The message arrived at the gates of Velhara like a tempest, carried by a courier whose face bore the grime of a long, arduous journey, while fresh crimson stains marred the sleeve of his cloak. He staggered into the courtyard, the wooden gates swinging wide as if to admit the weight of his words. With every trembling breath, he uttered a haunting refrain that enveloped the air with dread: "Siloko… Siloko… Siloko is here."
King Medovi of Siloko, a ruthless warlord reigning over the Iron Range, had descended upon the region with a staggering force—a legion of ten thousand ferocious soldiers, encamped just beyond the eastern ridge in the quaint but now perilous Varlan Village, a mere two leagues from the heart of the capital. His arrival was heralded by the ominous presence of battering rams, monstrous war beasts, and an array of menacing siege weapons forged from dark iron, their silhouettes merging with the gathering storm clouds. Above them, the smoke billowed skyward, a ghastly miasma that hinted at the death and destruction that loomed. His mandate was as unmistakable as it was merciless: "Surrender Velhara by dawn, or I will scorch the earth, turning every village into a desolate tomb before your very eyes."
The proclamation pierced the royal court with the sharpness of a dagger thrust into the heart of the realm, eliciting waves of despair and panic among the nobles. Some wept openly, their cries echoing off the stone walls, while others scrambled for escape, driven by sheer terror. Desperate pleas filled the air as prominent figures begged the king to acquiesce—to offer tribute, gold, or whatever might stave off the impending doom that threatened to engulf them. Yet amidst the chaos, one figure stood resolute.
Averan, the king's trusted general, remained unyielding, the fiery determination in his eyes unclouded by the fear that gripped the others.
That fateful night, the royal war chamber flickered with the glow of sacred torches that cast wavering shadows across the faces of the assembled council. Averan stood at the center, his imposing figure clad in black war robes, the silver trim gleaming like the moonlit edge of a blade. With a sword at his back and resolve coursing through his veins, he faced the grim expressions of his fellow leaders.
"Ten thousand soldiers," a war chief murmured, disbelief lacing his tone. "And you propose we split our forces with only five hundred horsemen?"
"And five hundred archers," Averan replied, his voice steady, calm as a winter stream. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of his proposal hanging thick in the air.
"That's suicide!" another member shouted, his fear transforming into anger. "We will be obliterated before we even make a single strike!"
But King Orvain, though drained of color and haunted by uncertainty, gazed into Averan's unwavering eyes. What he saw was not a man razed by the flames of ambition; instead, he recognized a lion, fierce and protective, ready to defend his pride against the encroaching shadows.
"Grant him what he asks," the king declared with surprising conviction. "Should we fall, let us do so with honor as our shield."
Averan's strategy was a masterstroke of audacity—a scheme that was swift, meticulous, and brilliantly audacious. He laid it out before his war council with calculated precision:
- Archers would encircle the Siloko camp, taking advantage of the cover of darkness from three cavalry ridges.
- The horsemen would strike from the rear rather than face the enemy head-on, catching them off guard.
- Medovi's soldiers would be made to believe that they were enveloped by an overwhelming army, five times their actual numbers.
- Confusion would become their fiercest weapon, sowing chaos before the first blade ever tasted flesh.
"We do not need numbers," Averan addressed his men, impassioned. "We need speed, precision, and above all, fear."
A voice rose among them, full of trepidation. "And what of Medovi?" asked the commander of the archers, concern etching his face.
Averan's gaze sharpened, his words like steel. "He will be mine."
As the moon concealed itself behind drifting clouds, the moment came for Velhara to unleash its fury. With a swift hiss, arrows shot forth from every ridge, a divine rain of projectiles that fell upon the unsuspecting Siloko soldiers. Startled from their meager tents, the enemy fell into disarray, their formations fracturing like glass under pressure. Like phantoms in a nightmare, Velhara's horsemen charged into the melee, slicing through the chaos with deadly precision, their movements a blur against the night sky.
In the heart of the storm, Averan became a force of nature—quick as lightning and as fierce as fire itself. At his side, his brothers joined him, emerging from the shadows: Kaelen, Dareion, and Tareth, each commanding a small cadre of elite warriors, each trained to the peak of human capability.
They fought without the mythical Nephilim powers that spoke of legendary strength, yet none could rival their extraordinary speed, unwavering strength, or uncanny accuracy. They weren't merely human—they were something greater, something more visceral.
As Medovi, clad in fearsome armor, fought with the ferocity of a wounded beast, he was ill-prepared for the tactical genius of Averan. In a blinding flurry of motion, Averan disarmed him with three swift strokes, seizing control of the situation. He brought the warlord to his knees, a stark silhouette against the encroaching dawn.
By the time the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, the colors of Velhara's flag unfurled triumphantly above the captured Siloko war camp. Hundreds of enemy soldiers, their hearts heavy with defeat, surrendered to the valor that had overwhelmed them. Dozens of Medovi's generals found themselves bound, stripped of their arrogance and pride. As the sun illuminated the streets of Velhara, the sounds of jubilant chants erupted from the people: "Averan the Lion!" "The One Who Burns Without Fire!" "He fights like ten thousand!"
Tears of pride streamed down the faces of the nobles, contrasting sharply with the weeping they had known the day before. The war chiefs stood resolutely in silence, bowing their heads in respect for the extraordinary bond that had ignited among them.
King Orvain stood on the palace steps, witnessing the glorious sight of Averan and his brothers returning, bloodied but unbroken, as they walked together—blood and ash tracing their path. His heart swelled with a combination of elation and relief.
"They came… all of them," he breathed softly, a fresh sense of hope igniting within him. "We are not alone anymore."
That evening, in the hallowed halls of the royal court, King Medovi knelt in chains, a picture of utter humiliation and defeat. The once-proud warlord's spirit lay shattered, every trace of invincibility stripped away, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of his failed ambition.He brought battering rams, war beasts, and siege weapons built from blackened iron. Smoke curled into the sky like the scent of death. His message was clear:
"Surrender Velhara by dawn, or I will burn every village until your palace is a tomb."
The message struck the royal court like a dagger to the heart. Nobles wept. Some tried to flee. Others begged the king to send tribute again—anything to avoid annihilation.
But Averan did not flinch.
That night, in the royal war chamber lit by sacred torches, Averan stood at the center, dressed in black war robes trimmed with silver—a blade at his back, fire in his eyes.
"Ten thousand soldiers," a war chief murmured, "and you ask for five hundred horsemen?"
"And five hundred archers," Averan said calmly.
The room went silent.
"That's suicide," another snapped.
"We'll be wiped out before we even strike."
But King Orvain, though pale and cautious, looked into Averan's eyes and saw not a man courting glory, but a lion ready to protect his den.
"Give him what he asks," the king declared.
"If we fall, let us fall defending our honor."
The Plan of Shadows
Averan's strategy was swift, precise, and terrifyingly bold:
Archers would encircle the Siloko camp from three high ridges under cover of darkness.Horsemen would strike from the rear, not the front.Medovi's men would believe they were surrounded by an army five times their size.Confusion would do the killing before the blades even touched flesh.
"We do not need numbers," Averan told his men.
"We need speed. Precision. Fear."
"And what of Medovi?" asked the archer commander.
"He'll be mine," Averan said.
The Nightfall Ambush. As the moon disappeared behind passing clouds, Velhara struck.
Arrows rained like divine hail from every ridge.
Siloko soldiers, startled from their tents, were caught in chaos. Their formation broke within minutes. Horsemen swept in like phantoms, slicing through confusion with terrifying accuracy.
And in the heart of the battlefield, Averan moved like fire itself—swift, quiet, devastating. Beside him, his brothers arrived silently under the night sky: Kaelen, Dareion, and Tareth—each with only a handful of elite warriors.
They fought without Nephilim powers, but none could match their speed, strength, or sheer precision. They were human… and yet, somehow, more.
Medovi, fierce and armored, fought like a beast—but he was not prepared for Averan's mind.
In a final charge, Averan disarmed him with three strokes, took his blade, and dropped him to his knees before dawn.
Victory and Judgment, by sunrise, Velhara's flag flew over the captured Siloko war camp.
Hundreds of enemy soldiers surrendered. Dozens of Medovi's generals were bound. The people of Velhara awoke to chants in the streets:
"Averan the Lion!"
"The One Who Burns Without Fire!"
"He fights like ten thousand!"
The nobles wept—this time, with pride. The war chiefs bowed in silence.
King Orvain stood on the palace steps, watching the four walk together, covered in blood and ash. The sight made his heart swell.
"They came… all of them," he whispered.
"We are not alone anymore."
The Treaty of Surrender
That evening, in the royal court, King Medovi knelt in chains, his eyes filled with humiliation.
Averan stood above him, his voice clear:
"You brought ten thousand men to humble Velhara.
But we bring unity—and that is greater than your armies."
"We will not kill you," Averan continued.
"But you will return to Siloko under one condition…"
He unrolled a scroll.
"A tribute treaty. From this day forward, Siloko will send homage to Velhara at every moonrise.
Refuse once… and you will not see the next dawn."
Medovi, bloodied and bitter, signed.
Bards sang that night in every inn, every square.
"The Lion of Velhara has risen.
And the kingdoms are no longer afraid."
And in the shadows of the court, Samyaza smiled.
"Now the people believe," he said to Azazel.
"Not in angels. Not in heaven. But in the strength of the sons of men."
Velhara – The Morning After the Battle
The fires in the eastern villages had been extinguished. The captured Siloko weapons were being melted down in the royal forge. The people sang in the streets. Children wore wooden swords and lion cloaks, pretending to be Averan the Lion.
But in the highest tower of the palace, Princess Elyria sat in silence, staring out at the battlefield far beyond the capital walls.
"He led warriors," she whispered. "He fought like a god. And he never told me."
She had seen him return in the early hours—his face smudged with ash, his armor scratched by countless blades. With all his wound on him, yet he is calm as controlled fire. As if war was as natural to him as walking.
Later that day, a royal celebration was held. But while others toasted and danced, Elyria stayed close to Averan, watching him with new eyes.
He smiled, bowed, and offered words of thanks. But behind the warmth, she saw something else—walls. Carefully placed, gently maintained.
"When did you learn to fight like that?" she asked him softly.
"I've had many tutors across the lands," Averan replied easily. "Siloko's army was loud. We were... better prepared."
She smiled, but her thoughts did not ease.
"And the others… Dareion of Tharamor, Kaelen of Nakarith, Tareth of Kireth… how did they arrive so quickly?"
"Old friendships," Averan said, sipping his wine. "We've traded across borders for years. They owe me favors."
But that answer didn't sit right.
She had seen them together before—at the Vault Ceremony.
Only their stones had made it into the Upper Vault.
Four men. Four unknown legends.
And now, four warriors who moved like wind, who crushed an army in a single night, yet refused to claim glory.
"Tareth of Kireth," she said suddenly, watching his reaction.
"You knew him well at the Vault. He calls you brother, not friend."
Averan paused. Just briefly. But she saw it.
"We share... history," he said gently.
"Some stories are better told in time."
"Before or after I marry you?" she asked, only half in jest.
He looked into her eyes then—deeply, softly. And instead of answering with more lies, he kissed her hand.
"What matters now is that I am here. I chose Velhara. I chose you."
And though his answer was wrapped in love, her curiosity only grew.
Elyria's Private Doubt
That night, she stood at her mirror, brushing her hair slowly.
Her thoughts raced.
"He is not just a merchant. Not just a warrior. He is something else... and so are the others. What are they hiding? Why do the angels always seem to move near them?"
She recalled the Upper Vault, the shimmering stones that only they were allowed to place, and the way even kings waited for their approval.
"Who is Averan… really?" she whispered.
And yet, even as the questions formed, her heart betrayed her. She was falling even deeper for him. A man wrapped in mystery who made her feel like the only truth in his world.
Velhara was at peace, for now.
But Princess Elyria had begun a quiet mission. To know. To see. To understand.
And Averan knew it.
He felt the pressure of love clashing with secrecy. And though his lies were gentle, his silence was sharpened by purpose.
He could not tell her who he truly was.
Not yet.
Because the time was coming—not for love—but for war.
And even Elyria… would have to choose what side of the heavens she stood on.