The first horn sounded at sunrise.
A deep, echoing blare that shook the earth beneath the Flameborn camp. Dust rolled across the ground. Birds scattered. The sky turned red with the light of the rising sun—and the oncoming slaughter.
Three armies.
Ten thousand warriors.
All converging on a single point.
And standing against them—
A rebel host of barely one thousand.
Althar stood at the front, wind stirring his cloak. His sword was already drawn, its edge pulsing with the merged magic of seven crowns. But it wasn't the blade they looked to.
It was him.
He no longer looked like a cold ruler or a fallen monarch. Something had changed. The Crown of Echoes, now fused into his soul, pulsed behind his eyes—memories and instincts and emotion blending into something new.
He didn't just command fear now.
He inspired something far more dangerous.
Hope.
The first charge came from the Knights of the Crimson Church—zealots in blood-red plate, their banners soaked in holy oil. They marched with chants on their tongues and divine hatred in their eyes.
Behind them rode the Beast-Claw Horde, mounted on wyverns, direwolves, and arcane-mutated beasts. Half-man, half-monster, they charged with primal screams, their leader—a horned brute known as Kagg the Devourer—laughing at the Flameborn's numbers.
And behind them all, in perfect silence, came the Silver Chain Inquisitors, led by High Marshal Venn—a disciple of Archon Veyla. Cloaked in moonlight, with eyes glowing silver, they advanced like death given form.
Rorek cracked his neck.
"We're going to die," he muttered.
Ariya raised her spear, light flickering along its shaft. "Then let's make it worth the cost."
The battle erupted like a storm.
The first impact came with a shuddering crash as the Crimson Knights slammed into the Flameborn front line. Steel rang against steel. Magic clashed with holy wards. Fire met divine light.
And Althar moved like a phantom.
Where he struck, the enemy broke. Where he stood, his people rallied. Spells carved the air around him—flames, shadow, wind, and memory itself lashing out.
He no longer fought like a king.
He fought like a man becoming something greater.
The Seventh Crown didn't dominate him.
It guided him.
Seris stood at the rear, weaving barrier spells and detonating runic traps. Sweat poured down her face, but she didn't falter.
"Left flank—reinforce it!" she shouted, flames bursting from her hands to incinerate three charging warpriests.
In the sky, wyverns swooped down, tearing through Flameborn archers—until Ariya launched herself skyward with a blast of divine light, impaling one mid-air before landing in a roll, blood painting her armor.
Rorek fought with primal fury, holding the center, his axe cleaving men and monsters alike.
For every one that fell, five more came.
But they kept fighting.
Because behind them was a king who no longer stood above them.
He stood with them.
Then came Kagg.
Ten feet tall, his face hidden beneath a spiked helm, his mount a chimera stitched from multiple beasts. He barreled through the front like a god of war, roaring Althar's name.
Althar turned to meet him.
Their weapons clashed with a sound that shattered stone. The ground buckled. Soldiers fell back, unable to withstand the sheer pressure.
Kagg swung with brutal force, his axe nearly the size of a man. Althar blocked, barely, using both blade and magic to absorb the blow.
"You're no god," Kagg snarled.
"No," Althar said, eyes glowing with Crownlight. "But I'm no longer just a man."
With a surge of power, he unleashed a wave of burning memory—the screams of fallen empires, the regrets of kings, the hopes of children unborn—and it struck Kagg like a divine reckoning.
The warlord screamed as his mount buckled and his armor cracked, his mind scorched by centuries of sorrow and fire.
Althar ended it with a single thrust through the heart.
But even as Kagg fell, a new enemy emerged.
Marshal Venn and his Inquisitors walked through fire and chaos untouched. Their spells were precise, clinical. They struck not to kill—but to break minds.
Althar turned to face them—only to stagger as Venn cast a sigil into the air.
A spell of chains.
Magic surged. Althar froze mid-step.
And suddenly, he wasn't on the battlefield anymore.
He was somewhere else.
A world of mirrors. Reflections of every choice he had made. Every person he had killed. Every time he had chosen power over mercy.
"You cannot lead them," Venn's voice echoed in the illusion. "You are still the same tyrant."
"No," Althar growled, fighting the pressure. "I'm not."
"You were born in blood."
"But I've learned to bleed."
He shattered the illusion with a scream—and the Crown of Echoes pulsed, blinding silver light exploding outward.
Venn recoiled. The spell was broken.
Althar surged forward—his sword a blur, his fury righteous.
The Marshal fell, his blood staining the chain-etched ground.
The enemy faltered.
The Flameborn rallied.
And as the sun climbed the sky, the battlefield fell into silence.
They had won.
The price was steep. Hundreds lay dead. But they had held.
The impossible had happened.
A scattered band of rebels had broken three armies.
Not because they were stronger.
But because they had something more dangerous than strength.
They had each other.
As dusk fell, Althar walked among the wounded. He sat beside the dying. He held the hands of soldiers who once feared him.
He no longer pretended not to feel.
He let the grief burn.
Let the sorrow weigh him down.
And still… he stood.
Because tomorrow, they would march again.
And this time—
The world would know:
The fire had only begun to rise.