Azrana did not sleep.
Even in the deepest hours of the night, torchlight flared from its battlements, and the silhouettes of guards moved along the walls. War drums thudded in slow rhythm, echoing like a heartbeat across the plains.
But beneath all that, Kael and his small company emerged from the catacombs in silence—through a forgotten crypt hidden in the heart of the inner city.
Kael adjusted his cloak, now marked with the symbol of the First Flame, faint but pulsing softly under his armor.
"Remember the plan," he whispered. "We take the western gate tower. Light the signal. Then we hold it until the others arrive."
Bael cracked his knuckles. "And if we fail?"
Kael's voice was calm. "Then we don't fail."
---
They moved like shadows through the alleyways, slipping between patrols, avoiding open streets. Azrana's grandeur had rotted beneath its marble surface—noble courtyards overgrown, statues of dead kings defaced, commoners silent behind shuttered windows.
Liora stopped suddenly. "Footsteps."
They pressed into the shadows as a small squad of imperial soldiers passed.
Kael watched them closely. Their armor gleamed, but their faces were tired. No smiles. No pride. Just survival.
"Morale's broken," Bael muttered. "They don't fight for him. They fight because they're afraid."
Kael nodded. "Good."
---
Reaching the tower wasn't the hard part.
Holding it would be.
The assault was fast and brutal. They climbed the side using grappling hooks, slipped over the parapets, and took the guards by surprise.
Steel clashed. Blood sprayed across stone.
When it was done, Kael stood atop the tower, lit a crimson flare, and fired it high into the sky.
The desert answered.
Far below, his army saw the signal and began the charge. Thousands poured across the dunes like a storm, banners snapping, war cries rising.
Azrana roared to life in response—horns blaring, troops scrambling, panic unfolding in waves.
Kael turned from the window. "We hold this tower until they arrive."
Liora, bloodied but grinning, nodded. "Gladly."
---
The defense was relentless.
Wave after wave came at them. Archers. Foot soldiers. Even war mages. But Kael's company held firm.
He moved like flame incarnate—sword singing, movements precise, the relic inside him guiding every strike. The Flame gave him more than power—it gave clarity. Purpose.
"Reinforcements on the stairs!" Bael shouted.
Kael met them head-on, blade a blur. "Not one step back!"
By the time Kael's army reached the gates, the tower was barely standing—but still held.
With the defenders routed and the gates thrown wide, Kael descended into the city to take the final step: the Emperor's palace.
---
Azrana's palace was no longer a place of rule—it was a fortress.
Kael pushed through its outer defenses, his soldiers sweeping aside resistance. The palace guards fought harder, more desperate. The Emperor was within. They knew what was coming.
Kael stormed the throne room with Bael, Liora, and a dozen elites.
And there he found him.
Emperor Kaldrin sat upon a dark throne of obsidian, clad in ceremonial armor, his face shadowed beneath a golden helm. In his hand, a curved blade etched with symbols of fire and death.
"So," Kaldrin said, voice cold. "The usurper arrives."
Kael didn't flinch. "You lost the right to rule the moment you burned your own cities to dust."
Kaldrin stood. "I am the Empire. And that relic in your chest? It was meant for me."
Kael stepped forward. "It chose differently."
With a howl, Kaldrin attacked.
---
The throne room became a furnace of battle.
Their swords clashed like thunder. Kaldrin moved with unnatural speed, his blade infused with dark energy—driven not by power, but obsession.
Kael countered with the First Flame, its light pushing back the shadows.
"I built this empire!" Kaldrin roared.
"You buried it," Kael shot back.
Every strike shook the floor. Every blow sent sparks flying. The others could only watch.
And then, Kael saw it—the opening.
He feinted left, rolled under Kaldrin's swing, and drove his blade through the Emperor's heart.
Kaldrin gasped, staggered back, and fell to his knees.
"You… don't understand… what you've… unleashed…"
His final breath escaped him. And then silence.
---
Kael stood over the fallen Emperor, the room heavy with the end of an era.
Bael stepped beside him. "It's over."
Kael shook his head slowly. "No. It's just beginning."
Outside, Azrana's people poured into the streets. The tyrant was dead. The war was over.
But peace… peace would be the harder battle.