Chapter 46: The Fallen One

Chapter 46: Thw Fallen One

The fall of Gravanhal Fortress sent a tremor through the Eastern Alliance—but it was a tremor felt in whispers, not in thunder. The mighty bastion that had stood for over a millennium—through beast tides, demon incursions, and civil wars—was now a silent ruin.

Yet, one week passed before the news reached the great halls of Zaharat and Venaria.

In Zaharat, where bronze domes reflected the unrelenting desert sun, King Azim al-Malik stared in silence at the report laid before him. His fingers, adorned with rings of obsidian and jade, trembled ever so slightly.

"Summon the Sovereigns," he finally said, voice low. "This… changes everything."

In Venaria, far across the Sapphire Sea, Princess Selene's court fell into disarray. Ships were recalled, borders sealed. Yet she remained unmoving in her throne, her ocean-blue eyes fixed on the mirror spell linking her to Zaharat.

"We must call the Council," she said. "Duchy of Ilsar. Grauvin. It's the only focal point."

Three days later, the Sovereigns of the Eastern Alliance assembled in the capital of the Duchy of Ilsar—Grauvin.

It was a city built not for beauty, but for war. Walled high and forged in grey stone, it lay nestled in the gnarled valleys where the three spines of the Eastern Range converged. Beneath its massive dome, the sovereign chamber was lit with runes of truth and silence, and two shimmering mirrors floated—one for Zaharat, the other for Venaria.

The host—Duke Faelar Orlenis de Firais, tall, silver-haired, and burdened by blood—rose from his seat at the head of the table.

"We briefly know the state of your nations and the chaos each of us faces," he began, his voice calm but edged like tempered steel. "Still, we gather. As we did before—when the Empire threatened our borders. I will act as mediator."

King Azim's voice answered through the mirror—measured, but with a weight that crushed lesser men.

"Thank you for hosting us, Duke Faelar. You are our central pillar. I regret my absence, but my kingdom cannot afford my departure. Zaharat is burning—not with war, but rebellion."

Selene's image flickered with sea breeze and candlelight.

"My navy is crippled. Port unrest. Merchant clans fighting. But I am here—mind and will—if not body."

The Council chamber grew heavier as others added their voices.

The Sultanate of Qashir and the Republic of Dhakar—wealthy, cautious, and always calculating—remained unmoved.

"A thousand-year fortress is a grand symbol," spoke Magistrate Senka Varrin, her voice as cold as her black eyes. "But symbols do not stop monsters."

"Nor are we so naive to leap into what could be a seasonal beast tide," added Sultan Rashid ibn Jafar, polishing a pearl ring with feigned calm.

"Seasonal?" snapped Faelar, his voice rising for the first time. "Did a mere season's beasts tear down three-layered defenses in a night? Did a seasonal tide slaughter 100,000 trained warriors?"

Qashir and Dhakar fell silent.

Then, as if summoned by divine irony, the new High Priestess of the Church of the Sun, Alexa von Luthanaria, stepped forward from her dais.

Clad in ivory robes lined with gold filigree, her eyes gleamed not with light—but with judgment.

"The Theocracy," she said, "grieves our failure in the Pagan Empire. And we repent with action. I offer to send two inquisitorial squads and an elite healer unit to Gravanhal's ashes. As a gesture. Of faith. Of mercy."

Everyone stiffened. A conservative offering mercy? Few could stomach it—but fewer dared reject it.

The Duchy of Ilsar, torn between principle and survival, nodded slowly. The Five Clans of Azura sent warbands. Even Taurenholt pledged scouts.

One by one, reluctant allies remembered they were a wall—cracked, but not yet shattered.

But time—was slipping.

In the eastern highlands, beneath ashen clouds, Vice Commander Maelira staggered through a field of death.

The ground crunched beneath her bare feet—bones, frozen mud, steel fragments. Her face was cut and soot-smeared, her once-pristine armor shattered. She dragged a broken sword behind her like a lifeline.

She was the daughter of a disgraced duke—exiled to the north to rot in obscurity. The fortress had been her cage.

Now it was her graveyard.

She collapsed beside a withered pine tree, snow blanketing her as gently as it did the dead.

She thought she was dying.

Then—

Footsteps.

She reached for the broken hilt.

A voice, low and warm: "Peace."

A man knelt beside her—a grey cloak, golden eyes, Imperial insignia barely visible beneath frost.

"You survived," he whispered, awe-struck. "By the gods… You lived."

She bled through her teeth, forced her throat to work.

"Tell them…" she rasped.

"Tell who?"

Her eyes fixed on the western horizon.

"This isn't over. This was the beginning. The world—it's about to descend into chaos."

The scout bent lower, his brows furrowed. "Then what do I do?"

"Go west," she said, her voice cracking. "Go to the Lion Throne. Tell him… tell him the sovereigns here are fools. But the people—they need saving."

Then—

She thought, the world growing dark: It's the Pagan Empire. The enemy of Eastern Nations. And the one who sits upon the Lion Throne. The Lion Throne is the Emperor of the Pagan Empire. It means the Emperor of the Pagan Empire who crushed our alliance forces and the Magul Empire invasion. He's our mortal enemy. If given the chance, anyone in the Eastern alliance will kill him. Yet, what am I to do? I am the fallen noble sister of the reigning Duke of IIsar. I was held in exiled because I never liked my father who treated people like tools and left them to suffer. I rebelled against him to reform or to abolish the principle of nobles being above commoners. Yet, I lost the battle of succession and was exiled here. The reigning duke is my older brother who has no aspiration but acts as a puppet to nobles. Rather a puppet of traditional nobles. To save my people… And I… I will beg the devil if I must to save the continent and my own people.

The snow claimed her.

The sky watched.

And far, far to the west—

Emperor Aung Kyaw Zeya, now simply Aung III, slept fitfully.

In his dreams, a voice whispered like wind through broken glass.

"Eastward. Near the old fortress. A girl waits. Save her. She will unlock your true strength."

He awoke with a start.

The court stirred. His guards rushed in.

"Your Majesty?"

Aung shook his head.

"Ready a portal. I'm in a hurry."

Within the day, a golden teleportation circle bloomed above the snows of Gravanhal's ruin.

The unconscious Maelira stirred—cold, dying—

A hand touched her brow.

Warm.

She opened her eyes to golden light, and the young man with fire in his eyes said, "You'll be safe now."

And for the first time in days—

The exiled sister of Duke, the fallen one, She believed it.

(Continue….)