The world did not crumble all at once. It shattered into pieces — one kingdom at a time, one army at a time, one soul at a time. At the center of that slow, beautiful collapse, Vaelen Cross moved forward without pause, fear, or mercy.
The banner of the Black Crown bled across the sky, carried on winds no mortal hand could tame. At his side, Seris moved like a dark star, cloaked in black wings, silent and radiant in her obedience. They left the first city in ruins behind them, not as conquerors, but as kings and queens of an order yet to be named.
The lands beyond stirred in panic. The surviving kingdoms — once proud and arrogant — scrambled to raise armies, forge alliances, and whisper desperate prayers to dead gods. In their fear, they placed their hope in one name: Kaela the Thorned, General of the Western Reach, Breaker of Siege Lines, Champion of the Last Wars.
They said she could feel Titans. They said no man could best her blade. They had not yet met Vaelen Cross.
The battlefield was an ocean of steel and broken pride. Kaela stood at the head of twenty thousand soldiers, her armor blackened by a thousand battles, her great blade humming with the magic of old blood. Her hair, a crown of wild crimson, blew in the storm winds. Her eyes — cold, bright, and fierce — locked onto Vaelen as he approached alone, with Seris trailing like a shadow behind him.
No armor, no sword — only that unbearable presence, that endless, suffocating certainty that made even the earth seem to bow beneath him. Kaela lifted her blade. Her voice, rough and beautiful, cracked through the air:
"You who wear no steel, who bring no shield — are you so eager to die?"
Vaelen smiled. It was not a mortal smile; it was a slow, inevitable unfurling of truth. He answered, his voice carrying effortlessly across the field:
"I have no need of armor against those already kneeling."
A murmur rippled through her forces, a flicker of unease. Kaela's knuckles whitened around her blade.
"I will not kneel," she spat. "I will not bow."
Vaelen did not reply. He did not argue. He simply moved.
One step forward — and the wind died. One breath — and the banners snapped from their poles, shredded to dust. One gaze — and half of Kaela's soldiers collapsed, weeping and clutching their chests as terror hollowed them out from within.
Kaela roared, driving her blade into the earth, summoning a wall of flame and steel between them. Vaelen walked through it without slowing. The flames parted for him, not burned away, but bowed, recognizing something older and darker than their fury.
Kaela charged, desperation twisting into rage. Her blade fell with the force of a god's judgment. Vaelen caught it between two fingers. The impact shook the ground for miles, yet Vaelen did not flinch. He looked into her blazing, furious eyes and smiled.
"Kneel," he whispered. It was not a suggestion.