CHAPTER 61: The Broken Crown
CHAPTER 61: The Broken Crown
Imperial Capital – Highcourt, Days After the Ashmark Scythe
The smoke that once billowed from the Grand Imperial Granary and the purged districts of Highcourt had begun to thin, replaced by the pervasive stench of ash, stale blood, and the raw odor of a conquered city. The silence was heavier than any siege, punctuated only by the distant, mournful cries of scavenging crows and the sporadic shouts of rebel patrols. Highcourt, the once-impregnable heart of the Empire, was a ruin. And its rulers… they were broken.
Lord Marshal Daegarn stood amidst the wreckage of the Imperial war room, its grand campaign map now scorched and torn, its scattered pins and figurines a mockery of past ambitions. His face, usually a mask of grim resolve, was simply empty. Lady Edraya, Minister of War, sat slumped in a broken chair, her armor still on, her gauntleted hands clasped over her face. Lord Tervan, the Quartermaster General, openly sobbed in a corner, babbling about lost ledgers and the vanished supply chains.
"The Southern Legion," Edraya choked out, her voice muffled, "they marched for three weeks… chasing shadows. Fort Riven was… loyal. Always loyal. It was a lie. All of it. A phantom rebellion." The humiliation was a deeper wound than any blade. Kael had forced them to tear themselves apart, to bleed their strength chasing ghosts.
Archlector Malgrad, his crimson robes torn and stained, paced furiously amidst the wreckage, his staff scraping against the broken marble. His zealous fervor had curdled into a cold, furious madness. "Blasphemy! Deception! The Serpent Witch! This is not strategy! This is the dark work of the Profane! We must rally! The Flame demands retribution!" But his voice was hoarse, his chants broken. His Purifiers, those who remained, were scattered, their zeal broken by the sheer, unholy efficiency of the rebellion's strike.
Daegarn said nothing. He simply stared at the ruined map. High Crown Orsain Vellgaard… he was gone. Captured, so the whispers said. Dragged from his gilded chambers, a broken symbol of a shattered age. Some said he was dead. Others said Kael kept him alive, a caged lion for display. The truth was irrelevant. The Emperor was no more. The Crown was broken.
The Chains of Command – Shattered Authority
Chancellor Elharn, his ash-gray robes stained with dirt, cautiously entered the ruined chamber. His usual meticulousness was gone, replaced by a desperate tremor. "The city… it's under rebel control. Their banners are on the spire. Black with ash. Crimson with wolves. And that… that terrifying black and red sigil. The Sovereign's." His voice cracked. "They move with order. Not chaos. They're… methodical."
"Order?" Malgrad shrieked, spinning to face him, his eyes wild. "There is no order in heresy! There is no order in the desecration of the sacred Flame! This is the work of devils! We must fight! We must rally the remaining loyalists! We must…"
"There are no remaining loyalists, Archlector," Daegarn's voice, though quiet, was cold as a winter grave. He finally looked up, his gaze fixing on Malgrad. "Not in this city. They are starving. They saw our purges. They saw the fires we lit in our own homes. They saw the fear in our eyes when Kael showed them his contempt for our strength. He burned us from within, Malgrad. Not with swords, but with doubt. He proved every lie we told them was true."
Edraya slowly raised her head, her face pale, defeat etched into every line. "Our legions… they are scattered. Some are still bogged down in the Serpent's Spine, fighting ghosts. Others are chasing phantoms in the south. The main host is demoralized, decimated by sickness and starvation. We have no reserves. No reinforcements. No command."
Tervan, between sobs, muttered, "The southern convoys… the relief. It's all gone. Seized by the rebels. Used for… Ravencair." The ultimate irony. The very supplies meant to crush Kael were now feeding his people, validating their suffering and Kael's promise.
The End of an Era – A Bitter Reckoning
The realization hung in the air, cold and absolute. The Empire, the great, unyielding power, had been systematically dismantled. Not by a glorious, open battle, but by a chilling, unseen war of attrition, manipulation, and psychological terror. Kael had promised a dirty game. And he had played it to perfection.
Daegarn slowly rose, his movements stiff, as if each bone in his body ached with defeat. He walked to the broken window, staring out at the smoke-plumed city. He saw the new banners on the spires, stark against the grey sky. He saw the discipline of the rebel patrols. He saw the cold, unyielding truth.
He had believed in the Empire. He had served it with unwavering loyalty, even when it demanded brutal actions. But Kael had revealed the rot beneath the gilded facade. Kael had forced them to become the monsters he claimed they were.
"He said… 'I am what you made me,'" Daegarn murmured, recalling the message from the Interlude1. A bitter, chilling truth. "He broke us by making us break ourselves. By making us believe our own lies."
Malgrad stumbled towards the window, his gaze fixed on the new banners. His chants died in his throat. He saw the crimson wolf of Varkhale, the veiled flame of Seyda, the dark ash-sigil of Kael himself. He saw the symbols of his defeat.
"This is not an end," Malgrad whispered, his voice trembling, his eyes wide with a terrifying new conviction. "This is a beginning. The beginning of a true holy war. We will rebuild. We will return. And the Flame… the Flame will consume him. And all his profane works." His madness would be his final strength.
Daegarn simply turned away, his gaze falling on the sobbing Tervan, the broken Edraya. The bells of Highcourt, those glorious bells that once tolled triumph, were silent. They had been silenced by the Ashmark Scythe. The Empire was broken. Its crown shattered. And the future… belonged to Kael. The utter despair, the psychological unraveling, and the grim reality of a defeated power were palpable in the ruined war room.