The sun hid behind clouds of grief, as though even it could not bear witness.
From the most remote villages to the stone streets of the capital, the Virelion Empire fell silent. Shops remained shuttered. Temple bells stood untouched.
Even the crows perched along rooftops and battlements without sound, black shapes watching a world that had forgotten how to breathe.
Only the cries of mothers and widows dared to break the stillness.
A funeral march began.
It moved slower than any before it.
Rows of fallen Paladins were carried first—armor cleaned as best it could be, swords laid across their chests by trembling hands.
Behind them came empty suits of steel, borne by knights who struggled to keep their steps even. Polished helms reflected faces that refused to meet their gaze. Black cloth bound the swords where hands should have been.
Some bodies had been crushed until no armor could hold them.
Some burned until no face remained.
Some vanished so completely that even memory struggled to grasp them.
Name plaques swayed where men should have been.
The banners of the Virelion Empire waved above the procession, heavy not with pride, but with absence.
Trumpets sounded long, aching notes that cracked in the air.
Bards shouted poems of sacrifice and valor, their voices raw, their words faltering as grief swallowed rhythm and rhyme alike.
"This is your first time, isn't it?" one soldier whispered, eyes fixed forward.
"First time what?" the other murmured back.
"A funeral march for Paladins."
The second soldier swallowed before answering. "Yes. It is."
They walked on, boots striking stone in dull, measured beats.
"There are too many empty armors," the first said. "Too many."
"They couldn't recover them," the second replied. "Some were… there was nothing left to recognize."
The first soldier's grip tightened around his spear. "How do families mourn someone they can't see?"
"They imagine," came the quiet answer. "And sometimes that hurts more."
A child broke free from his mother's grasp and reached toward one of the empty suits of armor.
His fingers hovered just short of the cold steel.
The woman pulled him back and held him tightly, her shoulders shaking as she pressed her face into his hair.
Windows stayed closed as the march passed, but shadows lingered behind shutters—watching, remembering, breaking in silence.
At the center of the procession, the white star banner was carried with reverence.
Its golden base was dulled, its purple script torn and stained.
'Glory to Lord Luminous. Glory to Virelion.'
By the time the march reached the capital square, no one had the strength left to sing.
Behind the palace walls, the trumpets sounded distant—but they were impossible to ignore.
The Emperor of Virelion stood before the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back. His posture was flawless, practiced over decades of rule, yet his shoulders bore a weight no crown could symbolize.
"So many," he said quietly.
Beside him stood Baygone Virelion, the third son—the Warring Emperor. His armor was pristine, untouched by ash or blood, and it made him look almost out of place here.
His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the banners lining the streets below.
"They followed Virent because he never lied to them," Baygone said. "He never promised safety. Only honesty."
The Emperor closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"He never sought glory," he replied. "And so it followed him."
Silence settled—not awkward, not fragile. It was the silence of men who shared the same wound and refused to show it.
"This was not chance," the Emperor said at last. "An ambush of this scale requires knowledge. Timing. Permission."
Baygone exhaled slowly. "Then give me leave to answer it."
"No," the Emperor said, calm but absolute. "I will answer it properly."
Baygone did not raise his voice. He did not press. He waited—because that, too, was discipline.
"You will go to the southern border," the Emperor continued. "The demon front."
Baygone turned his head slightly. "To hold them."
"To keep them visible," the Emperor said. "And to ensure no more blades come from shadow."
Baygone understood what was left unsaid.
"And my fury?" he asked.
"It will be spent where it harms only our enemies," the Emperor replied. "That is not restraint. That is control."
Baygone inclined his head. "Then I will give the demons war—and you time."
"Hold the line," the Emperor said.
Baygone turned and left. Within hours, banners would rise and legions would march. At the borders, blood would be spilled openly—honestly.
While armies moved beneath the sun, others moved beneath stone.
Deep within the palace, where no windows admitted light, cloaked figures gathered. No insignias marked them. No names were spoken.
"You will find the truth," the Emperor said. "Not vengeance."
A voice emerged from the shadows. "Targets?"
"Everyone," he replied. "From border scouts to high sanctums. From whispered orders to altered scripture."
A pause.
"And the Golden Sun?" another asked.
The Emperor's gaze hardened—not with rage, but with certainty.
"Especially the Golden Sun."
No one questioned him.
"Bring me names," he said. "Before lies turn into doctrine."
The figures vanished as quietly as they had come.
Left alone, the Emperor rested his hand against the stone table where names of the empire's fallen were carved.
Virent Virelion.
His fingers lingered there longer than protocol allowed.
Outside, pyres burned.
The empire mourned.
At its borders, war gathered.
And beneath a silent sun, truth began its slow, merciless movement.
Hey... This is my chapter 2. Plz comment if you want find any loopholes or something like or something you want to add.
THANK YOU.