The morning sun broke over the red cliffs of Morvain, bathing the desert in a golden fire. A tide of warriors stretched across the horizon—cloaked in dust, steel, and sigils that had not flown side by side in over two centuries. At the center of them all stood Marcus Daemon, flanked by his sister Princess Alina, her eyes cold with purpose, and the beast of legend—veyrion, his dragon—perched atop the cliffs, a silent storm waiting to be called.
But Marcus was not alone in his rise.
From the east, cloaked in green and black, came the forces of Prince Darian of Gravemire, mounted on pale swamp-horses, their armor draped in moss and bone charms. Darian himself wore robes etched with runes and a blade kissed by shadowsteel. His eyes were sharp, unreadable—half-mystic, half-prince.
He dismounted and approached Marcus with a smirk. "Gravemire remembers the old fire. We ride with you, Daemon."
From the sunlit valleys of Areshia, riding sleek silver horses, came Princess Zira, leading her famed Wind Blades. Their armor was light but enchanted, their movements fluid, silent as air. Zira rode at the front, her golden eyes gleaming with defiance.
"My scholars say you were once a farmer," she said to Marcus with a grin. "But now they write of a dragonlord. I prefer the second tale. Areshia stands with you."
And from the dunes of Zar-Khalan, storming across the sand like fire on oil, came Princess Ingrid. She rode a red-scaled beast—not a dragon, but a desert wyrm—and her warriors carried curved blades and tower shields etched with the old tongue. They beat them in rhythm, war drums of the blood oath.
Ingrid dismounted and clasped Marcus's arm with strength. "My father died at Velmora's hand. You fight them now. So I fight with you."
---
The war council gathered in the palace of Morvain that night. The flickering fire cast long shadows over the war table, where carved stones represented the cities still under Sapphire's and Velmora's control.
"We strike Falstone first," Alina said, pointing to the Areshian city on the border, long taken by Cael's forces. "It's well fortified, but not impenetrable."
Marcus nodded. "We liberate Falstone, we cut off the Sapphire supply lines. We show the people the true king has returned."
Darian leaned forward, voice low. "And when we take it, we send the message: the age of tyrants is over. The flame has returned."
Zira placed her dagger into the map beside Falstone. "Then let's make them bleed."
---
As the meeting adjourned, Marcus stood alone beneath the stars, vayrion coiled nearby, watching the night sky.
"Eight kingdoms..." he murmured. "All bound by fear. All ruled by lies."
Alina approached quietly. "You've done what none before you could. You've united the scattered heirs. They follow you now."
Marcus turned toward the horizon. "Then it's time they see what happens when the Last Ember becomes a firestorm."