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Chapter 11 — The March of Shadows
The sun hid behind bruised clouds, painting the world in shades of grey and crimson. The wind howled through the skeletal trees, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and blood from distant lands. Aren stood before the gathered army — humans, beastkin, elves, and creatures once hunted now standing side by side. His cloak fluttered, marked with the sigil of the Ashen Circle: a ring of fire and ash.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Burnt. Trembling. These hands once trembled from fear… now they tremble because they must lead.
The old knight beside him, Ser Daren, spoke in his gravelly voice. "They look to you, boy. They see something more than mortal in your eyes."
Aren turned, his tone calm but heavy. "Then let's hope they're not wrong."
The march began with silence — the kind that presses on the chest. The world itself seemed to hold its breath. Boots crushed the dying grass, hooves stirred the dirt, and the distant clang of armor echoed like a heartbeat. The first true war in this strange world was about to begin — and Aren, the boy who was summoned by no god, no kingdom, and no prophecy, walked at its head.
Beside him, Lira, the healer with silver hair and eyes that carried the sadness of a hundred lost lives, walked quietly. Her fingers brushed his arm for a moment.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," she whispered.
Aren didn't answer, but his chest tightened. If I don't, who will? he thought. Yet her touch lingered, a fragile warmth in the cold march.
Hours turned to dusk. The army made camp beneath the shattered ruins of a forgotten city. Fires burned low, the light flickering over cracked stone and shattered statues. Aren sat apart from the others, staring at the horizon — at the dark hills where their enemies waited.
Lira approached again, holding two tin cups of warm tea. "You'll burn yourself out before the battle begins," she murmured, sitting beside him.
"I've already burned," Aren said softly. "The only question is whether there's anything left to turn to ash."
She frowned, searching his face. "You sound like someone who's already decided to die."
A faint smile curved his lips — tired, but real. "No. I sound like someone who's decided to live… even if it hurts."
Thunder rolled across the distance, low and slow, like the growl of a waking beast. A shadow rose on the horizon — black banners fluttering against the dying light. The enemy was coming.
Ser Daren barked orders, warriors rushed to arms, and mages whispered incantations that shimmered in the dark. Aren rose, drawing the blade forged for him by this world's will — a weapon that hummed like a living thing. The sigils on its surface pulsed faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He looked once at Lira. "Stay close. When this begins, the world will burn."
She nodded, whispering, "Then we'll walk through the fire together."
As the first horn of war cried across the plains, Aren raised his blade high — and the shadows answered.
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