CHAPTER 60: The Ashmark Scythe

CHAPTER 60: The Ashmark Scythe

Imperial Capital – Highcourt, Deepest Night

The grand bells of Highcourt tolled mournfully, echoing through the frost-kissed silence of the capital. Not signaling a new watch, but ringing a desperate alarm, a sound long dulled by bureaucracy and complacency. For days, panicked dispatches from the south had screamed of a rampant rebellion, of a major Imperial garrison breaking ranks and defecting. High Crown Orsain, blinded by fury, had diverted a full Legion southward, dispatching his best commanders to quell the phantom threat. The north, where Lord Marshal Daegarn grimly fought his war against shadows and hunger, felt impossibly distant.

Now, with much of the Capital's regular garrison stripped bare, the city's true vulnerability lay exposed, a gaping wound beneath its gilded façade. And Kael Ashmark had come to plunge his blade into it.

"The south has bought us this," Kael's voice was a low, chilling growl, barely audible over the wind that whipped his black cloak. He stood on a high ridge overlooking the Capital, his gaze fixed on the city walls, surprisingly sparse with defenders. Beside him, Myrren's axe glinted faintly in the starlight. Dren clutched his own blade, a feral grin splitting his face. Theron Varkhale, a grim sentinel, breathed heavily, his men arrayed behind them like silent wolves.

Nalen, a whisper from the imperial shadows, had confirmed the exact points of weakness: the stripped garrisons, the panicked command, the complacency of the watch. "Their southern Legion diverted two days ago, Sovereign," Nalen murmured, his voice precise. "The internal patrols are stretched thin. The gate guards are mostly green recruits, or veterans deemed too old for the northern march."

Kael simply nodded. "Tonight, the heart of the Empire bleeds for Ravencair."

The Walls Bleed – First Breach

The assault began with terrifying speed and precision. No grand siege engines, no months of preparation. Just the brutal efficiency of the Iron Rebellion. Dren's most skilled demolition teams, moving like shadows, placed charges at three seemingly innocuous points along the city's outer wall – old, forgotten sections weakened by time and neglect, overlooked by complacent engineers.

The explosions were muffled, yet powerful enough to shatter stone and morale. One moment, the night was quiet. The next, gaping holes appeared in the ancient walls, spewing dust and fragmented masonry. The alarm bells in the Capital erupted into a cacophony of frantic, terrified clangs.

"FOR SOVEREIGN KAEL! FOR ASHMARK!" Dren roared, his voice raw with triumph, leading the first wave of rebels through the newly blasted breaches. His men, a mixture of hardened outlaws and desperate conscripts, surged into the city like a starved tide, their weapons glinting, their cries raw and vengeful.

Myrren was a whirlwind of steel and fury at one breach, her axe carving a bloody path through the bewildered Imperial guards. They were met by a chaotic defense—green recruits, panicked city watch, and a few scattered veteran legionaries who had remained. But they were too few. Too disorganized. Too unprepared for the ferocity of men who had battled ghosts in the Blackwood and demons in the Serpent's Spine.

Theron Varkhale, his massive axe a blurring arc of death, led his wolves through another breach. They struck with silent, brutal efficiency, their movements honed by subterranean combat. They targeted supply depots, inner guard posts, anything that could organize a defense. Their advance was relentless, a crimson wave through the city's narrow streets.

Highcourt Burns – The Serpent's Mark

Kael rode into the Capital at the head of the main host, his black cloak billowing like a storm cloud, his face grim. He did not seek glory. He sought decisive victory. The streets, once pristine, were now choked with terrified citizens, fleeing soldiers, and the bodies of the fallen. Fires, accidental and deliberate, began to spread through the opulent districts, casting a hellish glow on the chaos.

His men moved with grim purpose. This was not a mindless rampage. Nalen's intelligence had provided specific targets: communication centers, armories, high-ranking loyalist estates. They were cutting the city's veins, severing its nervous system.

A desperate cry of "For the Emperor!" rose from a group of Imperial Knights attempting a last-ditch stand near the Grand Plaza. Kael met them directly. His blackened blade moved with chilling precision, parrying a desperate lunge, then driving through a knight's visor. He fought with the cold, ruthless efficiency of a man who understood the cost of mercy. Every Imperial life taken here was a life saved in Ravencair.

As the rebellion's banners – black with the Ashmark sigil, crimson with the Varkhale wolf, or blood-red with Seyda's veiled flame – began to rise over captured buildings, the scale of the Imperial collapse became terrifyingly evident. Discipline broke. Panic spread. The Capital, the very heart of the Empire, was bleeding out.

Suddenly, from the spires of the Basilica of the Flame, a new fire erupted. Not the uncontrolled blaze of a burning building, but a controlled, precise inferno, glowing with an unnatural blue and green light. Seyda. Kael knew it. She was delivering Kael's ultimate message, a scar carved into the heart of the Church's power. The Archlector's private archives, his forbidden knowledge, everything he held sacred, was now consumed by a fire that mocked his own Flame. The blaze, seen for miles, would act as a devastating beacon for the Emperor's fury, pulling every last Imperial thought away from the north.

The Reckoning – A Taste of Ash

By dawn, Highcourt was a cacophony of burning buildings, distant screams, and the cries of the victorious rebels. The city, once the symbol of Imperial might, was now a testament to Kael's ruthless resolve. He stood atop the outer wall, surveying the destruction, the smoke stinging his eyes.

Myrren joined him, her face grim. "The city is ours, Kael. We've secured the main districts. The Imperial treasury is captured. The resistance has collapsed."

Kael simply nodded. He looked at the chaos below, the cost of his victory. He thought of Ravencair, of the starved children, of the price paid. He had come here not for glory, but for retribution. For the chance to truly break the Empire's back.

The victory was absolute. But it was also soaked in blood and fear. Kael had shattered the Emperor's fangs. He had severed the Imperial veins. And he had driven a blade into the very heart of the Empire. The brutal realism of urban conquest, the systematic targeting, the terror and destruction, marked the decisive turning point of the Iron Rebellion. The Age of Ash had truly begun.