Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 19: The Stirring Below the Sky
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King Alric stood before a magical projection spanning half the war chamber wall—maps glowing, borders shifting, kingdoms marked in gold, red, and shadow.
"We cannot win this alone," he said.
The Council was silent.
"The Demonborn is not just *our* enemy. If he conquers us, he'll spread. And you all know it."
He turned to the messengers beside him.
"Send ravens to the Sky Clans of Aervyn. Call the Scribes of the Southern Spires. Send gold to the Mercenary Realms of Verran. And write the Sea Kings of Neryth…"
He exhaled.
"…we summon the world."
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In the following weeks, letters crossed skies.
Some kingdoms answered in days.
Some… remained silent.
And others… began to fall before they could even reply.
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*In Aervyn*, where winged warriors rode clouds and blades hummed with song, the Queen's dreams grew violent.
She saw a boy with wings of bone and ash, and a voice that tore through heaven.
She awoke screaming.
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*In Verran*, mercenaries spoke of a village that had been entirely *emptied*, no bodies left—only hollowed homes and black vines.
The leader of the Iron Hounds muttered, "It's not war. It's *erasure*."
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*In the south*, desert prophets stood atop fire dunes and screamed Kael's name until their mouths bled.
Something in the wind was listening.
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And far underground, *the demons stirred*.
Not like Kael—no wings, no will.
Only instinct.
Primitive shadows rising from the cracks beneath the world.
Monsters without thought—but *drawn* to the new king.
Some clawed out of old graves.
Others *birthed themselves* in forests soaked with cursed magic.
People began to whisper:
"The Demonborn isn't alone anymore."
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Back in Solmar, Seren studied these reports with dread.
"These aren't his army," she muttered to Aren. "These things are… coming to him. Like moths to fire."
"Or subjects to a throne," Aren replied darkly.
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Atop the northern cliffs, where the *Monks of Vareth* kept silent vigil, the great bells rang for the first time in 500 years.
The monks opened scrolls sealed by flame.
Each bore a single name.
And every name… began to burn.
Kael's was at the bottom.
But his name didn't burn.
It *glowed*.
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*Meanwhile*, Kael stood atop a blackened altar in the ruined forest temple.
His wings now stretched wider.
His skin was no longer pale—it had begun to shimmer with cursed sigils.
He raised his hand.
Below him, thousands of corpses began to rise—not as skeletons, but *perfect*, as though reborn.
Not mindless. Not slaves.
*Loyal.*
He whispered: "They call to me."
A black mist surged from the altar.
And far away… the *Forged* awoke.
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