Book One: Rise of the Demonborn
Chapter 16: The Cost of Survival
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The bells of Solmar rang slow and deep.
Not in celebration.
In mourning.
Across the capital city, black banners fluttered from the towers. Every church echoed with chants. Citizens gathered in silence, heads bowed. The Battle of Therrow had become a wound on the kingdom's soul.
*927 soldiers dead. 34 cursed. 12 missing. Two heroes nearly killed.*
And the enemy?
*Gone.*
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In the inner courtyard of the Royal Keep, *Seren* knelt in front of a row of graves. Her armor still carried bloodstains. She held the broken piece of her bow gently, laying it atop the tombstone of a fallen soldier.
"He shielded me with his body," she whispered. "I never even asked his name."
Behind her, *Aren* limped on a cane, his breathing labored. His sword had been reforged into a plain metal rod—no magic left in it.
"I dream of his eyes," he murmured. "Cold. Empty. Not angry… not joyful. Just *done*."
"Kael?" Seren asked.
Aren nodded slowly.
"Nothing scares me more than someone who kills without hate."
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Elsewhere, in the Grand Hall of Heroes, the *Council* met.
Fourteen chairs. Only nine filled.
The air was thick with fear.
"He absorbed a spirit—his own sister!" cried Lady Vara, the Crystal Hero. "What happens if he starts devouring others?"
"He's not just a threat," said General Torvald. "He's *evolving.* Every hour we wait, he grows."
"And yet," came a voice from the shadows, "we still treat him like a war criminal. But what if he's not *just* a monster?"
Heads turned to *Mirion*, the *Hero of Veils*, known as the Mirrorblade.
"He was born different," Mirion said. "Raised in pain. We call him evil, but… what choice did he ever have?"
"You want us to talk to him?" Aren barked. "He slaughtered Therrow! He crushed me! There is no redemption in him!"
"But what if we pushed him there?" Mirion whispered.
The room turned colder.
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Back in the castle, King Alric met in secret chambers beneath the throne room—*the Stone Crypts*—where only forbidden meetings took place.
Three hooded mages stood before him, robes marked in red glyphs: *the Crimson Circle*.
"We warned your father," one hissed. "You sealed us away. But now you beg."
"I don't beg," Alric said coldly. "I *survive*."
The lead mage grinned. "You want power. "
"I want him dead. "
The mage leaned forward. "Then unseal the relics. Call the Forged. Break your kingdom's last taboo."
Absolutely 😈—let's push Chapter 16 to its intense, uneasy end. The world is tilting, and the humans are edging toward lines they swore never to cross.
The lead mage of the Crimson Circle extended a parchment to the king. Its surface shimmered with ancient runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats.
"Break this seal, and the Relics will awaken. But remember—what sleeps beneath the capital doesn't serve freely. The Forged require *blood*, not loyalty."
King Alric didn't blink.
"If it takes monsters to kill one," he muttered, "then so be it."
He took the scroll.
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*Meanwhile*, deep in the barracks beneath the city, the *Black Knights* were silent as they polished their armor. Not a word had been spoken in hours.
Commander Vyrell set his helmet down.
"I saw my men turned to bone with a glance," he said quietly.
His second-in-command nodded. "Some are saying he's a god."
"He's not," Vyrell said. "He's worse. A god you can reason with. That boy doesn't want worship. He wants *erasure.*"
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That evening, as torches flickered in the palace halls, *Seren* stood before the shattered war map.
Pins marked every village, every town.
Over a dozen had been hit by strange phenomena in the past three days—plagues with no source, wells turned to blood, forests growing teeth.
Kael hadn't been seen.
He hadn't *needed* to.
She stared long and hard at the red-streaked markings.
"He's spreading," she whispered.
A servant approached. "The King requests your presence in the Tower of Mourning."
She turned.
"Why there?"
The servant paled. "Because… he plans to announce the breaking of the Pact."
Seren's eyes widened.
"You mean the one written in the First Age—when the gods warned us never to awaken the *Forged* again?"
He nodded.
"Then it's already too late," she whispered.
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*Outside the kingdom*, in small towns and farmlands, stories spread faster than armies.
Children spoke of a boy with wings who whispered to the dead.
Men dreamed of black-eyed figures asking if they "still believed in mercy."
And in the ashes of Therrow, strange flowers now bloomed—black, with white linings.
Just like the demonborn's eyes.
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