The skies above were a bright, unmarred blue as they made their way back to Kalastith, the corruption of dark magic scoured from the land behind them like soot washed away in a cleansing tide. The heavy burden in the air had lifted; the sun gleamed against the polished armor of the knights, against the sleek hides of the mythic horses that bore them forward across the sprawling stone roads.
Even the land seemed to breathe easier—the ancient trees rose tall and vibrant on either side, their leaves a deep emerald green, and the air thrummed with the sounds of life unchained. Great winged beasts, drakes with translucent wings like stained glass, circled high above the distant cliffs. Herds of sun-antlered elk grazed alongside rivers the color of molten gold.
Beast-kin—humans with animalistic traits, from ears to scaled limbs—worked by the roadsides, mending stone markers or training younger ones in archery. It was a kingdom alive, proud, and undefeated, a testament to Idrathar's vision—a single colossal city-state, Kalastith, at its heart like a living, breathing crown.
And at the center of the column, riding easy and glowing with savage pride, was Lynzelle.
The knights and warriors surrounding her couldn't help themselves. One after another, they peppered her with questions like overeager children at a festival.
"Lady Lynzelle, is it true you can kill a wyvern with your bare hands?! You blurted it out earlier!"
"Oh, absolutely. I once strangled three of them at once. My husband, Cainan, held my hair back so it wouldn't get messy," Lynzelle said without even blinking.
Cainan, riding further back beside King Idrathar, paled. He stiffened so hard in the saddle that his horse snorted in protest. He glanced around in a panic, but none of the soldiers seemed to doubt her word.
Another voice chimed in, from a burly cleric. "Lady Lynzelle, is it true you tamed a river titan by shouting at it?!"
Lynzelle threw her head back with a ringing laugh. "Oh yes. I called it Sweetpea. Cainan tried to wrestle it too, but he ended up falling into the river and getting swept down three waterfalls."
Cainan nearly bit his tongue in half.
'All these lies…damn she-devil.'
He barely managed to keep from shouting. Camelot, riding ahead, gave a single slow glance back at him—the very picture of silent judgment—and then turned forward again with a tiny, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
The questions kept coming like a tide—Did she breathe fire? Was she half-dragon? Was she descended from a forgotten god? Lynzelle answered them all with gleeful lies so confident they became truth among the soldiers by the minute. She painted Cainan into half her wild tales without mercy, making him sound like her bumbling, overly enthusiastic sidekick rather than one of the empire's deadliest witch hunters that he was known for.
Cainan silently begged for death.
As they traveled, the road widened, carved deep into sweeping hills coated with wildflowers that shimmered silver under the sunlight. Mythic horses pulled carts of armaments and supplies beside them—muscular creatures bred from ancient warbeasts, their manes crackling faintly with dormant magic.
The stone highways were crisscrossed by banners depicting the empire's sigil: a single sword plunged into a radiant crown of flames. Massive statues loomed along the roadsides, ancient kings and queens frozen mid-salute to all who passed. Young beast-kin children darted out of hiding to wave at the soldiers, and farmers tilled wide patches of black, nutrient-rich soil, guarded by giant moss-skinned boarmen who watched the passing column with slow, curious eyes.
Idrathar, his white cape flaring behind him as he rode, turned his sharp gaze toward Cainan.
"I've never once seen her by your side before until you introduced her to me and Camelot this morning," Idrathar said. His voice was casual, but the words held a probing undertone. "You've served me since you were a boy. You've bled for Kalastith more times than I can count. Why hide her if she was your wife?"
Cainan fought to keep his face still, his voice measured.
"I was afraid," he said. "Afraid the world would mistake her for something she's not. With the way she fights, her… nature… I feared the empire would think she was one of the witches' creations, or worse, working with them."
Half of this was true. If Idrathar and the Empire knew she was a hybrid devil, they would assume she would be connected to the witches and the Witch Queen. The world would mistake her for something that she wasn't part of. And that would lead to her life being miserable. When she escaped Hell to get away from Hell's darkness and horrific realm.
Idrathar nodded slowly, considering this.
"You've never let me down before," Idrathar said, a rare softness threading his voice. "Your judgment is battle-forged. If you trust her, I trust her. Gods know, I only hope my daughter finds a fraction of that joy Lynzelle seems to carry… and half her strength."
Cainan allowed a tight smile to touch his lips.
"She's… very likeable," he grudgingly agreed, glancing ahead where Lynzelle was dramatically reenacting how she "suplexed" a cursed hound into a volcano, much to the awe of her rapt audience.
Camelot, beside them, coughed lightly and side-eyed Cainan once again, but said nothing.
They passed another caravan further along the road—bands of rugged Hunters and wide-eyed Adventurers traveling together. Lynzelle's attention was immediately caught. She twisted in her saddle and shouted cheerfully to a towering Tank marching alongside her.
"What are those?"
The Tank, a woman with shoulders like boulders and a hammer bigger than most horses, grinned broadly.
"Hunters and Adventurers, milady. Hunters take kill contracts—tracking down beasts, monsters, criminals. Adventurers, though, do the opposite. They explore the uncharted wilds. There's thousands of places in this world nobody's ever touched. They gather, explore, record, and work with scholars and arcanists to catalog what's out there. Maybe even something to stop the witches altogether or the Witch Queen. Who fucking knows?"
Lynzelle nodded sagely. "I see, I see. Cainan and I did that once. We discovered an invisible castle made of pudding."
Cainan inhaled sharply through his nose, praying for the world to open and swallow him.
'Her lies aren't making SENSE NOW! STOP LYING SO MUCH, LYNZELLE!'
Idrathar chuckled quietly, and added, "Our empire has Hunters and Adventurers both. But we don't post contracts for witches or cursed beasts. That's our work alone. Our highest rank of witch hunters, Bloodhunters… handle that. Like Cainan."
Cainan's mind drifted unbidden to the past—the rough, brutal memory slamming into him like a hammer.
He was a boy again, no older than fourteen, chain wrapped tight around a dying witch's neck. Blood had soaked his hands, dripping down his arms like a baptism. He sat astride her back, yanking viciously, screaming in rage, in hatred, in terror. The witch's body spasmed once, then stilled.
He shook his head sharply, driving the memory away just as Camelot's name was called from up ahead.
The entire convoy came to a halt.
Knights turned, clerics tightened their reins, weapons half-drawn out of sheer habit.
At the center of the road, standing atop a broken stone marker, was a tiny figure—barely the size of a human child. Its skin was a pale grey, cracked like old clay. Its face was hidden behind a wreath of black leaves woven into a mask. Wild, matted hair jutted out from its scalp like a storm cloud. A massive sack, nearly twice its size, sagged against its back.
A Libben, a wandering merchant.
The creature said nothing yet, merely staring at them with wide, glinting black eyes.
The soldiers watched warily. Lynzelle tilted her head with a smile, as if expecting something wonderful.
The wind shifted.
And the world, once again, held its breath.
The Libben shifted its weight on gnarled feet, black leaves fluttering as it spoke in a warbling, broken dialect.
"Coin fer clank, clank fer coin… needin' shinies, glimmers, glitters? I got 'em, yes-yes. Made wit' dwarf fingers an' dragon spit. Best in ten mountains, better in twenty valleys!"
Before anyone could react, Lynzelle vaulted off her horse with a feral grin, landing in a crouch that sent a puff of dust exploding around her. In a blink, she was on the Libben, scooping the little creature up with both hands and shaking him back and forth like a child rattling a toy. The Libben flailed, sack rattling with the sound of dozens of metal trinkets clanging together.
"IS THIS THE MERCHANT?!" she crowed. "CAINAN TOLD ME ABOUT YOU GUYS!"
The knights and soldiers around her were instantly in an uproar, shouting warnings, urging caution, half-drawing weapons in panic.
"Lady Lynzelle, please—he's a merchant!" one cleric cried.
Another knight nervously added, "They're not hostile unless provoked!"
But Lynzelle beamed, manic and excited, completely ignoring them all. She shook the Libben again like she was trying to dislodge prizes from his sack.
"Cainan told me you guys wander around making crazy weapons with those dwarves!" she shouted. She practically sparkled with feral glee, vibrating with energy, while the Libben sagged bonelessly in her grip, resigned to his fate.
While the commotion churned, Cainan caught something out of the corner of his eye. His attention snapped right, narrowing sharply.
There, half-shrouded beneath the shade of a great tree with leaves like flowing sapphire silk, stood a small figure. A boy, no more than seven at most—but wrong. His body was stitched together from solid shadow, his clothes woven from darkness, featureless except for the smooth blankness of his face.
Cainan stared, instincts screaming.
But before he could react, before he could move, he blinked—and the boy was gone, as if he had never existed.
'The hell was that…?! It was just staring at me..some creature..shadows fading from him?…Would Lynzelle know anything about it?'
Idrathar noticed the shift in Cainan's posture.
"Are you well?" Idrathar asked, voice low.
Cainan exhaled slow, steady. "Fine," he muttered. "Just seeing shit I'm not supposed to see I guess."
Beside him, Camelot gave another of his damned side-eyes.
Cainan snapped his head around. "What the hell are you looking at, Camelot?"
Camelot's voice was dry as bone. "Mind your tongue around the king, brat."
Cainan gritted his teeth. "Buzz off, old man."
Before the tension could crack into something worse, Idrathar raised a hand calmly between them.
"Enough," Idrathar said. "Family will argue. It's the way of things."
Cainan gave a sharp scoff. "He's not my family."
Camelot, unbothered, echoed, "And he's no kin of mine either."
Idrathar chuckled under his breath, but there was no true amusement behind it—only a steady, unshakable authority.
"This empire," Idrathar said, guiding his horse slightly ahead so his voice carried to all near, "was never meant to be a sprawl of fractured kingdoms. No squabbling city-states vying for scraps. Kalastith is unity. A single, organic heart. Built by oath, by blood, by unbroken will. We live by principles, not borders. Oaths of protection, of strength, of loyalty. Here, every sword raised in defense is an heirloom. Every citizen, a pillar. Every life, a legacy. Family… or not."
Neither Cainan nor Camelot said anything further. They simply steered their horses to opposite edges of the formation, giving each other long, simmering and hostile glares.
Then they whispered at the same time, "Bastard.."
Meanwhile, Lynzelle finally set the Libben back down, ruffling his wild leaf-hair like he was a misbehaving pet.
"I gotta go now, tiny merchant!" she chirped. "But I'll come back and buy everything you have!"
The Libben simply adjusted his sack and gave a strange, jerky bow, already hawking his wares to some confused knight nearby.
"Buy! Buy Griffon egg juice! Yes-yes! It makes you last longer in bed!"
The other knights laughed at him, as the Libben had been really pressuring him to buy his product.
Then, the column started forward again, hooves thundering against the stone road.
As they rode, Lynzelle turned in her saddle, looking back over the heads of the soldiers toward Cainan. Their eyes met—hers wide, curious, almost laughing. His, dark and unreadable.
Neither said a word.
After a moment, Lynzelle turned forward again and immediately struck up a conversation with the nearest Tank, launching into an animated discussion about what would happen if you tried to arm wrestle a giant.
The road stretched out ahead, winding like a great river toward the gleaming spires of Kalastith in the distance, the heartbeat of the empire calling them home.
…
The towering gates of Kalastith loomed ahead, carved straight into the black rock of the mountains, lined with jagged iron spikes and ancient runes that shimmered faintly with protective wards. The city unfolded before them like a fortress carved by gods—imposing, vast, and alive with motion. Massive stone walls and monolithic towers stretched into the heavens, their iron banners snapping fiercely in the mountain winds.
The great capital was carved into the valley of The Spire itself, a city hewn from fire and iron, surrounded by cliffs so sheer and high it seemed only dragons could reach them. Above all else, standing atop the sharpest peak, was the Flamehold—Idrathar's Palace—its massive obsidian towers burning eternally with crimson and gold fire, making it appear as if the mountain itself bled flame. The entire city pulsed like a living heart of the Empire.
The Forge Quarter roared alive with the endless ringing of hammers, molten metal spilling down sluices like rivers of liquid gold. Blacksmiths, bare-chested and soot-streaked, pounded out blades sharp enough to cut thought itself. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and iron, a scent every warrior of Kalastith carried like a second skin.
In the Veil District, towering libraries of black stone housed scrolls and grimoires that chronicled every foul sorcery encountered—and destroyed. Silent scholars, robed in shades of gray, drifted among ancient tomes, their faces shadowed and grim.
The Tethered Quarter was alive with the sound of blades clashing in training yards, young Bloodhunters carving through dummies shaped like monstrous witches under the barking orders of hard-eyed captains. Bloodstained banners lined the narrow alleys here, stitched with oaths of extermination. And further still, hidden behind crooked alleys and spiraled pathways, lay the Silent Bazaar—a murky, dangerous place where relics of forbidden power whispered from merchant stalls, and deals were struck in the dying breath of candles.
As Idrathar led them through the great main road, citizens crowded the streets, cheering and clapping wildly. Red leaves drifted from the sky like falling embers, conjured by a mage perched atop a nearby spire, their hands weaving celebratory illusions. The storm of crimson leaves twisted through the air, bathing everything in a surreal, festive haze.
"Victory!" someone shouted.
"For Kalazeth!" another roared.
Oaths erupted among the crowd, men and women placing hands over their hearts or brandishing weapons high.
"For our blood, for our soul, for the Empire!"
"We are the flame! We are the sword!"
Idrathar rode at the front, a stoic mountain of strength, his armor glinting under the midday sun. Camelot trailed behind him with the senior knights. Cainan and Lynzelle rode side-by-side a few steps back, just enough to let Idrathar claim the full weight of the people's adoration.
Lynzelle reveled in it. She waved with exaggerated flourishes, stood in her stirrups to blow kisses, and cackled as she shouted to the crowd:
"Yes, yes, worship me, your savior! I'll protect you with my holy scythe of doom! All hail me!"
Cainan was looking away in embarrassment.
'I still need to get used to this. To HER.'
Knights nearby chuckled nervously. Citizens roared louder. Cainan simply kept his gaze forward, expression blank, letting Lynzelle soak up every ounce of it.
He'd seen this all before—after every victory, after every crushed witch raid. The city would turn blood and fire into song and banquet. It was how this "Empire Kingdom" survived—how they endured.
He watched as soldiers peeled off from the main column, leaping down from their horses to fall into the arms of waiting wives, friends, parents, and even pets bounding joyously into the fray. There were tears, kisses, laughter—pure moments that stung more than any blade ever could.
'I never had anyone waiting.' Cainan thought; it came unbidden, cutting deeper with every smiling reunion he saw.
'Maybe fate always meant for them to find happiness. Maybe that was their reward. A full life. A bright one. A future earned by blood. And me.. I fight because I have nothing else to fill the space where that should be. I hate looking forward to winning a witch raid and coming back here. I hate that it reminds me of everything I don't have.'
He kept his head low, hands tight around the reins, letting Lynzelle's manic laughter drown out the bitter scrape of memory.
Ahead, Idrathar rode tall and proud, acknowledging his people with small gestures, his gaze sharp and alive. He knew the weight of every soul behind him—and carried it as willingly as he carried his own role.
'Another victory…a victory I can share with you, Espen. If only your mother Yuniper could come back and see this.'
Children ran alongside the knights, throwing flowers and ribbons. Merchants hawked celebratory trinkets along the way. Someone pulled out a battered flute and began playing a ragged but spirited tune that echoed up the stone streets. Everywhere, Kalastith breathed—a city of iron and flame, singing in the aftermath of survival.
And far above, the spires of the Flamehold burned eternal, welcoming its warriors home.
The celebration roared around them like an unending tide, but to Cainan it all blurred into a haze of movement and sound. Off to the side, a group of weathered Witch Hunters clapped and hollered when they saw him. One of them, a grizzled man with a crooked smile, shouted loud enough for half the street to hear, "You're a menace, Cainan! On the battlefield and off it! How the hell did a devil like you bag a beauty like her?"
Another laughed, elbowing his companion. "Maybe he threatened her with those damn evil chains!"
"Very funny. Bunch of jests aren't you? When you're supposed to be witch hunters?" Cainan responded.
"HAHAHA that wasn't funny." The witch hunters said with a straight face.
Cainan said, "Y-Yes it was." He scoffed under his breath, tugging the reins to move faster—only to be violently yanked off his horse by Lynzelle.
He stumbled, feet dragging through the stone street, struggling to catch his balance. "What are you doing?!" He barked, straightening his cloak.
Lynzelle grinned madly, one hand still gripping his wrist like a vice. "Painters!" she said, as if that explained everything.
Cainan blinked.
'Painters are here?'
Down the street, a cluster of Painters in elaborate medieval garb—heavy cloaks stitched with a thousand colored threads and tall, feathered hats—stood eagerly waving parchment and brushes that shimmered with captured magic. One conjured a wide canvas with a flick of their brush, the surface alive with swirling colors even before they started painting. And their faces were made out of porcelain masks with painted on eyes, noses, and mouths.
Cainan immediately grimaced.
"I hate these," he muttered under his breath. "I used to run when I saw them."
"Well, too bad," Lynzelle said, dragging him closer. "You're my beloved husband, remember? We need to capture our eternal love!"
"Tch. Let's get this over with."
Before he could protest again, the Painters were already at work. Magic shimmered in the air as color poured across the blank parchment in quick, dazzling strokes.
For the first painting, Lynzelle threw herself dramatically into Cainan's arms, one leg kicked up high like she was being swept off her feet by some fairy-tale knight. Cainan barely caught her without falling over.
For the second, she forced Cainan to kneel and hold her hand like a knight pledging loyalty to his queen, his face deadpan while she looked utterly triumphant.
The third, she dramatically flopped backward into his arms as if fainting from overwhelming passion, causing Cainan to nearly topple over.
The fourth, she sat on Cainan's shoulders like a victorious warlord, flashing peace signs as he grunted under her sudden weight.
The fifth, she tried to pose them back-to-back with crossed arms, but somehow Lynzelle ended up flexing both her arms while Cainan simply stared in exhausted disbelief.
The Painters were ecstatic, their brushes working at blistering speed, murmuring to one another in excitement about the "vivid passion" and "raw energy" they were capturing.
"That's it…that's it!"
Cainan finally pulled himself away, brushing off dust and trying to stalk back toward his horse. "Happy now?" he grunted.
But before he could escape, one Painter spoke up, bowing deeply. "My lord and lady, might we capture… a more romantic one?"
The air grew very still.
Lynzelle and Cainan both turned to look at each other slowly, almost robotically.
Neither spoke for a long moment. Neither moved. Even the nearby chatter faded as people turned curious gazes their way.
Lynzelle, after a heartbeat longer, shifted back into character, tossing her wild hair over her shoulder and flashing a mischievous grin. "I'll do it," she declared boldly, stepping closer.
Cainan, for once, felt himself freeze, his mind locking up. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this hesitant. This unprepared. His entire body screamed to move, to fight, to run—but he stayed. He had to play the role. He was her "husband", after all.
They moved closer, hesitant but caught in the invisible pull between them. Lynzelle's hands found his—warm, but firm—and their fingers locked clumsily. Step by step, they closed the distance, breaths mingling, hearts slamming against their ribs.
Whispers spread through the crowd. One witch hunter laughed, shouting over the din, "Cainan's about to finally kiss someone!"
Cainan swore everything in the world was mocking him. He scoffed to the witch hunter with a flustered red face, "D-Damn you to Hell!"
Lynzelle let go of his hands and slowly, almost reverently, wrapped her arms around his neck. Her eyes locked on his, her grin fading into something softer, something unreadable.
Cainan's hands hovered awkwardly around her waist before settling there, unsure, the space between them vanishing by the second.
'What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? Do I grab her…? How do I do it right?'
Their faces were a whisper apart, breathless, flushed, caught between roles they no longer felt like they were acting.
The Painters surrounded Cainan and Lynzelle, a whirlwind of excited energy as their enchanted brushes flew across conjured parchment, capturing every detail: the way Lynzelle's arms draped around Cainan's neck, the slight tension in Cainan's jaw, the electric closeness between them.
"Marvelous!" one Painter cried, their bright green cloak swirling as they spun around to grab another scroll. "The raw, desperate tension! The undeniable passion!"
"Look at the way the light falls across their faces!" another Painter exclaimed, using a brush of shimmering silver to highlight Cainan's grimace and Lynzelle's mischievous smile. "It's… divine!"
"They're the perfect muse! We must have more—closer, closer!" shouted a third, whose hat was so absurdly large it kept tilting off his head.
Then one Painter, emboldened by the roaring crowd, clapped his hands and declared, "Now, kiss! Seal this immortal moment with love's eternal symbol!"
Without hesitation, Cainan stormed forward.
He darted at the Painter like a wolf loosed from a leash, grabbing him by the scruff of his robe and shaking him violently.
"You're asking for too much!" Cainan barked, veins popping from his arms. "Weird little freak! Go paint a rock or something!"
The Painter, legs kicking wildly, shrieked in terror.
A small horde of witch hunters and other Painters rushed over, trying to pry Cainan off the poor man.
"Sir, please—!"
"Mercy! He's just passionate about his art!"
"You're scaring the colors off him!"
Lynzelle watched Cainan, and her cheeks, still flustered, thought about that small moment they just had.
'That felt..'
Finally, a loud scree pierced the air.
Everyone froze.
High above, perched majestically atop a massive white-feathered griffin with iron talons and a razor-beaked helm, stood King Idrathar. His hair whipped in the breeze, armor blackened and etched with crimson runes of authority. Beside him stood Camelot, grim and stern, the symbol of an old, hardened knight.
Flanking Idrathar were the Sovereign Council:
Lord Garron Volkrath, Lord of the Flamehold
A bear of a man clad in blackened steel, his armor chiseled with the roaring visage of a phoenix on his chestplate. His beard was braided with iron clasps, and one arm ended in a mechanical gauntlet wrought by the kingdom's finest smiths. His gaze was sharp, a commander's fury burning within. He is the head of the Sovereign's palace.
Lady Selvaria Vance, Lord of the Bloodhunters
Tall and gaunt, her Bloodhunter cloak was stitched with thousands of black and crimson threads, each representing a witch she personally helped bring down. Her hair was cropped short, her eyes pale silver, and her twin blades hung at her hips, humming faintly with Destruction magic. She is a high-ranking member of the Bloodhunter order, overseeing all witch-hunting operations.
Lord Dravok Maernis, Lord of the Tethered
A man who looked like he hadn't seen sunlight in decades, his robes were layered and torn at the edges like burnt paper. Chains and seals dangled from his sleeves, warding symbols stitched into every fold. His face was lined, gaunt, his black eyes sunken deep. He was responsible for managing the Tethered Quarter, ensuring witchcraft is kept out of Kalastith, and sends out patrols to seek out dark magic.
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis, Lord of the Veil
An androgynous figure swathed in blue and violet silks, adorned with dozens of silver trinkets floating about them through minor levitation spells. Their face was hidden behind a smooth silver mask, their voice said to be able to bend magic itself with a whisper. Head of Kalazeth's arcane research, overseeing the study of witches, curses, and relics.
Master Forgewright Brax Trenhald, Lord of the Forge
A hulking dwarf-like figure, only slightly shorter than the others, his armor an intricate weave of molten bronze and dragon bone. His hands were always covered in soot, a hammer strapped to his back larger than most men. His booming laughter was legendary… when he wasn't busy building weapons that could split mountains. Oversees Kalazeth's smiths and weapons production, ensuring the army is properly equipped.
The people of Kalastith fell into a reverent silence.
Idrathar stood tall, his voice a deep boom carried across the square by magic.
"Thirty years ago," he began, lifting the severed head of the witch high, blackened blood dripping from its jaws, "I stood where you now stand… not as a king, but as a man with a vision. A vision of a single bastion where the darkness could never take root. A city not divided by fear, but united by flame!"
The crowd erupted in a cheer. Idrathar waited, letting it fall into silence again.
"Across the kingdoms of this fractured world, witches and their tainted spawn haunt every shadow. They corrupt the beasts, poison the earth, blacken the skies! Even mythic beings once hailed as protectors now fall prey to their rot. But here, here, we built Kalazeth—the Iron and Flame Empire! We built the unbreakable!"
He looked out across them, his voice tightening with passion.
"My daughter lies sick within our Flamehold, and every victory we carve into this world is a prayer for her healing. Every witch slain is a breath she may yet take! You do not just fight for yourselves, you fight for everyone!"
He raised his gauntleted fist high.
"And you stand today upon the 7 Principles of Kalazeth!"
He counted each off, one by one:
"Honor above all."
"Steel before surrender."
"Knowledge without corruption."
"Strength tempered by loyalty."
"Mercy only for the innocent."
"Fire against the darkness."
"And Brotherhood beyond blood."
The people roared each one back at him.
Idrathar then gestured broadly across the plaza.
"Those who fell defending these walls shall be honored within the Hall of Legends! Their names carved into stone! Their families shall receive every coin, every relic, every weapon they left behind—for their sacrifice built this city as surely as my own hand!"
He pounded his fist to his chest—a brutal, sharp movement—and bellowed a chant in the old tongue.
Across the square, thousands of fists slammed against breastplates and armor in unison, chanting the ancient words.
Lynzelle struggled, clumsily copying the motion, slapping her chest far too hard and nearly falling off balance.
A low, approving rumble filled the air.
At last, Idrathar spread his arms wide, a slight smile touching his lips.
"And tonight, we feast!" he roared. "All of Kalastith is invited!"
A tidal wave of cheers erupted. Red leaves spun through the air again, conjured by hidden mages, swirling like fire across the city streets.
As the crowd began to disperse into celebrating groups, Cainan sidled up beside Lynzelle, who was still rubbing her sore chest from the overly aggressive oath slam.
"We need something nice to wear for the banquet," Cainan said, voice low.
Lynzelle blinked, still a little caught in the moment. "Huh?" She shook her head. "Oh! Yeah! Yeah, let's go!"
They turned together, the noise of the capital swelling around them like a living thing.