The wind still reeked of ash and steel when Sky stumbled out of the ruin. His armor was half-melted, his breath torn, ragged, his vision a blur of smoke and blood. Behind him, the war camp of the Elish Empire was gone — crushed beneath the black banners of Skar the Unyielding.
Where the Empire's war drums once thundered, only silence remained. A thousand of their finest were dragged away in chains, their pride shackled beneath Scythelander whips. The rest were ghosts feeding the flies. Sky should have been one of them. Instead, Skar spared him — left him mangled but breathing, the cruelest mercy imaginable.
He was found crawling across the outer plains at dawn, lips cracked, voice trembling with madness. They called him "the messenger," but the truth was simpler: he was the Empire's last echo, sent home to speak of its end.
The watchman's alarm split the night, echoing across the battered walls. Within moments, twelve warriors answered — the last of Elish steel, men who had survived too many dawns of slaughter. They armed in silence, their faces lit by torchlight, eyes hollow but steady.
"Movement beyond the ridge," the watchman said, voice tight. "Could be a trap."
"Then we'll spring it," their captain answered.
They marched out through the ruined gate, boots sinking into ash, blades drawn. The land beyond still smoked from the Scythelanders' fury — burned tents, shattered armor, bones gleaming under the moon. And then, amid it all, they saw him: a figure crawling toward the city, dragging one arm uselessly, face caked in blood and dirt.
"Hold!" the captain barked. "That's… that's one of ourThe torchlight trembled when the captain knelt beside the fallen man. The face was half-burned, unrecognizable beneath grime and dried blood — until one of the soldiers whispered, voice cracking,
"By the gods… that's the War Chief."
Flint Sky — the newly crowned hope of the Elish Empire, the man who had sworn to end the Scythelander reign — was alive, but barely. His armor was torn from him, his insignia melted into his flesh. One arm hung twisted, and his lips bled as he tried to speak.
No words came, only a broken rasp — the sound of a man who had seen his empire die. The twelve warriors, once fearless, suddenly looked small against the weight of it. The watchman dropped to one knee, torch shaking.
The war was over. The messenger had come home.
The twelve warriors wrapped Flint Sky in their cloaks and moved without a word. No horns were sounded, no banners raised. What they carried wasn't triumph — it was a secret too heavy for daylight.
They brought him through the eastern gate under the veil of night, past the watchtowers and empty squares where banners still fluttered, pretending the Empire stood proud. Inside the citadel, whispers moved faster than torches. The wounded man was taken below, to the war chamber that now stank of incense and fear.
When word reached the throne, the king rose from council with a silence that made every adviser freeze. "No one must know," he said. "Not yet. The people's resolve hangs by a thread, and a thread snaps easily."
So they sealed the chamber. The healers were sworn to silence. And while the city above slept believing their war chief still led the charge, Flint Sky lay beneath their feet, eyes half-open, whispering the names of the dead.