Chapter 85: Ashes of Old Kings
Five generations ago, the world teetered on the edge of annihilation. The Demon War scorched continents, shattered mountains, and swallowed entire cities. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, and even dragons had fought side by side, united by survival. Ancient enemies became allies; grudges forged over centuries were buried in blood and fire. For one fleeting moment in history, the races of the world stood as one.
When the final blow was struck and the last Demon Lord was forced to retreat, the Alliance held—for a time. The bonds forged in that crucible did not break immediately. But as peace settled over the world like morning fog, each race returned to its homeland to rebuild: the dwarves to their mountains, the elves to their enchanted groves, the beastkin to their scattered plains and steppes.
Most assumed humanity would return to its old ways—fractured, greedy, and politically divided. And to some degree, they were right. Historians would later call the years that followed "The Era of Fractured Crowns."
It was an age of reconstruction, rebellion, and reluctant reform. While other races tended to their lands, the Human Empire of Caelum faced a different kind of war: a war of ideals. The young king who had led humanity through the final days of the Demon War returned not just as a hero, but as a visionary. He had fought alongside elves, brokered peace with beastkin, and earned the respect of dwarves. To him, peace was not the end—it was the beginning.
He enacted sweeping reforms:
Slavery was abolished.
Education, while still costly, was made accessible to commoners who could afford it.
Trade with other races was formally established.
Noble privileges were curtailed.
Rights were granted to mixed-blood citizens and non-human immigrants.
Magic regulation was centralized, and non-human scholars were welcomed into the imperial court.
But not all welcomed this change. Many nobles—steeped in bloodlines and ancient privilege—saw these reforms as heresy. To them, other races were lesser beings, suitable only as laborers or pawns. Their resistance grew from whispering discontent to open defiance.
At first, they obstructed reforms with bureaucracy, manipulated laws, and terrorized foreign guests. But soon, blood was spilled. Small-scale civil wars ignited across rebellious dukedoms. The crown responded swiftly, but at great cost. The empire's armies were stretched thin, and amidst the chaos, tragedy struck.
In the northwestern frontier, with troops recalled to suppress rebellions or defend supply lines, the Wildmarch Horde swept in. These were no mere monsters—they were a tide of war-beasts and aberrations pouring from the corrupted Yardrak Wastes.
Towns burned. Villages vanished. Roads were overrun. The Duke of Greystorm was forced to flee with what remained of his household, retreating to a lesser estate within the capital's noble district. His lands were lost.
The world watched.
The Dwarven Nation of Khar-Brunhul responded first. In their stoic pragmatism, they raised a great wall between the Empire and their mountains. Forged of stone and steel, lined with enchanted trebuchets and runes of self-repair, it was called Durk-Tharn—the Hammered Gate.
To the west, the Beastkin Confederation of Iskarra, an alliance of roaming clans and warrior tribes, tightened its borders. Patrols increased, and hunt-on-sight orders were issued for anything—or anyone—fleeing the chaos. While some clans showed sympathy to imperial refugees, most saw humanity's collapse as justice long overdue.
To the south, the elves of the Verdant Dominion of Elen'Vareth issued a single decree:
> "No human shall cross into our forests uninvited." Those who ignored the warning were met with arrows, swift and silent. The human king, pressured from all sides, sanctioned the decree himself. A diplomatic scar, but one that preserved fragile peace.
Though the central, southern, southwestern, southeastern, and western dukedoms eventually adopted the king's reforms, three remained opposed:
Greystorm in the north, now a land of shadows and criminal syndicates profiting off slave markets and forbidden trades.
Valefrost in the northeast, home to isolationist mages and aristocrats who clung to hierarchy and blood purity.
Halbrecht in the east, a militarized state whose lords preached human supremacy and glory through conquest.
These became known within the court as the Iron Triarchy. Not for unity, but for shared resistance.
Though war quieted, unity was scarred. The King of New Flame, as history remembers him, was forced to compromise to keep the Empire from shattering. Some say it broke his heart. Others say it killed him.
The hierarchy of power endured:
The Imperial Family at the top.
Eight Dukes, each ruling vast territories.
Royal Ministers, who enforced law under both crown and duke.
Counts, responsible for military and administration.
Viscounts, acting as governors and tax lords.
Barons, who ruled fortified towns and cities.
Village Chiefs, once helpless pawns, now able to govern with more autonomy.
Though The Era of Fractured Crowns faded into history, its wounds still shaped the present. The Empire remained united in name, but fractured in soul.
Beyond its borders, the world had changed too:
In the east, the Dwarven Nation of Dûrmharrak, nestled within their mountain halls of stone and smoke, welcomed only those approved by the Imperial Court. Craftsmen, engineers, and skilled traders were granted passage. Dwarves respected skill above blood.
In the south, the Verdant Dominion of Elen'thalas remained cloistered, but allowed entry to those judged pure by spirits and fae—healers, druids, scholars, and seekers of peace. The elves trusted the forest more than any crown.
In the west, the once-scattered beastkin had unified under the Federation of Arka-Vel, a powerful council of chieftains. Their warriors trained alongside elite human forces. Humans were welcome—so long as they followed the rules. Slavers and warlords were not just turned away. They were hunted.
Peace, as it existed now, was delicate. Not bound by treaties, but by memory. A shared, bitter memory of a war that nearly ended them all.