Chapter 1: The Falling Sun
"What a day to die," the Emperor murmured.
He stood at the head of the Southeast Kingdom's final line of defense. Behind him, a once-prosperous realm lay in the shadow of ruin. Before him, the horizon was choked with the dust of a dozen united armies.
The envy of neighboring kings had finally boiled over into a tide of steel.
The Emperor turned to his weary soldiers, his voice calm despite the smoke rising from his city. "Thank you for everything. If any of you wish to return to your families, go now. I will hold no grudge against a man who chooses life."
The silence lasted only a heartbeat.
"We would rather die beside you than live knowing we left you to die alone!" the soldiers roared as one.
The Emperor smiled—a sad, resolute thing. He drew his sword, the steel singing a final, lonely note.
"Then let us give them a fight worth remembering."
He was the first to charge.
Hours later, the battlefield was a graveyard of silence.
The people of the kingdom, hidden in the secret tunnels the Emperor had built in anticipation of this dark day, waited in agonizing terror.
"Run! Get back!" a young soldier's voice cracked through the haze near the tunnel entrance.
Survivors huddled together, weapons trembling in their hands as figures emerged from the settling smoke. Tensions peaked—until a cry of recognition broke the air.
"Our men! It's our men!"
The survivors rushed out, but their joy was short-lived. The warriors returning were broken, their armor shattered, their eyes hollow.
"Where is His Majesty?" someone shouted.
The crowd parted. Four soldiers emerged, carrying a blood-soaked figure. The Emperor's golden robes were stained a deep, unrecognizable crimson. His chest barely moved.
The sight struck the people harder than any enemy blade.
Days passed in a blur of gray stone and whispered prayers.
Outside the royal infirmary, the atmosphere was suffocating. Every soldier stood guard, not against an enemy, but against death itself.
Finally, the doors creaked open.
Morvyn, the royal physician, stepped out. His face was a mask of exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot.
"The Emperor lives," Morvyn whispered.
A collective breath escaped the crowd, but Morvyn raised a hand. "But… do not celebrate yet. His wounds are deep. He needs rest that no medicine can provide."
Morvyn didn't wait for their questions. He walked past the guards, his feet heavy, until the noise of the camp faded into the rustle of the forest. He collapsed beneath an ancient tree, the weight of the Emperor's life pressing down on his shoulders.
He pulled a bottle of liquor from his robes and drank deeply. As the first raindrops began to fall, he didn't know if the salt on his cheeks was the storm or his own tears.
To the world, he was the Great Physician. But to Morvyn, the Emperor was the only light he had ever followed.
He closed his eyes, slipping into a feverish dream of the past—a memory of a younger, laughing Emperor calling him a "brat" for stealing from the royal kitchens.
"Morvyn! Wake up!"
His eyes snapped open. Reality rushed back—the cold mud, the rain, and the king in the cave.
He scrambled back to the shelter, his heart hammering. As he reached the doorway, he froze.
There, standing tall despite his bandages, was the Emperor. He was looking out at the morning mist, drawing in the cool air as if tasting life for the first time.
"You're alive!" Morvyn shouted, his professional mask shattering. "You're actually alive, you stubborn bastard!"
The Emperor didn't turn, but a small, tired smile touched his lips. "Don't shout, you idiot. The men are finally sleeping."
Morvyn let out a choked laugh, wiping his eyes. "Let them wake up, then. Let everyone know their King has returned from the grave."