On the battlefield of Tidefall, the world burned red.
A middle-aged man sat astride a massive, winged beast that resembled a griffin, save for the tail, which ended in black flames that curled and hissed like living smoke.
A golden crown rested upon his head, gleaming even under the blood-hazed sun.
His armour shone like molten silver, every plate humming with restrained power.
The radiant aura around him made it clear, this was no ordinary man. His strength was beyond comprehension, and none dared approach without trembling.
In his hand, he held a long silver lance, its tip levelled at the broken figure before him, a silver-haired man, bloodied and battered, half-kneeling on the ground.
His breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembled from exhaustion and blood loss.
Behind the crowned man stretched a vast army, rows upon rows of soldiers in gleaming armour, standing in flawless formations.
Beneath their feet, the ground was carpeted with the dead, thousands of bodies, blood soaking the soil, the air thick with the stench of death.
The flames of war still licked the ruins, casting ghostly light over the carnage.
"Where is it?" the crowned man asked, his voice calm but cold.
The dying man looked up, his one good eye blazing with defiance. "What is it you're looking for, Lancer!?"
"You know what I want, old friend," Lancer replied evenly.
"You are no friend of mine!" the man spat, blood flecking the ground near Lancer's mount.
"Behave yourself, Draven," Lancer said, his tone patronizing. "You dishonour your memory with such uncouth behaviour."
"Honour?" Draven snarled, forcing himself upright. "You dare speak to me about honour!?"
A nearby soldier thrust his spear into Draven's thigh, sending him crashing back to his knees. "You shall kneel before your king!" The man declared.
Draven bit down a scream, his jaw tightening until blood ran down his chin. His glare burned hotter than the flames around them.
"Where is the Key, Draven?" Lancer asked, his tone finally hardening. "This will be the last time I ask."
Draven chuckled, low and hoarse, a sound like death itself mocking the living. "If you think I'll tell you… you've got another thing coming."
Lancer sighed, shaking his head. "I didn't want to do this, Draven. You've forced my hand. And we were, such good friends, too."
He paused. His mount exhaled hot steam, its talons scraping the blood-soaked dirt. Then Lancer spoke again, his voice quieter, almost casual.
"Do you not care about your daughter, Draven? I hear she's such a sweet, hardworking girl. My confidante at the Academy speaks very fondly of her."
Draven's eyes widened. He thrashed, ignoring the pain, fury blazing in his voice. "Don't you dare, Lancer! I will kill you!"
Lancer laughed, a deep, mocking sound. "You? Kill me? You're closer to the grave than to victory, old friend."
He leaned forward in his saddle, his lance lowering slightly. "All of this, all of this, could have been avoided if you'd given me the Key when I first asked. Now, I'm still willing to be merciful. Tell me where you hid it, and I'll end this peacefully."
Draven gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled. The blood poured freely from his mouth, painting his battered face. But he said nothing.
"I see," Lancer murmured. "So you care little for your daughter. Not that I'm surprised. You are the same man who watched and did nothing while I killed your wife, after all."
Draven's expression twisted into something between despair and rage.
Lancer turned his mount with a flick of the reins. "Wherever you hid the Key, it will come to me eventually. You're only delaying the inevitable."
He gestured to his soldiers. "Kill him, and burn the body, along with his wife and dead troops. Traitors don't deserve graves."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Draven hissed. He spat words like hot coals, each one a knife. "I hope you die a gruesome dog's death," he hissed, his voice raw, "may your flesh rot from the inside while your crown melts on your brow. May your children wake to ashes and your name be spat from every mouth, may your throat be choked with the lies you fed us, Lancer. May every friend you betray rot in your memory and every triumph taste of bile. May your gold turn to dust in your hands and your victories be turned back on you like a blade.!"
The curses tumbled faster, less coherent now, prayers borne of smoke and grief, each syllable a promise of spite. "May the gods forget you, and the worms not. May your nights be full of screams you cannot answer! May the wind carry your name as a curse! Burn, Lancer, burn until nothing of you remains but a story mothers tell to frighten their children!"
Lancer chuckled, a low, contemptuous sound that rolled across the blood-slick field. He tipped his head, letting the crown catch the smoke and flare.
"Maybe you've forgotten, Draven, let me remind you," he said, voice smooth as polished steel, "but the gods are dead. We decide our own fate and build our own legacies—just as you decided yours by refusing to cooperate. The strong now rule, and the weak die a 'gruesome dog's death,' as you just said."
His words hung in the air like a verdict.
Around him, the soldiers shifted; some smiled, some spat, and the line between mercy and cruelty snapped tighter.
Draven's lips curled in a last, bitter snarl.
Lancer tugged his mount once more.
Draven's glare followed Lancer's back as the king rode away, his mind filled with curses black enough to scorch the heavens.
The soldier raised his sword, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow.
Slash.
Thud.
Draven's head rolled to the blood-soaked ground.
Lancer halted a short distance away, then projected his voice with mana, booming across the field.
"The traitorous bastard Draven Blackthorne has been slain!"
A roar of triumph erupted from the army, cheers, war cries, and chants of victory echoing for half a minute before Lancer raised his arm for silence.
"The traitor showed no remorse for his crimes, even in his final moments," Lancer declared. "He cursed his king and friend until his dying breath. It grieves me deeply that I was forced to slay him. But it was all… for the good of the realm."
He turned his gaze toward the distant city, the once-prosperous Tidefall, still smoldeuring under the morning light.
"This city and its people are not to be punished for the crimes of their lord. We have liberated them. Help them rebuild. Feed them. Heal them. Show them the truth of our reign."
He looked at his men, his voice rising once more. "Soldiers, no more killing! Show mercy to the people of Tidefall!"
"YES, YOUR MAJESTY!" the army roared.
As the cheers died down, Lancer tugged the reins of his flaming-tailed mount, turning away from the ruined field.
He rode off with a small entourage of armoured knights and mages, his cloak snapping behind him in the acrid wind, while another division of his army marched into the burning city.