward. His name was Korvak, a brute with amber eyes and a smile too sharp to trust. “You’ve killed your brother, Stormborn. The plains are yours now. Take the crown, or step aside for those who will.”Karan didn’t move. His hair, uncut since rebirth, hung in thick braids down his back—each streaked with ash from the battlefield. “There is no crown for me.”Korvak sneered. “Then w
