The Wrath of the Iron Dominion

The Iron Dominion marched like a storm.

General Vhaelor Dain, in battered black plate, headed his army, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Behind him, rows of iron-armored soldiers marched in perfect discipline, their banners—marked with the three-headed serpent—streaming in the wind.

Ahead of them were the ruins of the Order of the Crownless King.

Vhaelor had hunted them for years, but this time there would be no escape. He would burn their sanctuary to the ground and entomb their foolish prophecy once and for all.

A scout stepped forward, bowing his head. "We have confirmed their presence, General. The boy is with them."

Vhaelor's eyes darkened. "Good. Kill the others. Bring him to me alive."

The advance quickened. The air already smelled of blood.

Eryndor barely had time to catch his breath before the bells rang out—the signal to attack.

"The Dominion is here!" a scout shouted.

Chaos reigned within the Order. Yseult screamed orders, summoning warriors to protect the ruins, but Kaelor already knew the truth. "We can't fight them." His eyes sought out Eryndor. "We run."

Eryndor's heart pounding, "But—"

"No arguments," Lorien said, grabbing his wrist. "Move!

Bastian led them down a shattered stairway, deeper into the ruins. "This way. The old escape tunnels."

The walls closed in around them as they descended into darkness. The air was cool, thick with the scent of forgotten history. Torchlight danced, barely holding the shadows back.

Eryndor's breath came in short gasps. "Where do they lead?"

Kaelor's face contorted. "Nowhere good."

In the distance behind them, the sounds of battle echoed—shouts, screams, the clash of steel.

Then the earth trembled.

Dust fell from the ceiling. The Dominion was above, clawing through the debris like a plague.

Bastian swore under his breath. "Faster."

The walls of the tunnel writhed, constricting, then expanding into a vast underground cavern. Stalactites hung overhead like jagged teeth. A black river cut through the center, its waters unnaturally calm.

Lorien faltered. "We have to have a boat."

"No time," Kaelor growled. "We swim."

He plunged into the water without waiting. The others followed, the cold nipping at their skin.

Eryndor had not reached halfway across before he heard the sound of boots on stone.

Torches flared behind them. The Dominion had found the tunnels.

Arrows sliced the air, into the water.

"Go! Go!" Bastian shoved Eryndor forward.

They reached the far bank, wet, panting. Lorien pulled herself out, coughing. Kaelor drew his sword. "Keep moving."

The tunnel in front of them was collapsing. The earth-shattering crashes of stone dropped as the Dominion surged ahead.

Eryndor sprinted.

The world narrowed to the pound of his feet and the desperate dash for the light in front of them.

And then—they were through.

They burst into the wastelands.

A broken landscape stretched out before them—blackened trees, serrated cliffs, and an odd fog inching across the shattered earth.

"The Veil of Whispers," Kaelor answered grimly.

Eryndor shuddered. The stories about this place were bad—ghosts, ancient curses, things not to be mentioned.

Bastian wiped his sword clean. "Better than sitting to die."

They walked on, deeper into the mist.

Then—Eryndor heard it.

A voice, low and ancient, calling his name.

"Come."

He stumbled, heart racing.

"Eryndor?" Lorien's frown. "What's wrong?"

The voice again, threading through his mind.

"You have walked the path. Now find me."

Eryndor turned, eyes widening.

A figure loomed in the mist—tall, faceless, covered in shadow.

Then, as suddenly as it was there, it wasn't.

"Eryndor!" Lorien grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "What do you see?"

He blinked. "I… I don't know."

But inside, something called to him.

And he was scared.

Vhaelor Dain walked through the rubble.

The battle had been brief. The soldiers of the Order were dead, their corpses scattered among the rocks.

He turned to his lieutenant. "Burn it."

The command was given.

The old sanctuary was engulfed in flames, the icons of the Crownless King falling in the blaze, their heritage burned to ashes.

Vhaelor did not speak.

There would be no coming back. No prophecy. No heir.

And yet… something troubled him.

He looked to the horizon, where his scouts informed him the escapees had disappeared.

He would find the boy.

And he would end this ridiculous prophecy himself.

Eryndor stared into the fire on the distant ridge.

The Order was gone. The last haven of those who believed in the prophecy—destroyed because of him.

His fists clenched.

"This is my doing."

Lorien placed a hand on his shoulder. "No. This is the work of the Dominion."

Kaelor breathed out. "This is only the beginning."

Bastian turned away. "We depart at dawn. The Sanctum of the Seekers is our only hope now."

Eryndor nodded, yet within the mark burned more than ever.

He had no choice now.

The quest of the Crownless King had begun.

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