The Ghosts of the Fallen Capital

The wind howled through the ruins of Vaeloris, the fallen capital of the lost kingdom. Nothing remained now but shattered towers and busted statues, their beauty claimed by the dust.

Eryndor pulled his cloak tighter about him for warmth. There was something suffocating about the air here—thick with the weight of the past, of lost whispers that still clung to the broken streets.

Lorien walked beside him, her eyes searching the ruins with a wary look. "This place is haunted."

Kaelor snorted. "Only by the ghosts of fools who lost their war."

Bastian, always the practical one, led them to the shattered remains of an ancient citadel. "We can camp here. The Dominion will not come in—at least, not in here."

Eryndor's scowl grew deeper. "Why?"

Bastian gave him a grim look. "Because everyone who visits Vaeloris either goes mad when they depart—or never departs at all."

While the others camped in the ruined citadel, Eryndor wandered.

The streets were lined with statues of old kings, faces worn by the elements. The remnants of golden mosaics still clung to the walls, depicting battles, triumphs, coronations.

Then, the visions began.

A whisper of wind—no, voices.

The ruins shimmered, and Eryndor stood in an ancient throne room.

Its walls reflected the black and gold banners. Smoke and blood were thick in the air. At the room's middle was the last king—Aelric Vaeloris—his sword blood-dripping.

Burning was the city beyond. The doors burst, and armored men flooded in—Dominion soldiers.

Eryndor sensed Aelric's despair, his final defense for the conquerors.

"You will never take this throne," the king snarled, reaching for his sword.

A Dominion general stepped forward—Vhaelor Dain, younger but just as ruthless.

"You are already dead," Vhaelor said to him. "The world has no place for kings now."

The struggle was short. Brutal.

Eryndor saw the sword thrust into the king's chest. He screamed, the pain searing as if it were his own.

Aelric fell to his knees, blood staining the marble floor.

With his dying breath, he whispered:

"The Crownless King will return."

Then—darkness.

Eryndor gasped, back in the present. He staggered, clutching his chest. The ruins were silent once again. The echoes had vanished.

But the words still burned his mind.

Lorien found him a few minutes later. "You saw something."

Eryndor nodded, still shaken. "The last king. His death. He said the Crownless King would return."

Kaelor, overhearing, frowned. "The prophecy."

Bastian, however, appeared troubled. "There's something you must see."

He led them to a toppled mausoleum, where an ancient inscription remained intact beneath layers of dirt.

The letters, once gold, had faded—but were still readable.

"The Crownless King will not rise. He will fall, and with him, the world shall burn."

There was silence.

Lorien's voice was a whisper. "The Order got it wrong."

Eryndor's gut turned. He had been raised to think the prophecy foretold a savior. But what if… it foretold destruction?

Kaelor's features clouded. "Then we've been battling for a falsehood."

"No," Eryndor said, his fists tight. "It means we don't have all the answers yet."

But the doubt had already begun to sprout.

Night had descended when the party was startled by a noise—a scuffling of footsteps in the rubble.

Weapons were drawn. Shadows flickered.

A voice rasped out of the darkness. "Sheathe those, unless you're going to die tonight."

An old soldier stepped into the firelight. His armor, while rusty, still bore the emblem of Vaeloris—a golden sunburst, now faded with age. His face was scarred, his left eye missing.

"I thought all the old knights were dead," Bastian said.

The man snorted. "We should be." His gaze landed on Eryndor, and his expression darkened. "So, you're the one they're naming the Crownless King."

Eryndor hesitated. "I don't know what I am."

The old knight gave a bitter laugh. "Good. Because the ones who knew what they were? They all died screaming."

Kaelor crossed his arms. "You were here for the fall."

"I was." His expression turned stern. "And this I'll tell you—that no king will rise from Vaeloris again."

Lorien's eyebrows narrowed. "Why?"

The knight's voice dipped to a whisper. "Because the prophecy is a trap."

There was a long silence.

Eryndor's mind spun. Had the Order been misled all along? Were they meant to bring about something terrible?

"Then what do we do?" Bastian asked.

The old soldier hesitated—then pointed east. "There's one who might have answers. But you won't like them."

Eryndor followed where he pointed. Beyond the ruins, far in the distance, a new fire had been lit.

The east was rising.

Rumors traveled faster than the wind.

On the distant eastern outskirts, a figure in white robes stood before a crowd of exiles, warriors, and vagabonds.

A False Prophet had emerged.

He raised his hands, his voice thundering.

"The Crownless King is a lie! The true king will ascend in the East!"

His people roared their assent.

He would unite them. He would make an army.

And soon…

He would march.

In Vaeloris, Eryndor stood at the edge of the ruins, looking out over the fires burning in the east.

"We cannot return," Lorien said.

Bastian nodded. "The Sanctum of the Seekers is still out there. And if this False Prophet emerges…"

Kaelor sighed. "Then we have more foes than we realized."

Eryndor took a deep breath. The prophecy was shattered, the past was haunting him, and the Dominion was still pursuing them.

But one thing was certain.

He could not give up now.

Whatever was coming—he had to confront it.

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