The following days were a shroud of silent marching.
Kaelen led his ragged column across dead moors where even the wind seemed to flee. The trees, twisted by ancient curses, bore neither foliage nor bark. Their roots thrust from the earth like hands clawing their way out of a grave.
The sky, ever leaden, never revealed the sun. Only a pale, ash-colored glow guided their northward march.
The silence among the travelers was not born of exhaustion—it was fear. Ever since they crossed into Dornhal's territory, everyone felt eyes watching them.
Kaelen felt it too.
He no longer dreamed. Each night, the crown forced visions upon him: howling walls, overturned citadels, faceless figures kneeling before an empty throne. Sometimes he'd wake with a start, sword in hand, breath ragged, eyes fixed on the darkness.
On the third day, they reached the Pass of the Three Brothers.
A narrow gorge flanked by sheer cliffs, once the thoroughfare of imperial legions. Today, three battered stone sentinels—giants armed with shattered axes—stood at the entrance like forgotten guards.
"Entering the monster's bones," whispered a scout.
Kaelen signaled the column to slow. The air felt heavier. The light itself seemed… warped.
Then came the howl. Not a human cry, nor a wolf's. A rasping groan—long, laden with pain and frozen hatred. Carrion crows erupted from the cliffs above, wheeling overhead as if fleeing something unspeakable.
"Form up!" Kaelen roared.
The survivors braced themselves—rusted shields rose, crossbows were hastily cocked.
Something emerged from the mists at the gorge's end. Figures… no, several. Men dressed in ancient imperial uniforms, their eyes veiled in black. Their faces consumed by mold and ash. Their steps dislocated… yet purposeful.
"Revenants," one veteran breathed.
"Impossible—they're extinct…" stammered another.
But the crown on Kaelen's brow pulsed. They were real. Remnants of an age-old slaughter, doomed to wander as guardians of a fallen empire, bound by a forsaken pact.
"Hold the line!" Kaelen commanded.
"We're all dead…" muttered a voice behind him.
Kaelen strode forward alone, drawing his blade. The Revenants halted fifty paces away, forming a barrier—not an attack, but a judgment.
The voice in his mind awoke:
> "Ancient blood must bow… or submit."
He understood. This was no battle. It was a test.
He raised his sword toward them and spoke the words the crown whispered in his mind:
> "I am the heir of ashes. I claim passage. The flame endures."
A dreadful silence followed. Then, one by one, the Revenants knelt.
The earth trembled. The wind stilled. The pass yawned open before them, as though the dead themselves acknowledged their king.
A murmur of awe rippled through the ranks. Some fell to their knees; others stumbled back, terrified by Kaelen and the specters alike.
But he, without looking back, spoke in a voice of ice:
— Those who still doubt, depart. Those who remain will enter Dornhal's gates with me.
And he stepped alone into the abyss where the Ruined Realms awaited their king.
To be continued…