The news of the Warden's death reached the South. The same city that had celebrated days before now wept. The Centre had taken their man of the people.
Among those mourning was General Aeron Valeric, once Calen's most loyal commander.
When Aeron heard the news, rage consumed him. He rode to Lady Elara Dareth, the late Warden's widow.
"My lady," he said, bowing. "Your son is still too young to lead our army. Allow me to lead them — to avenge him."
Lady Elara thought for a moment, then replied, "Do what you must, General. But never let the South kneel again. This is the moment. The South is divided — go to the city square and unite them beneath one banner."
Aeron bowed and left.
That evening, the people of Carienhelm gathered as the old general mounted the steps of the square. The air was heavy with grief and anger. When he spoke, his voice carried like a storm.
Aeron gathered men in the city square and began his speech.
"Brothers… sisters… children of the South — look at what they've done to us.
Once, we built the bridges they marched across. We carved their marble, forged their crowns, and filled their treasuries with the sweat of our backs. And yet they call us rebels. Traitors. Filth beneath their golden boots.
Our Warden — Calen Dareth — rode to the King's city unarmed, with nothing but the hope of mercy. And what mercy did he find? A noose! A rope! A northern blade through the neck of the only man who ever stood for us.
Do you know why the King kills men like Calen? Because mercy frightens tyrants. Because truth shakes their thrones more than a thousand swords ever could.
They think the South will kneel again — that we will bow our heads, bury our dead, and call it peace. But peace built on chains is no peace at all.
So hear me now, men of Carienhelm, sons of Dareth, keepers of the red fields — we will not kneel. Not to Aureth, not to Maelor, not to the crown that drank our father's blood.
We will raise our banners once more — not of rebellion, but of remembrance. For every farmer whipped, every child starved, every man hung for daring to speak his name.
We march for Calen, for our dead, for the right to call the South our home again.
The King has gold, but we have the ground beneath his feet. He has armies, but we have fury. Let him send his legions — we'll turn their armour to rust and their pride to ash. And when Aureth burns, they will know — the South remembers.
Tonight, we take no oath to kings or crowns. We swear to the South, and to the fallen. To Calen Dareth, Warden of the South — the man who taught us that hope is sharper than any blade!
Now… ride with me. Not as soldiers — as free men!"
"The Liberator of the South!" a man started chanting, and with him, the whole crowd.
"Can Aeron run a revolt?" Ser Manskin asked in a room of three generals of Valenor.
"I don't know, can you?" Ser Samoy teased him.
"The South was oppressed for almost decades. If you want things to go as they are, you are most welcome." Lord Reyon stared at Manskin.
"His brother, Varen, is unconscious."
"Valerics have been the bannermen for centuries."
"I understand you have doubts, but we have to trust the man."
Manskin nodded.
***