Wind howled in his ears, its cold fingers dragging through his hair as Dusk crested the last hill.


    And there it was.


    Ashrakar.


    The capital rose from the earth and the bones of a dead god, a mountain of black stone, its walls stretching so high that they seemed to scrape against the sky. From where he stood, the city looked unshakable, its colossal towers with eternal flames—fires that never died, never flickered


    Dusk exhaled.


    His griped the cloth-wrapped hilt of his sword.


    Even from this distance, he could see the scars of war carved into the city’s bones—siege marks on the outer walls, patches of ancient, darkened stains where battles had once been fought. This was not a place that welcomed visitors.


    It was a place that swallowed them whole.


    He moved forward.


    The gates loomed ahead, impossibly large—so massive that even the strongest warbeasts could have marched through without needing to lower their heads. But what really caught his attention were the statues.


    Two titanic figures stood guard on either side of the entrance, carved from obsidian.


    Ravana Nastika, the first king, towered above a fallen god, his blade buried in the Sundara’s chest. The god’s face was frozen in an expression that made Dusk’s skin crawl—not agony, not despair, but something worse.


    Amusement.


    Like it had seen its death coming from miles away.


    And found it funny.


    Dusk didn’t slow. If the dead were watching, let them.


    Inside, Ashrakar pulsed with life.


    The streets were crowded, yet somehow quiet. The weight of the citadel’s shadow stretched across the city, pressing against his back like a hand between his shoulder blades.


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    People moved around him, stealing glances.


    A lone warrior, dressed in black, carrying an unfamiliar sword.


    Dusk ignored them.


    There was only one destination.


    The Nastika Citadel loomed over the city, its golden walls stretching toward the heavens like the last monument of a fallen age. They said it was built from the ruins of the Sundaras’ shattered temples, each brick molded from their bones, their defeat immortalized in the very foundation.


    Dusk took a step forward—


    And then the world exploded into motion.


    Hoofbeats.


    Fast. Aggressive. A blur of movement slicing through the crowd like a blade through flesh.


    Three riders emerged.


    Two knights—armored, cloaked, bearing the sigil of House Nastika—a crimson flame entwined with a broken god’s crown.


    But the third…


    Dusk felt his instincts coil before he even understood why.


    A man rode at their center, tall and lean, his jet-black hair swept back, revealing a face of sharp angles and sharper eyes. His robe was military—black, lined with gold embroidery, the image of a phoenix etched into the fabric.


    He wasn’t looking at Dusk.


    And then he was.


    A flicker. A shift in balance. Steel flashed.


    Too fast.


    Dusk’s body moved on instinct.


    His fingers curled around his sword, the void shuddering as he called the weapon forth—


    CLANG.


    Sparks exploded into the air.


    A curved blade slammed against his own, the force of the impact rattling through his arms.


    His foot slid half an inch backward.


    Dusk blinked.


    The blade was at his neck.


    A thin line of warmth trailed down his skin—blood.


    The man was behind him.


    Dusk’s mind took a fraction of a second to catch up. That movement… that speed…


    Impossible.


    "Don’t move."


    The voice was calm, almost bored.


    Dusk turned his head, slow and deliberate, until he met deep crimson eyes.


    Up close, the man felt… wrong.


    Not just dangerous. Not just powerful. Wrong.


    Like the laws of the world bent around him just enough to let him exist outside them.


    A whisper of steel, and the curved blade disappeared.


    "Show me your royal order."


    Dusk reached into the void, summoning the parchment into existence. He handed it over, slow, measured.


    The man barely glanced at it.


    Then—a smirk.


    Not a friendly one.


    A knight beside him spoke,


    "You stand before Vael of House Nastika, Commander of the Royal Guard, and brother to His Majesty, Ravana Nastika, Second of His Name."


    Dusk met Vael’s gaze.


    "I am Dusk," he said simply. "I come to serve His Majesty by royal decree."


    Vael studied him, expression unreadable.


    Then—a chuckle.


    "You’re the one, then? My dear brother’s new pet?"


    Dusk didn’t react.


    Vael’s smirk widened.


    "Let’s see if you can keep up."


    And with that, he turned his horse and rode forward.


    The knights followed.


    Dusk walked.


    The citadel loomed ahead.


    Waiting.