The battle was over.
But death still lingered.
Smoke curled through the broken streets of Eldermere.
The fires had died down, leaving behind charred ruins and smoldering wreckage.
The air was thick with the scent of blood, ash, and something worse—
Something unnatural.
Because the bodies—
The bodies were wrong.
Aric stood at the center of the carnage, sword still in hand.
Around him, his warriors moved like ghosts, picking through the ruins of victory.
Some were gathering the wounded.
Some were dragging corpses into piles.
Some were standing still, staring at the dead knights—
Because the dead knights were still staring back.
Their bodies did not decay.
They did not bleed like normal men.
Even in death, their empty black eyes remained open, as if still watching.
Waiting.
Kael cursed under his breath, kicking over a corpse.
It did not move.
But it did not feel dead.
"These things weren't human," he muttered.
Aric said nothing.
Because deep down—
He already knew.
Lira stepped beside him, arms crossed.
"We won," she said.
But her voice was hollow.
Because this didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like a beginning.
----
The people of Eldermere began to emerge.
They had been hiding during the battle, sheltering in the ruins of their homes.
Now, they stepped cautiously into the open, staring at the aftermath.
At the bodies.
At the Rift still pulsing in the sky.
At Aric.
Some of them cheered.
Some of them wept.
Some of them looked at him with fear.
A woman fell to her knees, clutching a child to her chest.
"You saved us, my lord," she sobbed.
A man raised his fist. "The warlord of Eldermere!"
Others whispered.
They did not call him a warlord.
They called him something else.
Something older.
Something he did not yet understand.
Lira leaned in.
"Do you hear them?"
Aric did.
And it sent a chill down his spine.
Because some were calling him a savior.
But others—
Others were calling him a king.
Aric exhaled.
He was not a king.
He was a man who had survived.
Nothing more.
But the Rift—
The Rift did not see it that way.
----
The storm had not faded.
Normally, when a battle ended, the sky cleared.
The sun broke through the clouds.
Not this time.
Not now.
The Rift still pulsed above them, its unnatural glow casting long shadows over the village.
The air felt heavier.
Like the weight of something unseen pressing against the world.
And then—
The whispering began.
Not from the villagers.
Not from his men.
From inside his mind.
From the Rift itself.
"This is not the end."
Aric's breath hitched.
The words slithered through his skull, not as sound, but as thought.
A presence.
A thing that knew him.
That recognized him.
That claimed him.
He staggered.
Kael's hand shot out, steadying him.
"Aric? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Aric forced himself to breathe.
Because that was the problem.
He hadn't seen one.
He had heard one.
Lira's eyes darkened.
"You heard it again, didn't you?"
Aric nodded.
Kael frowned. "You keep saying 'it.' What is 'it'?"
Aric's fingers tightened around his sword.
He wasn't sure.
But he knew one thing.
The Rift was not just a wound in the sky.
It was alive.
And it was watching him.
----
The battlefield was still warm with blood when the messenger arrived.
A rider in noble colors, galloping through the ruined village, his cloak trailing in the wind.
His horse shied away from the corpses, nostrils flaring, its hooves splashing through the crimson-streaked mud.
The man dismounted swiftly, his boots sinking into the damp earth.
He was young, sharp-featured, and far too clean for a battlefield.
And when his icy blue eyes met Aric's—
They did not waver.
The village fell silent.
The people of Eldermere watched, their hands still dirty from the day's slaughter.
They were not nobility.
They were survivors.
And they did not trust this man in silk and gold.
The noble stepped forward, ignoring the corpses.
Ignoring the Rift still pulsing in the sky.
Ignoring the fact that he stood in the domain of a warlord.
And then—
He bowed.
Low.
Deep.
"My lord Aric of Eldermere," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass.
"I have come on behalf of House Dainmont."
Lira narrowed her eyes.
Kael crossed his arms.
Aric did not move.
Because this was not how nobles spoke to men like him.
And he knew, in that moment—
This was not a courtesy.
This was a test.
The noble envoy straightened.
"Your victory here has not gone unnoticed," he continued.
"You are no longer a rogue warlord."
He smiled.
"You are a man of power."
The villagers stirred.
They had called him many things—
Savior.
Monster.
King.
But this?
This was something else.
This was a noble recognizing him.
Not as a threat.
But as a player in the great game.
Aric tilted his head.
"Your lords care about Eldermere?"
A half-smile. "My lords care about opportunity."
A pause.
Then—
"A man like you is… rare. And dangerous."
Lira gripped her dagger.
"That sounds like a warning."
Kael snorted. "Sounds like a threat."
The noble envoy did not blink.
He simply reached into his cloak, withdrawing a parchment.
And when he handed it to Aric—
The warlord felt the weight of the world shifting.
Because this was not an invitation.
It was a summons.
----
That night, Aric could not sleep.
Even as the fires of Eldermere smoldered to embers,
Even as the villagers whispered of their uncertain future,
Even as Lira and Kael stood watch over the noble envoy's presence,
Aric stared at the Rift.
And the Rift—
Stared back.
The sky was wrong.
The storm had not cleared.
The Rift still pulsed, throbbing like a second heartbeat.
Its glow was deeper now.
Hungrier.
And as Aric stood beneath it—
It finally spoke.
Not in words.
Not in thoughts.
But in sight.
His vision blurred.
The ground fell away beneath him.
The sky split apart.
And suddenly—
Aric was somewhere else.
He stood in a ruined palace.
The walls were shattered.
The pillars cracked and crumbling.
The air was heavy with ash.
And before him—
A throne.
Not of gold.
Not of stone.
But of bone.
A seat woven from the ribcages of kings,
A crown resting atop a skull,
A place he had once sat.
A place he had once ruled.
A place he had lost.
And then—
A voice.
Not from the Rift.
Not from the ruins.
From the throne itself.
"Come home."
Aric's breath hitched.
The vision shattered.
He was back in Eldermere.
The Rift still hung above him.
And he knew—
This war was never about a village.
It was about a throne.
His throne.
And it was waiting for him.