Chapter 16 - Rise of the Forgotten

The battlefield lay silent beneath a sky heavy with dark clouds that promised rain, but silence did not mean peace. The air smelled of smoke and ash and blood, heavy with the weight of battles fought and lives lost. The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon hours ago, leaving a cold, creeping darkness to settle over the shattered lands. Yet beneath that darkness, new fires burned — not the fires of destruction, but the fires of resolve and rising hope. Ceyr, the Devourer King, stood tall on the ridge overlooking the scarred battlefield, his eyes glowing faint gold like dying stars, his body marked by cursed runes that pulsed softly beneath his skin, a reminder of the power and the curse he carried. His breath was slow but steady, heavy with the weight of countless fights, the agony of every loss, and the hunger of the throne that never truly rested, gnawing deep inside him like a beast locked in a cage, begging to be unleashed. Around him, his army of forgotten souls gathered quietly. They were broken but unyielding — beasts wounded but still fierce, cursed children shivering with cold but full of quiet strength, spirits bound by chains that no longer held as tightly as before, and warriors who had been cast aside by kings and gods but now found a purpose stronger than death itself. They were the forgotten, the outcasts, the ones who had been left to rot in the shadows, but now they followed the Devourer King, ready to rise from the ashes of a dying world. The night was thick with tension, the calm that comes after the storm but also the silence before the next battle. Ceyr's mind raced, thinking of the coming days, of the strategies needed, the enemies waiting in dark places, and the price that must be paid. The Archlords were gathering their strength, pulling dark forces from corners the world dared not name, weaving magic both terrible and forbidden, seeking to snuff out the rising storm before it could consume everything. They had grown desperate, but so had Ceyr. He had learned to trust few but relied on many. His army was not perfect — many were broken in body or spirit — but together they were a force reborn, born from pain and fueled by a burning desire to reclaim their place in a world that had forgotten them. As the wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of rain, Ceyr reached out with his senses to the shadows and the night, calling silently to those who hid in the darkness — beasts of nightmare with eyes like burning coals, cursed children with silent tears, spirits trapped in chains of silence. One by one, they answered, creeping from the ruins of lost cities, ancient temples swallowed by earth, and forests blackened by fire. The ground beneath them pulsed with dark energy as the forgotten gathered, a tide growing stronger with every heartbeat. The Devourer King's voice cut through the silence, low and fierce, a call to arms that carried not just command but hope. "The world will remember us," he said. "We will rise, not as shadows, but as fire. We will fight for a new dawn." His words echoed through the valley, sparking a fire in the hearts of the forgotten. The war was far from over — it was changing, evolving into something more than armies and battles. It was becoming a war for souls, for the future of the world itself. Ceyr knew that to win, he needed more than strength. He needed sacrifice, trust, and a will forged from the deepest darkness and brightest hope. The nights grew longer, filled with quiet preparations and whispered prayers. Scouts returned with news of new enemies—spies cloaked in silence, warriors wielding magics that bent reality, and assassins who struck without warning. Betrayal became as deadly as any sword, and Ceyr's circle tightened, trusting few but valuing loyalty above all. Through it all, the hunger inside him—the Devourer's will—whispered endlessly, tempting him to unleash destruction without mercy. But Ceyr fought it back, reminding himself of the promise he made—to build, to protect, to lead. And when dawn finally came, washing the battlefield in pale light, the forgotten stood ready, a living wall of determination and strength. They were no longer outcasts; they were the rising storm. As the first raindrops fell, cold and sharp, washing the blood into thirsty earth, Ceyr raised his sword, its blade shimmering with cursed light. "For the forgotten," he said. "For the dawn." And the army answered with a roar that shook the mountains, a sound that promised war, change, and the rise of a new world.