Fire fell from the sky.
Swallowed by rain that failed to extinguish it. The screams echoed through the kingdom from every direction. Streets flooded with water and blood alike.
The king stood motionless.
The world reflected in his eyes—burning towers, collapsing walls, soldiers breaking formation far too quickly.
Too quickly.
"This is impossible!" a noble shouted behind him. "The outer lines haven't fallen yet—how are they already inside the city?"
The king did not turn.
The enemy's advance was precise. Coordinated. Empowered.
"This wasn't brute force—it was strategic."
It was prepared.
A cold understanding settled into his chest.
So it was you.
Thunder rolled overhead as the king straightened. He turned from the burning horizon and faced the grand hall behind him, where nobles prayed, argued, and clutched relics passed down through their bloodlines.
"I will not remain here," the king said, his voice calm and unyielding. "I will join my soldiers."
The hall fell silent.
Whoever comes with me should come, and those who are afraid should help those who are trying to escape, and find a safe place for all of them.
As some nobles decided to fight, others hesitated.
He walked past them, cloak trailing through ash, and stopped beside a lone figure waiting near the great doors.
Bromdur Ironvein stood with arms crossed, thick as forged steel, his beard bound in iron rings marked with ancient runes. Soot stained his hands permanently, as if the forge itself had claimed him. He did not bow. He never had.
No one asked him to.
Among dwarves, Bromdur Ironvein was legend.Among humans, he was myth.
He was the smith who had forged the king's sword
"Is the sword ready?" the king asked, staring into the distance where the sky burned red.
Bromdur's jaw tightened.
"In theory," he said slowly, carefully, "it will withstand your strength."
The hesitation was enough.
"That will be enough."
The king placed a hand on the man's shoulder and drew him aside, away from the watching eyes.
"I ask you not as your king," he said quietly, "but as a man who has failed his people."
Bromdur inclined his head. Just slightly. A dwarven gesture of respect rarely given.
"Speak," he said.
"The enemy together are stronger than I am," the king continued. "If I fall, this crown falls with me. Take my wife and my son south. There are hidden cities still untouched. Others have begun sending their children there."
The blacksmith stiffened. "Her Majesty will never agree to this."
The king allowed himself a small, tired smile.
"We have already spoken," he said. "She agreed—for our son's sake.
Thunder rolled overhead.
"Protect him," the king whispered. "Even if the crown cannot."
The dwarf said nothing.
When Bromdur Ironvein made no immediate answer, it was not hesitation—it was weight. Every promise he gave was treated like iron placed upon an anvil: once struck, it could not be taken back.
"I will protect him," Bromdur said at last. "With my life. With my craft."
The king exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face.
"Then take this," he said.
He gestured—and the sword was brought forth.
Even unfinished, it commanded silence.
The blade gleamed with a pale, almost living sheen, runes faintly glowing along its fractured core. It felt… heavy, even to look upon. Not in weight, but in presence.
Bromdur's fingers brushed the hilt.
His breath caught.
"It is not complete," the dwarf said, voice rough. "I warned you."
"I know," the king replied as he took the sword. "But it is yours. That is enough."
The first clash came moments later.
Steel screamed as the king met the enemy, his blade unleashing power no mortal weapon should have endured. The sword held.
Not once. Not twice.
Again and again, sparks and darkness clashed as the king carved a path through the burning courtyard. But the king's advance came to a halt—as he came face to face with the four great dark sword masters, too strong; their movements were unnaturally synchronized.
This was no ordinary invasion.
Far from the battlefield, shadows slipped through broken corridors.
Bromdur Ironvein moved swiftly despite his size. The boy held tight against his chest as he guided the queen through the shattered remains of the lower halls. Smoke stung their lungs. Stone trembled beneath their feet.
They moved in silence.
Enemy troops passed only meters away, laughing, celebrating, their armor soaked in dark energy.
"…We couldn't have done this without him," one of them muttered."The one who opened the way."
The queen stiffened.
Then—Crack.
The sound was small.
Dry wood snapping beneath a child's heel.
The world froze.
Dozens of heads turned at once.
The queen reacted instantly.
Magic erupted.
Nine circles flared into existence behind her, vast and radiant, bending the air itself. Crushing bodies, shattering armor, tearing screams from throats before they could finish forming.
When the dust settled, the corridor was filled with silence—and blood.
The queen staggered.
A blade protruded from her leg, dark and smoking.
She did not scream.
Bromdur caught her as she fell, lifting her without hesitation. The boy clutched her robes, shaking, his mouth open but no sound coming out.
They ran.
Stone gave way to open ruin.
And waiting for them—
A figure stepped forward.
A dark mage.
The air warped around him, shadows folding into symbols that made Bromdur's bones ache.
"You won't outrun this," the mage said calmly.
With no hesitation, even though injured and extremely low on mana, she released a burst of ice attack.
Bromdur was shocked; half of the ground in their sight was frozen.
From the frozen dust, the dark mage's shield appeared.
Smiling, he said
" Borrowed power is sweet."
Impressed by her attack, he gathered a massive dark magic to attack.
Then—
A roar split the battlefield.
The king was pushed back by the dark sword masters.
He emerged through the smoke.
His armor was shattered. His sword was broken.
And his left arm was gone.
Yet he stood.
Still.
Unyielding.
The dark mage stepped back, surprised for the first time.
Bromdur was crushed, guilt overtook him, he couldn't take his eyes from the broken sword and lost arm.
The queen straightened despite her wound. She looked at her husband, then at their son.
And understood.
"He won't survive," she said softly.
Not fear. Not despair.
Truth.
The king met her gaze.
Then nodded.
They moved together, near to their child.
The mother said, "I'm sorry we're putting such a burden on you, my darling."
"Brace yourself, son."
Magic and blood answered.
Sigils formed—ancient, forbidden, royal.
The boy screamed as power poured into him, far more than his body could hold. His heart seized. His vision went white.
"Live," the king commanded.
"Remember," the queen whispered.
The boy did not hear the rest.
Bromdur turned and ran.
Behind them, the world ended.
As Bromdur ran, he saw with blurry vision the four dark sword masters and the dark mage getting ready to attack.
The queen shouted something, though he couldn't hear, he saw.
Both of them were smiling with their aura raging. Light and darkness collided in a final, impossible stand—two figures standing side by side as legends were born from their deaths.
And far beneath the earth, a child collapsed into darkness, carrying a crown he did not yet understand.