23 years ago

The dungeons of the Black Keep were a place where daylight dared not tread. Deep beneath the fortress's grim battlements, near the borders of the Wyrmwood, the air was thick with mildew and despair. The walls of slick black stone seemed to exude their own chill, and the torchlight that flickered here gave no warmth, only enough illumination to etch nightmares in sharp relief.

Alaric Veythar, former General of Cyrennia’s Vanguard, loomed over the cowering figure of a young soldier. The boy—barely a man—shivered, his tunic torn and smeared with blood and filth. Alaric’s armor, once gleaming and adorned with the golden crest of King Gregor, was tarnished and smeared with soot. His dark hair hung in lank strands over his face, his eyes—sharp as broken glass—burning with a feral light.

"You have a name, boy." His voice was low and rough, like the scrape of iron across stone. He crouched, bringing himself level with the soldier, who flinched at his approach. "You’ll tell me, won’t you?"

The soldier licked cracked lips, his voice barely a whisper. "R-Renan. Renan Birchwood."

"Birchwood?" Alaric’s lip curled, amusement flickering across his gaunt face. "A farmer’s boy, then. Of course. They always send the farmers first, don’t they? The fodder." He gestured toward the dark corridor beyond the cell, where the distant echoes of the wounded still lingered. "That’s what you were meant to be, wasn’t it? Just another corpse left to rot in the fields of Xylos."

Renan’s breath hitched at the name, his hands curling into fists as he tried—and failed—to push himself further away from the man. "I-I fought as I was ordered! I didn’t—"

Alaric laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound that filled the narrow chamber. "Oh, I don’t blame you, lad. You did what you were told, like a good little pawn. Like me."

Alaric stood abruptly, towering over him once more. He began to pace, a dagger spinning lazily in his hand. "Once, I was the King’s hound. Breaker of sieges, the Sword of Cyrennia. Loyal. Fearsome." His words dripped with bitter mockery. "And now? Now I’m nothing."

Renan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Xylos…"

"I made a mistake," Alaric said, his tone light, almost conversational. "At Xylos. A strategic error. The kind that wins battles for your enemy and buries your men in the dirt." He stopped, spinning to face Renan with sudden intensity. "Do you know what Gregor did? Our great and noble king? He stripped me of my title. My command. Called me a disgrace."

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The venom in his words made Renan flinch.

"All those men," Alaric said, his voice cracking. "Thousands. Gone. And Gregor blames me. Me. As if I wasn’t the one who bled for his damn wars. As if I didn’t win him every inch of his precious kingdom." He spat the last word, his face twisting with hatred.

Renan found his voice at last, though it was small and trembling. "Why… why are you telling me this?"

Alaric’s smile returned, colder this time. "Because you matter, boy. You, of all people." He tapped the blade of his dagger against the chalice that sat on the ground beside him. The clang echoed ominously in the small chamber. He crouched again, leaning close enough for Renan to smell the blood on his breath. "Because, Renan Birchwood, you’re the key to my redemption. Or perhaps...my revenge."

"The battle... it wasn’t your fault."

"No?" Alaric arched a brow. "Tell that to the corpses rotting in the fields of Xylos. Tell it to the widows who curse my name. Or better yet, tell it to Gregor, who was so quick to strip me of my title, my army—my life’s work." His voice grew sharper, each word laced with venom. "He took everything from me. And now I will take everything from him."

"You’re mad," Renan whispered, his voice trembling. "You can’t kill the king. No one can. He’s—he’s protected. Blessed by the gods."

Alaric tilted his head, a predatory smile curling his lips. "Ah, the boy speaks truth. How do you kill someone who cannot die?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "By ensuring you are beyond their reach. Beyond death itself."

Alaric’s blade gleamed in the torchlight, wickedly sharp. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed the tip against his own palm, slicing deep enough for blood to well up and drip into the waiting chalice on the floor. The dark liquid pooled at the bottom, reflecting the flickering flame.

"Blood," Alaric murmured. "The essence of life itself. Do you know what’s in a man’s blood, Renan? Everything. His strength, his spirit, his soul."

Renan tried to scramble away, but Alaric grabbed his arm, his grip iron-strong. "Let me go!" the boy cried, panic overtaking him.

"Your name doesn’t matter, Renan Birchwood," Alaric said, his voice almost tender. "Not to the king, not to anyone. But to me? To me, you are everything. Because you’re where it all starts."

The dagger flashed, cutting a shallow line across Renan’s wrist. The boy cried out, but Alaric held him firm, letting the blood flow into the chalice. The air in the chamber grew heavy, charged with an unnatural energy.

"You see, boy," Alaric said, his eyes burning with a mad light, "I’ve lost everything. My command, my honor, my men. But from this… from us… I will rise again. Stronger. Eternal."

He raised the chalice, the mingled blood of man and boy swirling like liquid fire. "And when I stand before Gregor," Alaric hissed, "he will know fear. For even the gods will not save him."