The King's council chamber was overflowing — nobles, generals, courtiers, all hungry for the scent of blood and glory. Banners of the empire hung proudly from the vaulted ceiling, yet the room's focus was narrowed to a single figure: Darian Vale, summoned not to advise, but to stand trial by pride.
The King rose, his voice ringing with authority.
"Darian Vale, once Warchief of the empire, you were called here not to speak of war but to face judgment. Your defeat has sown doubt, and the name of Vale trembles under the weight of suspicion."
Murmurs rippled like venomous snakes. Some whispered "traitor," others "coward," but all eyes burned into him.
From the shadows of the hall, Flint Sky stepped forward, clad in polished armor that caught every gleam of light. His tone was sharp, rehearsed, a dagger disguised as loyalty.
"This empire needs a leader of vision, not a relic bound by lineage. Darian took his post by accident of birth — and led us to disaster. By right, by strength, and by destiny, I claim the mantle of Warchief."
The chamber erupted with applause, the nobles fawning over the shift of power. Flint basked in it, his smirk cutting across the room like a scar.
The King's verdict came swift and merciless:
"From this day, Flint Sky commands the armies of the empire. Darian Vale, you are confined to your home. Should you be found conspiring with the Scythelanders, your life will pay the debt of your dishonor."
Gasps. Applause. Approval. Shame. All swirled together, a storm that sought to swallow the Vale name whole.
Through it all, Darian stood like a mountain against the tide — silent, unbending. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering not on the King nor Flint, but on the banners above: once symbols of unity, now mockeries draped in arrogance.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and chilling:
"Shame me if it gives you strength. Confine me if it grants you comfort. But when the storm comes… remember whose warning you spat upon."
Silence fell. Even Flint's smirk flickered. But the empire cheered louder, drowning Darian's words in their pride.
The hall was heavy with torchlight, the air thick with arrogance and sweat. Flint Sky basked in his new title, his words dripping with false triumph. Yet all eyes shifted when Darian spoke again, his voice carrying like a storm.
"The empire marches to its grave. You send children into the jaws of death and call it glory. You mock truth, and still you wonder why ruin stalks your gates."
A hush fell. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the King's hand slammed against the throne, the crack echoing like a war drum.
"Enough!" he roared. "You speak like an evil prophet, polluting my court with defeatist bile. Guards! Arrest him!"
Steel rattled as soldiers stepped forward. The weight of chains glinted in the firelight, hungry for Darian's wrists.
But as they drew close, the King's voice faltered, his eyes flicking to the banners of past Vale victories. Centuries of blood, loyalty, and unbroken oaths stared back at him.
He exhaled sharply, waving the guards back. "Not today. Not for the sake of your fathers' deeds. But know this, Darian: speak against the empire again, and not even their ghosts will save you."
The hall shifted uneasily. Flint smirked. The King turned away.
** **. ** ** ** ** **
Far from the marble halls and hollow proclamations of the empire, the Scythelands stirred.
In iron forges that never cooled, sparks danced like fireflies. Blacksmiths hammered steel into the shapes their people adored: heavy axes that split bone with a single blow, and the weapon that gave them their name—the curved scythe, sharpened to a whisper's edge.
Men and women alike tested their grips, the rhythm of their strikes pounding like drums of war. Children too small to fight dragged wooden scythes across the dirt, already mimicking the motions of slaughter.
No speeches, no crowns, no pomp. Only the song of steel, the oath of survival, and the promise that when the storm broke, it would not be the Scythelanders who bent.
While the empire tore itself apart with suspicion and pride, the enemy prepared with one purpose: to reap.
Skar, the iron-scarred leader of the Scythelander host, stood before his warriors, scythe head glinting beneath the blood-red sky. His voice was rough, but it carried, cutting through the clang of weapons and the growl of beasts harnessed for war.
"We fight so our families may see peace. Every drop we spill, every strike we make, is for the fires that warm our homes and the children who wait in them. Do not let go. Keep the flies quiet. Silence them before they swarm.
For our families. For our nation. For those we love. But above all—" his eyes burned as he swept them across the ranks, "—for those who come after us. So their first breath is not the sound of chains, but the cry of freedom."
A roar surged from the warriors, deep and primal, echoing across the valley like the promise of death itself. Steel struck shields. Scythes lifted high. They were no longer merely soldiers—they were the harvesters of nations.
The court still hummed with whispers of Darian's shame. Flint strutted in his new title, and the King's decree hung like iron in the air. But far beyond the throne and its brittle pride, another sound rose.
In the Scythelands, torches burned like a thousand hungry suns. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, steel in hand, eyes alight with purpose.
Skar lifted his scythe, voice shaking the night.
"We storm the Elish Empire. We take the war to them. Their fields will be our playground, their pride our prey. We fight for our families, for our nation, for those who come after us. And we fight as one.
We are the Scythelanders. We are the supremos!"
The valley thundered with their roar, a storm gathering on the horizon, a storm the empire refused to see.