The sun of the morning following the night of Borik's murder carried no warmth; it was pale, struggling to pierce the columns of smoke rising from the charred command tent. A funereal silence pervaded the camp, a silence broken not by the usual shouts of training, but by terrified whispers of soldiers who found themselves overnight under the command of a "shadow" returned from the grave.
Alaric ascended a wooden platform in the camp's center, still wearing his shattered armor, now stiff with the blood of traitors. He stood there towering, gazing upon the prostrated crowds before him with a coldness surpassing the mountain frost. He spoke in a resonant voice, its echo reverberating in the valley's corners as if emanating from the earth's core:
"The age of false promises is over, and the era of leaders who sell your blood to buy comfort for their palaces has ended. Borik was nothing but filth I cleansed from my blade, and the old king in 'Iris' is no better. Whoever among you wishes to pledge loyalty to a lifeless corpse may go join it. But whoever wishes to be part of a kingdom where the sun never sets… let him follow me."
One of the veteran soldiers spoke, raising his head cautiously:
"Lord Alaric… we are with you, but what of the king? He will send his armies to annihilate us on charges of rebellion. How can five hundred men—or what remains of them—face the legions of the kingdom?"
Alaric murmured, a sardonic smile breaking across his scarred face:
"Strength is not measured by numbers, soldier, but by the terror you plant in your enemy's heart before swords ever meet. They have armies of mercenaries who fight for gold, but I have men who have tasted death and returned from it. I have the 'Tattoo'… and I have a will that will burn their crowns and turn them to ashes."
At that moment, a familiar voice cut through the crowd, a voice that had once represented Alaric's sole refuge, but now dripped with pain and reproach. Elianor spoke as she advanced toward the platform, her eyes brimming with tears:
"Is this what you wanted, Alaric? To replace one tyrant with another? I gave you that Tattoo to save you, to let you live… not for you to become a reaping machine of souls, unable to distinguish foe from friend!"
Alaric fell silent; his harsh features froze. He descended from the platform with heavy steps and approached Elianor until his breath brushed her face. He spoke in a sharp whisper, almost a hiss:
"Elianor… you are the one who opened this door for me. Do not blame the storm for uprooting trees; blame the one who awakened the wind. I did not choose to be a monster; the world is what refused to let me remain human."
Elianor replied bitterly, pointing to his black-inked arm:
"Look at your hand! The blackness is creeping toward your heart, Alaric. Each time you kill, the Tattoo steals a part of your soul. If you continue down this path, you will sit upon the throne alone, with no company but the ghosts of those you have slain."
Alaric's voice hardened; he grasped her wrist with unintended force, but the dark power in his veins was controlling his movements:
"Then so be it! If the price is solitude, I will pay it. I will build a kingdom ruled by dark justice, where no soldier is wronged, and no knight is left to die alone in a forgotten valley. I will go to 'Iris,' and I will wrest the crown from that old man, not out of greed for gold, but to end this farce you call a 'kingdom.'"
Elianor spoke with despair, trying to free her hand:
"You are sick with power, Alaric. That Tattoo feeds on your ambition. Please… stop before it is too late."
Alaric replied with icy coldness, releasing her hand:
"It was already too late the moment Merlock drove his needle into my skin. Go, Elianor… tend to the wounded, prepare the bandages, for the true war has not yet begun. We will not wait for the king's armies; we will go to him."
He delivered his final words, addressing the soldiers who watched the scene with bated breath:
"Gather the equipment! Burn everything we cannot carry! Tomorrow, we march toward the capital. Tomorrow, the advance of the 'King of Ashes' begins!"
The soldiers roared with one voice, a chorus that was a mixture of loyalty and terror, shaking the camp's foundations and reaching beyond the forest's edge. Alaric stood gazing at the distant horizon where the city of "Iris" and its golden palace lay. Within him, he felt the conflict Elianor spoke of; he felt the blackness coiling around his heart, but he no longer cared.
Merlock, who had appeared suddenly at his side like a personal shadow, whispered:
"You have done well. The woman tries to keep you caged, but you were born to fly above the fires. Do you feel it? Do you feel the crown calling to you?"
Alaric murmured, tightening his grip on his sword:
"I feel cold, Merlock… a cold that all the fires of the world cannot warm."
The old man answered with a soft laugh:
"That is the price of sovereignty… enjoy it, for we still have sixty-five chapters of hell ahead."