《History of the Four Kingdoms, Vol. 1》


 2nd Era, Year 151 - The Sack of the Sisters

    I try to run, but my body betrays me. I can¡¯t¡ªmy legs won¡¯t carry me, my muscles are too worn. So instead, I walk, each step a struggle against the agony that claws at me from every direction. A stone, hurled from a trebuchet, slams into the wall a mere few feet away, and I¡¯m thrown off balance, tumbling from the parapet. My helmet is gone, I don¡¯t know where. I don¡¯t care. I should be dead, but somehow I¡¯m not. A miracle. Or perhaps a curse. The Gods are not content with my suffering, yet.


    Explosions rattle the air, screams and shouts echoing from every corner of the city. I glance down¡ªblood. Too much blood. My right leg¡­ It¡¯s broken, I¡¯m sure of it. My vision swims in and out, every breath a burning knife in my chest. Each step feels like walking on fire. But I can¡¯t stop. I have to keep moving. If I don¡¯t, I¡¯ll die here. I¡¯m just a common soldier, after all. No one will spare me. I am nothing.


    For a moment, the idea crosses my mind. What if I shed my armor? It¡¯s broken beyond use, and it¡¯s heavy. If I could somehow blend in, pretend to be a civilian, perhaps I might survive. It feels cowardly, but I¡¯m too tired to care about honor now. The only thing that matters is survival. But would it work? Would they care? I doubt it.


    I¡¯ve seen the enemy. I¡¯ve seen the orcs. Hundreds, thousands, a legion marching with terrifying unity. The tribes of the Mist Forest had never cared about the politics of men and elves. They were too busy fighting amongst themselves. But now? Now, they march side by side with elves and men. What were they promised? By whom?


    I stop, blood trickling from my mouth, and cough. The sound is sickening. Another explosion¡ªlouder this time, and I hear the thud of something massive hitting the ground. A shockwave slams into me, nearly knocking me over, followed by the sickening sound of stone and metal crumbling. The southern walls are gone. Breached.


    We can¡¯t win. We never could. The Emperor has forsaken us.


    Around me, the civilians who stayed behind are in full panic. They rush from their homes, scattering like ants, running towards the bridge at the center of the city. Some left when the rebellion first began¡ªtoo few to matter, but they were the smart ones. The rest, though? They laughed, called them cowards. They were wrong. After the Battle of the Daughter, when our forces were shattered not far from the Capital, no one laughed. And now, even if only one out of every ten people stayed behind, in a city of over a million and a half, that¡¯s tens of thousands trapped in the same doomed place. No one left to help them.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The walls of Yerev have held for a century and a half. But today, for the first time, they¡¯ve been breached. I glance back, my heart sinking.


    They are coming.


    From the gaping hole in the southern wall, they pour in. Orcs, men, elves. A wave of destruction. At the head of them, a woman¡ªdark-skinned, a Yusundali, I think. She¡¯s the biggest woman I have ever seen. She wields a warhammer that should be too heavy for any mortal to carry with a single hand, but she does. She¡¯s crowned, too. A queen, apparently. Since when is Yusundal ruled by a queen? It doesn¡¯t matter now. She¡¯s screaming, her face a mask of rage and bloodlust.


    They¡¯re running straight for me. And I know¡ªthere¡¯s no way I can outrun them. So I turn. Maybe I can face this with some semblance of courage, but my legs tremble, and my heart hammers in my chest.


    I¡¯m scared. So scared. My hands shake uncontrollably around the hilt of my sword. My stance is weak. Pathetic. I can¡¯t do this. I piss myself.


    The hammer swings. Faster than I thought possible. I raise my sword to block, but it shatters through it like it¡¯s made of paper. My armor, my bones, everything¡ªgone in an instant. The world twists as I¡¯m thrown aside like a ragdoll, pain exploding everywhere.


    Everything fades to ringing. There¡¯s no more sight, just the constant thrum in my skull, and a few distant screams. Every inch of my body burns with agony. I know it¡¯s the end.


    I wonder if my family made it out in time. Or if they¡¯re on that bridge now, with the rest of the civilians, waiting for their turn to die.


    I¡¯m getting cold. Why has the Emperor abandoned us?


    Darkness. Absolute darkness. The pain is gone.


    I am somewhere. Nowhere. A void of pure silence. But in the distance, I see it. A tree. Massive. Bigger than any tree should be. A mountain more than a plant. Its branches are laden with glowing fruit¡ªbright, gold, pulsing with light. It calls to me.


    A voice¡ªsoft, feminine¡ªspeaks in my mind.


    Don¡¯t you want to eat it?


    I do. I need to. It¡¯s all I can think about now. I start walking, my legs moving of their own accord. There are others around me, I feel them, but I can¡¯t see them. I walk for what feels like an eternity, but I don¡¯t care. Only the tree matters. Only the fruit.


    Finally, after what seems like years, I reach it. I climb, my hands aching, my limbs weak, but I climb. I don¡¯t know how long it takes, but I reach the fruit. It¡¯s so beautiful. Golden, glowing, so inviting. I bite into it.


    It¡¯s like nothing I¡¯ve ever tasted. Sweet. Warm. I devour it, hunger consuming me.


    And then, everything turns white. Blinding light. The tree is gone, the world vanishes. I can¡¯t see. I can¡¯t feel.


    And then¡­ I wake up.

 Martha the Hammer

    I like the taste of blood in my mouth. It¡¯s familiar. Feels like home.


    Most kids in Dogslum know that taste well.


    Dogslum¡ªa shithole with too many stray dogs and too many hungry kids. Pretty self-explanatory. I grew up there. Maybe I was born there, maybe not. Doesn¡¯t matter. Never knew my parents. Just another orphan scraping by with the rest. Some kids had parents, but shit, looking at them? You¡¯d think they wished they didn¡¯t.


    Don¡¯t pity us. We got by. Yusundal wasn¡¯t the worst place to be poor. Soup kitchens doled out a meal a day, maybe two for kids. You always had a roof over your head if you wanted a place to sleep, at least until you turned fourteen. The downside? You shared it with too many others, and it stank like shit. But the streets were worse. Usually.


    When we weren¡¯t eating or sleeping, we fought. We stole. We did whatever the fuck we wanted. That was the way of Dogslum. That was the way of kids like me.


    It was there that I got my Gift.


    I was in an alley, fists swinging. Another fight, another dumbass kid who said the wrong thing. I don¡¯t remember what it was. Doesn¡¯t matter. I was bigger than most boys my age. Taller than a lot of 16 year-old boys, and I was only 14, and a girl. They mocked me for it, called me Martha the Giant, and I¡¯d beat the shit out of them for it.


    The crowd of kids gathered, laughing, jeering, spitting. Dogslum never missed a fight. The air was thick with heat, the kind that sticks to your skin. The alley smelled like sweat, piss, and wet dog.


    We struggled, rolling in the dirt. Then I got on top of him. He was mine.


    ¡°Now you¡¯ll fucking see,¡± I thought.


    I felt heat surge through me, like fire under my skin. My fist came down hard, harder than ever before. His skull didn¡¯t just break¡ªit popped, like a ripe fruit. Bits of skull and brains everywhere. Fuck.


    The laughter stopped. Screams took its place. Kids ran, calling for help. Some managed a few steps before vomiting. I just stared at what was left of him. I didn¡¯t understand. How? Why?


    Then the city guard came.


    I thought I was fucked. A slum rat like me, guilty of murder? I was done for, I¡¯d be locked away forever. But no. They let me go.


    Just a fight between slum dogs. They said. The boy swinged first, it was self defense. That wasn¡¯t true.


    But the boy had no family to care that he was gone. No one to push for justice. I was free.


    Or so I thought.


    They didn¡¯t release me. They brought me to a palace. A real one. Marble floors, golden chandeliers, rich-people shit. There, they told me I had a Gift. A rare one. And they would train me to use it. In return, the Kingdom would take care of me.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Fuck it. Sounds like a good fucking deal to me.


    There were others like me. Kids with strange powers. I didn¡¯t fit in. They were soft, perfumed, too clean. I watched them. I learned. And I grew.


    By the time I was done training, I wasn¡¯t just strong. I was a fucking weapon of war. Even without my Gift, I was a monster. 6¡¯8, when I was 21, and stronger than any man.


    And when the heat came, when the Gift surged through me? Nothing could stand in my way. I had learnt to control it, to channel it. I was a monster.


    They gave me a weapon¡ªa massive, gold-tinged hammer. An Artifact, they called it. Forged by some legendary craftsman. Blessed by the Gods, or whatever other bullshit they said. I didn¡¯t believe it, but it felt good in my hands. It felt right. My Hammer.


    I liked palace life. Meat every day. A bed all to myself. But I was reminded, again and again, that I had a duty. That I belonged to the Kingdom. That I was a dog, and nothing more. Well, they didn¡¯t say that last part out loud, but I understood it, I wasn¡¯t dumb. But being a dog was all I ever knew, and so I was fine with it.


    Then came the war.


    I was sent to fight. I don¡¯t know what for, never bothered to ask. I was sent to kill. And I did. Oh, I did.


    I was sweeping through battlefields, killing men by the dozens with a single sweep of my Hammer. The few times they¡¯d manage to catch me off guard, their swords and arrows would barely scrap my skin. ¡°Monster!¡± they managed to blurt out sometimes, right before I killed them. They were right.


    The more I killed, the better I got. My hammer felt like an extension of my body. My fellow soldiers feared me, then respected me, then worshipped me.


    I saw it in their eyes. The way they saluted. The way they bowed their heads. The way they clung to my every word around the fire, talking about the battles, the bodies, the blood. Every day, after sunset, we¡¯d sit around the fire and laugh about who had pissed themselves during the battle, or who didn¡¯t manage to kill a single enemy. I looked forward to it, every day.


    My men were the hardest, meanest, toughest bastards around.


    And yet still, sometimes, one of us would fall, and we¡¯d drink to them and tell stories about some dumb shit they had done in the past.


    For the first time, I understood what it meant to have a family. To know that if I was killed in battle, these motherfuckers would gather around a fire and remember me. It felt nice.


    The war was almost done. Only the siege was left, now. The boring part, if you ask me. Just sit around and wait for the coward little shits to starve to death behind their walls.


    But then, one morning, everything changed.


    Panic swept through the camp. The King was dead. The generals, too. Killed in their sleep. No one knew who did it. No one knew what to do.


    I walked into their war tent. The bodies were cold, the assassin long gone. A single cut to the throat, all of them. It was so deep, it would be more accurate to say they were beheaded. Expertly done.


    And my first thought was¡­


    Who¡¯s gonna pay me now?


    And then another thought.


    Who¡¯s gonna be king now?


    And then, at last, another thought. An idea. Madness.


    Fuck it, why not.


    I wasn¡¯t going to be anyone¡¯s dog anymore.


    I reached for the crown. Lifted it. Placed it on my head. It fit like it was made for me. It felt like it belonged there, on my head. Like it should¡¯ve always been there, and someone took it, and that I was finally whole again. Silence. Then cheers. Screams. They chanted my name.


    I stepped out into the camp, my hammer raised high. Thousands of soldiers roared as one.


    Martha the Hammer! Martha the Hammer! Martha the Hammer!


    Fuck me, it felt good. I felt power surge through me like never before. Fuck kings, and bloodlines, and Gods. I am a Warrior, and I will take whatever I want. With this Hammer, I will take it.


    I pointed my Hammer towards the city in the distance, and I turned to them, voice like thunder.


    ¡°Let¡¯s break those fucking walls.¡±


    And they lifted their weapons. And they cheered. And they followed me to war.

 The South Lands Rebellion

    The last time the Emperor appeared in public, he was said to be around 170 years old¡ªyet he didn¡¯t look a day over 20. He was seen walking the streets of the White District, his Empress by his side, her delicate hand resting in his. She was as breathtaking as the rumors claimed¡ªthe most beautiful Empress in history, with cascades of red hair flowing almost to the ground and skin so pale it nearly glowed in the sunlight.


    The Emperor himself was unremarkable in appearance¡ªaverage in height, lean in build, with forgettable brown hair. But there was nothing unremarkable about the man.


    Two guards flanked them, tall, silent, unreadable. Just two. And even they were there only for show¡ªeveryone knew the truth. Nothing in this world could harm the Emperor.


    They walked briefly through the Citadel. And then¡­ nothing.


    For twelve months, the Emperor vanished. It wasn¡¯t unusual for him to retreat into his Tower for a few weeks¡ªsometimes months¡ªto attend to matters only he understood. But a year? A full year without a single word from him, or any sign of his presence? That was unheard of.


    ¡°The Emperor is sick. He¡¯s dying,¡± they whispered. At first, it was a joke, a laughable notion. But then¡­ the doubts began. And then the rumors. They spread like wildfire, twisting with every retelling. His magic is failing him! He¡¯s already dead and they¡¯re hiding it! His new Empress poisoned him! He has ascended to another plane, leaving us behind!


    And while the Southern District was too consumed with their own struggles to pay much attention to idle talk, things were moving, in the Citadel. There, amidst the revelry of the nobles¡¯ halls and the beautiful whitestone streets, you could see it. The tension in their eyes. Nobles walking with solemn expressions, generals casting furtive glances, the quiet whispers that something was coming. They were right.


    They say the Elves of the Rainlands were the first to receive the Gift¡ªchildren born with strange and unexplainable powers, gifts they could barely control. It wasn¡¯t just the children, though. Adults, too, could sometimes manifest abilities¡ªthough less often, and less reliably. It was an enigma, something that defied understanding.


    And then, as though the Gift had spread like a seed across the land, it reached the races of men. First it came the dark-skinned people of Yusundal, in the south, and it spread all the way to the pale Northmen of the Greylands. Magic coursed through them all, those lucky enough to be chosen by it, at least.


    The land had grown restless with uncertainty. With the Emperor¡¯s absence stretching into its second year and the Gifted rising in strength and number, the whispers grew louder. Warriors and mages and healers with powers that could match the Emperor himself. Heroes, they called them, spreading promises of a better future.


    Then rebellion came. It started small, only a few villages in the countryside of Ceralia, but it spread like a plague. In only a couple of weeks, the whole kingdom was up in arms, the ambitious prince-turned-king Karl the 12<sup>th</sup>, who was rumoured to have taken the crown from his father by force, appointed himself as leader of the Rebellion. Only a few days later Yusundal would join in on the rebels side.


    The small kingdom of Salyra, wedged between them, declared its neutrality¡ªbut neutrality was not enough for Yusundal. They demanded Salyra take a side. Their refusal to do so was answer enough to the Yusundali, and they put the kingdom to the sword. No member of the royal family was spared.


    And the Emperor did nothing.


    It was that moment that tipped the scales, that confirmed the rumors in the heads of those that still had doubts. The Rainlands, sensing an opportunity, cast their lot with the rebels. And just like that, the three great kingdoms of the South¡ªCeralia, Yusundal, and the Rainlands¡ªmarched towards the Sisters, their banners unfurled in open defiance.


    In the North Lands, King Elbert¡ªthe Coward, they called him¡ªsent his armies. But he would not leave the safety of Port Bleak¡¯s castle, swearing fealty to the Empire while his soldiers bled on distant fields. He would not risk himself, not even as his armies marched south. Even with the Northmen on their side, the Imperial army found itself outnumbered three to one. The Sister Cities, however, had been built by the Emperor himself. And the walls? High enough to mock any would-be conqueror, built by Yerev the Builder himself. Surely, they would stand.


    That would have been true once. But no longer. Not in the Year of Heroes.


    Historians still argue over whether the city ever had a chance. Some claim its fall was inevitable, that the Gods themselves had decreed it, and no strategy, no act of mortal will, could have changed what was to come. That the Emperor had offended them, that he had tried to become a God himself, and that he was punished for it by being stripped of his power, and forced to watch from atop his White Tower, as his beloved city was torn apart.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Others, less superstitious, lay the blame squarely on the Imperial Army, its leadership riddled with miscalculations and arrogance. The worst of these, they say, was the failed attempt to halt the southern advance of Ceralia and Yusundal before they could cross the Daughter.


    The strategy had seemed sound. Destroy the bridges. Hold the riverbanks. The Daughter¡¯s freezing currents would do the rest. No army in full armor could hope to cross under fire¡ªnot against a well-defended shoreline. And so, with the river serving as a natural barrier, the bulk of the Imperial forces were sent west to confront the elven army, deemed the weaker threat.


    The plan itself was not the failure. Tactically, it made sense. But tactics crumble in the face of the unexpected.


    The rebels had prepared for this. The elven retreat was not a sign of weakness¡ªit was a trap. And as the Imperial Army pressed forward, orcs descended upon the empire from the north. Not raiding parties. Not scattered warbands. Legions. Thousands of them, marching in terrifying unison. No one had expected that, because it had never happened before.


    Panic spread through the ranks. Fear turned into chaos. The lines broke¡ªshattered before they could even mount a real defense. And once the orcs began their push, there was no stopping them.


    The Imperial forces at the Daughter, left behind to guard the riverbanks, suddenly found themselves trapped. On one side, the advancing armies of Ceralia and Yusundal. On the other, a slaughterhouse of elves and orcs. The river had once been their greatest defense. Now, it was a death sentence. Men flung themselves into the icy waters in a desperate attempt to escape. Most drowned. The rest were cut down where they stood.


    The day would come to be known as the Battle of the Daughter, or the Massacre of the Daughter. And no matter which name was used, all would agree: it was the day the rebels won.


    The siege that followed was little more than a formality. A matter of time.


    The rebel armies camped outside the southern walls, content to wait. The Imperial army was shattered, its remnants scattered to the wind. Civilians, those with the means or foresight, had already fled through the northern gates, seeking refuge in lands yet untouched by war. And even with their numbers thinned, the defenders of the city could hold the walls¡ªthe granaries of the North Lands were full, enough to sustain them for months, perhaps even years.


    But Cedric the Shipbuilder saw to that.


    The elven hero took his fleet into the northern sea, vanishing into the storms, sailing so far from land that no Imperial ship ever caught sight of him. He circled the entire continent, unseen, and landed where no one expected¡ªon the northernmost shores, deep in the heart of Imperial territory.


    With only a few hundred men, he burned the fields, razed the storehouses, and shattered the northern supply lines before the Empire even realized what was happening. There was no one left to stop him. The bulk of the northern army had already marched south, leaving the lands above the strait defenseless.


    It did not take long for Elbert the Coward to surrender. He declared his allegiance to the rebels before the ashes of his own fields had even cooled. But not all of his people followed. The Northmen were the Emperor¡¯s most loyal subjects, and when their liege turned his back on the Empire, many refused to do the same.


    They took up arms beneath the Imperial banner, and they died beneath it.


    But the Empire didn¡¯t just crumble without a fight. A whisper of vengeance came in the form of a nameless Gifted.


    One night, someone, something, slipped into the Yusundali camp, unseen, unheard. By morning, most of the kingdom¡¯s high command lay in their tents, throats slit.


    The assassin was never caught. He was never named. And yet his actions, while bold, did little to save the city. If anything, they only sealed its fate.


    Because at dawn, when the bodies were found, panic spread through the Yusundali ranks. Soldiers murmured of treachery, of dark omens. But all of that was quickly put to a stop.


    The legendary hero, Martha the Hammer, worshipped by the Yusundali troops, strode into the command tent, plucked the fallen king¡¯s crown from his lifeless head, and set it upon her own¡ªstill slick with blood. Then, she raised her warhammer to the sky and ordered her armies to assault the walls immediately.


    She led the charge herself. Some say the Gods had gifted her that hammer, that it was no ordinary weapon. That when she struck the city walls, the stones themselves crumbled at her touch. Whatever the truth, Yerev¡¯s Wall was breached, and Martha was the first through.


    The rebels rampaged through the streets, cutting down what little resistance remained. And when they reached the White Tower, it was Martha who entered first. The Emperor was declared dead before the sun had set, said to have been killed all the way up in his tower, but no one ever saw his body.


    And so, the Empire fell once and for all. And the four Kingdoms were free at last after 172 years of Imperial rule.


    And the four crowns and the united orc tribes decided to sign a pact in blood, a peace of one hundred years. And they divided the Lands as such:


    Karl the Bold would rule over Ceralia, as his family had for a thousand years, as well as absorb the lands of Salyra within its own kingdom.


    Vyan Naranthis claimed the Kingdom of Storm and Forest, where elves had ruled since time immemorial.


    Martha the Hammer crowned herself Queen of Yusundal, amidst the cheers of her army. Their capital, Yusund, was renamed Martha¡¯s Victory after her triumphant return back home.


    Elbert the Coward was allowed to keep his throne, despite having fought for the loyalists¡¯ side. Soon after however, he would be found dead in his bed, his throat slit.


    And in the misty forests of the Southwest, the orcs claimed dominion at last, receiving the city of Fort Gorlan, as promised at the beginning of the war. And no man or elf would set foot in their forest without permission, except for the Yusundali, as Warmother Rukka and Martha the Hammer became sworn sisters on the battlefield.


    As for the Sister Cities, in which these pacts were signed in blood, they were declared neutral ground. No kingdom would claim the Sisters, ever. They would be ruled instead by the Nivori family, alone and independent.


    Thus ended the Rebellion. And with it, the Year of Heroes.