Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 21: March into Silence
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The war horns of *Solmar* screamed at dawn.
For the first time in centuries, *all* banners were raised.
The message was clear:
> "The Hollow King must fall before the roots of his throne reach our cities."
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*King Alric* stood at the gate of the capital, watching 5,000 troops prepare to move—led by elite mages, beast-riders, and two heroes: *Arwen, the Stormfire Lancer*, and *Belek, the Stonebrand Knight*.
The King looked to Commander Vyrell.
"This is not conquest," he said.
"It's survival."
Vyrell saluted. "We march on the Cursed Forest by nightfall."
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Meanwhile, in *Vorth Karran*, Kael sat unmoving on his throne, surrounded by mist and soullight.
His black crown pulsed gently above his brow.
Through the walls of the castle, he *felt* the march. The heat of horses. The tension of blades drawn.
And he smiled.
Not from joy.
But because it had begun.
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Deep within the citadel, he whispered to his *Generals*—five soulbound undead with names lost to time, given new ones by Kael himself:
- *Var'Rael* — The Bone Strategist
- *Miraith* — The Silent Chanter
- *Thornhelm* — The Undying Shield
- *Veln* — Lord of Chains
- *Serineth* — The Pale Fire
They knelt before him in the glowing war chamber.
"They send heroes," Kael said.
"They believe themselves righteous."
Var'Rael rasped, "Do we crush or consume?"
Kael stood slowly. "Let them *see*. Let them *feel*. Then… end them."
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By midnight, the army of Solmar reached the forest edge.
The trees were *wrong*. Some twisted into screaming faces. Others bled sap like veins.
No birds. No wind.
Just a low *hum*, like thousands of whispers.
Commander Vyrell gave the order.
"Form ranks. Torchbearers forward. Mages, ready your shields."
They stepped into the forest.
It *closed* behind them.
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At first, there was only silence.
Then… movement.
The mist thickened. Shapes stirred.
Belek shouted, "Shields—now!"
Too late.
From beneath the moss, *hands* erupted.
From trees, *mouths opened*.
The forest *fought back*.
Undead swarmed without warning—perfect, soulbound, strategic. They didn't moan. They didn't lurch.
They *coordinated.*
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Arwen rode lightning, her spear blazing blue fire, tearing through dozens.
Belek slammed the ground, his stone aura breaking undead apart.
But for every fallen enemy, three rose from the *blood*.
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Back in Vorth Karran, Kael stood on his balcony.
He watched the deaths unfold through his necromantic vision.
He whispered:
> "Do you see now?
> This is not a kingdom.
> It is a *graveyard made loyal.*"
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By dawn, only *a third* of the army survived.
The rest were *converted*.
Vyrell, mortally wounded, screamed as his soul was torn.
Arwen barely escaped with her life—dragged from the battlefield by a teleporting mage.
Belek?
No one found him.
But a *new* undead general was crowned that night:
*Belek the Hollowbrand.*
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