Silence cloaked the square.

  The air, trembling faintly, still seemed to carry the echoes of battle. The Lightstone energy coursing through Corvus’ body was drawn back into the Power Nests, as if it had never existed. Though his body still ached, his vision had sharpened. The world, which had appeared soaked in blood, was slowly clearing—shifting from red to grey, and finally back to its true colors. The throbbing in his head hadn’t subsided, but his eyes could now see clearly.

  He lifted his head and gazed at the crowd watching him with silence-piercing eyes. Tens of thousands of eyes were on Corvus. But the awe wasn’t only because a 19-year-old youth had defeated a mighty warrior like Zrakor Birun. What truly shook the square were Zrakor’s final words.

  Zrakor had been a fanatical Wanderer Warrior. Yet he was never one to speak idly. He had dedicated his life to Rhazgord’s great god, Rhazkar. And before he died, he had cried out that Rhazkar had manifested in Corvus. This could not be dismissed as the rambling of a madman. If a devout believer utters such words as he dies, they echo. Especially when combined with the abnormal strength and incredible speed Corvus had shown in the second half of the duel… The seed of doubt had already sprouted. Could Corvus truly be Rhazkar’s chosen?

  “Corvus Tiamat has granted Zrakor Birun an honorable death and won the sacred duel!”

  Sakhaar’s voice rang out across the square like a bell.

  “If anyone opposes my judgment, step forward!”

  As Sakhaar declared the victor of the sacred duel, the silence covering the square shattered in an instant. The moment that followed was like a storm. The Tiamats broke the circle—not in retreat, but in an assault. With thunderous steps, echoing war cries, and bodies like steel, they surged around Corvus. It was like the first step of a newly landed battalion on a battlefield.

  Clad in dark armor, walking with tensed muscles, the warriors’ eyes gleamed blood-red, their faces painted with war. Regardless of age—young or old—each one seemed like a war god from another era. Their morale wasn’t just high; it was overflowing, unstoppable, divine. They walked with such confidence that even if the ground cracked beneath them, they wouldn’t falter. Every heart that saw them trembled deep inside.

  The first chant that rose from the crowd struck the square like lightning:

  “Tiamats are invincible!”

  Then came another:

  “Tiamats will march, and Rhazgord will tremble!”

  The Tiamats weren’t just shouting—they were unleashing their souls. Raising weapons to the sky, striking swords against armor, clashing shields together—every metallic sound was a threat echoing across the square. Every shout was a call shaking off the dust of death. What they did had become a spectacle worthy of the gods’ attention. And at the heart of that spectacle, in the eye of the storm, stood Corvus Tiamat.

  His face shone with blood, sweat, and victory. His stance seemed to freeze time itself. With each Tiamat warrior who approached, the aura around Corvus grew, and the pulse of the square beat in rhythm with him. He was no longer just a young warrior—he was the spark turned flame.

  One thing was clear for the Tiamats: this boy hadn’t merely won. He had reminded them who they truly were.

  Sakhaar slipped through the crowd and stood behind Corvus. He leaned in and whispered silently into Kaelyra’s ear. Upon hearing the words, Kaelyra’s eyes instantly sharpened like steel. She broke away from the crowd like a predator, drew her massive axe from her back, and raised it high. Her eyes locked on Livan Nabuk at the other end of the square.

  “Livan Nabuk!” she shouted.

  “Come forth, you dog! I challenge you!”

  Kaelyra’s voice rose like a war horn. The square froze once more. Then—many Tiamat warriors stepped forward. Each challenged a warrior from another tribe. Now they didn’t seek just victory—they sought dominance.

  The spark Corvus had ignited was turned into a wildfire by Sakhaar’s strategic touch. And now, that fire engulfed the square. The great tribes were paralyzed…

  Night fell over Rhazgord like a crimson shadow. But the screams rising from the square, the clash of steel, and the thunderous footsteps tore through that darkness. The Tiamats’ fervor was no longer ordinary triumph—it was a blood-fed madness. Each battle was not merely a continuation of the previous one, but a defiant escalation—more savage, more furious. These were no longer fights—they were hunts. The Tiamats chose their prey, dragged them into the square like starving wolves, and tore them apart. It no longer mattered whether they were Nabuk, Ogon, or from any other great tribe. All shared the same fate: blood, defeat, and shame.

  Each victory brought the Tiamats not only glory or title. With every triumph, they pressed deeper into the army’s nervous system, challenged the Sharazirs, and shattered the hierarchy.

  As for the other tribes’ warriors—those who had once fought shoulder to shoulder with the Tiamats—now looked into their eyes with fear. Perhaps in another time, another square, they could have won these duels. But tonight… tonight their hearts quivered. Their swords grew heavy in their hands, and their steps were filled with hesitation. Because in every corner of the square, there lingered a ghostly gaze: Corvus’ eyes.

  He was still there.

  Drawn to the edge of the square, he sat on a red stone. His armor, drenched in blood, rose and fell with each breath his body struggled to take. Dark circles of exhaustion hung under his eyes, yet his gaze remained bright. His crimson eyes wandered across the square, and his mere presence was enough to make enemy blades tremble. Every warrior who met his eyes felt their heart suspended in air. One wrong step, one wrong breath… and Corvus’ shadow would fall upon them.

  As the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon, the Tiamats were stronger than ever. At the start of the night, only 42 of the 90 Sharazirs commanding the Rhazgord army were of Tiamat blood. But as the sun’s first rays painted the square, that number had risen to 53. Some of those who issued challenges—like Kaelyra—were already ranked warriors, and their performance in battle had earned them command of new units. Others had, for the first time, ascended to the rank of Sharazir, gaining the right to lead thousands of warriors.

  The Tiamats were no longer just the leading tribe. They had become a power commanding nearly two-thirds of the Rhazgord army. With the existing control of Sakhaar and Valerius added, their influence had grown even further. But the truly important shift wasn’t in the army—it was in people’s minds.

  For the great tribes, the true collapse wasn’t just the loss of soldiers—it was the loss of their supporters’ hearts. Most of the Sorbaj people weren’t tied to any tribe. Their pasts had been erased by time—they were merely trying to survive. Until now, they had stood behind those who were powerful: the great tribes. But now, before their eyes, a boy had defeated twelve Wandering Warriors in succession. Rhazkar’s name had been invoked before their eyes. They had seen a tribe spill blood, drink deep, and roar with passion in the square. And that tribe’s future was Corvus. The future Sanguinar was this boy. And whoever walked with him would find a place in Rhazgord’s tomorrows. The other tribes? They were an echo of the past.

  By the end of the night, when the fighting had ceased, Corvus could barely remain standing. His knees trembled, his breath caught in his throat. The Tiamats carried him in their arms, almost like a sacred relic, back to the Red Mansion. The healers gathered around him immediately. His armor was cut and removed, his body wrapped in stitches. His pulse was weak but steady.

  He remained in his room for two days. And while he was in that room, whispers grew in every street of Rhazgord. And each whisper, layered upon the last… was growing like a storm.

  When Corvus opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the silence of the room, but the presence standing in the corner. A man sat with his back straight, hands resting on his knees, head bowed… but he wasn’t just anyone. He was Drakar Tiamat. The once-legendary Sanguinar. Corvus’s grandfather. A man whose very name could bring an army to its knees.

  But now, sitting on a small chair that groaned under his weight, he seemed more like a shadow.

  Corvus’s eyes scanned him. Out of reflexive respect, he tried to sit up, but a pain rising from his chest stopped him instantly. Even the creak of the chair was stronger than his movement.

  Drakar spoke without lifting his head.

  “Don’t push yourself.”

  Corvus settled back into place, leaning into the pillows. Something stirred inside him — not pain, not fatigue, but something else. A deep, indescribable hum. For the past two days, he had either been asleep or unconscious. The concept of time had lost its meaning. His chest still ached when he breathed. Most of his broken bones had healed, but every muscle, every fiber in his body still reacted as if surprised it was alive.

  “They call you a god.” Drakar said, finally lifting his head. There was sarcasm in his voice, but his eyes were serious. Corvus chuckled. He touched the bloodstained bandage on his left arm. There was still the grime of battle on his fingertips.

  “Gods don’t bleed… do they?”

  Drakar smiled at that moment. It was a bitter smile. Gods had no blood. That was why they always wanted mankind’s.

  “Zrakor.” he then said, his voice like a shadow.

  “That foolish old man must have misunderstood something. To believe that Rhazkar descended to earth in a body… It’s blasphemy. Madness!”

  The anger in his final words was unmistakable. He had mourned Zrakor, yes. But he couldn’t agree with what the old man had said. Corvus was not a god. Never had been, never would be. Corvus narrowed his eyes and gazed into the distance. There were still images in his memory that hadn’t faded.

  “He wasn’t wrong. I truly saw it… Everything turned red. As if the world… was made of blood.”

  His voice was low. He wasn’t sure. Had he really seen it, or had his mind played tricks on him? He didn’t know.

  Drakar shook his head.

  “You used more Lightstone energy than your body could handle. What you saw were hallucinations. Zrakor was affected by your power and spun his own tale. Don’t dwell on it.”

  Corvus parted his lips but gave no reply. He averted his eyes. A voice still echoed in his head. Cold, sharp, deep.

  “Rhazkar.”

  A single word. But each repetition made it heavier. Like a dagger stabbed into the center of all his doubts.

  Drakar remained silent. He had seen the shadow in Corvus’s eyes. He might not have known what he was thinking, but he had felt the spark inside. He knew his grandson’s mind was troubled. He couldn’t predict what he would become.

  Slowly, he stood. For a brief moment, the ceiling seemed to lower. His body was still like a colossal statue.

  “Your duties await, my son.” he said.

  “Wars, decisions… Everything begins the moment you rise from bed. The sooner you stand, the faster you’ll reach your goals.”

  He turned and headed for the door. He reached for the handle, but before leaving, he looked back at Corvus one more time. For a moment, his eyes showed a mix of mercy and concern. Then he left. The room was swallowed by silence again.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Corvus straightened himself quickly. Though the ache in his back reminded him of every movement, his grandfather’s words echoed louder in his mind than any pain. He was right… While everything was changing rapidly, Corvus couldn’t afford to remain in bed. He had to rise and return to his duty as soon as possible.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing inward. He felt the vibration of Lightstone energy flowing deep within his body. Like a bright and clear river, this energy coursed through his veins, and he cleared his mind to command it. Carefully, he gathered the energy around his wounds. When the power began to swirl around his broken bones like a thin spiral, he felt a wave of warmth in his body. His cells fused together, his skin weaving itself back from the inside out. Time felt like it had slowed, but in truth, everything was healing rapidly.

  As hours passed, Corvus began to hear the stirrings of activity in the Red Mansion. Echoes coming from behind the thick stone walls revealed the scale of the commotion inside. As the metallic clinks of armored bodies passed by his door, every step’s echo awakened the warrior spirit within him. The move he had made had clearly already reached the heart of the Keep. When he opened his eyes again, he couldn’t tell what time of day it was. The dim light from the ceiling obscured any trace of time. But his broken bones had fused, his deep cuts had scabbed. Though some areas of his skin still showed bruises and soreness, he was sure he could stand.

  He slowly rose.

  When he opened his window, a cool mountain breeze filled the room. The air smelled sharp — like stone and iron. His gaze instinctively locked onto the massive mountain before him: Mount Rhaz. Its crimson rock-covered peak pierced the clouds like a god. It was the tallest and most formidable summit on the continent. It felt as though it was whispering to him, telling him to rise and come to it.

  When he stepped out and opened the door, he heard footsteps echoing in the stone-tiled corridors. At the end of the hall, a familiar figure appeared, walking upright: Baldrek. With broad shoulders, armor forged from iron, and a slow but confident stride, Corvus already understood why he had come. But what caught his attention was the red cord tied around Baldrek’s left arm. Thin but striking, this symbol was the mark of a Sharazir. Attached to the cord was a small, black bead glinting in the light. Each bead represented the power of a thousand warriors. Baldrek was now the commander of a unit a thousand strong. A faint smile appeared on Corvus’s face, satisfaction visible in his eyes. Pointing at the red cord with his hand, he spoke:

  “So you’ve finally become a Sharazir!” he said, a subtle smile playing across his lips, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly.

  “You wanted me to become a Sharazir. I just obeyed my god!” Baldrek said, flashing a broad grin that revealed his large teeth. His voice brimmed with pride. Though Baldrek’s family wasn’t a large tribe, they were among the oldest and most skilled blacksmith bloodlines of Rhazgord. For centuries, they had forged weapons and armor for the Tiamat warriors, always remaining loyal. But Baldrek, inspired by Corvus, had abandoned his father’s trade and chosen to be a warrior who wielded weapons, rather than one who forged them. This decision had not been met with disapproval — not from his family, nor from the Tiamats.

  But Baldrek becoming a Sharazir was not merely a simple victory. It was a major step for Corvus as well. Because Baldrek’s loyalty was not to the Tiamats—it was solely to Corvus. Within the army, he would be Corvus’s extended hand, eyes, and sword. Moreover, with Corvus’s discoveries regarding the Lightstone combined with Baldrek’s combat skills, his promotion was only a matter of time.

  “Nabuks’ trembled just hearing your name!” Baldrek said, proudly showing the rope on his arm. “So I took advantage and took one of them down!” The gleam in his eyes showed how much he enjoyed what he did.

  “Will my father support you?” asked Corvus. He knew Baldrek hadn’t come here just to see him. Assembling a unit of a thousand men was no easy task. He had received the title, yes—but he didn’t yet have the backing to gather those thousand men. That’s why he had appeared before Sanguinar, the leader of the Tiamats and of Rhazgord. In exchange for his loyalty, he had requested warriors and resources.

  “I didn’t even need to ask for support. My old man had already met with Sanguinar.” Baldrek said. “I’ll be getting warriors and financial support!” The expression on his face carried a childlike joy.

  Baldrek’s father was an old friend of Sanguinar. The moment his son became a Sharazir, he had gone to see Sanguinar without hesitation. He personally vouched that his son would be just as loyal as he was and would never betray the Tiamats. When Sanguinar heard this guarantee, he merely nodded and said, “The opposite never even crossed my mind.”

  But time was running out. Baldrek had to leave. He needed to take care of his new soldiers, train them, and prepare them for the battlefield. Seeing Corvus in good health had reassured him. Just as he was about to head back, he suddenly stopped—as if something important had just crossed his mind at the last moment.

  “When I was leaving the throne room, Ilyada was entering. She looked quite serious—just so you know!” he said and continued on his way with heavy steps, without saying anything further.

  With that warning, Corvus paused for a moment, then turned toward the throne room with determined steps. The echo of his footsteps in the halls of the Red Mansion sounded like a silent declaration of his return after serious wounds. The two Tiamat Guardians standing watch in front of the throne room were momentarily stunned when they saw Corvus. Then they immediately straightened up and stood at attention. Warm smiles appeared on their faces, but what stood out the most was the glimmer of pride in their eyes. To them, he was no longer just their leader—he was a symbol, a legend. His upright stride despite his wounded and weary body gave them strength.

  Corvus slowly pushed open the large, heavy throne doors decorated with carved motifs using his massive hands. The creaking of the wood echoed through the wide hall. The throne room was plain but carried a weighty sense of authority. The ceilings were high, the walls built from deep red stone. The silence that reigned over the space signaled the gravity of the decisions made here. As always, Sakhaar sat sprawled across his modest throne carved from black stone. There were no decorations around the throne—only the marks of power and history. Sakhaar’s presence gave the room a heaviness that made even breathing feel deliberate. Standing directly across from him was Ilyada. Her posture was straight, her expression serious. But in the depths of her eyes, there was a trace of tension.

  When Corvus entered, both of their gazes turned toward the door. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Silence lingered for several heartbeats. Finally, Sakhaar slightly raised his head and spoke.

  “Your recovery is taking too long.” he said in a calm but commanding voice. There was a strange indifference in his eyes, but his words still carried pressure. He knew what his son had faced, what kind of price he had paid—but as always, Sakhaar demanded more. In his eyes, victory was never enough.

  Corvus gave a short nod to Ilyada, who stood quietly to the side. Then, without hesitation, he advanced toward the raised platform next to Sakhaar’s throne. In the past, approaching this close would have required courage. But everything had changed now. He was no longer just a son—he was a decision-maker. Sakhaar didn’t comment on this movement. Instead, he motioned toward Ilyada with his hand beneath his chin. The gesture was slow and deliberate.

  “Your betrothed is here to remind us of the Iskats’ continued loyalty to our friendship. What do you say?” Sakhaar’s voice was calm, but there was a subtle threat within it.

  “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

  This unexpected question suddenly thickened the air in the room. Ilyada’s eyes widened; her gaze churned as if caught in an invisible storm. She knew all too well how ruthless and intimidating the man lounging on that throne could be. Standing beside him was like walking barefoot along a riverbank—you never knew when you’d step on stones or when the waters would rise. Yes, Sakhaar was a friend to the Iskats, but he was also a beast. A beast who now scrutinized the thousand-year-old friendship with the piercing look in his eyes.

  Sherkhan Iskat, Ilyada’s father and the wise leader of the Iskat tribe, had grown uneasy with the Tiamats’ rising influence in the army following Corvus’s successes. His unease and caution combined, he had sent his daughter to Sorbaj as a reminder of goodwill. Ilyada, Corvus’s betrothed, was the shining star of the Iskats—seen as the tribe’s future leader.

  But to Corvus, none of these titles mattered right now. In his crimson eyes glimmered a quiet anger and a dark suspicion. He slowly turned to Ilyada, his voice firm and ice-cold.

  “If Ilyada speaks on her own behalf, I vouch for her words.” he said, not breaking eye contact. Then his voice took on a sharper tone.

  “But if these are the words of Sherkhan Iskat… I cannot help but feel suspicious.”

  Ilyada’s lips trembled slightly. Of course, she could not speak on behalf of her tribe. She had no such authority. She was only tasked with carrying the words of the one who did. That distinction was extremely important here. Sakhaar was well aware of this fact—and he delighted in using it. A mocking smile formed on his lips.

  “As far as I know, Ilyada is to be the future leader of the Iskats.” he said, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.

  “So… even if Sherkhan’s words are lies, Ilyada’s words should be enough.”

  With those final words, his gaze locked onto Ilyada’s. In the silence that followed, only the breaths of the three could be heard. Sakhaar’s stare deepened, and his voice regained its unsettling gravity.

  “Isn’t that right, Ilyada? You will lead the Iskats one day. Am I mistaken?”

  Sakhaar’s question was not just a simple inquiry. It wasn’t a dry curiosity or a routine confirmation; it was sharp, direct, and laced with menace like a spear. Ilyada immediately sensed the poison behind those words. The real danger in his sentence was the implication that he already knew the truth. What he asked was merely a performance.

  Ilyada’s mind suddenly drifted to the past. She remembered that this piece of information was known only to a select few. The internal affairs of the Iskats and developments regarding the succession of leadership were known only to their inner circle. The fact that Sherkhan no longer saw his daughter as the heir had not even spread within the tribe. The only person who could have delivered this information to Sakhaar—the first name that came to mind—was Corvus. During the Tribal Council, Ilyada had given this information to Corvus.

  Her eyes instinctively turned to Corvus. Her expression had changed; she looked hurt, even betrayed. Yet Corvus’s posture remained unchanged. He stood tall and firm. However, the slight surprise in his gaze revealed that he, too, had just learned that his father knew this information. He had chosen to resolve this issue silently. Without noise, in the shadows… But the fact that Sakhaar had learned what had happened shattered all of his plans.

  What Sakhaar was doing now was a test. And the outcome of this test could affect not only Ilyada’s fate but that of all the Iskats. Sakhaar’s ruthlessness was the stuff of legends; he was known for showing no mercy to enemies—and just as little to his friends. The centuries-old Tiamat-Iskat alliance held as little value in Sakhaar’s eyes as a handful of ash. If he learned the truth, he would take it as betrayal and march upon the Iskats without a second thought.

  Moreover, the significance of this information was not merely political—it was also personal. One of the conditions for Ilyada to marry Corvus was that she would one day become the leader of her tribe. It wasn’t a written law, perhaps, but with the approval of Sakhaar and Sherkhan, it was a verbal agreement sealed in trust. Sherkhan had broken that promise. And now, if Sakhaar learned it had been broken, he might perceive it as an insult, a threat—perhaps even a declaration of war.

  Ilyada’s lips parted, but the words got stuck in her throat. Her eyes fell to the ground for a moment, then returned to Sakhaar. Her hesitation was written all over her face. She was torn between telling the truth and telling a lie. Every word she might say carried the weight of thousands of lives. And just then, Corvus stepped forward.

  “Ilyada is without a doubt one of the most talented young people not only in her tribe but in all of Rhazgord!” he said, his voice soft at first, but gradually firming.

  “I saw with my own eyes what she did in the war at the Black Plains. Her courage, her intellect, her leadership… No one else is fit to lead the Iskats. She will definitely be the next leader!”

  These words might have sounded like mere support or defense. But in Sakhaar’s ears, what echoed was something much different. The emphasis in Corvus’s voice added a sharp weight to his words. This was not just an evaluation—it was a decision. An order. It was not directed at Ilyada, but at Sherkhan Iskat. If his daughter was still not considered the heir, then this marriage, this alliance, and perhaps even the future of the Iskats would be called into question. Corvus was a Sanguinar candidate who held the fate of not only his own people, but also that of his betrothed’s tribe, in his hands.

  Sakhaar tilted his head slightly as he looked at Corvus. The smile that appeared on his face at first looked like warm acceptance—but on second glance, it carried a very different meaning. The fine curve at the corner of his lips—was it filled with mockery or with a slyly hidden approval? It was hard to tell. But to Ilyada, that smile was no different from a threat. It struck her deeply, a heavy weight tightening in her throat. Her breath shortened, her chest felt as if crushed by stones. She could no longer look Sakhaar in the eye. Her task was complete. She had said what needed to be said. Now, she no longer wanted to stay here. She had to leave at once. The growing sense of suffocation inside her had become unbearable.

  “As I said, the Iskats remain loyal to the thousand-year alliance, my great Sanguinar.” said Ilyada, forcing down the knot in her throat. Her voice didn’t tremble, but her insides were in turmoil. Then, she bowed her head respectfully and continued:

  “Now, with your permission, I must return to my tribe.”

  Sakhaar looked at the young woman for a moment. His eyes didn’t just meet hers—they seemed to pierce the depths of her soul. Then, without pressing his lips together, he shook his head lightly from side to side. There was neither anger nor satisfaction in his eyes.

  “No.” he said, his voice calm, but beneath that calm lay absolute authority.

  “Stay as our guest for a few days. You’ll be marrying Corvus soon. You should spend some time with him. Getting to know each other better will be beneficial for your marriage.”

  Sakhaar’s words were spoken with such finesse that, on the surface, they sounded reasonable. But the subtext was crystal clear: Ilyada would stay here. This was not an invitation—it was an order. The excuse he gave was meaningless. Ilyada and Corvus had been part of the same destiny since the first breath of this world. They had sat at the same tables since childhood, played in the same squares, and looked to the future with the same eyes. They knew each other all too well. There was another intention behind this excuse—a darker calculation.

  Ilyada parted her lips, but could not say a word. Her right to speak had already been stripped away. She glanced at Corvus from the corner of her eye. But Sakhaar had already turned his attention elsewhere. Without even waiting for Ilyada’s acknowledgment, he pivoted sharply and turned to Corvus.

  “Go prepare a room for your betrothed!” he said. This time his voice was clearer, more direct. Then he furrowed his brows and continued.

  “Then go to the Guardians Headquarters. You’re their commander, and you’ve been away from them for days. They’re waiting for you.”

  Corvus answered with a silent bow of his head. He neither opposed nor questioned. Without a hint of emotion on his face, he turned to Ilyada. When their eyes met, he said nothing and simply began to walk with her. Step by heavy step, they left the throne room.