The hall had emptied, leaving only whispers in its cold, cavernous corners. The nobles had retreated to their chambers, generals scowled behind closed doors, and even the Emperor sat silently, fingers drumming against the armrest as if the rhythm could summon answers. The empire itself, once unwavering in the Vale name, now muttered doubt, suspicion, and fear.
Darian stood alone at the balcony overlooking the city. From here, the sprawling capital should have looked like a kingdom at peace. Instead, smoke rose from distant outposts, rumors ran faster than the wind, and banners of the Vale fluttered like dying flames.
They think I miscalculated.
He clenched his fists. The whispers had grown, evolving into accusations: maybe he sided with the Scythelanders, maybe he betrayed us. The empire had begun to trample his family's name, twisting centuries of loyalty into venom.
But Darian knew the truth. He had faced an army unlike any other—thousands of generals moving as one, death-forged, unyielding, anticipating every strike before it even happened. He had not miscalculated. He had resisted war itself, and it had tested him to his limits.
And now, the real battle began. Not on the field, but within the empire. He would need every ounce of his will, every lesson his ancestors had engraved in him, to reclaim not just honor, but the faith of a people ready to turn on him.
A single thought burned in his mind, sharper than any sword:
I am the shake that undermines their might. I am the storm they did not expect. And even if the empire doubts me, I will bend it to my will—or watch it fall.
Darian strode through the echoing corridors of the palace, his boots striking the marble in steady, determined beats. Every step carried the weight of the truth he had to deliver—a truth the empire itself refused to see.
He reached the inner chambers of the King, where tapestries of past victories hung like silent witnesses. The King looked up, regal and composed, yet there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
"My liege," Darian began, voice low but firm, "the Scythelanders are unlike any army we have faced. Every soldier moves with the mind of a general. They have been honed through death and hardship—what survives is no longer merely human. This is an army that thinks as one, and it will not stop until it has undone everything we hold dear."
The King's expression hardened. "Darian… you speak of shadows and legends. Are you certain it is not your mind clouded by defeat?"
Darian's gaze did not waver. "I have fought them, sire. I have seen their formations, their strikes. They are not merely soldiers—they are a storm incarnate. To underestimate them would be to court disaster. I bring truth, not fear."
A silence stretched between them, thick with centuries of loyalty, pride, and the unspoken question: Can this empire survive what it refuses to acknowledge?
The King's eyes narrowed, a faint smile twisting his lips. "Darian… I believe my millions of soldiers would be enough to sweep through any storm. The Scythelanders? They will fall before the might of the empire."
Darian's jaw tightened, fists clenching at his sides.
The King's gaze hardened. "As of now, I no longer need your Vale family's personal army. I no longer need a failure of an army to coddle me. The empire will stand on its own strength—and you, Warchief, are to follow my orders, not argue them."
The words landed like a hammer. Generations of Vale honor, sacrifice, and discipline dismissed in a heartbeat. The empire, the very entity they had sworn to protect, had turned its back.
Darian's eyes lifted, cold and unwavering. His voice cut through the heavy silence:
"If the empire believes it can face the storm without its Warchief… let it learn the meaning of the word RUIN."
The chamber trembled—not from magic or steel, but from the weight of his certainty.