A Tale of War, Loss, and Shadow.
The March Home.
The wind howled like a wounded beast, carrying the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh. The banners of the Supreme Troops, once proud and unbroken, now hung in tatters, their edges stained with blood. The soldiers dragged themselves through the towering obsidian gates of the Cronoverse, their bodies battered, their spirits crushed. Six months of war had carved deep lines into their faces, and the weight of 200,000 dead pressed down on their shoulders like a mountain.
At the front of the ragged column walked Lord Nealon, her armor dented, her cloak torn. Her gauntleted fists clenched and unclenched as if she were trying to hold onto something—or someone—who was no longer there. Her lips moved silently, whispering words that were swallowed by the clatter of spears and the groans of the wounded.
"Yoton… please be alright. Don't die. Make sure to come home."
Beside her, Zerich limped forward, his crimson cloak frayed, his once-gleaming armor now dull with scratches and dents. He turned to Carel, the allied commander who stood at the edge of the battlefield, his silhouette dark against the smoldering ruins. The air between them was thick with unspoken sorrow.
Zerich (voice rough with exhaustion): "I'm sorry about Yoton, Nealon. But it's time to return home."
Carel (bowing deeply, his voice heavy with guilt): "I'm equally sorry, Lord Nealon. As he said… you must go now. We owe you our victory, but the Verse demands your presence elsewhere."
Zerich reached out and clasped Carel's forearm, the grip firm despite the weariness that dragged at his bones. "We appreciate you, Carel. This isn't goodbye. When we return, we'll send 100,000 troops to help rebuild the Reveiverse." His eyes darkened, a flicker of anger cutting through the exhaustion. "And mark my words—those responsible for this carnage will kneel. Soon."
The troops began their slow march, their boots kicking up ash from the battlefield. Nealon lingered, her eyes scanning the horizon as if she expected Yoton to emerge from the smoke, whole and unharmed.
Nealon (voice hoarse): "We'll send your gifts to the High Head, Carel. Let's go, Zerich."
Zerich (barking orders): "All troops, move out! Set course for the Cronoverse—home."
A weak chorus of agreement rose from the survivors, their voices barely louder than the wind.
The Weight of Loss.
The warship groaned as it tore through the bleeding edges of the Verse, its hull battered from countless battles. Zerich leaned against the railing of the observation deck, staring at his fractured reflection in the glass. Six months of war. Three hundred thousand warriors had marched into battle—now, only fifty thousand remained, half of them wounded, the other half barely standing.
Zerich (voice hollow): "We lost more than soldiers, Nealon. We lost a ruler. A brother."
Nealon's fingers tightened around the amulet at her throat—a sliver of Yoton's shattered crown. "Rulers aren't so easily killed, Zerich. He's out there. I'd feel it if he were gone."
Zerich let out a bitter laugh. "I hope you're right. But by the Abyss, I'm tired. The Abyssal King's war, the dimensional cracks spewing hell's creatures, the endless search for the Creator… When do we rest?"
Nealon placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch light but steady. "When we're home, I'm taking you to the Gardens of Elysith. You haven't seen them in six thousand years."
For the first time in months, Zerich's smile almost reached his eyes. "I'd like that. And I'd like Yoton to see them too."
Homecoming and Hidden Knives.
The Cronoverse loomed ahead—a jagged spire of black stone veined with molten gold, its towers piercing the sky like knives. The Slave Demon, its chains rattling with every movement, shook Zerich awake.
Slave Demon: "Commander… wake up. We're home."
Zerich stretched, his joints popping from months of battle. "Sound the alarm. Inform Lord Nealon. And tell the Vice Commander to prepare the casualty reports."
The alarm's wail split the air, sharp and piercing. Cheers rose from the soldiers, but they were thin, hollow, undercut by grief. Chief Commander Lesu, his face scarred from a near-fatal wound, gestured to a messenger.
Lesu: "Notify the High Head. The Supreme Troops have returned. And… inform him of Lord Yoton's death."
The messenger sprinted through the labyrinthine halls of the fortress, his footsteps echoing like drumbeats. He stopped before Krelious's chamber door, his knuckles rapping against the dark wood.
Krelious (from within): "Enter."
The messenger bowed low, his voice trembling. "My Lord, the troops are back. But Lord Yoton… he fell in battle."
Krelious dismissed him with a lazy wave. Alone, his lips curled into a venomous smirk.
"Fools. Yoton isn't dead. But Nealon and her witch-faction believe it… and that's all I need to trap them."
The War Rulers' Gambit.
Deep in the shadows of the War Rulers' citadel, Nielan paced before his conspirators. Amiss, her silver eyes darting nervously, and Dainen, his fingers stained with abyssal runes, watched him in silence.
Nielan: "Finally, one obstacle is gone. Yoton's death is our opportunity. Next, we obliterate Carel's house."
Amiss (hesitant): "My Lord, I… feel unease. We shouldn't strike first at the Rulers' Meeting. We need time—"
Nielan (slamming his fist onto the table): "I don't care about your feelings, Amiss! I want that throne!"
Dainen stepped forward, a vial of swirling darkness cradled in his palm. "The Abyssal King's revival is nearly complete. More chaos, and he'll rise."
Nielan: "Make it happen."
As Dainen bowed and left, Amiss clenched her fists, her thoughts screaming in frustration.
"Idiots. Krelious's power dwarfs yours. Not even the Void can contain him now. Only the Creator could end His Life."
To Be Continued…
The story is far from over. The Supreme Troops have returned, but the war is not yet won. Shadows move in the dark, and the true battle for power has only just begun. Will Nealon and Zerich uncover the truth about Yoton? Will Krelious's schemes succeed? And what of the Abyssal King, waiting in the depths?
The answers lie ahead… in the next chapter.