Chapter 19: Walk of Shame

The grand hallways of St. Louvre's royal palace were a testament to the kingdom's wealth and power. Golden banners adorned with lilies—the symbol of the kingdom—hung from the high ceilings, their beauty stark against the cold, unfeeling stone walls.

The air was heavy with the scent of polished marble and the faint, lingering aroma of incense. But tonight, the grandeur felt hollow, almost mocking.

Eryn walked at the head of his men, his boots echoing against the pristine floor. His once-proud posture was now slumped, his shoulders weighed down by the burden of failure.

Behind him, his surviving soldiers followed, their faces etched with exhaustion and shame. Their armor was battered, their uniforms stained with dirt and blood. They were a far cry from the elite unit that had marched out of the palace weeks ago.

The guards stationed along the hall did not even glance at them. Their indifference was worse than scorn. It was as if Eryn and his men were ghosts, already forgotten.

From the balconies above, nobles whispered and smirked, their voices carrying like the faint rustle of leaves.

"Is that Eryn? I heard he failed to take the Desert Trial."

"Pathetic. The King trusted him, and this is how he repays that trust?"

"Look at them. They're barely standing. What a disgrace."

Eryn clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to shout at them, to defend himself and his men. But he knew it would be pointless. The truth was undeniable—he had failed.

One of his men, Corin Hale, limped beside him, his face pale and drawn. He had taken an arrow to the leg during the retreat, and the wound was still fresh.

"Commander…" Corin's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Whatever happens, we fought well. We did everything we could."

Eryn didn't respond. He couldn't. The words felt hollow, a feeble attempt to justify their failure.

As they approached the massive golden doors of the throne room, the air grew heavier, almost suffocating. The doors creaked open, revealing the cold, imposing interior of the hall.

The throne room was a masterpiece of architecture, its high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings and its walls lined with tapestries depicting the kingdom's glorious history. But tonight, it felt more like a tomb.

At the far end of the hall, seated on a throne of gold and ivory, was King Alden Valcairn of St. Louvre. He was dressed in a white military coat adorned with gold embroidery, his emerald eyes sharp and piercing. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Eryn stepped forward, his men following behind him. They stopped a few paces from the throne and knelt, their heads bowed in submission.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the King rose from his throne.

The sound of his boots against the marble floor echoed like thunder. He walked slowly, deliberately, his gaze fixed on Eryn.

Without a word, he struck.

The first blow landed across Eryn's face, the impact ringing through the hall. Eryn staggered but didn't fall.

Then came another strike.

And another.

And another.

Blood dripped from Eryn's split lip, staining the pristine floor. His men flinched but remained silent, their heads bowed.

The King's voice was low, filled with barely contained fury.

"You have failed me, Eryn."

Silence.

"Do you even understand what you've done?" the King seethed. "How many of my men died because of your incompetence?"

Eryn didn't respond. There was nothing he could say.

The King turned his attention to Corin, who was still kneeling, his injured leg trembling.

"And you," the King said, his voice cold. "You followed him into failure."

He struck Corin, the blow sending the wounded soldier sprawling to the ground.

Another soldier, a young recruit named Taren, tried to protest. "Your Majesty, please—"

The King silenced him with a kick, sending him crashing to the floor.

This wasn't discipline. It was rage.

The King circled Eryn, his footsteps slow and deliberate. His voice was dangerously calm, each word cutting deeper than the last.

"I trusted you to lead. I gave you the kingdom's strength. And yet…"

He stopped in front of Eryn, his emerald eyes burning with fury.

"You return with nothing but corpses."

Eryn, still on one knee, finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "The Desert Trial is… untouchable. We were never meant to take it by force."

The King grabbed Eryn by the collar, pulling him to his feet. His grip was like iron, his face inches from Eryn's.

"Then you should have died trying."

His words were ice-cold, devoid of any mercy.

He released Eryn, shoving him back. "You disappoint me, Eryn."

The King turned and walked back to his throne, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He sat down, his gaze fixed on the broken men before him.

"Leave my sight," he said, his voice final. "And pray I find another use for you before I discard you."

Eryn and his men rose slowly, their movements stiff and pained. They turned and limped out of the throne room, their heads bowed in shame.

The walk back through the grand hallways felt even longer than before. The whispers of the nobles followed them, their smirks and laughter cutting deeper than any blade.

Corin limped beside Eryn, his face pale and drawn. "Commander… what happens now?"

Eryn didn't respond. He didn't know.

As they stepped out into the cold night air, Eryn looked up at the stars, his mind racing.

This isn't over, he thought, his jaw tightening. I'll prove myself. No matter what it takes.

But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already too late.

The weight of failure was heavy, and the road to redemption was long.

And the King's patience was running out.

---

Night had fallen over the small village nestled near the border of St. Louvre. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you long for the warmth of a fire.

The village was quiet, its inhabitants asleep, unaware of the storm about to descend upon them.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of distant hoofbeats, faint at first but growing louder with each passing second.

Then came the torches, their flames flickering like angry eyes in the darkness.

The Iron Fang had arrived.

Led by Commander Veydran Aldis, the white horse general, the invading force descended upon the village like wolves upon unsuspecting prey.

Veydran sat atop his striking white horse, his black-plated armor gleaming in the firelight. His expression was cold, unfeeling, as he surveyed the scene before him.

The attack began without warning.

Homes were set ablaze, their thatched roofs catching fire and lighting up the night sky. Men were dragged from their beds and slaughtered in the streets, their cries of terror cut short by the merciless blades of the Iron Fang.

Women and children fled, their screams piercing the night, but there was no escape. The soldiers ran them down, their laughter cruel and mocking.

A desperate village elder, his face lined with age and fear, stumbled toward Veydran. He fell to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached out.

"Please… mercy…"

Veydran looked down at the old man, his expression unchanged. For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a swift motion, he drew his blade and cut the elder down.

The old man crumpled to the ground, his blood staining the dirt.

Veydran sheathed his blade, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Mercy? Did your kingdom show mercy when they denied our rule? When they stole our land?"

The massacre continued, the village consumed by chaos and death. By the time the Iron Fang was done, not a single soul was left alive.

By morning, the village was nothing more than a smoldering ruin, its once-peaceful streets now littered with bodies and ash. But the Iron Fang was not done.

As the sun rose, posters and letters began to spread across Sylven Vein, carried by messengers and posted in town squares.

- "Iron Fang Invades St. Louvre Territory!"

- "The War Has Begun!"

- "Massacre at Border Village – No Survivors!"

- "St. Louvre Calls for Reinforcements!"

The news spread like wildfire, igniting fear and tension across the region.

In the Ashen Leaves' war room, Garrick clenched his jaw as he read the reports. His fists tightened, his mind racing with strategies and countermeasures.

"This changes everything," he muttered, his voice low. "If the Iron Fang is bold enough to attack St. Louvre directly, they're not just testing the waters. They're declaring war."

In St. Louvre's royal palace, King Alden Valcairn received the news with a fury that shook the very foundations of the throne room. He gripped the arms of his throne, his knuckles white, his emerald eyes burning with rage.

"Summon the generals," he barked at his advisors. "We will not let this insult go unanswered. The Iron Fang will pay for this."

Even in the far reaches of the world, the gods watched, their presence felt but unseen. They waited, their motives unclear, as the first true war in decades began to unfold.

The massacre at the village was only the beginning. The Iron Fang's invasion marked the start of a conflict that would engulf Titan Land in flames.

In the Ashen Leaves' camp, Garrick addressed his commanders, his voice steady but filled with urgency. "The Iron Fang has made their move. We cannot afford to sit idle. Prepare the troops. We strike at dawn."

One of his commanders, a grizzled veteran named Torran, stepped forward. "What's the plan, Garrick? Do we hit the Iron Fang directly, or do we wait for St. Louvre to weaken them first?"

Garrick's eyes narrowed. "We don't wait. The Iron Fang is a threat to all of us. If we let them gain ground, we'll be next. We strike hard and fast, before they can consolidate their forces."

In St. Louvre, King Alden summoned his generals, his voice cold and commanding. "The Iron Fang has declared war. We will crush them, no matter the cost."

One of his generals, a seasoned tactician named Marla Veric, spoke up. "Your Majesty, we need to secure our supply lines. If the Iron Fang cuts off our resources, we'll be fighting on empty stomachs."

The King nodded. "Do whatever it takes. I want the Iron Fang's head on a pike by the end of the month."

And in the shadows, the gods stirred, their whispers carried on the wind.

"The mortals play their games," one god murmured, his voice like thunder. "But they forget who truly holds the power."

"Let them fight," another replied, her voice like the rustle of leaves. "When they are weak, we will strike."

The war had begun, and no one would be spared its wrath.

---

The village was silent now, its streets empty, its homes reduced to ash. But the echoes of the massacre would linger, a grim reminder of the brutality of war.

As the sun rose over the horizon, casting its light on the smoldering ruins, one thing was clear—

The world would never be the same.

And as the news spread, the people of Titan Land braced themselves for the storm to come.

The war had begun, and it would not end until the land was drenched in blood.