The Crumbling Borders
A murmur spread like ripples through the veins of Vellore—no, Nagareth. The proclamation of a new king had fallen upon the capital like thunder after drought.
The first to shout had been a single voice in the square:
"All hail Sire Leon… and the Golden Naga of Vellore!"
Then came the roar. The crowd erupted—some in reverence, some in disbelief, and some in sheer stunned silence. The air was thick with smoke, sunlight cutting through the ash like threads of gold over a wounded city.
Leon stood at the center, his black hair tousled by the faint wind, golden eyes burning steady. His face was calm, not proud—certain. He looked over the kneeling soldiers, the trembling commoners, the once-proud nobles who could no longer find words.
This was not conquest. It was rebirth.
