The night hung dark as ink, a void cloaked in whispers, broken only by the faint light of distant stars casting their pale, indifferent gaze upon the earth below. Rain descended in heavy curtains, an endless lament that merged with the hushed rustle of leaves. It sang a mournful hymn, its cadence matching the steady gallop of the soldiers who rode beneath, faces taut and grim as they forged a path through the dense, ancient forest. Each rider was a silhouette against the blackened sky, eyes steeled, minds clouded with fragments of thought, flickers of memory, or desperate prayers to gods who would not listen. They sought any distraction from the one truth that loomed ahead—death, an inevitable shadow beside them, closing in step by step.

Among them rode Dramor, First General of Cyred, bound by oath and blood to defend his kingdom, his heart heavy with knowledge of what lay ahead. His gaze, sharp as a blade, flicked between the soldiers as he slowed, allowing the weary column to drift forward. He watched as they dismounted, silent and drenched, their armor glinting like ghostly light in the rain. Yet Dramor lingered on the edge of their makeshift camp, his presence anchored by a force beyond himself.

His eyes turned upward, fixed upon a solitary figure standing alone atop a distant hill—a figure as stark and unyielding as a monument carved from stone. King Ivan IV. In the dim starlight, he appeared almost otherworldly, the rain beading upon his cloak, unmoving as though he, too, belonged to the shadows of legend and myth. The land he ruled stretched far below him, a kingdom of ancient beauty marred by the blood spilled to keep it whole, a land that had known peace once, but now seemed only to hunger for war.

Cyred was his—this kingdom of iron and ash, of strength and sacrifice. Dramor studied his king, his chest a knot of reverence, duty, and something like sorrow. King Ivan was a man bound to his legacy, weighed down by victories and failures alike. His was a life shaped by choices, and the blood of each one stained his hands. Watching him, Dramor felt the slow burn of loyalty reignite—a loyalty that had driven him across battlefields and deserts, a loyalty that asked only to serve, even in the face of inevitable ruin.

The king’s lips moved, his voice just a murmur swallowed by the rain. Dramor strained to catch his words, and though soft, they were heavy as lead.

“So… twelve thousand?” King Ivan’s voice drifted down the hill, barely a whisper. It held no plea, no tremor, only a cold resignation, as if he were asking not for the weight of lives but the count of stones in a river.

Dramor lowered himself to one knee, armor sinking into the drenched earth, his eyes cast down in both duty and respect. “Thirty-five thousand, five hundred, Your Highness.” Each word tasted bitter, carrying with it the weight of souls he would never meet but who now walked with him, unseen, toward the mouth of the abyss.

A low, rueful laugh escaped the king, cutting through the night like a faint glimmer of light in a bottomless cavern. Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he drew out an amulet, a simple thing worn by years of wear, polished by countless moments of quiet devotion. He wrapped it around his wrist, his fingers lingering over the talisman as he mouthed a prayer, a whispered plea to the gods or perhaps only to himself—a man seeking absolution in a world that offered none.

Dramor watched, his heart a battlefield of its own. He knew the weight that lay upon his king’s shoulders, the choices that tore him apart, and yet he knew his place—to serve, to fight, not to console. Still, he felt an ache rise in his chest, a flicker of compassion he would never dare voice. Instead, his voice was steady, a weapon in itself, forged for the task at hand. “Perhaps we could lead them to the ditches,” he offered, his tone unwavering, “set them alight. The water elementals would finish them there, if fate favors us.”

King Ivan’s gaze fell upon Dramor then, and a faint glimmer rose in his worn eyes—hope, or something that tried to resemble it. His lips parted in the shadow of a smile, the corners lifting into a fragile, aged expression, as though in that moment he saw something he had not seen before.

“Dramor.” His voice was soft, yet it held the force of ages. In his expression, Dramor saw the ghost of a trust as solid as iron, a trust born of countless battles and moments spent at death’s edge. “I have complete faith in your choices.”