NOVEL NEXT Chapter 288: Next Is Duskwatch Clan
The city's roar dies slow, like a tide pulling back to reveal broken reefs. Molten rivulets cool into black seams. Fires still spit from collapsed roofs, but the organized chaos—the shrill alarm, the coordinated counterattacks—gives way to stunned silence.
Men and women stagger from alleyways, some clutching scorched cloth, some carrying the wounded. Monsters stand in ranks where human lines once held, their armor dented, their breath steaming in the night air.
At the shattered main gate, the surviving Ember captains—smudged, bloodied, their banners in tatters—form a trembling line. Behind them, the city's militia huddles; many lower-ranked soldiers sink to their knees as the truth of the defeat settles. Above, banners of the five rulers and the black standard of Erevaris hang side by side, an ugly new constellation.
From the carriage, Alix steps down as if he is stepping onto a stage. The air around him sucks cool; even the smoke seems to part. He walks slowly toward the gate, Mhazul at his flank, Gander a few paces behind. The ground underfoot is carpeted with ash and fragments of brick—evidence, like a ledger, of what has passed.
A squad of monster-guards clears a path. They are Tier 4 and Tier 5 warriors—ogres, scaled centaurs, insectoid spearmen—an odd chorus of claws and plated limbs. Their faces are neutral; they do not gloat. They simply open the way.
An elder of the Ember council—gray-haired, his face blackened by smoke but his posture unbroken—steps forward, hands raised not in defiance but in the old ritual of parley. Soldiers behind him whisper to one another. Someone presses a bloodied cloth to a child's mouth to hush a sob.
"Brarth is gone," the elder says, voice cracked. "His sacrifice—" He stops, swallowing. "We will lay down our arms. We will negotiate."
A murmur runs through the gathered soldiers. Some look relieved. Others gape at the monsters as if they expect them to turn and rend the world.
Gorvak, Selira and the others hover in the sky just beyond the rooftops, their auras diminished now that the fiercest clashes have died.
Alix halts five paces from the elder. His presence flattens the crowd's breath. He does not raise his voice so much as place a weight into it.
"You surrender," he states, plain. "You will lay down arms. You will hand over all heavy weaponry and arcane foci for inspection. You will remove all traces of monster-slavery in your laws and practice. You will feed my armies for a month. And—" he pauses, and the air sharpens like a blade, "—you will pay tribute to Erevaris. Terms will be explained by my steward."
The elder's hand trembles as he steps forward, humility and horror warring in his features. "We will comply, Your Majesty. We… we do not wish for more deaths. We have seen what became of Brarth. We… we will pay. We will free our slaves. We'll provide grain, coin—whatever you require."
Gorvak calls down, gruff but practical, "Make the lists. Take what you can spare—grain, metal, coin. Spare the townsfolk. We took the towers and the smithies intact for a reason."
Selira's voice, carrying from above, adds: "And you will remove any law that enslaves monsters. Show proof within three days, or you all will die with this city."
Suddenly, a young man in battered armor steps forward from the gathered crowd, throat bobbing with each breath. He moves with a soldier's caution and a son's bearing—shoulders squared, jaw set.
"I am Rirdon," he says, voice surprisingly steady. "Oldest son of Brarth."
Alix looks at him without surprise, as if the name had been expected. The carriage's lanterns throw his face into half-shadow. He studies the boy for a slow beat, then answers plainly.
"I killed your father. Do you not resent me?"
Rirdon swallows. For a moment the plainness of the question seems to cut cleaner than any sword—but he straightens, and anger that is not aimed only at Alix lights behind his eyes.
"I dare not, Your Majesty." His voice tightens. "Not at you. I'm angrier at the Empire and those bastards who left my clan to rot. They were the ones who abandoned us. They will pay for that."
Alix's expression does not change; his gaze is quiet, clinical. He inclines his head once, like an agreement and a dismissal rolled together.
"I will send teams to help rebuild the city. Skilled hands, food stores, a garrison to keep order while you recover."
Rirdon's shoulders loosen as if the offer has cut a chain. Relief warbles through his voice. "You… you would do that?"
Alix nods. "Yes. And we take nothing that cannot be accounted for. We will not strip what remains from you people."
Rirdon bows his head in a respectful, almost instinctive motion. Then, as if remembering something urgent, he lifts his face. "Your Majesty—may I join your march? I will gather the capable survivors. Let me bring the men who can still fight."
For a breath, Alix watches him in silence. The plain answer is almost casual.
"You may." He turns slightly, signaling the carriage, then adds without emphasis, "If you plan revenge or a private vendetta, I won't stop you. Keep it focused. Bring those who will be useful."
Rirdon's relief flashes into fierce determination. "Thank you, your majesty."
Alix steps back toward the carriage as his steward folds a sealed ledger into his hands. He issues one quiet order to those around him. "Rest tonight. We move at dawn toward Duskwatch Clan." The command is simple, final—no argument will be made.
Rirdon watches him go, then calls after, voice pitched to carry, "I'll have them ready before dawn, Your Majesty."
Alix offers a curt nod and climbs into the carriage. The hatch closes softly behind him. The carriage rocks once as if waking from the day's violence, then settles.
Gorvak, who has lingered on the fringe of the crowd, watches Rirdon with a grin that's half-mockery, half-approval. He claps the young man on the shoulder—too hard to be tender, but deliberate.
"Kid," he says low enough for only Rirdon to hear, "you're better than your dad."
Rirdon blinks, not sure whether to be offended or honored. He gives a short, dry laugh and steels his face back into the soldier's mask. Around them, the city exhales—a mix of grief, exhaustion, and a brittle hope—and the night takes them all in under its ragged shawl.
----
The chamber of the alliance is heavy with smoke from braziers and the smell of damp stone. The leaders of the remaining top ten sit around the wide circular table, their expressions grim. The carved banners of their clans and kingdoms hang above them, but the room feels emptier than it should.
A courier has just finished his report and left them in silence. The Red Ember Clan is under attack. Reinforcements had been sent hours ago, yet no word has returned.
Vask, leader of the Nighthorn Clan, leans forward, his claw-ringed fingers tapping against the wood. His voice cuts through the silence.
"Did the Empire contact any of you?"
King Adro of the Kareth Kingdom shakes his head, crown tilted as if even it has grown weary.
"Nothing at all. It's like the Empire has forgotten us… left us to fend for ourselves."
A ripple of unease passes across the table.
The robed master of the Stormveil Clan exhales slowly, his voice like wind whispering through stone.
"I truly cannot fathom the emperor's mind. Is he truly so confident… that he can face the invading monsters alone?"
The Frostpine Clan's matriarch slams her hand down, the table rattling. Her voice is ice and fury.
"My scouts tell me the Ashedge Clan has already surrendered to the monsters. And still, Tous!—has yet to send even a whisper to this council. How long have we been calling their king? How many summons ignored?"
The Duskwatch Clan's lord sneers, leaning back in his chair.
"Too many. The King of Tous hides behind his walls. The Tous Kingdom and the Empire are acting weird, are they planning something?"
Vask's claw-rings scrape once against the table, sharp enough to make several flinch. His eyes burn like coals in the dim torchlight.
"Tomorrow," he says, voice low but carrying, "we go to the Empire ourselves. We demand an audience with the Emperor. If he refuses, we'll know where he stands. If he listens, perhaps we salvage something of this alliance."
The chamber grows still. Leaders glance at one another, reading fear and hesitation in every shift of the eye.