The city of Falstone stood like a clenched fist on the edge of Areshia, a fortress carved into the hills and reinforced by Cael's soldiers months prior. Its black towers and steel gates made it one of Sapphire's strongest holds in the south—until now.
At dawn, the skies bled orange as Marcus Daemon's forces moved silently into formation beneath the ridgelines. The banners of Morvain, Gravemire, Zar-Khalan, and Areshia flapped in the rising wind.
They were no longer rebels.
They were an army.
---
From the east, Zira's Wind Blades slid through the morning mist, scaling the lower walls with rope-hooks and silence. Their curved daggers flashed briefly in the shadows as they slit throats and disabled archers without a sound.
To the west, Darian's Marsh Blades crawled through the rocky terrain, emerging from the underbrush like ghosts. At his command, enchanted bone-arrows flew, striking the sentries before they could cry out.
South of the city, Princess Ingrid and her sand warriors waited like coiled serpents. When the city's gate opened to answer the false alarm planted by Zira's scouts, Ingrid's riders surged forward in a thunderous charge.
Inside the city, chaos erupted.
The defenders—mostly Sapphire loyalists and Velmoran mercenaries—scrambled to regroup. But it was already too late.
Marcus stood atop a ridge overlooking the carnage. His black armor shimmered faintly with dragon-forged etchings. Vayrion stood beside him, wings unfurled, eyes glowing with fire. At his signal, the beast leapt into the sky.
A deafening roar split the heavens as Vayrion dove. Flame spilled from his jaws and swept through the enemy barricades, scattering Cael's soldiers like ash.
"Now!" Marcus roared, drawing his sword—the blade gifted to him by his adopted father, the finest swordsman in the realm. "For Areshia! For the fallen! For the Flame!"
He charged down the slope with Alina at his side, their vanguard crashing into the heart of the battle like a wave of vengeance.
---
The fight raged for hours. Stone cracked, fire burned, and blood flowed. By mid-afternoon, the banners of Sapphire were torn down, replaced by Marcus's sigil—the crescent moon and dragon wing.
The people of Falstone, once subjugated and silent, poured into the streets as the gates opened. They looked upon the victorious army not with fear, but awe.
Marcus stood at the city square, blood on his armor, eyes heavy with fire. He addressed the people not as a conqueror—but as their rightful heir.
"I am no tyrant's son," he declared. "I am the son of fire. Of truth. Of justice long denied. And I swear, on the blood of the kings before me, you will know peace again."
Cheers echoed through the streets.
The first domino had fallen.
---
Far away, in Sapphire's war room, King Cael Daemon crushed a goblet in his hand.
"They've taken Falstone."
Prince Alric of Velmora narrowed his eyes. "Then it's time we remind the world what happens to those who defy the throne."