The city woke to whispers sharper than any blade. Courtiers, merchants, even the beggars in the gutters spoke the same thing: the Vale name had fallen. Where once "Vale" meant victory, now it was spat as betrayal, failure, weakness.
Soldiers of the empire averted their eyes when Darian passed. Once, their salutes had been crisp and proud; now their silence weighed heavier than insults.
In the Vale barracks, the air was thick with fury. Armor clanged against stone walls as men threw helmets aside, cursing. "We bled for this empire!" one roared. "And they call us traitors?" Another spat into the fire. Some simply sat in silence, staring at their calloused hands as though the centuries of honor carved into their veins had been stripped away overnight.
Darian stood before them, his presence still enough to steady the storm. His voice was iron:
"They think we failed. They think we miscalculated. But hear me—our honor was not lost on the battlefield. It was stolen here, in these marble halls. The empire has turned its back on truth. That does not make us broken. That makes them blind."
The men's eyes burned again, some with tears, others with the embers of rage.
Meanwhile, in the King's war chambers, plans unfolded like a game board. Advisors crowded around maps, their jeweled fingers stabbing at borders. The King's voice carried triumph rather than caution:
"Darian may fear shadows, but I will show the empire strength. The Scythelanders bled us once—we will drown them in numbers this time. Where he failed with a hundred thousand, I will march with two hundred thousand. The empire's legions will sweep them aside like dust."
Some generals nodded, eager for glory. Others shifted uneasily, recalling Darian's words. But none dared speak against the throne.
The plans were carefully scrutinized, every stroke of ink on the war map treated as destiny. Glory shimmered in sight; the blood of generals and soldiers alike warmed at the thought of victory. The chamber rang with boasts and oaths.
One by one, the generals departed, each carrying the same fire in his chest. They strode into their units with speeches that shook the air: promises of conquest, visions of banners flying above Scythelander ruins, the chant of empire eternal. Soldiers roared back with pride, steel clashing against shields in rhythm, the sound of confidence echoing through the barracks.
The city itself caught the fever. Citizens poured into the streets as drums thundered. Blacksmiths worked through the night to arm new recruits. Merchants lined the avenues, waving flags, their voices swelling in choruses of praise for the legions. Children played at being soldiers, wooden swords cracking against each other in mimicry of the glory to come.
Yet amidst the noise, there was one silence: the Vale.
Their barracks remained quiet, watchful. No songs of war, no chants of empire. Only Darian's voice, steady and low, speaking to his warriors of discipline, of vigilance, of truth that the empire had forgotten.
Above it all, Darian gazed toward the horizon. The cheers of millions rang behind him, but his eyes were fixed on the storm gathering ahead. He alone knew the chants would turn to screams, and the war songs would be swallowed by silence.
The empire celebrates its own funeral march, he thought, turning back into the shadows of his hall.
The war drums shook the earth as the legions gathered, a tide of steel and banners flooding the capital's gates. Among the sea of soldiers, Kael and Reid Vale strode forward, armored in their family's black and silver, their hearts alight with purpose. They were sons of the Warchief, heirs of the undefeated line. To them, marching with the empire was not a choice but a duty.
Darian had stood before them that morning, silent as they buckled their breastplates. His eyes were hard, his voice steady as iron.
"You seek to march with the empire," he said. "Then march. But remember this—the empire does not want you. It will spit you out. You will go, and you will return, because the Vale does not die on another man's command."
He did not forbid them. He did not reach out to hold them back. His warning was not a chain but a blade, sharp enough to cut through their pride if they chose to ignore it.
And ignore it they did.
When Kael and Reid joined the ranks, a captain of the royal army sneered openly.
"The sons of failure," he spat. "You think the empire will march with shadows? Your family fell, and with it your place. Begone. We need soldiers, not traitors' blood."
Laughter roared across the lines. Spears banged against shields in mockery, voices rising in cruel jeers.
Kael's jaw trembled with rage, his hand twitching toward his hilt, but Reid caught him by the shoulder. Their father's words echoed in his mind. They will spit you out.
The two brothers turned their backs on the jeering legions, shame boiling in their blood.
From the balcony above, Darian watched them return. He did not move, did not speak, but his silence struck harder than any blade. His sons had felt it for themselves: the empire no longer deserved the Vale name.
Let them march to ruin, Darian thought. My blood will not be wasted in their funeral parade.