Ash fell like snow.
Vaelrik moved through the ruin, boots grinding shattered bone into the dirt. All around him, the remnants of a battlefield lay silent—spears snapped in half, banners torn and scorched, blood smeared across broken stone. The sky above was choked with smoke, a dim and swirling haze that turned everything a shade of dying fire.
The Thronelords had come in strength.
They had left in pieces.
Vaelrik paused at the edge of a massive crater, its rim scorched and still smoldering. His breath was ragged, shallow, every exhale tainted with the taste of ash and copper. Blood soaked the side of his tunic, but he paid it no mind. Pain could wait. There was only one thing left that mattered.
The Writhe.
It stood at the crater's heart, motionless. A beast of stone and iron, taller than a fortress wall, its hide armored in jagged plates fused with blackened bone. Smoke curled from its nostrils with every breath, a slow and rhythmic exhale like the bellows of a forge. Its eyes glowed with a molten hue, twin furnaces buried deep in its skull.
Vaelrik felt its gaze before he saw it. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.
The others had tried to claim it. Dozens of Thronelords, each adorned in their gilded armor, wielding chains of binding and relics of old power. They had come to tame it, to make it kneel.
They had failed.
Now they were corpses strewn at the beast's feet, broken and forgotten.
Vaelrik stepped forward, the ground crunching beneath his boots. His right hand rested on the object at his hip—a shard of metal, dark as night, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The Sovereign Brand.
He had found it buried in the ruins of an old temple, half-lost to the sands and the stories of dead men. It had spoken to him—not in words, but in hunger.
Not for worship.
For dominion.
The beast shifted its weight, claws scraping against stone. Vaelrik did not stop. Ten paces away now. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the power that clung to it like a storm about to break.
He did not tremble.
"They came to enslave you," Vaelrik said, voice raw. "I came to crown you."
The Writhe growled, a sound that echoed through the bones of the earth. Its muscles tensed, massive shoulders rising.
Vaelrik drew the Brand.
"You'll kneel," he said, eyes locked on the beast. "Or you'll fall."
With a roar, the Writhe lunged.
Vaelrik drove the Brand into the ground.
The air tore apart.
Behind him, reality split open as the Vaulting Gate burst forth—a towering arch of black stone wreathed in crimson flame, runes blazing along its frame. Wind howled from its depths, not mere air, but raw force, ancient and relentless.
The beast skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
Recognition. Not fear.
Vaelrik surged forward, closing the distance in three strides, and leapt. He slammed the Brand into the beast's skull, iron against iron, flesh against will.
The mark ignited.
Light surged in all directions, searing the air. The Writhe howled, the sound splitting stone and sky, and chains of molten energy lashed from the Gate, coiling around beast and man alike. Not to bind—but to forge.
Vaelrik gritted his teeth, the heat consuming him, the Brand burning his palm. He could feel it—not pain, not agony, but power, ancient and vast, pouring through him.
The Sovereign Brand accepted the crown.
Darkness fell.
Beast Sovereign
Chapter 1: Crown of Ash
---
Segment 1 of 2
Ash fell like snow.
Vaelrik moved through the ruin, boots grinding shattered bone into the dirt. All around him, the remnants of a battlefield lay silent—spears snapped in half, banners torn and scorched, blood smeared across broken stone. The sky above was choked with smoke, a dim and swirling haze that turned everything a shade of dying fire.
The Thronelords had come in strength.
They had left in pieces.
Vaelrik paused at the edge of a massive crater, its rim scorched and still smoldering. His breath was ragged, shallow, every exhale tainted with the taste of ash and copper. Blood soaked the side of his tunic, but he paid it no mind. Pain could wait. There was only one thing left that mattered.
The Writhe.
It stood at the crater's heart, motionless. A beast of stone and iron, taller than a fortress wall, its hide armored in jagged plates fused with blackened bone. Smoke curled from its nostrils with every breath, a slow and rhythmic exhale like the bellows of a forge. Its eyes glowed with a molten hue, twin furnaces buried deep in its skull.
Vaelrik felt its gaze before he saw it. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.
The others had tried to claim it. Dozens of Thronelords, each adorned in their gilded armor, wielding chains of binding and relics of old power. They had come to tame it, to make it kneel.
They had failed.
Now they were corpses strewn at the beast's feet, broken and forgotten.
Vaelrik stepped forward, the ground crunching beneath his boots. His right hand rested on the object at his hip—a shard of metal, dark as night, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The Sovereign Brand.
He had found it buried in the ruins of an old temple, half-lost to the sands and the stories of dead men. It had spoken to him—not in words, but in hunger.
Not for worship.
For dominion.
The beast shifted its weight, claws scraping against stone. Vaelrik did not stop. Ten paces away now. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the power that clung to it like a storm about to break.
He did not tremble.
"They came to enslave you," Vaelrik said, voice raw. "I came to crown you."
The Writhe growled, a sound that echoed through the bones of the earth. Its muscles tensed, massive shoulders rising.
Vaelrik drew the Brand.
"You'll kneel," he said, eyes locked on the beast. "Or you'll fall."
With a roar, the Writhe lunged.
Vaelrik drove the Brand into the ground.
The air tore apart.
Behind him, reality split open as the Vaulting Gate burst forth—a towering arch of black stone wreathed in crimson flame, runes blazing along its frame. Wind howled from its depths, not mere air, but raw force, ancient and relentless.
The beast skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
Recognition. Not fear.
Vaelrik surged forward, closing the distance in three strides, and leapt. He slammed the Brand into the beast's skull, iron against iron, flesh against will.
The mark ignited.
Light surged in all directions, searing the air. The Writhe howled, the sound splitting stone and sky, and chains of molten energy lashed from the Gate, coiling around beast and man alike. Not to bind—but to forge.
Vaelrik gritted his teeth, the heat consuming him, the Brand burning his palm. He could feel it—not pain, not agony, but power, ancient and vast, pouring through him.
The Sovereign Brand accepted the crown.
Darkness fell.
---
Vaelrik opened his eyes to silence.
The sky above was not sky, but an endless void of black stone and flickering firelight. Mountains loomed in the distance, jagged silhouettes against a horizon that shifted and writhed. The ground beneath his feet pulsed faintly, veins of molten red glowing beneath cracked earth.
This was not the world he had known.
This was the Vaulting.
Before him, Skarn stood in silence. The Writhe's form was smaller now, condensed but no less threatening. Its iron-hide shimmered with residual heat, steam rising from the crown seared into its skull. Its eyes burned not with rage—but with acknowledgment.
It had not been broken.
It had been crowned.
Vaelrik stepped forward. His hand throbbed where the Brand had burned itself into his flesh, now etched permanently across his palm. As he neared Skarn, a pulse of energy surged between them.
The Vaulting responded.
A deep hum echoed through the realm, and runes lit the ground beneath Skarn. The beast lowered its head. Vaelrik reached out, placing his hand upon the crowned mark.
A jolt of force tore through him.
Visions cascaded—Skarn's memories. A thousand battles, a thousand kills. Dominion through sheer strength. And then, a new vision:
A gauntlet of stone and iron forming over Vaelrik's arm.
Stonefang Maul.
The Edict seared itself into his mind. Power drawn from the Writhe, gifted not freely, but earned through conquest.
Vaelrik exhaled slowly. He clenched his fist, and the Vaulting rippled.
The Maul formed.
Heavy. Final.
Skarn roared, the sound shaking the Vaulting. Vaelrik answered with a silent nod.
This was only the beginning.
---
Time had no meaning in the Vaulting. Vaelrik trained, each strike of the Maul tearing through shadow and stone. Skarn circled him, a guardian and a test. With each movement, Vaelrik felt his power solidify, his control sharpen.
When he finally stepped back through the Gate, the world awaited.
And so did blood.
Harriers had tracked him—the Thronelords' dogs. They thought him weakened. They thought him alone.
They found only death.
Skarn tore through them, his roar a declaration. Vaelrik followed, the Maul crushing steel and bone. No chains, no mercy. Just the Sovereign and his crowned beast.
When it was done, Vaelrik stood atop the ridge, watching the flames consume the bodies.
The world would know.
The first crown had been claimed.
And war had begun.