CHAPTER 18: The Wolf Without a Banner
The Outlands – South of Duskwatch
Smoke trailed into the pale sky like spears piercing the clouds. A village two days south of Duskwatch—loyal to Kael, newly settled and barely fortified—had been reduced to ash and splinters.
The survivors, those who made it to the fortress gates, spoke one name:
"Crelle."
Kael's council gathered in the tower war room. Rain drummed on the windows like an omen.
"Varkon Crelle," Dren muttered. "Exiled for mutiny. Survived the Bloodwood purge. Last seen leading bandits in the Eastlands."
"He's more than bandits now," Myrren growled. "Took that village with heavy horse. Disciplined. Mercenary-trained."
Kael didn't speak.
He stared at the bloodstained rider who had delivered the message.
A single torn scrap of silk, black and grey, marked with a wolf's head impaled on a rusted crown.
Crelle's Message
At dusk, Kael read the rest of it.
"You are not Sovereign. You are a campfire myth told by orphans and madmen.
I take no titles. I follow no church. I serve no god.
But I will wear your bones as proof that this rebellion ends here.
Come down and face me, or I'll come up and burn you out."
—V. Crelle
Kael passed the note to Myrren, then stood.
"Tell the men to ready."
The Field Below Duskwatch
Kael rode down with two hundred: a blend of trained rebels, red-veiled acolytes, and hard-bitten cavalry from Velmire's contingent.
Crelle waited in the clearing below.
A towering man, scar-faced, bare-headed in the cold. No armor save a leather coat, a two-handed axe slung across his back, and a smirk that cut like ice.
Kael dismounted. Alone.
Crelle stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"No crown?" he mocked. "Just a cloak and pretty boots?"
"I don't need a crown," Kael said.
"Good. I've already killed five men who wore one."
Duel of the Wolves
They fought beneath a grey sky, ringed by soldiers, priests, and the dead air of held breath.
Steel met steel. Axe against blade.
Crelle fought like a storm: wild, brute force, no rhythm.
Kael fought like winter: cold, patient, inevitable.
The duel spilled into mud and blood. Crelle roared, swinging with fury.
Kael dodged, countered, bled from the forearm—then struck.
A blade through the thigh. A knee to the ribs. Crelle dropped.
"You're not Sovereign," he gasped.
"No," Kael whispered. "I'm what comes after."
And drove the blade home.
The Aftermath
Duskwatch lit fires that night—not in celebration, but in warning.
Crelle's axe was hung at the gate, bound in black iron. His body burned on a pyre for all the outlands to see.
Kael spoke only once:
"Let it be known. You come with fire, we'll return it.
You come with a crown, we'll melt it.
You come without a name… and we'll give you one: Ash."
Far to the South
A merchant caravan arrived in Highcourt days later.
Among their crates: reports from Duskwatch.
An imperial scribe read them aloud to the Chancellor of Doctrine.
When he finished, the Chancellor said only:
"Send ravens to the Flame Church. And the Imperial Legions.
This war grows teeth."