The bells of Dawnspire tolled, low and heavy, carrying across the capital like a war drum. Inside the great hall, sunlight burned through stained glass, casting fire-red across marble floors in the shape of the sun crest. Courtiers whispered, maps sprawled across the war table, and soldiers in gilded mail stood ready for command.

And at the center of it all—King Alaric Dawnshield.

Six feet of scarred steel and sunforged pride, cloak trailing crimson behind him as he strode through the chamber. His gauntleted hand rested on the hilt of the Sunforged Blade, the edge that had carved his kingdom’s survival time and again. He had ruled for nearly two decades, fought wyverns, crushed ork warbands, and broken rebel lords at the gates. But the shadow looming now was different. Malakar’s armies pressed at the borders, dark banners rising like a storm tide.

The council bickered, voices clashing, suggestions made with trembling hands. Alaric said nothing. He rolled a coin over his knuckles, gaze fixed on the map until the noise became too much.

Steel-grey eyes lifted. Silence followed.

“Enough,” Alaric said, voice sharp as the ringing of a blade. “While you squabble, Malakar sharpens his knives. He won’t wait for us to find our courage.”

He leaned forward, gauntlet pressing into the oak table, shoulders squared with quiet authority.

“You want to live? Then you’ll do as I say. Vaelthorne does not kneel. Not to Malakar. Not to any man.”