The war camp stretched across the valley like a black tide.
Banners snapped against the wind, their noble sigils flickering in and out of sight beneath the heavy storm clouds that choked the sky. Thousands of soldiers stood in formation—knights in polished plate, hardened mercenaries, war priests clutching relics that hummed with ancient magic.
And at the heart of it all—
A tent not built for comfort but for war.
Inside, three noble lords stood in uneasy silence.
Lord Darius Valcroix—the cold, calculating tactician.
Lady Ysolde Marst—the most brutal of them all.
And Lord Brenn Casterne—the man who had once believed in honor.
The only thing they hated more than each other… was him.
The war table before them was scarred, its surface burned from old battles, the map of Velmiris pinned beneath daggers that marked their next moves.
"We should have burned the ruins when we had the chance," Lady Ysolde said, arms crossed, her voice sharp. "Now we have to gut a corpse just to reclaim its bones."
Valcroix did not look up from the map.
"We underestimated him," he said. "And now he sits on a throne that should not exist."
Brenn exhaled sharply. "If we march on Velmiris now, we risk more than just war. You all saw it. The Rift—it's not the same. It's… growing."
"Then we cut it at the root," Ysolde said, gripping the hilt of her sword. "Aelthar bleeds like any man."
Valcroix finally looked up.
"No," he said. "He doesn't."
For the first time, there was hesitation in his voice.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But doubt.
Because no matter how much they prepared, no matter how many soldiers, how many spells, how many strategies—
None of them truly knew what they were fighting anymore.
----
Kael sat in the back of the tent, watching.
He had been allowed inside—but he was not one of them.
Not anymore.
Not since the moment Aelthar had reclaimed his name.
Aelthar. Not Aric.
Not his friend.
Not his king.
Just another monster he had failed to stop.
"You're too quiet," Ysolde muttered, turning toward him. "Are you afraid to say it? Or have you already chosen a side?"
Kael exhaled through his nose. He was tired. Tired of all of them.
"There are no sides," he said flatly. "Just people waiting to die."
Ysolde scoffed. "We'll see how long you keep that opinion when you have to pick up a sword again."
Brenn shot her a look. "Enough."
But Ysolde wasn't the only one with questions.
Valcroix turned his sharp gaze toward Kael.
"You knew him better than anyone," he said. "What is he?"
Kael didn't answer right away.
Because the truth was—he didn't know anymore.
Aelthar was not a man.
But he was not a god.
He was something in between.
Something worse.
And Kael wasn't sure if he wanted to stop him… or if it was too late.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the battlefield, Lira was making her own choice.
She had never knelt to the nobles.
She had never knelt to Aelthar.
But now—she had no place left to run.
And soon, she would have to stand.
----
The city felt alive.
Not in the way it had been before. Not in the way of thriving streets or whispered prayers.
Velmiris breathed.
The Rift pulsed through its foundations, the stone, and the air.
And the warriors who had sworn to Aelthar felt it.
On the city walls, Vaelthas surveyed the valley.
The noble armies had finished their preparations, the siege weapons were in position, and the war mages had drawn their spells into the air like waiting blades.
It was only a matter of time.
Aelthar stood at the highest tower, gazing down at his city.
His kingdom.
His war.
And he did not fear it.
Because he had seen war before.
And this would not be the last.
The Rift pulsed.
And the storm darkened.
Because Aelthar was no longer just a king reclaiming his throne.
He was the first step toward something more significant.
And soon—the world would understand that.
----
The first rumble of thunder rolled through the sky.
It was low at first—distant, almost harmless. The kind of sound that could be mistaken for wind shifting against the mountains.
But then it grew.
The air tightened, crackling with something more than just an approaching storm. The Rift pulsed once, and suddenly, the clouds above shifted unnaturally—twisting in upon themselves like living things.
Aelthar exhaled slowly, standing at the highest tower of Velmiris, gazing at the storm he had not summoned.
The nobles were gathering. Their armies stretched in the valley below, their banners fluttering against the unnatural wind. The siege engines stood waiting; their twisted wooden frames silhouetted against the pulsing Riftlight that still bled from the sky.
But Aelthar did not look at them.
He looked up.
Because the Rift was reacting.
Not just to the war.
But to him.
This was no ordinary storm.
This was a warning.
The nobles thought they had come to reclaim a kingdom from a mortal king.
They did not realize that Velmiris was no longer just a city.
It was an extension of something older.
And the Rift was about to show them what that meant.
----
The war drums stopped.
For a moment, there was nothing but the howling wind, the crackling Riftlight, and the silent, steady march of a single figure stepping beyond Velmiris's walls.
Aelthar.
He walked alone.
No banners. No guards. No legions of Riftmarked behind him.
Just him.
The nobles had expected an army.
They had prepared for a siege.
But now, as they watched the man they once called Aric step onto the battlefield alone, something unspoken passed between them.
Fear.
It was not shouted.
It was not spoken aloud.
But it was there.
Because he did not walk like a man preparing for battle.
He walked like a man who had already won.
Aelthar stopped at the center of the battlefield, standing just at the edge of the valley where the noble armies had gathered. He did not speak.
He lifted a hand.
And the storm answered him.
Lightning split the sky, striking the valley floor with unnatural precision. The ground shuddered beneath the nobles' feet, and something beneath Velmiris shifted.
The Rift pulsed.
And for the first time—Aelthar called upon it.
----
The world held its breath.
Then—
The ground cracked.
Not from an earthquake. Not from a spell.
But from something clawing its way upward.
The Rift's influence had never been contained. It had always been lurking, waiting, feeding.
And now, at Aelthar's command—it was free.
The first noble knight to react was Lord Brenn's second-in-command. He saw the shadowed figures rising from the cracked battlefield, their forms twisting with dark veins of Riftlight, their movements unnatural.
And he did what any soldier trained in war would do.
He charged.
His blade sank deep into the chest of the first Riftborn to rise.
For a moment, silence.
Then—
The Riftborn gripped the sword still lodged in its chest.
And laughed.
The knight didn't have time to scream.
The Riftborn tore him apart in a single movement.
And with that—the war truly began.
Aelthar watched without moving.
This was no longer a battle between nobles and warlords.
This was a battle between those who had accepted the Rift—
And those who would not survive it.
The Rift pulsed.
The Riftborn stepped forward.
And the noble lords finally understood their mistake.