The road wound through green fields dappled with late sunlight. Dust clung to the boots of two riders, their brown horses steady beneath them, their light armor marked with the black sun sigil of Newance.
For a time, they said nothing, only the clink of steel and the dull thud of hooves against earth filling the air. Then, as the horizon broke into walls of pale stone and banners catching gold light, one of them lifted his chin.
"There it is," he said, voice roughened from the march. "We've arrived… Zopolosis."
His companion let out a breath, eyes narrowing as the vast city unfurled before them—the orchards glowing like emerald fire, the river curling silver through the heart of its streets, the citadel burning with the last kiss of the sun.
"Zopolosis," he echoed, almost reverent. "One of the great states of Sunstead. Some call it the City of Life."
The first warrior smirked faintly. "Life, aye. But it's Newance steel that keeps it alive." He tapped the crest etched into his shoulder plate—the coiled sun. "Our lord's sun never sets."
They rode on in silence for a while, letting the immensity of the city consume their gaze. Children's laughter carried faintly across the wind, mingling with the distant hum of soldiers drilling beyond the walls.
Finally, the second rider muttered, half to himself:
"House Newance… we serve the Tyrant of Sunstead. Best not forget it."
The sun dipped lower, and Zopolosis loomed ever greater, as if the very earth had conspired to raise a city fit for warriors alone.
The gates of Zopolosis yawned wide, their stone towers veined with ivy and sunlight. As the two Sunblades rode through, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone drew heads and hands.
Children darted to the roadside, waving strips of cloth dyed in gold and black. Merchants paused mid-call to raise their hands in salute, and even the weary porters carrying baskets of grain lifted their voices in greeting.
"Sunblades! May the Newance sun shine eternal!" one cried, his voice breaking with joy.
The riders exchanged a glance. One gave a small, almost embarrassed nod, lifting his gauntleted hand in return. The other only tightened his reins, his gaze fixed further ahead.
And then they saw it.
Beyond the bustle of streets and orchards, the land opened into a vast plain of churned dirt and rising dust. Thousands of boots thundered in unison, shields locked, spears thrusting like the teeth of a great beast. Rows upon rows of men—two thousand at least—moved as though driven by a single heartbeat.
Drums pounded. Orders cracked through the air. The warriors of Newance drilled without pause, their sweat gleaming, their cries tearing through the sky.
The first rider exhaled, awe flickering across his face.
"By the gods… they're preparing as if war could break tomorrow."
The other's mouth curved into something between a smile and a grimace. He leaned forward in his saddle, voice lowered.
"Not tomorrow," he said. "They prepare for him. Our lord will return—and when he does, Sunstead itself will tremble."
The sound of the drums carried with them as they rode on, each beat echoing like the steps of Marek Newance, the Tyrant of Sunstead.
The barracks fire crackled low, throwing long shadows against the stone walls. A hush had fallen over the men—recruits barely past boyhood, their armor still gleaming, their hands calloused but unblooded.
At the center sat an older soldier, his hair streaked with iron, a heavy leather-bound tome cradled in his hands. The sigil of the coiled sun gleamed faintly on its cover.
He cleared his throat, and the murmurs stilled.
"Hear it well, Sunblades," he began, his voice carrying like a sermon. "For this is the lore of the House you serve—the House of Newance, whose flame has never dimmed."
The pages whispered as he turned them. The recruits leaned closer.
"They say when the first of Newance rose, he was not born of kings, but of warriors. Bloodied in the soil, forged in the clash of steel, he swore his line would never bow to weakness. His sons became swords. His daughters became shields. And from their hands, an army unlike any other was born."
The fire flared as if in answer, casting their faces in bronze light.
"Today," the old soldier went on, "their army stands more than three hundred thousand strong. And at its head—Marek Newance. The Tyrant of Sunstead. A man who does not rule with parchment, but with war. They call him battle-mad, aye. Addicted to the clash. But when he fights, men follow, and when he commands, cities fall."
The recruits shifted, their breath quickened, caught between fear and awe.
The soldier closed the book with a thud, the sound echoing like a war drum. He lifted his eyes, hard as steel, and whispered—
"Never forget this: we are the flame that does not fade. We are the Sunblades of Newance. And when the Tyrant calls… the world itself will burn to answer."
A silence followed—thick, reverent. Yet within it, something strange crept in. The recruits shifted restlessly, their breaths shallow, their fingers tightening around their hilts.
One swallowed hard, his blade rattling in its scabbard. Another clenched his jaw, knuckles whitening on the grip of his spear. A third trembled outright, though he forced his knees to stay locked.
It spread like a fever.
Pressure pressed against their chests, unseen but inescapable. The fire seemed hotter, the shadows deeper. Veterans in the room clenched their swords as if instinct demanded it. Some narrowed their eyes, sweat trickling despite the still air. Others leaned forward, teeth bared in fierce, wordless grins. Fear. Awe. Anticipation.
Different reactions, but one truth—they all felt it.
A boy no older than sixteen pressed a trembling hand against his breastplate, his breaths shallow, as though the air itself had turned heavy.
Beside him, another recruit clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, trying to mask his fear with defiance, his knuckles bone-white on the hilt of his sword.
A third muttered a prayer under his breath, words tumbling, broken, though his eyes shone with something close to devotion.
One veteran laughed, a sharp, almost wild sound, gripping his spear as though aching to charge into battle that instant.
Another wiped sweat from his brow and spat to the side, muttering curses not from disrespect but from the unbearable pressure coiling in his gut.
A scarred sergeant narrowed his eyes and stood straighter, every muscle taut as if instinct demanded readiness for war.
There was awe—eyes wide, lips parted, breaths stolen.
There was terror—hands shaking, shields rattling against the stone floor.
There was reverence—heads bowed, whispers of Tyrant and Lord Marek passing like smoke through the ranks.
Dozens of voices, dozens of bodies, dozens of hearts, all giving their own answer.
But beneath every difference, there was one undeniable truth:
They felt him.
The Tyrant of Sunstead.
Marek Newance.
Even before he arrived, his shadow pressed down upon them all.
The presence of a man not yet there.
And then the drums outside changed.
A deep, thunderous rhythm rolled through the ground. Boots—thousands of them—marching. The barracks shook as a vast tide of soldiers poured into the training fields, their banners cutting the horizon black and gold.
When the recruits stumbled outside, their eyes widened.
An army. Not thousands. Tens of thousands. Rank upon rank, endless lines of steel and shields stretching across the plains. The sound of their march was a storm, the sight of them a wall of iron.
The mounted vanguard rode first, then dismounted as one.
Boots struck the earth in perfect rhythm. And then, with a single motion, they stepped aside. A path opened, wide and straight, flanked by kneeling warriors.
The silence that followed was crushing.
And then, like thunder, it broke:
"All hail the princely warrior of Dawn!"
The shout ripped the heavens apart.
And there he was.
Marek Newance.
His hair burned red beneath the sun, like fire woven into mortal form. He walked with a confidence that needed no declaration, each step deliberate, heavy with inevitability. No armor adorned him this day, no crown, no sword drawn. He required none. His aura alone was a weapon.
Men bowed lower as he passed. Others smiled as if the weight pressing against them was a blessing. Some shook with awe, some with fear—but none dared look away.
He did not hurry. He walked slowly, as though the world itself moved at his pace. The banners above caught the wind, snapping like thunderclaps.
At the center of the vast plain, he stopped.
The silence deepened, sharper than steel.
And Marek Newance stood, and it felt as though the sun itself had chosen to pause, waiting for his command.
The path ended at the cliff. Below stretched the heart of Sunstead, its orchards, rivers, and marble towers glowing gold beneath the setting sun. The sea of warriors knelt behind him in unbroken silence.
Then movement—soft, like wind through the grass.
From the roads, from the city gates, from every home and hall, they came. Thousands of women, cloaked in linen and silk, the wives of Sunstead's warriors. Their hands trembled as they touched their husbands' shoulders, urging them to rise. One by one, the soldiers obeyed, rising as their wives pressed flowers into their hands—violets, roses, lilies, all gathered from the soil of Sunstead itself.
The field became a living ocean of color, blades and blossoms entwined.
Marek stood at the cliff's edge, the wind tearing at his crimson hair. His presence alone weighed heavier than iron, and when he raised his hand, silence deepened until even the breath of the world seemed to still.
His voice cut through the air like a blade drawn in a cathedral.
"I begin the Celebration of Sunstead. The Day of Remembrance."
The words were not a proclamation. They were law. And the kingdom of Sion obeyed. Streets fell silent, bells ceased, even birds seemed to hush mid-flight.
Then it came—Veil power. It poured from Marek not as fire or thunder, but as sheer immensity. A force that pressed against every chest, gripped every heart, made men who had braved battlefields bow their heads in reverence.
And then—it vanished. Marek lowered his arm, the weight lifted. He raised his gaze to the sky, scarlet hair blazing against the heavens, and with one slow, deliberate motion, he raised his arm again.
The warriors thrust their flowers upward.
And from deep within the citadel of Zopolosis, hidden gears rumbled. A secret older than any soldier there awakened. The Flame—sacred, eternal—burned to life in silence. No one saw it, but all felt it.
The blossoms in the warriors' hands shimmered, lifted, and spiraled into the sky as though carried by unseen winds. Thousands of flowers arched upward in perfect unison, then ignited in midair, a sea of fire cascading above Sunstead.
The sky burned red, gold, and violet as petals became flame, raining light upon the city.
"Marek let the flame take the flower."
For a heartbeat his smile—small, almost private—hung like a promise. Then it folded inward and vanished as the petals caught the secret fire hovering unseen above the citadel.
The blossom rose, burning bright, and vanished into the sky. Its glow raked across Marek's face, and for the first time since he had stepped from the path, something unguarded broke through his iron composure.
"I remember you, Xenta," he said, low and raw, the words carried on a hush that seemed to still even the wind. "Brother of blade. Brother of mornings. You taught me how to be cruel to weakness and kind to the brave. I remember."
His head tilted slightly, as if listening for an answer no one else could hear. The sun struck his red hair, a fire-forged crown burning across his shoulders.
"And I will find him," Marek went on, voice sharpening, iron poured into steel. "The hand that slit your breath away—by blade, by poison, by coward's trick—it will not escape. I will find the one who killed you, Xenta. I will end him."
The cliff seemed to hold its breath. Below, orchards gleamed like molten emeralds, and the vast plain of soldiers waited without moving, the weight of silence pressing like a hand on every chest.
Then Marek stepped down from the stone lip. The thousands parted at once, as if rehearsed by the gods themselves. An avenue opened, burnished armor and kneeling backs forming the path. He walked slowly, not as a man carried by ceremony, but as inevitability given flesh.
A small body darted from the crowd. A child, eyes wide, hair tangled, flung himself forward and clung to Marek's neck with reckless joy. The Tyrant of Sunstead halted.
For the first time that day, his face softened. The hardness carved into his eyes gentled, and a smile flickered back—not the private, haunted one for the flower, but something warmer. He bent and swept the boy into his arms, lifting him with surprising ease.
The soldiers stared, breaths caught. Then one by one, sound broke—their exhale, their laughter, their choked whispers. Some smiled, some wept, some looked away as if ashamed to feel. But they all saw.
Marek raised the child high, the motion older than crowns or thrones, a gesture carried through countless generations of warriors. The boy's laughter rang out across the plain, clear and unafraid.
"Stand," Marek commanded. His voice cracked the silence, and the sea of men rose as one. Armor clinked like the soft chime of countless bells. Wives and widows and children held their breath.
"Raise your cups."
A thousand hands lifted goblets, horns, chipped clay, steel mugs. Wine, ale, bitter spirits caught the sun. The shout that followed rolled like thunder, not from one voice but from thousands:
"To memory! To Xenta!"
The toast spread like fire in dry grass. Cups struck together, flowers slipped from trembling hands and drifted skyward, caught by the unseen flame. Each one ignited and burned as it climbed, their embers mixing with the hidden power above.
Marek lowered the child gently to the ground, his hand brushing the boy's shoulder. Then he lifted his gaze once more, his expression sharpening, the private smile gone. His face was iron again, but beneath it ran promise, and vengeance.
Around him, the army roared. The city bells joined, and even the orchards seemed to shiver. The sky burned with rising petals, and deep within the citadel the First Flame stirred, answering an ancient call.
For a moment—thin, sharp as a blade's edge—the whole kingdom felt sacred, terrible, alive.
And Marek Newance, the Tyrant of Sunstead, stood in the heart of it, his people's thunder rolling after him like the tide.