XIV LEGION — NORTHERN CAMPAIGN

The mist still clung to the ground when the first stakes of the imperial tents were driven in. Men clad in soot-darkened armor, thick woolen cloaks, and eyes hardened by campaign looked around. They had expected snow. Expected dead trees and cutting winds. Instead, they saw green fields waving in the morning breeze, crops blooming under the autumn sun, trails of dry mud connecting villages of stone and timber where naked children played, men plowed the earth, and women watched silently the arrival of the XIV Legion.

Kael dismounted his horse with a hint of discomfort. The sun wasn’t what he expected. The ground didn’t creak underfoot like ice. The air was heavy, yes — but with the scent of fertile earth, not of death. He tugged at his thick gloves, tearing one in the process, and tossed his fur cloak to the squire with a gesture of impatience. His eyes — taught to distrust even the light — wandered across the nearby hills.

“This is the North?” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. “Looks like a paradise looted.”

Tribune Galvor, one of the oldest officers of the XIV, answered with the neutral tone of a man who’d seen too much:

“That’s what the maps say, general.”

Kael didn’t respond. Instead, he walked among the soldiers, observing the faces of the locals. Hungry, gaunt, their skin sun-scorched, their hands like stone from toil. These weren’t barbarians. They were peasants. Survivors. And there was more than misery in their eyes — there was a passive coldness, a resignation that asked for nothing. None knelt. None saluted. They simply stared. One old man even spat on the ground, as if to mark his territory.

From that day forward, Kael studied more than roads and strategic positions. He listened to whispers. Some said the North had never truly belonged to the Empire. Others that taxes were extorted by local militias, that imperial coin was worth less than salt. And in more than one village, they heard tales of “imperial guards” — puppets with fake insignias, exploiting peasants with promises of protection.

“Lies,” grumbled the quartermaster, reviewing the supply reports. “Official documents claim this region is barren, barely sustaining its own fields.”

“Those reports were written by men who’ve never set foot here,” Kael replied, eyes fixed on a barley field stretching to the horizon. “Or by men who profited from the lie.”

In the following weeks, Kael and his retinue began mapping the true region — not the Senate’s parchment version, but one built of soil, of village pacts, of tributes paid in grain and blood. They found organized communities, self-governed, some with local councils, others ruled by ex-mercenaries calling themselves barons and charging “protection taxes.”

The new map, drawn by calloused hands and sleepless nights, bore more than roads. On one bend of a river, someone had etched a tree with broken roots — where a medic had lost her son. Near a mountain pass, a red ‘X’ marked a rebel ambush site that claimed half a company. And on the edge of a lake, a soldier had drawn a heart beside a tiny house — the only place that gave them shelter during a storm. It was not just a map of territory. It was a map of memory. Of pain. And of conviction.

The XIV Legion needed to advance, but the imperial routes were blocked by autonomous fiefs. Kael sent formal requests, as protocol dictated, asking for safe passage. Some were ignored. Others came laced with poisoned courtesy — invitations to banquets hiding blackmail, and exorbitant tolls for every barrel of supply.

It was in the fief of Val Adron that Kael reached his limit.

Lord Althis Marevar was a pig wrapped in gold. He received the delegation in a luxurious fortress while outside, peasants rotted in bread lines. Althis smiled with wine-blackened teeth and offered passage — in exchange for a vow of vassalage and 20% of the Legion’s tithes.

“Or,” he added, savoring his arrogance, “we can resolve this like civilized men. With diplomacy. With… mutual understanding.”

Kael said nothing. His fingers tapped once, then twice, against the hilt of his sword — not out of threat, but restraint. His jaw tensed. He could feel the weight of the Empire’s code, the chain of command, the thousand rules drilled into his spine. But deeper still, something heavier: the stifled fury of a soldier who sees the law serve only those who twist it.

He looked at Althis — a parody of nobility. And in that moment, Kael wrestled between duty and justice. The former demanded patience. The latter, action. If he walked away, he upheld protocol. If he acted… he might become what he hated.

Kael didn’t reply at first. He simply looked around — at the ornate banners, the musicians playing to no one, the well-fed guards, and the hoarded food in the stores. He knew what it was: decadence masquerading as power. And if the Empire tolerated it, then maybe the Empire was sicker than it dared admit.

That night, without warning, the XIV surrounded the castle.

The battle lasted less than an hour.

Althis tried to bargain until the end. Tried to bribe the officers. Tried to flee. He was dragged from the crypt where he hid, drenched in the blood of his own guards, and brought to Val Adron’s main square.

“By order of Commander Kael Valerius Drakar of the XIV Imperial Legion,” proclaimed the herald, “this man is declared a traitor to the people and the throne. Let him serve as a lesson to those who feed on the hunger of others.”

Kael was there. Silent. His eyes were dark, but his voice, when it came, cut the air like steel:

“The Empire is no longer built on titles. It is built on deeds. And where title serves hunger, it shall be burned.”

The lord was hanged in the same courtyard where he once hosted private hunts.

The hoarded grain was redistributed to the nearby villages.

In one of them, a woman who hadn’t spoken for weeks fell to her knees beside a sack of barley and wept — not for the food, but for the silence it ended. Her son, watching Kael from the edge of the crowd, whispered a word not heard in that village for years: “hope.”

The XIV Legion moved on. Behind them, they left the symbol of new command: a black banner with a red stripe stained in ash.

The march after Val Adron felt lighter, at least in the hearts of the men. The weight of the first conquered keep and the execution of a lord seemed to carve a new path not just through the roads, but through the spirits of the soldiers. It was as if they finally had a cause beyond orders. News of the redistributed grain spread like wildfire across the fields — and with it, the name of Kael Drakar began to be whispered not as a commander, but as an uncomfortable liberator.

But the echo of ashes does not remain silent for long.

At the war council assembled in the Sarven Hills camp, where the XIV paused to rest and regroup, the first tensions began to surface. The command tent simmered with unspoken friction, each voice carrying the weight of steel waiting to be forged — or broken.

“You broke the chain of command, general,” said Centurion Hadrien Voss, one of the oldest officers, his breastplate polished to perfection, voice soaked in institutional pride. “What we did in Val Adron might be morally defensible, but legally, it’s insubordination. And we are soldiers, not judges.”

Kael stood, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the map spread across the table before them. Not the Senate’s map — a new one, drawn by the calloused hands of legionaries, marked with real roads, living villages, and the places where children begged for bread with their eyes.

“We are not judges, Centurion,” he said firmly. “But we are armed men facing the silence of the Empire. And silence… is complicit.”

Galvor watched in silence, as always. His fingers tapped the leather of his scabbard. He already knew where this was heading.

Hadrien did not relent.

“And when the capital demands answers? When they accuse us of rebellion?”

“Let them come,” muttered Tribune Cassian Meros, young and restless, leaning on the tent pole. “I’d rather answer for saving a village than for ignoring its screams.”

Kael said nothing in that moment. But he remembered their names.

Hadrien — loyal to the structure. Incorruptible, but rigid.
Cassian — fervent. A possible incendiary. But not without reason. Years ago, he had watched his home village burn after an imperial delay — a delay he had argued against. His sister never made it out. Since then, the scream of a child had always been louder than the call of protocol.
Galvor — the observer. Never committing, always understanding the board.

The next morning, the crows brought word of a new threat.

In the following weeks, the XIV advanced steadily — not by decree, but by fire and resolve. But not all the North welcomed them. Some of the minor lords, seeing their power wane as Kael redistributed grain, punished extortion, and judged freely, began stirring unrest in the shadows.

In villages where the banners of the Empire had begun to reappear, old loyalties whispered poison. Arms and coin flowed from unseen hands. Mobs rose overnight — not of warriors, but of frightened peasants, manipulated by sermons of false freedom.

Kael crushed each rebellion without hesitation.

His orders were swift. Banners torn down. Arms seized. Leaders executed — whether paid rebels or manipulated fools. When ambushed, his retaliation was overwhelming. No negotiations. No compromises.

But when the dust settled, and the streets grew silent once more, Kael always returned to the survivors. Children were gathered. Grain from imperial stores shared. Burned roofs rebuilt by his own engineers.

“If we don’t sow roots,” he once told Galvor, “we only leave ashes.”

The men respected it. Some even admired it.

But not all.

Hadrien, watching another cartload of supplies being given to a village that had thrown spears at them days before, clenched his fists until the knuckles cracked.

“You call this justice?” he spat quietly to Galvor. “We bleed, we bury brothers — and then we feed the ones who would’ve slit our throats in their sleep.”

Galvor didn’t answer. He only looked at the children playing with the soldiers’ discarded helmets.

But Kael heard. And said nothing.

He knew Hadrien’s anger wasn’t born of cowardice — but of weariness. Of watching good men die to protect the same hands that sometimes threw stones.

And still… Kael would not stop.

The fire in the command tent burned low, casting long shadows across the map. Kael sat at the edge of the war table, still in half-armor, the leather straps unfastened, shoulders heavier than steel. Galvor stood nearby, sharpening a blade with slow, practiced motions. The silence between them was not awkward — it was earned. A silence only shared by men who have bled side by side.

Kael spoke first.

“I don’t know if I’m still building something… or just delaying the collapse.”

Galvor didn’t stop his motion.

“You’re doing what needs to be done.”

Kael looked down at his hands, the fingertips calloused, blood still in the creases from the last raid.

“They call me a liberator now. A reformer. But some nights… I wonder if all I’ve done is replace one chain by another. The Empire we fight for — it was supposed to be a beacon. Order. Justice. I was raised on the idea that the Senate was the spine of civilization. But what spine rots and expects to stand?”

Galvor finally sheathed the blade and looked at him.

“Maybe the dream was never real. Maybe the Senate was always a polished corpse. But the people still believe in the shape of that dream. They believe because you didn’t run. You marched into the filth and came back with fire.”

Kael scoffed, bitter.

“They follow me because I win.”

“No,” Galvor replied. “They follow you because you don’t look away. Not from the screams, not from the rot. Most leaders speak of duty. You bleed for it. That’s why we follow you through hell and high water. That’s why we still march.”

Kael fell silent. He looked at the map, now filled with ashes, blood marks, and paths redrawn by battle.

And in his eyes, for just a moment — doubt faded. Not because it disappeared, but because it was shared.

The following morning, the crows brought a different kind of message.

The reports were confused, but consistent. Villages burned under black banners. Women violated. Children taken. Survivors said it was the work of border rebels. But Kael knew better — there was too much method in the madness. Tactical chaos. Patterns only veterans noticed.

These were mercenaries.

And where there are mercenaries, there is gold.

The Four Merchant Cities — Valthenor, Arak, Quotros, and Barbarossa — had always resisted Imperial control. Masters of the straits. Masters of the ships. Masters of the trade. Their gold bought silence in the Senate — and death in the fields. And now… it bought fire.

Kael read the report on the village of Eldreth three times. Twenty dead. No Imperial garrison. Technically, it wasn’t within his jurisdiction.

But the refugees now stood at the gates of the camp.

And among them, a girl of seven — her eyes burned out with living fire.

“If we intervene, we break the treaties,” Hadrien said. “The city-states will respond with blood. And the Senate… will brand us deserters.”

“And if we don’t?” Kael muttered, watching the sunset. “Then we are complicit. Again.”

Silence.

“The XIV didn’t come North for honor. We came because no one else did. And if we let this village die… we leave our soul behind with it.”

He gave the order.

At dawn, XIV scouts crossed the valley. The mercenaries were still in Eldreth — drunk, looting what remained, torching what couldn’t be taken. They expected no resistance.

The assault was brutal. Precise. Merciless.

Kael led the vanguard. The first man he killed was a giant marked with the Black Rose — a symbol common to mercenaries from the Free Cities. The second he decapitated before the man could beg. The third, Kael let escape — deliberately.

He wanted the others to know.

When the blood settled, Eldreth still burned. But part of it lived. Enough to begin again.

Kael walked through the ruins, boots soaked in blood and ash. The eyeless girl recognized his voice and clung to his cloak. He had no words. He knelt. And remained there. Until nightfall.

The night after the mercenary slaughter carried a strange silence. From the outside, the XIV’s camp seemed ordinary — sentries at the gates, banners fluttering, the occasional clink of armor and shield. But within, cracks had begun to show. The older officers exchanged glances too short to be innocent, too long to be respectful. And in the center of it all, Hadrien Voss stood like a pillar under strain — too proud to bend, too rigid to weather what was coming.

Kael’s disobedience was no longer a murmur.

It was a decision.

And Hadrien, forged in the old doctrines, now saw that decision as not just dangerous — but corrosive.

A few hours later, a new message arrived from Caltheron — the capital.

“The XIV has exceeded its operational limits. Orders will be reviewed. Fall back. Await further direction.”

Kael read it in silence.

Then tore the letter to shreds.

“Let them come,” he said.

And for the first time in weeks — he smiled.

The torn letter became more than defiance. It became a signal.

Word spread.

The commander who had burned titles.
The general who hanged a lord.
The man who answered fire with fire — and still knelt for the broken.

And the people came.

From every village they crossed, from cities that had long abandoned imperial dreams, they came in twos and tens and dozens. Peasants. Freed servants. Former militiamen. Even deserters who sought a cause worth dying for. They came with sharpened hoes, rusted swords, and empty stomachs — but eyes that burned with purpose.

At first, Kael refused them.

“We’re not a crusade,” he told Galvor. “We’re a legion. We have discipline. Doctrine.”

Hadrien, ever strict, backed him.

“Protocol forbids civilians joining a campaign without Senate clearance. It’s chaos.”

But the people kept following. They marched behind the Legion, slept in ditches, brought water and supplies unasked. They guarded roads while the XIV moved ahead. And in one battle, when mercenaries struck a supply line, it was the civilians who fought them off with stones and sickles.

Kael saw it.

Saw the blood on their hands.
Saw how they stood over the dead with the same breathless focus of his best centurions.

And he made a choice.

He called them not recruits. Not conscripts.

But volunteers.

“No oath to the throne,” he told them. “Only to each other. And to the people.”

They received uniforms of patched leather and stolen mail. They trained under sergeants who once called them “vermin.” And they marched — ragged, determined, unbreakable — under a new banner. One forged in purpose, not permission.

The XIV was no longer just a legion. It was a movement.

And for Hadrien… that was when the fear truly began.

Pages: 1 2 3 4

Chronicles of Astravara

The scent of spices was a constant reminder of the life Saharaa Vel’Rash once knew. Cinnamon, saffron, cardamom, and pepper danced in the air, carrying her back to the exotic trade routes she had only heard of in stories told by her father. Reylos Vel’Rash was a skilled merchant, known for his sharp tongue in negotiation and his courage in exploring treacherous routes.

To Saharaa, life seemed like a vibrant tapestry, woven with threads of adventure and promise. She was a Ruh’rashi, belonging to the feline-blooded animalkin race. Her skin was a soft golden velvet, marked with dark stripes reminiscent of the tigers from distant jungles. Her amber eyes shimmered with unrelenting curiosity, and her tail moved subtly, betraying her emotions.

Since childhood, Saharaa dreamed of following in her father’s footsteps, of exploring the world beyond the bustling markets of Valthenor. She had always admired the way her father walked through a market—head held high, tail swaying with calm confidence, every word measured like the weight of gold. Reylos Vel’Rash was not merely a merchant. He was a Ruh’rashi of ancient blood, a man who bore the title with honor, whose stripes marked more than his skin—they were the memory of survival and a badge of silent strength.

He believed, above all else, in honor—in the sanctity of an agreement sealed by word and hand, and in the duty of a father to leave behind more than stories.

Their mornings together were filled with lessons in bargaining, in reading lies through twitching ears and shallow breaths, and in knowing the value of silence. Reylos taught her how to evaluate goods, how to twist an offer just enough to provoke greed, and how to walk away when pride became more valuable than coin.

“Gold comes and goes, little claw,” he used to say with a smirk, ruffling her ears. “But your name? That’s carved in blood and spoken in trade long after you’re gone.”

He was clever, no doubt—but his honor often made him too trusting. There were years when coin slipped through their fingers like sand, when bad deals nearly broke them. Yet somehow, Reylos always clawed his way back—through charm, wit, and an uncanny ability to make friends even among rivals. “They want to see me fall,” he laughed once. “But they enjoy the show too much to let me vanish.”

Despite the scars of trade, he pampered Saharaa like a treasure. He brought her rare fabrics to play with, spices to learn by scent, and maps to trace with her claws. As she grew, so did her pride. And yet, beneath his laughter, she began to see the signs of time catching up with him—the way he stared longer at the family ledger, the quiet sighs when he thought she wasn’t looking, the late-night conversations with himself.

“I’m not a young tiger anymore,” he muttered one dusk, sharing sweet wine with her under the stars. “One day I’ll be gone, and all this… all this must be yours. A proper fortune, a good name. Freedom, not just survival.”

He never forced her to follow his path. The Ruh’rashi valued freedom above all, after all. But he gave her the tools to make her own—sharpened not just by instinct, but by knowledge.

Their people were children of the sun and sand, of jungle and storm, a proud race born from both predator and poet. Ruh’rashi society revered strength and cunning, but did not measure it solely in muscle. A weak warrior was shamed. A foolish merchant—pitied. They cared little for the skin or race of outsiders; worth was proven, not assumed. Yet to them, those who could not rise—who lacked force or cleverness—were lesser.

Slavery, among them, was not viewed as cruelty, but as natural order. “The weak serve,” they said. “So the strong may build.” Entire clans thrived on the labor of captives and outcasts—those who had failed in war, in crime, or in debt. They were not tortured, but neither were they free.

Still, within their own, freedom was sacred. Every Ruh’rashi was born to hunt, to trade, to fight—to choose their path, and bear its weight. Saharaa had grown hearing tales of warrior-merchants who slew beasts in the day and sold their bones by night. Of queens who ruled markets sharper than any blade.

And Reylos wanted nothing more than for his daughter to outshine them all.

“I gave you claws,” he told her once. “Now I want to see if you’ll use them for gold or for glory.”

When Reylos finally invited Saharaa to join him on an important negotiation, it felt as though her dreams were about to take shape.

The meeting took place in a grand mansion on the outskirts of Nyrakali.

The mansion was too polished.

From the moment Saharaa and Reylos stepped through the gilded arch of its entrance, an unease settled over her like dust on silk. The floors were polished marble, etched with imperial patterns unfamiliar to Ruh’rashi hands. Tall mirrors reflected distorted versions of themselves—father and daughter draped in desert-born linen, striped skin, sun-kissed grace—trapped in a palace of glass and gold.

Their host arrived with a slow, deliberate gait.

“Dren Malak,” he introduced himself with a short bow. His voice was smooth, his smile carved with purpose. Human. Imperial. Dressed in layered silks of royal blue and crimson, rings gleaming like eyes on every finger, he gave the impression of a man who wanted to be seen, weighed, envied.

Reylos’ tail flicked once in irritation, but he offered his hand politely. “Reylos Vel’Rash. And this is my daughter, Saharaa.”

Dren’s cold gaze lingered a second too long on her.

“A pleasure,” he said, but it felt more like an evaluation.

They were ushered into a chamber where a feast had been prepared—too rich, too heavy. Exotic fruits, roasted meats, and wines imported from the Imperial core lined the table, untouched.

Saharaa remained silent, her ears alert to every detail. Her father’s teachings echoed in her mind: When a man offers too much before the bargain is made, he’s not a trader—he’s a spider.

Dren wasted no time with pleasantries. He unrolled a parchment map across the table, pressing it down with gilded knives.

“I propose a direct route,” he said, pointing to a path carved through cliffside territory. “This region is usually avoided by merchants, but the stories are just superstition. We’ll be protected—my men are seasoned.”

He spoke of spice contracts and private buyers in Raktharth, the Ruh’rashi trade capital in the Rakkesh desert. His proposal was vague in its core terms—no names of partners, no documents, only the promise of high returns. Too high.

Saharaa shifted beside her father, tail coiling around her ankle. She felt the lie before she heard it.

“Why us?” she asked finally, her voice measured. “You could afford any merchant guild in Nyrakali. Why choose an independent trader on the brink of debt?”

Dren smiled. “Because I value discretion, and I’ve heard of your father’s skill. Reputation travels faster than coin.”

But Saharaa’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t an answer.

Reylos hesitated. His hands, usually steady, tapped once against the table. He smelled the trap too—but he also smelled salvation. After two brutal years of drought, failed shipments, and a near-collapse of his spice routes, Reylos was weeks away from formal bankruptcy. The friend who introduced him to Dren—a trusted contact from the House of Voresh—had sworn by the Imperial’s credibility.

And the deal… the deal could bring them back.

“I understand your concerns,” Dren continued. “That’s why I’m paying upfront. Fifty percent before departure. The rest upon arrival in Raktharth. No hidden clauses. No tricks.”

The clink of the heavy coin pouch he dropped on the table was louder than it should have been. The smell of polished metal filled the air—sharp, cold, final.

Saharaa looked to her father, searching his face for resolve. She saw it—and behind it, desperation. Pride made him hesitate. Love made him reach.

“I won’t do this,” she whispered to him in their tongue. “He’s hiding something. Can’t you feel it?”

Reylos lowered his gaze. “I know.”

“Then why—?”

“Because we’re out of time, little claw.”

He straightened, tail flicking once.

“We accept,” he said to Dren, voice calm.

Saharaa clenched her jaw, forcing her expression to remain neutral, just as she had been taught. But inside, her blood boiled.

They left the mansion with a date set, the contract agreed upon, and the journey booked for Raktharth—capital of desert spice and ancient trade. A ship would depart at dawn, carrying them from Nyrakali’s stinking docks to the mainland continent beyond.

Saharaa walked beside her father in silence, the city lights behind them, the scent of salt and smoke in the air.

“You don’t have to like it,” Reylos murmured. “Just trust that I’m doing what I must—for us.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Because trust was easy when the world made sense. But the world was beginning to taste of poison.

The heat hit her first. Dry, golden, and unrelenting.

Raktharth rose like a mirage made stone, towering above the scorched plains of the Rakkesh desert. Minarets carved from red sandstone reached toward the sun, their domes gilded and shimmering like coins in a dragon’s hoard. Banners fluttered from every arch and balcony—each one bearing the sigil of a merchant house, a tribe, or a foreign power trying to leave its mark upon the city of trade.

This was no outpost. Raktharth was an empire of commerce, a sultaned maze of secrets and gold.

Saharaa stood on the deck of the ship as they docked, tail swaying in silent awe. It was her first time on the continent, and the world before her was everything her father had ever promised—chaotic, rich, alive.

Streets burst with noise and color. Spice-sellers shouted from beneath silk canopies, their stalls brimming with saffron, cumin, and crushed ruby peppers. Snake charmers played eerie tunes in the shade of marble fountains. Slave caravans paraded past armored guards, chains clinking beneath veils and heat. Camels, warbeasts, and sand-runners clogged the roads, while glass-eyed nobles watched from shaded balconies behind embroidered drapes.

There were humans, elves, Ruh’rashi, dark elves in gilded turbans, and half-orcs bearing scrolls of sale. Even a white-skinned half-orc sat behind a stall of cursed jewelry, her black eyes glowing faintly beneath her hood. Trade here knew no bounds. Every coin was welcome, every secret had a price.

Saharaa inhaled deeply, the scent of dust and cinnamon filling her chest. So this is the world. For a moment, she forgot why they had come.

Their arrival caused no ripple. Dren Malak had arranged for discrete passage and a temporary merchant license—though he, as always, was absent. In his place came letters, sealed instructions, and a timeline.

“Two weeks of open trade in the Lower Bazaars,” Reylos read aloud. “Then, a delivery of private cargo. Sealed, no inspection. Buyer to be met at the northern cliffs, beyond the city walls.”

The tone was official, impersonal. But the terms were generous.

Too generous.

Still, Reylos, energized by the prospect of rebuilding his fortune, threw himself into the bazaar. Day after day, they unpacked wares: rare Ruh’rashi spices, silk blends, enchanted pottery, and smoked salts from the high dunes. Saharaa, trained from childhood in the art of the sale, held her own among the chaos—haggling, charming, counting.

They made good coin. Better than expected.

And no one interfered.

No mercenaries breathing down their necks. No strange glances. No signs of surveillance.

By the seventh day, Saharaa had begun to relax.

By the tenth, she laughed freely beneath the burning sky, haggling with a Dwarven gem-dealer over flawed rubies.

By the twelfth, she explored the city alone—visiting the Grand Temple of Malkirath, patron god of the Ruh’rashi, and walking the Hanging Gardens of Tal’Veem where assassins once bathed their blades in moonlight.

Reylos noticed the change. “You’ve taken to the sands quickly, little claw,” he said, offering her a cup of chilled date-wine under a striped canopy. “Told you the world was more than dusty docks and bitter debts.”

She smiled back. “It’s more than I imagined.”

But late at night, she still turned the sealed cargo in her hands.

It was heavy, locked, and lined with silvery runes she didn’t recognize. Dren’s instructions had been clear: do not open. Do not question. Deliver.

Reylos assured her it was only a rare artifact. A collector’s item. Legal in some places, frowned upon in others. “No daemon magic. No weapons. Just… valuable to the right buyer.”

But something in her gut twisted.

And she pushed it down.

We made it. Nothing’s happened. Father is rebuilding. I’m finally seeing the world.

What kind of daughter would she be if she kept casting shadows over his only chance?

So when the dawn of the fourteenth day arrived, and they loaded the cargo onto a modest caravan for the final leg of the journey, Saharaa said nothing.

The map directed them northward, along a narrow pass that cut through wind-carved cliffs. It was a route unused by caravans but quiet enough for private transactions. The kind of place a buyer who prized secrecy would favor.

The sun rose behind them as they left Raktharth’s walls, the city glowing like a flame in the distance.

Saharaa rode with her father at the front, the wind brushing over the scarf that covered her muzzle.

She allowed herself a moment of peace.

The cliffs rose like jagged teeth around them, casting long shadows in the desert light. Wind whispered through the narrow passage, stirring the dust into lazy spirals. The caravan moved in tense silence, hooves and wheels crunching over stone. Saharaa’s ears twitched at every echo.

They were alone.

Too alone.

Reylos rode ahead, his gaze fixed on the trail. The sealed cargo was secured in the rear cart, covered in black cloth. Two of Dren’s mercenaries rode with them—Varnik among them, his scarred face hidden beneath a veil.

“I don’t like this,” Saharaa murmured.

Reylos exhaled slowly. “We’re almost there. No more worries.”

But her instincts screamed.

The scent of the air shifted—burnt oil, sweat, and metal. Not desert. Not wind.

Death.

She turned sharply. “Stop the—”

Then came the whistling sound.

Arrows.

The first struck the driver of the rear cart in the throat. He toppled sideways without a sound. The second buried itself in the chest of one of the guards. Before he could even cry out, blades emerged from the rocks—figures in sand-colored cloaks, painted faces, and curved scimitars gleaming.

Ambush.

Chaos.

Saharaa’s world exploded into sand and screaming.

“Defend the cargo!” Varnik roared, drawing his blade—not at the ambushers, but at Reylos.

Saharaa froze, stunned.

Traitor.

The realization struck her harder than any blade. These weren’t mercenaries protecting them. They had been the wolves among the herd from the beginning.

Reylos turned, barely fast enough. He drew his curved dagger and intercepted Varnik’s first swing with a clang of steel. His old reflexes returned, but age slowed his movements. His blade deflected, then dropped from his fingers as Varnik kicked him backward.

Saharaa lunged, claws out, fangs bared—but a blade grazed her shoulder, tearing through cloth and skin. She staggered.

“Run!” Reylos shouted. “Saharaa, run!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Run—damn it, live!”

Another attacker charged. Reylos intercepted him with his bare hands, grabbing the man’s arm and stabbing upward with a hidden knife. The man screamed, collapsed. But more came. Too many.

Saharaa’s blood pounded in her ears. The world blurred. Her hands trembled.

Then she saw it.

Varnik driving his blade into Reylos’ side.

Her father gasped. Blood spilled from his lips. He reached for her—eyes wide, desperate—and held something in his hand.

The jade pendant.

His voice cracked. “Take it—live—”

A second blade sank into his back.

Time stopped.

Saharaa screamed, a guttural, feral cry.

She took the pendant but she couldn’t reach him.

The mercenaries, loyal to coin alone, formed a shield around her. “Go!” one barked, shoving her toward a narrow crack in the cliff wall.

“What are you—”

“Your father paid us for the journey. We honor that. GO!”

Saharaa stumbled backward, clutching the pendant, her eyes never leaving her father’s crumpling form.

She ran.

The cliffs blurred into dunes. Screams echoed behind her, followed by silence. No one chased her. No one needed to.

She was running into death itself.

Pages: 1 2 3

• About the Author
• Stories of Astravara
• Support The Project
• The Codex
  • Characters
    • Brak “IronFist
    • Kael Drakar
  • Gods and Daemons
    • Elyonel The Firstborn God
    • Isisara Mirella Goddess of Love and Purity
    • Larythis Daemon of Lust and Desire
    • Magistus Veraael God of Magic
    • Malkirath God of The Hunt and Survival
    • Mordhekan Daemon of War
    • Tenebris Noctian God of Night and Mysteries
    • Thanarok Daemon of Death and Pestilence
    • Tianara Goddess of Justice
    • Virekos The Daemon of Madness
    • Vulkanar Dwarven God of Forges and Craftsmanship
  • Kingdoms and Regions
    • Arahllien – The Veiled Isle of the Aetheryni — A Hidden Sanctuary of Magic and Memory
    • Caltheron – The Naval Empire of Iron and Faith
    • Desert of Rakkesh – The Scorched Expanse of Tribes, Exiles, and Forgotten Fire
    • Dwarven Kingdom – The Halls Beneath the Stone, Forged in Fire and Oath
    • Eldoria — The Kingdom of Unity and Diplomacy
    • Karath’Nul – The Obsidian Citadel of Secrets and Shadows
    • Norvhar – The Highland Bastion of Clans and Frost
    • Nyrakali – The Ember-Isle of the Ruh’rashi – A Kingdom of Fire, Flesh, and Spirit
    • Sylvaran – The Forest Realm of Harmony and Hidden Magic
    • The Profaned Region The Broken Lands of Daemonkind, Where Fire, Plague, and Madness Dwell
  • Lore and Mythology
  • Races and Creatures
    • Dwarves of Astravara
    • The Elves of Astravara
    • The Humans of Astravara
    • The Ruh´Rashi

The First Song and the Celestial War

Estimated Reading Time:

In the beginning—before time, before light, before the very concept of existence—there was only the Unnamable: a primordial entity whose essence transcended form, boundary, or understanding. This was God, with a capital G. The Alpha and the Omega. The origin and the final destination of all things.

He was an overwhelming presence in the absolute void, where not even the echo of silence could exist. In His infinite solitude, He conceived the idea of creation—not out of need, but out of a desire to see His incomprehensible vastness reflected in infinite forms.

With a single thought, He birthed the stars, igniting the nothingness with eternal fire. Countless suns were born, their flames piercing the darkness in every direction, creating a cosmos that expanded without end.

Planets formed around those stars, shaped with divine precision. Some were lush—filled with purple skies and golden seas. Others were hostile and dark, covered in venomous deserts or forests that breathed malice.

Every detail was carved by the will of the Creator. But creation demanded a price. Each new world drained a part of His essence, binding Him irrevocably to all that existed.

When the universe finally took shape, God beheld His work. It was glorious—yet empty.

Creation was a tapestry with no eyes to admire its colors, no voices to sing of its wonders.

So He created the Eleven Primordials, His first children.

They were beings of pure cosmic energy—fragments of His own essence, reflections of aspects of the Creator. Each unique in purpose and nature.

The Primordials were beautiful and terrifying, vast in power and depth. To them, God entrusted the task of bringing life into the universe.

Together, they composed the Song of Life—a divine symphony that resonated through the fabric of creation. From that melody, the first living beings were born: simple forms, evolving in complexity, growing in number and diversity.

Oceans began to pulse with strange creatures. Forests became home to colossal beasts. Skies filled with wings that cut through the wind.

It was an age of harmony—a dance between Creator and Creation.

For millennia, the Primordials carried out their duties, spreading life to every corner of the cosmos. But the universe was vast. And over time, distance separated them from their Father.

Alone in their tasks, they began to experience something they had never known: doubt.

The connection to the Creator weakened. His voice became faint.

In search of what they had lost, some Primordials began to create independently—crafting their own versions of life.

That… was when ruin began to seep in.

As they created independently, the Primordials drifted away from their original formless state, taking on physical aspects that reflected their personalities and obsessions. Some became colossal beings—monstrosities whose very presence distorted reality around them. Others adopted more subtle, but no less sinister, forms, concealing their darker intentions behind delicate appearances.

The separation from the Creator, and the transformation of their divine nature, led many of the Primordials to feel resentment. Some believed they had been abandoned. Others desired to take the Creator’s place and rule the universe as supreme beings. Factions formed among the siblings, and soon resentment gave way to open conflict.

Thus began the Celestial War—a cataclysmic struggle that destroyed entire worlds, extinguished countless species, and stained the tapestry of creation with blood. The Primordials used their own creations as armies, manipulating them as pawns in a cosmic chess game. Entire planets were turned into battlefields, their skies ignited by storms of devastating energy. The screams of mortals echoed among the stars, but their cries were ignored by their divine masters.

The Creator, weakened by the burden of sustaining the universe, watched in agony as His masterpiece unraveled. In His sorrow, He composed a new song—a mournful melody that resonated across the entire fabric of existence. This music carried the Father’s grief for His lost children and the destruction of His creation. Those who heard it wept, from the humblest mortals to many of the Primordials themselves. Some of the children repented, laying down their weapons and joining the chorus of redemption.

But not all were touched by the song. Those who had fallen too far, whose hearts were consumed by anger and pride, composed a melody of their own. Their song was one of defiance, chaos, and bitterness. While the Creator’s song sought to heal and unify, theirs aimed to divide and corrupt.

And so, the universe became the stage for a battle between two melodies—one of harmony, and one of discord.

In a final act of power, the Creator reshaped the structure of the cosmos. He divided creation into twelve dimensions, each one a reflection of a different aspect of reality. Each Primordial was confined within a dimension, along with their creations and followers. The Twelfth Dimension was reserved for mortals who had not been corrupted by the influence of the Primordials.

With this last act, the Creator exhausted the last of His strength and entered a deep slumber. Yet even in His sleep, He continues to influence the cosmos through His dreams.

In the dimensions where they were sealed, the Primordials raised dark kingdoms shaped in their own image. Some continued to create life, but their creations bore the mark of their corruption—grotesque beings, hungry for power and destruction. Others devoted themselves to survival or the perfection of their own twisted creations. But all of them, without exception, longed to escape their dimensional prisons.

They began to reach into the Twelfth Dimension, sending emissaries, manipulating mortals, and planting seeds of chaos. Their followers—dark cults and devoted servants—spread their will, awaiting the day their masters would break through the barriers and reclaim the cosmos.

And so, the Creator’s song, though distant, still resists the discord of the fallen Primordials. The fate of the universe remains uncertain, caught in an eternal struggle between light and darkness, harmony and chaos.

In the early days of the dimensions, before the Creator sealed the gates between worlds, there was balance—though fragile. This delicate equilibrium was maintained by Virekos, the Primordial of Truth and Guardian of Peace. With golden-feathered angelic wings, flowing crimson hair like a river of fire, and radiant armor, Virekos served as a mediator between his siblings. As the universe teetered between creation and chaos, he held harmony together.

But harmony is a sharp blade, and its edge often wounds the one who wields it.

The cosmos simmered with tension. Mordhekan, the Primordial of War, longed for conflict—his fury growing like wildfire. Larythis, the Primordial of Desire, whispered dreams of domination and absolute freedom. Both despised the restraints that peace imposed. To them, Virekos was not a brother, but an obstacle.

Knowing his compassionate nature and unshakable trust, they conspired together. Mordhekan would stage a deadly conflict with Larythis, while she lured Virekos in with pleas for help.

“Virekos, dearest brother,” Larythis’s voice echoed among the stars, “Mordhekan and I are at war. My world burns. I beg for your aid.”

Worry tightened Virekos’s heart. He knew Mordhekan was prone to violence, but he believed all the Primordials—even the most chaotic—could still be guided back to the Creator’s purpose.

“I am coming, sister,” he replied, taking flight toward the forgotten edge of the galaxy where her call had led him.

When Virekos arrived, he found a desolate scene. Dark nebulas cloaked the space, and the stars themselves seemed lifeless. Mordhekan and Larythis waited, hidden in the shadows. As Virekos descended, his wings cast golden light into the void.

“Larythis? Mordhekan?” he called, his voice echoing through the vast emptiness. “Show yourselves, so we may resolve this peacefully.”

Larythis emerged first, her form cloaked in an ethereal veil that shimmered like starlight. Fake tears ran down her face as she approached him.

“Virekos, dear brother,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with deception. “He is beyond reason. I need your help to stop him.”

Before Virekos could respond, Mordhekan’s roar burst from the shadows like thunder. The Primordial of War charged forward, wielding his black blade, a weapon that seemed to devour light itself.

“You come here to mediate?!” Mordhekan bellowed. “You, the Creator’s shadow, preaching empty words while our Father abandons us?”

“Mordhekan, there is no need for violence!” Virekos pleaded, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.

But at that moment—when his attention was divided—the trap was sprung.

Dark chains erupted from the void.
Larythis, her expression now ice-cold, conjured bonds of pure energy that wrapped around Virekos’s arms and wings.
Mordhekan lunged, striking him down with brutal force.

“Betrayal?!” Virekos cried out, his voice raw with pain and disbelief. “Brothers—why?!”

“Because your light blinds us,” hissed Larythis, her voice now cruel. “And your truth… is a chain that keeps us in chains.”

Virekos was taken to the heart of the abyss, a place so deep that not even the light of the Creator could reach it. There, his torture began.

Mordhekan dismantled his body with relentless brutality. Each blow from his black blade echoed with a note of pain that reverberated through Virekos’s divine essence. His golden wings were torn out, feather by feather, and his radiant armor was shattered, exposing flesh that burned with celestial energy.

Larythis, on the other hand, focused on his mind. She crafted illusions—each one more cruel than the last. She showed him visions of the Creator turning away from him, of his siblings despising him, of entire worlds being destroyed by his failure to preserve peace. Her voice whispered lies in his ear: “You were only ever a tool, Virekos. Our Father never loved you. He abandoned you, as he did the rest of us.”

Over the years, Virekos began to fall apart—both in body and in spirit. He fought to resist, clinging to memories of better times, but even those became tainted. His radiance faded, and the darkness of the abyss consumed him.

When his last fragment of hope was extinguished, Virekos ceased to be the Guardian of Truth. In his place, something new emerged—Daemon, the Primordial of Madness.

His once-golden wings became twisted and black, their feathers sharpened like blades. His armor was replaced with plates of jagged obsidian, adorned with thorns. His eyes burned with a furious red glow, and his voice became a distorted echo of bitter laughter and tormented screams.

He looked at Larythis, no longer with hatred, but with devotion.

“You have freed me, sister,” he said. “I am no longer a servant of light. I am the maestro of chaos.”

He took her as his wife, forging a perverse bond, and together they began to compose the Song of Discord. Mordhekan, now satisfied, became their general, and the dissonant melody they created spread throughout the cosmos, tearing at the fabric of creation itself.

With Daemon now allied with Mordhekan and Larythis, the balance of the universe collapsed. Without Virekos to mediate conflict, the remaining Primordials fell into open discord. The dimensions became battlefields, and the cosmos descended into chaos. The Song of Discord, now led by Daemon and sung by Mordhekan, the Primordial of War, and Larythis, the Primordial of Emotions and Illusions, spread across the universe, corrupting the original melody of the Creator. The universe, once held together by the harmony of the primordial song, began to tremble under the weight of disharmony. Thus began the Celestial War.

In the midst of the growing chaos, Elyonel—the Firstborn and Protector of Mortals—stepped forward. Alongside him stood Isisara Mirella, the Goddess of Healing and Love, and Magistus Veraael, the God of Truth and Knowledge. Together, they summoned a council of the loyal deities at the center of the cosmos. There, gathered around a brilliant star, they vowed to defend the universe and honor the legacy of the Creator.

“We will not allow the chaos to destroy our Father’s creation,” Elyonel declared. “Together, we will stand.”

Meanwhile, the Daemons prepared for war. Mordhekan gathered legions of monstrous beings forged from hatred and the essence of destruction. Thanarok, the Daemon of Death and Pestilence, raised armies of the undead and unleashed living plagues across the stars. Larythis used her gifts of seduction and manipulation to corrupt mortals and lesser divinities alike, turning them into instruments of ruin.

The first battles broke out at the edges of the dimensions, but they soon consumed the entire cosmos.

Mordhekan, consumed by his lust for conquest, launched a devastating assault against the realm of Vulkanar, the Forge God and Master of Invention. Vulkanar fought back with divine craftsmanship and mighty fortresses of metal, wielding his legendary hammer. But Mordhekan, bearing a volcanic sword of immense power, cut through stone and steel with brutal ease. Their clash reduced entire worlds to ash.

Elsewhere, Isisara Mirella struggled against Thanarok’s corruption. She poured her divine energy into purging his plagues, but each act of healing drained her strength. Thanarok, in contrast, grew stronger through death and disease. He laughed as the bodies of fallen soldiers rose again to fight in his service.

At the heart of the war, Larythis manipulated the minds and hearts of gods and mortals alike. Her whispers turned allies into enemies, offering promises of power and forbidden desires. Even the most faithful of Elyonel’s followers faltered, becoming puppets in her insidious games.

As centuries of war passed, even the noblest among the gods began to falter. Tianara, Goddess of Justice and Balance, fought to preserve order, but the increasing chaos of the cosmos weakened her connection to nature. Forests withered, oceans boiled, and the winds ceased to blow.

Tenebris Noctian, God of Night and Mysteries, worked from the shadows, attempting to predict Daemon’s next moves. But even he was not immune to Larythis’s manipulation. His deepest secrets were revealed, and shame drove him into isolation.

Meanwhile, Malkirath, God of Survival and Ambition, began to question his allegiance. His nature made him crave power, and he was drawn to the side of the Daemons, believing he could thrive in the chaos. He became a double agent, betraying his divine siblings in small acts while pretending to remain loyal.

At the height of the war, the armies of the Gods and Daemons clashed at the center of the cosmos—where the original song of the Creator still resonated most strongly. There, a battle of unimaginable scale erupted.

Elyonel led the loyal gods with his radiant light and faced Daemon—once Virekos—directly. But the Daemon of Madness was no longer the brother Elyonel had known. Daemon had become a swirling storm of shadows and illusions, constantly shifting forms that even Elyonel’s divine sight struggled to follow.

“You still seek meaning from a Father who abandoned us,” Daemon sneered, his voice echoing like a thousand whispering voices. “While we are creating a new universe—free of his chains.”

Around them, war raged. Mordhekan clashed with Vulkanar, their blows shaking the heavens. Thanarok continued to spread disease and death, while Isisara sacrificed her light to save the remaining mortals.

When all seemed lost, Elyonel raised his voice in a final, desperate prayer.

Though silent, the Creator heard.

With the last spark of His power, the Creator intervened. A new melody spread across the cosmos—quiet, but undeniable. It divided the universe into twelve sealed dimensions. Each Primordial was cast into a separate realm, taking their armies and followers with them.

Elyonel and the faithful remained in the Twelfth Dimension, a sanctuary where mortals could exist free from the influence of the Daemons. Daemon, Mordhekan, Larythis, and their corrupted kin were locked away in twisted realms of chaos and ruin.

As the Creator’s melody faded, so too did His essence. Exhausted, He fell into a deep slumber, entrusting the universe to His divided children.

But even in exile, the Daemons searched for ways to breach the barriers. And in the depths of their dimensions, the Song of Discord continued to echo—promising that the war was not yet over.

Peace had been restored, but at the cost of unity. The cosmos remained fractured, every strand of its existence vibrating with the memory of a war that would never be truly forgotten.

Give me a Review:

• ShareCopied to clipboard
• X
• WhatsApp
• Reddit
• Mail