Songs were sung. Tales told. Rumors spread—some true, most not.
Gossip, carelessly flung like arrows. A curse weighed upon the land. Desolation became our watchword. Anguish and bitterness our daily bread.
Where was comfort in the midst of ruin?

Mothers clung to their children as hens to their chicks, shielding them from the storm. Uncertainty settled like fog in every heart—and why shouldn’t it? The massacre at Kedrone’s palace, the damnation of her defiant princess—these could never be forgotten.

The rivalry between Amlyxone and Kedrone had been sealed in blood. Keiya's blood.
And its seed—bitter, ancient—now ran deeper than the roots of humanity itself.

War was inevitable. Entirely so.

I would join this war. Vengeance was the only thing keeping me alive. By the heavens, it was enough. Enough to bring down the curse required.
My target was Dakor.
Yet he had vanished into silence. Months had passed, and no one knew his whereabouts.
He had retreated to Amlyxone's fortress, that much I believed. But even so, I would find him. I would end him.

He had hidden long enough from my wrath—even abandoning his father’s war, his true war. Still, I remained undeterred. I would find him. I would slay him.
Even if fate herself, that cruel mistress, seemed aligned against me. Her betrayal was constant. Her allegiance was not mine.

While I fought to pronounce judgment on Amlyxone, Karmadin seized the opportunity to expand his empire. To him, this war was ambition.
To me, it was personal.

For months, we warred—blow for blow, siege for siege. Dakor remained absent. Their forces lacked a worthy war chief. This was our advantage.

With each battle fought and each disappointment suffered, my resolve deepened. I would bring a bloody end to this conflict.

Perhaps this was it.

“Knock the gate down!”
The voice tore through the air—not a man’s, but something more beast than human.
Through a worn helm, Commander Girod thundered his order.

Revannord.
Crown jewel of Amlyxone. Fortress of kings.
It had become the ground upon which our final blow was struck.

We had sieged the city for four days, bombarding its defenses.
Timber rams, driven by our strongest men, pounded at the palace gates. Arrows rained from the ramparts above, each one a scream of resistance.
Too many had died in this crusade. There was no turning back now.

Canopied beneath brass shields, our battering crews pressed on.
Karmadin had dispatched a team to scale the walls and strike the gates from above. The rain of arrows did not cease, nor did our resolve.

Commander Girod and I led the charge.
Paces away, Karmadin and his elite watched—eager, ravenous, like predators denied too long.
Victory pulsed in their veins.

Revannord’s gate was the most fortified structure in all of Amlyxone—proof of our peril.
But the relentless pounding of the ram grew louder, until finally, with one last crash, the gates bowed in defeat.

“Attack!”
Karmadin's cry rose over the chaos.

His forces surged like a flood, uniting with ours to become a single, unstoppable tide.

Within the castle, King Hadero's guards made their stand.
But they were not warriors—just plump sons of courtiers and merchants. No scars, no hardened gazes.
These were children dressed in armor.

We cut through them like a storm.
Then, with Karmadin and his finest fighters, I charged deeper into the inner court.

The halls were eerily silent.
No enemies screamed from behind, nor did any confront us ahead.
Karmadin knew this place—his childhood home. Only slight renovations marred his memory. Still, something felt... wrong.

Magnificent artwork adorned every space—legends in brush and marble, beauty unmarred by war.
But within this beauty, shadows danced—envy, hatred, lust, blood.

This was the court of a man who despised his own brother.
King Hadero had long feared this day. The day Karmadin would return in fire and fury.

Then came the scent—heavy perfumes and incense laced with steel.
A strange blend of spice and sage. It was the scent of death and deception.

“We’re not alone,” I warned—too late.

Two men fell, arrows through their skulls. Blood gurgled from their mouths.

More followed, taken by a single archer hidden in shadow.
Each bolt a death. Every third shot claimed a man.
We dove for cover. Panic scattered us. The assassin thinned our numbers with surgical precision.

Prince Jeron crouched nearby. With a signal, he relayed a plan.
Only a skilled archer could end this killer. And I was among Kedrone’s finest.

The shadow must be drawn out.
With a bold feint, we burst into motion—chaos as camouflage.
The killer fired—and exposed his position.

Jeron moved like wind. One swing, one cry, one fall.

The shadow was dead.

But we had no time to celebrate.
From a broken bend in the hall came more enemies—The Red Cloaks.
King Hadero’s elite guard. Deadly. Loyal. Unforgiving.

They charged. We answered.
Though skilled, their number was few—and ours, overwhelming.
The Red Cloaks fell, and their blood paved our path.

We reached Hadero’s chamber. A few blows and the doors gave way.
Inside, the old king stood tall, pride still clinging to his bones.

“Drop your weapons.”
His voice was coarse, yet commanding.

“I suppose a bow to the King of Kings is in order... brother,” he sneered.

“Your kingship ends today,” Karmadin replied, drawing closer.

“Aye,” the king sighed. “I once hoped this crusade would destroy you.”

“But you were wrong,” Karmadin grinned.

“What drives you?” the king asked.

Karmadin laughed. “I need no drive to want your end. Your existence offends me.”
He roared. “Off my throne!”

“Mine?” the king laughed. “Then take it yourself, little brother.”
He drew his blade.

But I stepped forward.

“No one came for your games, old man. Where is Dakor? Tell me where to bury my vengeance.”

His eyes lit up with mockery. “Ah, Dorack Dun of the Gezon Mountains... Slayer of Dakor at the Vicious Game. Breaker of Sieges. Karmadin’s Sword...”
He smiled. “And now, a victim.”

“I was a fool to let that madman live,” I growled. “But I won’t fail again.”

“You won’t get the chance,” he smirked. “Dakor is gone. Far from Amlyxone. You’ll never find him.”

No.
“No. No, no...” I howled, broken by hatred. “Give me Dakor!”

The king relished my despair.
“My son rides with the wind. For every step you take, he takes two. You will never catch him.”

He kept speaking, but I barely heard. Rage overtook me.
Then I swore:

“By the gods that are true, I will find Dakor. I will shame him, as he shamed his people. Only then will justice be served.”

With that, I turned. Away from allies. Away from the pleading. Away from glory.

“Dorack!” Jeron called. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” I replied. “Justice is not here. My service to Kedrone ends now.”

I didn’t look back.

“Dorack!” Karmadin called.
This was victory—true conquest. But I walked away.
No one understood. Not even Karmadin.

But my path was clear.

“Dorack!!!” cried friends.
“Dorack!!!” cried family.
“Dorack!!!” cried comrades.

Let them cry.
Kedrone was Karmadin’s kingdom now.
My service was ended.
And my quest had begun.