"Aaron," Sylvia called out, her voice almost swept away by the rising wind. Strands of her dark hair lashed across her face, forcing her to shield her eyes with one hand as she stepped forward.
Aaron halted, just a few steps from his dragon’s shadow, and turned. His expression was one of impatience, eyes sharp beneath a crown of ambition. "What?"
"The entire Shadow Order was sent after Duke Asher," Sylvia said firmly, her voice now steadier, cutting through the howling wind. "An order that has endured for centuries... and that mission led to its collapse. Almost all of their Awoken Ones, dead. Do you truly believe you can stand against a man like that and win?"
Aaron stared at her for a long moment, then scoffed, spreading his arms with an incredulous grin. "You lack faith in your own blood? Your own brother?"
His voice held disbelief, even a trace of amusement, as if her warning were nothing more than a child’s fear.
He tilted his head back and whistled, a high, commanding note that pierced the sky, before turning to her again.
"They might call him the strongest swordsman in the North," Aaron said, his voice now brimming with pride, "but I have a dragon. And I have the third-ranking knight in the realm at my side."
At that, the ground trembled. A titanic black dragon descended with a roar that sent dust and grass spiraling into the air. It landed heavily behind Aaron, its wings folding like thunderclouds, its eyes glowing with ancient malice. Over 150 feet from head to tail, it was a force of pure destruction made flesh.
Then came Garen, the Dauntless Knight, a towering figure clad in radiant silver armor that gleamed under the troubled sky. His steps were heavy with power as he approached Sylvia, placing a reassuring hand on her back.
"His Highness carries the blood of the Emperor and the Emperors before him," Garen said, his voice resonating like an oath. "He is of the immortal lineage. A dragon does not fall before a wolf."
But his thoughts were more confident.
’What army can stand against a dragon this big?’ Garen scowled inwardly. ’Once I face Asher again... I will end the chaos he has brought upon Tenaria and Eden alike.’
Reuel mounted his Swiftwing, an eagle-dragon bred for speed and battle, and followed Aaron as they surged toward the front lines.
Aaron’s black dragon beat its wings, carrying him high above the heads of the assembled legions.
As he soared, Aaron caught wind of murmured voices, talk of Titans, colossal beings the size of city walls. His jaw clenched. He sneered.
Those Titans will fall.Intis Air Cavalry will rip them apart. My dragon will burn them to ash.’
Aaron’s voice suddenly rose, empowered by his Force and echoing like a war horn across the plains.
"One man has held back the greatness of the North! His ancestors fought for the crown of House Nethaneel, yet he, he, chose not only to serve but to tear down everything that made us strong!"
The army stirred. Helmets turned. Spears were gripped tighter.
"He slaughtered millions in Everard, mothers, children, innocents! He spilled noble blood in Mormont, after orchestrating the downfall of the Mormons themselves! Had I not intervened and taken in Duke Mormont’s daughter, he would’ve fed her to his bloody wolf!"
As Aaron’s dragon landed with thunderous force at the vanguard of his army, he stood tall in the saddle, silver armor gleaming beneath dark clouds. His voice, amplified again by Force, thundered across the formation of hundreds of thousands.
"He is a madman! You know him as the Blood King, a butcher who has built his dukedom on blood and skulls! No lord has ever been as vile! He has enslaved Tenaria’s spirit, violated the very will of the land, forcing it to serve him when it yearns to be free!"
On the opposite end of the battlefield, Nero sat astride Asher’s former mount, a swift, proud steed whose only superior in speed was Velmorne itself. His eyes were narrowed as Aaron’s voice carried even to their side of the plain.
"He lies... to rouse his army," Nero muttered, frowning. The insult, the accusations, they were venom wrapped in fire.
Asher stood beside Velmorne, unmoved. His gaze remained fixed ahead, unreadable. Slowly, his hand reached out toward the massive Kingsword resting at his mount’s side.
"Let him lie," he said calmly. "I do not care."
His fingers wrapped around the hilt.
"Words make no difference on a battlefield."
The blade sang as it was drawn, its crimson metal catching the wind, casting light across his face.
Asher’s golden eyes burned with a cold fire as he stared at the blade.
"...Swords, on the other hand—"
His voice was a whisper of steel.
The moment Asher lifted his sword high, its crimson blade gleaming under the overcast sky, two Jotunns stepped forward, monstrous beings whose blue skin shimmered beneath black and gold armor. Their forms grew with every breath, rising like mountains until they stood ten meters tall, Titans among men.
Each one gripped the side of a massive war horn, its surface carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with cold light.
From behind them came the third Jotunn, taller still, nearly twelve meters in height. His presence was titanic, a living relic of war.
With a guttural cry, he pressed his lips to the horn.
A sound erupted, not just heard, but felt, a soul-rattling, blaring wail that tore through the skies and cracked across the plains. The very air seemed to split. The note roared over hills and forests, thunderous and ancient, like the voice of the world awakening.
Aaron, still mid-sentence, froze. The words died in his throat as the sound hammered through his chest and spine. His dragon shifted uneasily.
All along the United North lines, men clutched their ears, some staggering, others simply staring in stunned disbelief.
Even though the horn pointed to the sky, the sound was spine-chilling, a call not to arms, but to judgment.
Without a word, Asher leaned forward and gently tugged the reins of Velmorne.
With a burst of force and speed, Velmorne charged across the plains like a phantom bolt, its hooves pounding the earth in rhythmic fury. Asher remained steady in the saddle, his white mantle unfurling behind him like the wings of a storm.
Three hundred Iron Saints thundered behind him, an iron phalanx of death and loyalty, shields drawn, spears angled forward, their battle cry rising like a rising wave.
Then the earth itself began to shake.
The Jotunns, colossal and terrible, ran with ground-quaking strides, their footfalls echoing like war drums. Their armor glinted black and gold, ancient symbols glowing faintly across their breastplates. Beside them, behind them, came the great host of Ashbourne, the Minotaurs, Werelions, Werewolves, all charging with fury and unity.
And above them, billowing in the wind, flew the banner of House Ashbourne, jet black, with the howling white wolf emblazoned in silver, fangs bared and eyes aflame.
It swept forward like a judgment born of darkness, the roar of hooves and clawed feet growing louder and louder.