A heavy silence hung over the walls of the great capital, Ires. But it was not the silence of tranquility that follows prayer; it was the silence of the dying man who hears the rattle of death in his chest and awaits the merciful strike. From atop the gilded marble ramparts, the Royal Guard—in their crimson uniforms and armor that no war had ever scratched—watched the horizon with a fear that their heavy helmets could not conceal. For down below, at the farthest point the eye could reach, the tents of Alaric's army began to rise like black blotches of mold spreading across the kingdom's pure body, turning the green meadows into a field of ash and bitter anticipation.
At the heart of the camp, away from the clamor of soldiers who sharpened their blades in eerie silence, Alaric stood alone before his black tent. He gazed at the royal palace, which glittered under the pale moonlight like a lost jewel in a swamp. He did not feel the sting of the autumn chill, even though frost covered the metal armor around him in a thin white layer; the heat emanating from his black tattoo was enough to burn an entire forest—a heat that did not warm the body but seared the soul from within.
Merlock spoke as he slipped from among the thick shadows, as if he were an inseparable part of the night's darkness, his voice carrying a strange hoarseness like the rustle of ancient parchment:
"The city trembles beneath our feet, my king. I can hear the teeth of the nobles chattering from behind those high walls they once thought would protect them from the wrath of fate. They pile gold into their silk purses, foolishly believing that wealth might buy them a narrow alley to escape the justice of the 'Ash King.' Do you savor their fear? It is sweeter than any military victory."
Alaric replied in a rasping voice—a voice that had lost its human resonance and become like the hiss of knives on a whetstone:
"Gold does not intercede for traitors, Merlock, and walls do not protect those who sold their consciences in the slave market. I will make them swallow their molten metal before tomorrow's sun rises over the rubble of their palaces. Ires is not just a city to me; it is the accursed symbol that must be shattered—the symbol that built its glory on the skulls of my men in the Valley of Bones. For the new world to be born, the old must burn until it turns to ash scattered by the wind."
Alaric fell silent when he sensed the sound of light footsteps approaching cautiously. It was Elara. In the torchlight, she looked pale as death, as if the darkness surrounding Alaric had begun to drain the colors from her face and from her spirit as well. Her eyes, which had once been a safe harbor to him, were now overflowing with a mixture of terror and pity. She spoke in a faint tone, carrying within it echoes of days gone by—days when Alaric was merely a noble knight defending the oppressed with a pure heart:
"Alaric… pause for a moment and look around you with eyes that once saw the truth. Look at those men you call your army. They do not sleep, they do not eat, they do not laugh. Their eyes are empty like abandoned wells, as if their souls have left their bodies and been replaced by something dark and cold. Is this the army with which you will build a kingdom of justice? An army of walking dead, moved only by their terror of you? What kind of king will they cheer for when they have no tongues left to sing?"
Alaric's voice sharpened as he turned slowly toward her, revealing how the black tattoo had begun to creep toward his lower jaw and neck, like demonic ivy devouring his flesh. He spoke bitterly:
"Absolute loyalty is not bought with honeyed words, Elara; it demands absolute sacrifices. These men chose strength over cowardice, and chose immortality under my black banner over a forgotten, ignoble death in the trenches of Borek. The soul is a cheap price—nay, a trivial one—for sitting atop the world and controlling the fates of nations. Do you want me to be that weak knight who is led to the slaughter with a smile on his face?"
Elara replied bitterly, tears burning her cheeks:
"It is the dearest price a human can pay! I am beginning to lose the ability to recognize you, Alaric. The man I loved used to risk his life to protect a weeping child, but you… you seek power only to crush everyone who stands in the way of your ambition, even if that person is me. I feel that in your mind I have become nothing but an obstacle, a bothersome memory of a past you want to erase with your sword."
Alaric murmured, and for the first time since the Battle of the Valley, a faint trace of human pain appeared in his violet eyes, but it was quickly extinguished, replaced by an icy coldness:
"You are the only truth left in this morass of falsehood, but truth does not build castles nor deter swords. Go, Elara. Hide in the deepest part of the camp, and do not look back when the walls begin to crumble. What will happen inside Ires tonight is not meant for your gentle eyes, which have seen only bandages and wounds. Tonight, I will write history with blood."
Merlock spoke with a soft, sinister laugh, interrupting that emotional moment that had nearly cracked Alaric's psychological armor:
"Messengers from King Augustus have arrived, my lord. They seek to negotiate… they wear silk and carry white banners, but in truth they ask for a respite to gather their terrified wits. Shall we receive them with the edge of the sword or with the blaze of fire?"
Alaric spoke as he drew his broadsword from its scabbard; the blade seemed to breathe, radiating a bleak black glow that absorbed the light around it:
"There is no negotiation with corpses that still walk. Tell them that the city gate will not be opened with golden keys; it will be shattered with the bodies of those who try to defend it. I will be the first to set foot on the grounds of the royal palace, and I will leave it to the ashes to cleanse the place of their sins. Today, the age of Augustus ends, and the age of Ash begins."
Alaric gave his final order to commence the bombardment. The catapults did not hurl ordinary stones; they launched massive balls of black fire prepared by Merlock through gruesome blood rituals. With the first thunderous impact against the marble walls, a collective scream rose from within the city—a scream of terror that shook the horizons of the kingdom, and with it the winds proclaimed the beginning of the end.
Alaric roared as he mounted his black steed, which exhaled fiery vapor, pointing his blade toward the great Lion's Gate:
"Forward! Leave no stone atop another! Spare none who showed us no mercy in the valley! Today, we wash away the disgrace of the Valley of Bones with their royal blue blood! Today, we seize by force what is rightfully ours!"
The army surged like a sweeping black flood, Alaric at the forefront, the tattoo on his arm pulsing with such maddening power that the air around him vibrated and fractured. Every strike of his sword shattered stone defenses as if they were dry parchment, and every step that brought him closer to the golden throne expanded the darkness engulfing his heart, transforming the noble knight into an avenging specter who knew no mercy.
Elara spoke to herself in a broken voice as she watched the black flames consume the city's towers from afar:
"Alaric is lost forever… nothing remains of that man but a monster in armor."
Merlock replied, standing beside her, his eyes gleaming with a demonic satisfaction that mirrored the blaze of the fire:
"No, my dear—a king has been born. The Ash King, who will reign for seventy chapters of torment and dark beauty. Prepare yourself, for the feast has only just begun."