The morning after the Ashen Pact's brutal cleansing, the Empire was a wounded beast — bleeding but still dangerous.
But the enemies Kael had long anticipated...
They had not been idle.
Far to the north, beyond the borders of the Empire, beyond the dead forests and crumbling towers, in a valley lost to time, the Crescent of the Lost convened.
A council of exiled princes, shattered gods, betrayed generals, and forsaken bloodlines.
Each one had tasted Kael's wrath.
Each one thirsted for his downfall.
Now, under a sky stained sickly red, they prepared to strike.
The great cavern of Blackspire Hollow echoed with harsh voices.
Hundreds of cloaked figures ringed the ancient stone circle at the cavern's heart.
Their faces were hidden behind masks of bone and obsidian, but their hatred was a living thing — coiling and writhing in the stale, cold air.
At the center, upon the cracked dais of broken kings, stood High Chancellor Morvane — a gaunt figure swathed in black robes, his eyes gleaming with fanatic purpose.
"The tyrant tightens his grip," Morvane intoned, voice carrying to the very edges of the hollow.
"Last night, our agents in the Imperial Capital were slaughtered like cattle."
A low murmur of anger rippled through the crowd.
"Kael has shown the world his hand," Morvane continued, raising a skeletal finger. "He believes in fear. In domination. In obliteration."
He paused, letting the rage build.
"But he forgets..."
Morvane's smile was thin as a dagger.
"...The lost do not fear death."
A hundred blades were drawn as one.
A vow sworn in silence.
Tonight, the Crescent would strike back — not with whispered plots.
But with fire and death.
Meanwhile, in the Citadel, Kael stood before a massive war table, the map of the Empire stretched out beneath his gloved hands.
Selene and Alaric flanked him, their faces grim.
"Seventeen confirmed traitor deaths," Alaric reported, "but disturbances remain in the southern districts. Refugees from the noble quarter, armed bands gathering."
Selene added, "Unrest is rising. Silent for now... but ready to explode if given cause."
Kael's silver gaze was unreadable as he traced a gloved finger along the riverways leading into the city.
"They are gathering more than just courage," he said softly. "They are gathering weapons."
Selene stiffened.
"You think an attack is imminent?"
Kael's voice was calm, colder than winter steel.
"I know it is."
He turned from the table, his cloak trailing like a living thing.
"Prepare the Ashen Guard. Double the patrols. Lock down the outer gates."
He paused, considering.
"And bring me the Black Hounds."
Selene's eyes widened.
The Black Hounds were Kael's most brutal enforcers — beasts in human flesh, bound by ancient rites to his will.
To summon them meant war in the streets.
But Selene obeyed without hesitation.
She could feel it too.
The gathering storm.
As the sun bled its last light over the Empire, the Crescent made their move.
It began subtly.
A merchant caravan entering the western gate — nothing unusual.
Except that hidden within the wagons were dozens of assassins, their blades poisoned, their eyes wild with zealotry.
At the same time, in the eastern slums, fires erupted — buildings collapsing in carefully timed detonations, designed to draw soldiers away from the Citadel.
And in the skies above...
Three great black-winged beasts — half-dragon, half-nightmare — descended from the clouds, carrying warlocks bound in chains of unholy power.
The city shuddered.
Screams rose like a chorus.
The Crescent had come to rip out the Empire's heart.
Commander Harek, a veteran of a hundred battles, barely had time to rally his men before the western gate exploded inward.
The merchant wagons erupted in fire, spraying shards of iron and flame.
Through the smoke charged the Crescent assassins — sleek, deadly, moving with inhuman speed.
"Form ranks!" Harek bellowed, drawing his sword.
The Imperial Guard fought valiantly, but they were unprepared for the savagery that fell upon them.
In minutes, the west gate was overrun.
Blood stained the cobbles.
The banners of the Empire fell, replaced by crude, crimson sigils — the mark of the Lost.
The news reached Kael within minutes.
Selene burst into the war chamber, hair wild, armor gleaming.
"They've breached the western wall! Fires in the eastern slums! Sightings of drake-beasts over the inner district!"
Alaric slammed his fist into the map table.
"We're under siege."
Kael's expression remained utterly composed.
"No," he said quietly.
"They are under siege."
The generals stared at him in confusion.
Kael stepped into the center of the room, cloak flaring.
"This city is mine. Every street. Every stone. Every soul."
He drew a blade — not of steel, but of dark crystal — a weapon crafted in the abyss for this very day.
"Let them come," Kael said, voice deepening with power. "Let them taste the wrath they have provoked."
He turned to Selene.
"Release the Black Hounds."
He turned to Alaric.
"Seal the Citadel. Nothing leaves. Nothing enters."
He turned to the gathered lords and commanders.
"And you..." His voice grew deathly soft. "...prepare to make history."
The Black Hounds surged through the city like a plague of death.
Seven-foot-tall warriors clad in black iron, their faces hidden behind snarling visors, wielding axes and chains.
Wherever Crescent forces advanced, the Hounds fell upon them — breaking bones, tearing flesh, sowing terror.
The western district, once a proud noble quarter, became a butcher's yard.
Alaric personally led the countercharge, his sword a blur, his armor splashed with blood.
Selene moved like a shadow, cutting down Crescent assassins before they even saw her blade.
Kael, cloaked in midnight fire, marched through the chaos — untouched, unstoppable.
Every Crescent agent who crossed his path died within seconds.
The drake-beasts that had terrorized the skies?
Brought down by precision ballista strikes and infernal sorcery summoned by Kael's hand.
At the heart of the uprising, Kael confronted the leader of the Crescent force — a warlock known as Meydran the Forsworn.
Meydran, a towering figure robed in ragged purple, raised his staff and unleashed a torrent of black fire.
Kael caught it in his bare hand.
The flames coiled around him — then snuffed out, as if ashamed.
Kael advanced.
Meydran shrieked a curse in an ancient tongue and summoned a creature of smoke and bone — a demon from the forgotten planes.
Kael's smile was cold and terrible.
"You think I have not danced with gods and devils alike?"
He raised his dark crystal blade.
The demon lunged.
Kael met it with a single, devastating blow, severing its head in a spray of ghostly ichor.
Meydran stumbled back, fear finally overtaking him.
Kael pointed his sword.
"Your Crescent falls tonight."
The execution was merciless.
With a gesture, Kael crushed Meydran's heart in his chest — the warlock's body crumpling like a broken doll.
By dawn, the uprising was crushed.
The streets ran red.
The walls bore scorch marks from the infernal battle.
The banners of the Crescent of the Lost were torn down and burned before the Citadel gates.
Kael stood atop the highest tower, surveying the broken city.
Selene approached, weary but alive.
"It's over," she said.
Kael did not respond immediately.
He could feel it — a deeper war stirring beyond the edges of the Empire.
The Crescent's strike was not the end.
It was merely the beginning.
Kael sent emissaries to every kingdom, every faction, every hidden enemy.
A simple message carved in black stone, delivered by ash-marked riders:
"Your Crescent has fallen. Your time will come."
Fear rippled outward from the Empire, washing over the world like a dark tide.
And Kael, the conqueror, the shadow crowned in iron and blood...
Prepared for the next battle.
Whatever it might be.
To be continued...