Eleanor's departure from the walls of "Iris" was not merely the passing absence of a woman, nor the breaking of a heart worn hollow by waiting. It was a funereal exodus — the last ray of light that had been feebly and furtively filtering through the crumbling cracks in the charred corridors of Alaric's soul. And as those colossal bronze doors swung shut behind her with a long and haunting groan — a groan resembling the wailing of souls in an abandoned valley — a cosmic, suffocating silence descended over the throne hall: a silence thick as a tomb, like the ominous calm that precedes shattering thunderstorms or earthquakes that redraw the maps of existence. The "Ash King" sat upon his stone throne — hewn roughly from ancient black mountain rock — and the black tattoo on his face began to rebel against his human features, now pulsing with a faint violet rhythm, as though beneath his skin lived the heart of a demon trying to break free of its ribcage and devour everything in its path.
Merlok spoke, slithering from behind the marble columns with footsteps as soft as insects crawling across dry leaves, leaving behind him a halo of cold that froze the blood in its veins:
"You have completely cleansed your arena now, my great king. Today, for the first time in the history of emperors and conquerors, there is no one left to rein in your will — no more of that feeble human voice whispering in your ear the words of weakness that failures dress up in ornate names like 'mercy' or 'conscience.' Look at these maps spread before you on the war table. They are not merely lines and geography — they are an inevitable list of victims who will bow before the majesty of your ash. The kingdoms of the North, those brittle, tottering entities that imagine Iris has drowned in the chaos of the coup, are gathering the remnants of their armies at the borders like stray wolves scenting a nearby carcass. Poor fools… in their profound ignorance, they do not know that they face not a king of flesh and blood, but a force of nature — a new god of destruction, forged by royal treachery and blessed by the curse of ash."
Alaric replied in a voice that no longer belonged to this world — a voice that seemed to emanate from the pores of the stone walls and from the deepest bowels of the earth, charged with metallic vibrations that pierced bone:
"Let them all come. The greater their numbers, the larger the graveyard I will build for them on my borders. I will no longer content myself with defense, Merlok. I have grown weary of the role of the prey crouching in wait for the hunter, weary of bracing for treacherous strikes that come from behind gilded curtains. Today, I declare the beginning of the sacred march that knows no retreat. I will reduce every city, every fortified stronghold, every miserable hovel that dares refuse to prostrate before my black banner to rubble of charred stone and forgotten memories. I want the entire world — from the peaks of icy mountains to the farthest reaches of burning deserts — to hear the footfall of my merciless army. I want fear to become the air they breathe, the water they drink, and the nightmares that pursue them even in their prayers."
Alaric paused and raised his hand — its skin now resembling polished black marble, its nails transformed into sharp claws reflecting the pale torchlight — and gestured imperiously toward the palace's vast balcony overlooking the great training grounds. There, beneath a sky strangled by clouds of smoke, thousands of soldiers stood in terrifyingly precise geometric formations, with a mechanical exactness utterly devoid of human pulse. No movement, no whisper, no blink of an eye. They were not soldiers in any conventional sense — they were "ghosts clad in heavy steel," liminal beings whose souls the royal tattoo had absorbed and whose wills it had melted, leaving them to move like wooden puppets pulled by the strings of Alaric's thoughts alone.
Alaric murmured as he surveyed his silent army with a coldness matching that of distant stars:
"Look at them, Merlok… these are my new children — the eternal lineage of ash. They know no hunger, they do not complain of fatigue, and doubt does not creep into their hollow minds. And most importantly of all… they do not betray. Betrayal was the wretched plague that festered in the body of 'Alaric the Knight' and killed him by treachery. But the 'Ash King' has found the final antidote in this absolute darkness that envelops his being. Merlok… I want you to begin immediately the rites of the 'Great Summoning.' I do not want an army of the living alone — I want the rotting bones from the Valley of Death and from every forgotten cemetery on this continent to rise and join this march. I want the dead to fight side by side with the living under my banner. I want the enemy to see the faces of his own ancestors attacking him with rusted weapons and ancient curses."
Merlok let out a thunderous, nauseating laugh that rattled the crystal chandeliers and made the walls groan, and said in a tone dripping with lethal venom:
"Your divine command shall be carried out, master of darkness and oblivion. I will open the seven gates of the abyss, and I will let the fierce northern winds carry your curse into every royal chamber and every filthy tavern. I will summon for you souls that have not known a moment's peace for thousands of years, to inhabit the armor of your soldiers and grant them invincible strength. But remember, Alaric — the wider the realm of ash expands, and the higher the pillars of smoke rise from the cities you burn, the hungrier grows the tattoo that burrows into your chest like an enchanted cancer. It is a parasitic creature that demands sacrifice after sacrifice… it demands blue and pure royal blood to keep your violet radiance capable of breaking the will of nations and subjugating the kings of the earth."
Alaric's voice sharpened, and he rose from his throne with a violent surge that cracked the marble floor beneath his feet and shattered it like dry tinder:
"I will give it everything it craves — and more! I will drown this hypocritical world in a lake of crimson blood so that no tongue will ever again dare utter Eleanor's name before me. The memory that used to crumble my resolve has died, and the law that will subjugate history has been born. The Law of Shadows — a law whose dictionary contains no word for 'forgiveness.' If this world wants a monster to obey, then I will be the monster their imagination cannot fathom — the monster whose memory will terrify generations for the next thousand years."
And on that night when the stars vanished entirely, the first legions of death poured forth from the gates of "Iris," flung open like the mouths of hell. There were no war drums beating to stir valor, no horns blown to kindle courage — only a terrifying, rhythmic hissing that preceded the army by miles: the hiss of thousands of captive souls inhabiting the blades of their enchanted swords. Alaric rode at the vanguard upon a steed that was no longer flesh, but a skeletal frame of darkness and smoke, his silhouette stretching like a black curtain behind him. The tattoo had now swept entirely across his forehead and left eye, transforming it into a socket blazing with a somber violet light that pierced the veils of the unseen and of space — seeing intentions before tongues could speak them, seeing the terrified pulse in the hearts of knights behind their fortified walls.
One of the surviving commanders spoke — a man whose hair had turned white from the sheer terror he witnessed daily:
"My lord… Ash King… where does the compass of your wrath point tonight? The neighboring kingdoms watch in deadly silence."
Alaric raised his sword "Soul-Drinker" and pointed it northward — toward the kingdoms that boasted their gold, their impregnable palaces, and their history not yet stained by ash:
"We march toward wherever the light is, soldier… not to drink from it, but to extinguish it with the edge of the sword and the force of the curse. We begin with the kingdom of 'Lyonis' — that treacherous realm whose king claimed 'wisdom' when he refused to send us reinforcements in the Valley of Bones, and left us to be torn apart beneath the hooves of horses. I will make their king kneel upon the embers of his own burning capital, and show him that the 'strategic necessity' he hid behind while sipping his fine wine is the very same necessity that will erase his dynasty from existence and make his name synonymous with ash."
The army moved like a colossal mass of pitch and molten iron, transforming every green patch of earth it trod into a desert of absolute silence. They left behind them no rotting corpses to feed the ravens — only a void: an existential emptiness inhabited by nothing but ash that had begun falling in abundance from a darkened violet sky. The earth gasped beneath their feet, and springs sank into the ground as though fleeing their poisoned touch.
Deep within the "Forbidden Forest," where the trees intertwine to block the moon's passage, Eleanor felt a tremor course through her entire being — a tremor unlike any she had known before. She looked toward the northern horizon where the sky had begun to darken with a hue that portended total ruin, and whispered as tears froze in her eyes:
"The merciless age has begun… The wound that will devour the entire continent has been opened. Farewell, Alaric… farewell to the one who was once a sun. What you are now is nothing but an eternal eclipse, swallowing life whole."
Alaric answered from atop his steed, as though the wind had carried him the vibrations of her sorrow — and upon his face, which had lost all human features, a glacial smile appeared, empty of any heartbeat:
"There is no farewell in the kingdom of ash, Eleanor… There is only the submission that precedes oblivion, or the nothingness from which there is no return. The world will become my shadow, and I will become the only truth that the living and the dead alike shall fear."
The march continued. And with every step, Alaric felt the dark power grow denser in his veins, and his humanity evaporate like a drop of water in a raging furnace — until his heart hardened into volcanic stone, pulsing with pure hatred, ready to transform the world into a vast theater for the ash tragedy: one that would unfold across seventy chapters of hell and dark splendor.