Chapter 75

  I was waiting for an explanation. Not a tactic. Not some philosophical monologue. Just a damned explanation. The leader of the rebels—a man with piercing eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a voice that had been heard too often and questioned too rarely—seemed to be waiting too. Probably for me to say something. A demand, an accusation, maybe even a confession.

  I said nothing. I had already taken off my helmet, eyes locked on his. No mask, no armor between us. Just the silent expectation in my gaze, telling him clearly what I thought: Speak.

  And he did. Unfortunately, not the way I’d hoped. “Good,” he began, his voice ringing clearly through the room. “Now that we’re all here, we begin with the plan. Isen and Drav will teleport us and our entire army to the edge of the Ice Wastes. Once the Veil opens—”

  “This isn’t a tactics briefing,” I cut him off, sharper than I intended.

  Conversations around the table ceased. My voice sliced through the silence like a dagger. The others—Vin, Maira, even Arik—didn’t look startled, but focused. Maybe even understanding. It wasn’t the first time I’d acted impulsively. But this time, it wasn’t just impulse. This time, it was justified.

  I took a breath, then forced the words out clearly, but controlled: “I don’t know if I still fight for Reyn. But I never said I fight for you either.” The truth was: I really didn’t know. Everything in my head was a swamp of doubt, memory, worry for my friends, rage, and a voice that rarely shut up—unless it was bathing.

  The leader paused, then sighed. His gaze—suddenly sharp, probing, almost uncomfortable—settled on me as if he could see into my heart. “You don’t fight for us,” he said softly. “You fight for Tirros. And you fight against a false order.” I hate it when people talk like that. So... convinced. So final.

  I frowned, feeling a muscle twitch near my temple as I tried to hold back the anger. This won’t work, I thought. He’s too convinced. Too much prophet, not enough person. I was certain I’d never reach him that way. So I turned to someone who felt more real to me.

  “Arik,” I said, turning toward him. The Ashblood had remained quiet at the edge of the table, but now he looked up, directly meeting my eyes. “What do you think? You live a life in Thulegard you couldn’t have anywhere else. An inn. Respect. Safety. Because of Reyn’s order. Do you really want to throw all that away?”

  I expected agreement. Maybe hesitation. But not that. Arik slowly shook his head. “I admire you, Luken,” he said. “But I’ve seen the truth behind all of it.” His voice was calm. No bitterness. No drama. Just certainty.

  My mouth opened, but no words came. Just emptiness. Him? An Ashblood—one of those hunted by every village, every country, every temple. Someone whose mere existence was once seen as a curse. Someone who, under Reyn’s rule, had found a life—warm, safe, acknowledged—telling me he’d seen the truth? That the system which, for once, hadn’t tried to destroy him... was wrong?

  It wasn’t just a sting in my mind—it was a hammer blow. I closed my eyes briefly. Thought of all the times I’d said I would never follow blindly again. That I would never be a tool again. Maybe... it was time to prove that.

  Slowly, I stood. Pushed the chair back. Lifted my head. Let my gaze sweep across the room. Then I looked back at the leader—calm, steady, without anger. “Then show me this damned truth,” I said. My voice was like stone. Unshakable.

  And somewhere deep inside, I heard Gravor whisper: Now it’s getting interesting...

  -

  When the wise man placed his hand on my forehead, my vision first went black. Not a dull gray, not a blurry fog—pure, absolute blackness that swallowed every shape. I felt my breath falter, as if my body no longer knew whether it still existed. Then—suddenly—the light returned. Flickering at first, then blinding, then all at once. And I saw. I saw everything.

  First came the fields. Once endless oceans of grain, where golden wheat swayed beneath the sun—now covered in gray, lifeless ash. The stalks burned, the soil dead, the wind still. Only the stench of decay lingered in the air like a warning. Further west rose the ruins of old villages. What had once been homes now lay in splintered beams, collapsed walls, and the skeletal remains of wells where no water flowed. I heard echoes of voices long gone—the laughter of children, the calls of merchants—but they faded like smoke in a storm.

  Then the vision shifted. I stood above a battlefield so vast there was no end in sight. Tens of thousands of soldiers clashed. Humans, elves, dwarves, beasts—all caught in a swirl of dust, blood, and chaos. Lightning tore the sky apart. Catapults hurled burning boulders. And above it all, a hoarse roar resounded, louder than the drums of war—a cry not of this world. I saw demons—enormous, grotesque beings with wings of black skin and faces made of smoke and agony. And I saw them fall. And rise again.

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  Then came the fortresses. Mighty bastions of the high elves, once gleaming and immaculate, now burning. Their white towers smeared with blood, their walls shattered. On the battlements they fought—elven knights in silver and gold armor, glowing against the darkness. But against them stood their own kin—dark elves in armor twisted by shadow, flanked by orc clans pounding their war drums until the ground shook. Arrows rained down, flaming projectiles smashed into the gates. The sky was red with fire they themselves had unleashed.

  I saw Vin’s homeland. The forests of druids and wood elves—ancient, green, a symbol of harmony. Now: a sea of fire. Trees, once taller than towers, burned with a hiss that sounded like nature’s weeping. I smelled sap and smoke, saw animals fleeing, saw druids trying to calm the fury of the elements—in vain. Their spells fizzled like sparks in a storm. The ground was black, the sky orange. And somewhere, amidst the chaos, I saw a lone figure trying to stop the wind—but the wind only carried ash.

  Then the sea. An endless expanse of gray, strewn with wreckage. Waves lapped against broken hulls, bearing the banners of all peoples: the blue of humans, the bronze of dwarves, the green of lizardfolk. No ship sailed anymore. Everything drifted—silent, abandoned. The bodies of sailors floated between shattered masts, their eyes wide open, as if still searching for shore. And beneath the surface, shadows lingered—colossal shapes whose outlines vanished the moment one tried to focus.

  The dwarven realms of Skarband: tunnels plunging deep into the earth, now filled with smoke and blood. Walls once inscribed with runes, now smeared with mud and corpses. Ogres and giants pushed through the passageways, crushing all in their path. I saw a dwarven captain fall as he fought, his axe gripped tight, until the tunnel collapsed above him. Flames burst from the cracks in the ground, as if even the planet had had enough of this war.

  Then my gaze lifted—and I saw it.

  A wall.

  No ordinary wall. Not stone upon stone. It was forged from metal, magic, and power. It towered above anything I had ever seen. Its battlements pierced the clouds, its surface shimmered in dull gold, streaked with veins of light. Beneath it stood legions. Hundreds. Thousands. Soldiers in ranks, orderly, disciplined. Humans, elves, dwarves—shoulder to shoulder. The final line of defense for Tirros.

  And behind that wall it lay: Neros.

  I recognized it instantly, though it was barely the city from the stories. Once the city of knowledge, open, full of life and magic—now it had become a fortress, a bastion of gold and iron. The towers had been rebuilt, their peaks armed with cannons and inscribed with runes. Walls of pure metal snaked through the streets, fused with the foundations of ancient houses. Everywhere were defense mechanisms, shields, barriers. Magical lines crossed the sky like golden scars, protecting the city beneath a shimmering dome. Where once markets had thrived, stood cannons now. Where children had once played, soldiers now stood in gleaming armor.

  The battle-mage academies lay on the western side. Their towers connected by a transparent wall of energy, pulsing like a heartbeat. I saw mages feeding it—with focus, with life, with strength.

  In the south of the vast fortress city, where the jagged coastline jutted into the roaring sea like a crescent blade, rose the Adlertor Harbor—once a place of trade, of meeting, of simple life. But instead of sails and fishing nets, massive chains now hung between the stone cranes. Instead of seagulls, the metallic screech of signal horns and steam-powered loudspeakers pierced the air.

  Two colossal statues, over forty paces tall, dominated the harbor’s center: golden griffins, majestic with wings spread wide, each standing atop a massive pedestal. Their claws reached for the heavens, their beaks opened in a warning cry. It was said they had once been forged jointly by the High King of the Dwarves and the archmages of the Academy—from pure, tempered star-gold, found deep beneath the mountains of Skarband. Magical lines ran through their wings like veins, pulsing with a gentle light. They stood watch, tireless and silent, over the harbor—symbol and warning in one.

  But what they guarded was no longer a place of peace. Where once fishing boats had been moored, steel platforms now floated on the water, upon which steaming crane arms assembled iron golems. The golems stood in formation, towering like houses, their arms like anvils, their eyes glowing red. In their chest cores pulsed the energy of ancient rune forges—some said fragments of fallen warriors’ souls gave them their brutal efficiency.

  Between them, cannons clattered on wheels—some with triple barrels, others as long as entire ships—directly delivered from dwarven strongholds. Catapults made of dark dwarven wood were being loaded onto supply ships, sent out in an endless chain to reinforce the frontlines—each voyage another step toward bolstering the war effort.

  Instead of market stalls, blacksmith tents now lined the docks, under which dozens of busy figures hammered iron, laid steam pipes, or inscribed runes into armor plates. The scent of salt was gone, displaced by the sharp stench of burning oil, hot iron, and sooty magic.

  Above it all loomed a massive rotating command platform, like a lighthouse, its tip crowned by a levitating orb of archmagic. From here, the army's every move was coordinated—each shipment, each golem launch, every warship.

  The people of Neros no longer spoke. They functioned. The dwarves gave no orders—they hammered. The mages spoke no words—they cast.

  Everywhere, there was motion. Smiths forged, runes glowed, warriors trained. No place for joy anymore—but one of resolve.

  And then… the horizon.

  From afar came a storm. Not natural. Dark, thunderous, pulsing. At its center—a man in black armor. Lord of shadow and storm. Tall, powerful, cloaked in a maelstrom of darkness that almost consumed him. His helmet reflected the light of the burning world. In his left hand, he held a massive war mace, its head forged from condensed thunder-adamantium, every strike a bolt of lightning. At his side—a sword, vast, pulsing, as though it possessed a will of its own.

  Behind him, an army gathered. Not unified. Not pure. Demons, humans, beasts, spirits. Everything the world had ever cast out had come together here. Their banners torn, their war cries incomprehensible—yet united in hatred. They marched, step by step, toward Neros.

  And then he raised the mace, pointed it toward the golden city in the distance, and roared with a voice that split the very sky:

  "For Order!"