The Shattered Crowns

War machines the size of cities surfed the skies above, raining torrents of Atta onto an immovable enemy. Colossal spirals of magic and a cacophony of noise slammed into the glistening walls of the city that reached the heavens and the depths of Lorian.

"Hark, a wondrous spectacle, is it not, Fulgrus?" shouted the General. Black and gold steel encased the man, the metals wrapping around him as if they were a second skin.

Fulgrus' helmet dispersed from his face, revealing highborn features. "The battle is not won until the city of Alfeen burns, Perseus."

"Our chains are broken. The Neph pluck at our lives no longer. Surely, more than a few philosophers will speak of this fall in the annals of history. Smile a bit more, my king. It would do you well." Perseus tapped the royal guard's armor—a simple acknowledgment of his king's worries and the pride he held for the kingdom of Dekal.

Fulgrus began his response, but a loud, thunderous thumping rang across the battlefield.

The floating ships hammered against the golden walls of Alfeen. Gold clashed with hardened woods and metal. The wall was little more than decoration for the Ancient Arcana—a force that stemmed the flow of Atta threads from the sorcerers aboard the ships. Atta and Infinite Arcana collided: a battle of the new against the old.

Fulgrus pursed his lips. "The Arcana holds still."

"It will break. No matter how perfectly crafted, everything in Lorian has a weakness. We have the best Harmony users in all the land," Perseus reaffirmed.

Fulgrus' eyes drifted to the marching elves and men below. Each soldier was encased in armor crafted specifically for them in the volcanic heat of Lorian's coasts by orcish hands. The elves, meanwhile, were cloaked in an ethereal layer of Atta so dense that no blade could pierce it.

Yet worry gnawed at Fulgrus. These were the Neph and the dwarves—the first races who had sculpted all others. How could he not worry about the outcome? All the preparations, and it still might not be enough. All this war, all this bloodshed, for one single moment: the chance to cast off their chains and grasp freedom.

In a fluid motion, Fulgrus swung himself atop his horse. The moon hung loosely in the sky, dancing among the stars. Clouds emerged, creeping across the heavens and obscuring the jewels of the night. It would rain soon, and with the rain would come lightning. Those flashes still terrified him—not that he would ever admit it. A king must have no fear.

Fulgrus raised his blade, and the Royal Guard of Dekal responded in kind with their lances. "To war, my brothers! Let us hope that the future sons and daughters of Dekal sing our praise on this day!" he roared.

"To war, my King!" Perseus and the Royal Guard shouted in reply.

Fulgrus, king of Dekal—the first Empire of Man—charged forward with the best warriors his kingdom had to offer. The cavalry followed suit, surging into the gray tide of the Neph.

The first race clad themselves in craggy gray stone. Stories sung by bards of old claimed they inherited it by slaying the dragons of the world, their flesh transforming into scales as hard as iron. Beneath those scales and their sharp, spiraling horns lay faintly visible veins and organs that pumped the blood of divine ancestors. Their height matched that of a man atop a full-grown warhorse.

Blasphemous, foolish tales meant for children. The Neph bled and died like any other. They were nothing more than a race—not divine beings destined to remake Lorian in their image.

The King of Dekal was a beacon to all who opposed the first race.

The Neph raised their jagged claws and mundane weapons, desperate to counter the cavalry charge. For millennia, they had never fought a true war. Why would they? They had puppeteered the races they crafted to solve their disagreements. They were puppet masters who guided strings from behind a golden veil.

Fulgrus and the Royal Guard crashed into the Neph.

Blood flowed freely as man and Neph clashed. Neither side saw the other as anything but a foe. The rain began to fall, adding to the chaos consuming the fields before the glistening walls.

The Neph fought savagely, tearing men apart with their elongated claws and sharp horns. They battled for their right to survive, the last of their descendants. Men and elves fought for something more: the chance to forge their own destiny and defy the puppet masters of fate. The Age of Stars lingered far too long—it was time for change.

Fulgrus raised his resin-infused blade, slicing through the invisible Arcana shields protecting the Neph. These barriers, meant to block ordinary materials, were useless against the resin-infused weapons crafted by orcs. The dwarves had, in their arrogance, molded the orcs into the perfect artisans for such weapons. The title of Neph-killer Blades was well-earned.

A bolt of lightning struck the battlefield, and the rain turned into a relentless downpour. Fulgrus' horse reared back in fear, and he dismounted with practiced ease, unwilling to waste time calming the beast. The horse galloped away from the carnage.

Time blurred as the battle raged on, with losses mounting on both sides. Fulgrus' gauntleted hand hefted his blade from the corpse of a Neph. Golden ichor caked his armor and weapon. He exhaled softly, surveying the battlefield. The Neph line was fractured, but they still had fight left in them. The army had the advantage, but they needed to press further.

Suddenly, a spear pierced the ground. Moments later, a blistering light pulsed from it, spreading across the battlefield like a shockwave. The radiant energy reflected off the golden walls and parted the storm clouds, revealing the moon and stars. Men and Neph alike were flung through the air by the sheer force of the light.

"Shit," Fulgrus cursed as the visor of his helmet dispersed, leaving his face exposed.

An Exalted had entered the battlefield.

An Exalted—a demigod among the Neph.

The rain halted for a fleeting moment as Fulgrus took in a deep breath. The air smelled of morning dew—of home. A good final breath, he supposed.

The spear that had shattered the battlefield was wrapped in fine linens that glowed like magma. The light around it pulsed and twisted, and even the ozone seemed alive. A thin strap wove its way up the hilt, where three smaller blades protruded along its edges, greedily drinking in the energy around them. Wisps of yellow light arced down from the storm clouds above, gathering into the spear. Clean, ancient words were engraved in its shaft, their meaning lost to time.

Men fled, terrified of what was to come. They were not fast enough.

The spear flared and exploded, unleashing plumes of mist and lightning across the battlefield. Chaos erupted anew, as divine wrath poured from the weapon like molten fury. From the heart of the explosion stepped a figure, humanoid but cloaked in shimmering light. Wisps of golden energy clung to the figure's form as he pulled the spear from the ground, the mist swirling back into the weapon as though feeding it.

It was a Neph. The curling horns that remained unbroken on his head made that clear.

The Neph rose to his full height, adjusting his grip on the spear. His hollow purple eyes locked onto Fulgrus, radiating an unshakable power. The armor molded to his scaled body gleamed with an unholy light, as if the essence of war itself had shaped it. This was no ordinary warrior. This was the pinnacle of the Neph's war-making capability—their pride and fury made manifest.

The Neph barked out a harsh laugh. "Feeble little Mutvari. Let your creators teach you the meaning of fear."

Run! Fulgrus' instincts screamed. Run, now! His legs should have obeyed—they should have carried him far from this Exalted, whose spear alone could buy entire kingdoms. The Annealed Blade was a weapon of legends, capable of cutting through anything. Even his resin-infused sword paled in comparison.

But Fulgrus didn't run. His body refused.

Instead, he took a breath, steeled himself, and raised his blade. He stepped forward. Then another step. And another, until he found himself running toward the Neph.

He would fight. For those he had lost.

A Neph, an Exalted—it didn't matter. Fulgrus would kill this creature, even if it cost him his life. None of them would leave this battlefield alive if it meant freedom for all sentient life.

Fulgrus bellowed, "Hold, good men, for this is the final stronghold of the Neph! We embark upon this noble quest for the sake of our future progeny. For my son, who lost both his mother and sister to these monsters!"

The men rallied behind their king, determination igniting in their hearts. Together, they would do the impossible—they would kill an Exalted.

The Neph struck first, his spear slicing downward in a blur of light and lightning. Fulgrus raised his blade just in time, his armor absorbing the brunt of the blow. Sparks flew as the spear scraped against his side, and his armor hissed, reknitting itself almost instantly.

Thank the divine for the Gravitite armor. It had been worth every sacrifice to obtain. Another strike came, glancing off his shoulder, but Fulgrus countered, his blade biting into the Neph's leg.

The Exalted growled and crushed Fulgrus' chest plate with his clawed hand. The king staggered back but remained standing.

"This will be the end," the Exalted said coldly, his voice resonating with raw power. "I will not fade as embers in the fire of your ambition, little King of Men."

Fulgrus steadied himself and raised his blade once more. He accepted the truth. His death would shake Dekal, but his kingdom would endure. Men and women would speak of this day, when a mortal king wounded an Exalted.

The Neph lunged with his spear, lightning streaking across its tip as it tore through the battlefield. Fulgrus dodged, barely managing to evade the fatal blow. He lashed out in return, his blade severing the tendons in the Exalted's heel.

The Neph hissed, staggering for a moment before recovering. His clawed foot slammed into Fulgrus' chest, sending him sprawling. The Exalted limped toward the fallen king, his spear gleaming with malice.

"You fought well for a lesser being. My blood stains these grounds because of you. But the outcome of this battle was never in question."

The Neph's spear rose for the killing blow.

Fulgrus struggled to his feet, gripping his shattered blade tightly. His armor worked to cocoon him, reknitting the damage it could. But he knew it wouldn't save him.

"And I will face it standing," Fulgrus muttered. His legs trembled, but he refused to fall. He raised his broken weapon, ready to meet his end.

But then, the killing blow never came.

A blade—thin as a needle and brighter than moonlight—intercepted the Neph's spear. A sharp clang rang out as the two weapons clashed.

"To think you'd fall so far, Michael," a voice said, cutting through the chaos like silk through air.

A woman stepped forward, placing herself between Fulgrus and the Exalted. She wore a midnight-black cloak draped over her shoulder and finely strapped leather armor. Her pointed ears and sarcastic smile gave away her race: an elf.

Her weapon, a blade so delicate it seemed fragile, balanced lightly on her wrist. Its hilt was intricately carved, and its craftsmanship was unlike anything mortal hands could create. She stood motionless, the very image of poise.

"I suppose being civil is too much to ask?" she said with a smirk.

"Civil?" Michael—the Exalted—laughed bitterly. "Civility left when I was told to watch my people die and do nothing. Would you blame me for fighting for them, Reshi?"

"I would never," she muttered softly.

Michael cast a glance at Fulgrus, his expression unreadable. "Luck is on your side, mortal king. You will still draw breath—for a little while longer."

Reshi interjected, "Two Exalted haven't clashed in ages. Do make this interesting for me. We both know I'm the better duelist."

"It is a shame, then," Michael replied, raising his spear, "that this is not a duel."

No more words were spoken. The two Exalted collided, their blades dancing through the air with a precision no mortal could match. When their weapons met, the very space around them seemed to ripple and waver. They moved with such speed and grace it was as though the battlefield stood still for them.

Fulgrus staggered back, clutching his side. He limped toward the remnants of his army, his broken sword still in hand. He refused to leave the field unarmed, even now.

The battle around them churned on as the Exalted dueled. War machines in the skies rammed the golden walls of Alfeen with relentless force. The invisible shields protecting the city buckled under the pressure. The machines righted themselves, floated back, and prepared for another strike. The thick steel plating at their fronts, bent and warped from repeated impacts, pulsed with Atta. Yet energy surged from the heart of Alfeen, tearing through the war machines. One by one, they fell from the skies in ruin.

Fulgrus finally reached the remnants of his army—bloodied men and elves who had regrouped in the chaos. The King of Elves, the Prideborn, spotted him and strode over, a grin breaking across his face as he clapped Fulgrus on the back.

"Ah, King of Dekal! It is good to see you still breathing," the Prideborn said.

The elf's armor gleamed in the dim light—a dazzling white with royal purple accents. Green trim edged his plates, and the fur of a black lion hung from one shoulder. His ornate helm, crowned with the roaring visage of a lion, spoke of his status. He radiated elegance and calm—a stark contrast to Fulgrus, whose battered Gravitite armor was caked in blood and ichor.

Fulgrus smirked grimly. "And the elves summoned the Essences late, as usual, King of Lions."

The Prideborn shrugged, his voice smooth and unconcerned. "Yet we have done it, and the walls will soon fall."

Their gazes drifted skyward. Once more, the war machines struck. This time, the golden walls of Alfeen shattered. The impenetrable barrier of the Neph—the symbol of their dominion—crumbled into ruin. Gold and stone fell like dying stars, the sound echoing across the battlefield.

The walls of Alfeen were breached.

The murmurs among the gathered soldiers grew louder. They whispered of impossibility made real. The Neph had always claimed the city of Alfeen could not fall. And yet, here it lay open.

The Prideborn raised his sapphire-etched silver blade high, his voice carrying over the battlefield. "To battle and glory! Let us chop off the head of our greatest enemy!"

Fulgrus raised his own blade, roaring louder than even the elf, "Let us show the will of man and elf united!"

They surged forward as one, plunging into the heart of Alfeen. What little resistance remained consisted of automatons crafted by the dwarves—creations of blackened steel that moved with precision and cold lethality. Powered by Ancient Arcana, the machines spewed fire and metal upon the invading army. They felt no pain and fought without fear, their calculated strikes cleaving through unprepared men.

"The automatons feel nothing. Destroy their cores; it is the only way," the Prideborn warned.

Fulgrus nodded grimly. Though the machines were terrifying, they were no match for the overwhelming numbers of men and elves. Their enchanted armor and Atta-infused weapons turned the tide.

The streets ran red as the armies pushed forward, climbing higher into the city. Alfeen, the City of Gold, was revealed in all its splendor. Its marble streets gleamed despite the rain, and every corner seemed to glitter with treasures beyond imagination. Golden spires rose above them, their architecture so flawless it was almost otherworldly. Even in ruin, the city's beauty was staggering.

It was fitting, Fulgrus thought bitterly, that the Neph would build their crown jewel atop the blood and sweat of other races.

The fighting slowed as the forces neared the city's highest point. Automatons still lurked, but their numbers dwindled. Fulgrus wiped blood from his face as he surveyed the scene. The battlefield had shifted into a series of skirmishes—isolated groups of men fighting through the winding streets.

"The battle is nearly over," Fulgrus muttered. "We will be free of the Neph after today."

"Yes. It seems so," the Prideborn replied, though there was hesitation in his tone. He paused before adding, "I wonder if we've damned ourselves to eternal conflict with this act."

Fulgrus cast him a sharp look. "Have you lost your will to fight, King of Lions?"

The Prideborn shook his head, his expression contemplative. "No. I am merely... thinking. We trade a life of work and peace for one of uncertainty and war. The Neph were second only to our Gods, after all."

Fulgrus snorted. "I would rather die a thousand deaths than bow to them again. Men will not be subjugated."

The Prideborn said nothing, his face unreadable.

The two kings reached the base of the tallest tower, the one entwined with the Dragonsblood Tree. Its bark was gray as ash, and crimson leaves drifted down in an endless cascade, as if the tree itself mourned the destruction of its city. Its roots coiled around the tower like a serpent, merging stone and nature into one.

Inside the tower, the climb was slow. Silence pressed against them as they ascended the winding steps. The anticipation was suffocating.

At last, they reached the summit.

The chamber at the top was vast and eerily empty. Four thrones of pure marble sat in a circle. Two were filled with burned bodies—blackened skeletons twisted in agony. The other two sat empty, their occupants long gone. Above these thrones loomed the final seat: the Ivory Throne, crafted of bone-white stone and raised above the rest. On it sat the last Councilor of the Neph.

The Neph looked ancient, his body hunched and frail. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his golden-amber eyes gleamed with a light that seemed far too alive. He stared ahead, his gaze unfocused, as though seeing something far beyond the room.

Fulgrus strode forward and pressed his blade to the Councilor's throat. The Neph did not flinch.

"We have come to put an end to this foolish Age of Stars. To end a race that committed atrocities in the name of the so-called greater good," Fulgrus said.

The Prideborn joined him, his voice filled with venom. "We will no longer be chained by your Ancient Arcana. This is where the creations surpass the masters. Your blood will stain the hands of our Gods."

The Councilor blinked slowly, as if finally noticing their presence. "Two intruders have broken into our sacred tower. Have the Heroes truly broken their oaths?"

"You are blind, Councilor!" the Prideborn snapped, pointing to the burned bodies. "Two sit dead before you—Morgin the Astronomer and Tulius the Heretic. Pathetic."

The Neph let out a bitter laugh, wheezing as he spoke. "Ah... I see it now. The traitor who ascended and left us... it was his fault. His failure. We could have saved them."

Fulgrus sneered. "Your failures are no concern of mine. Does the death of your race not anger you? You are the last, after all."

"Anger?" The Councilor chuckled softly. "How can I be angry when you see so little? We tried to protect you. To nurture you. And yet, you hacked away at the roots instead of healing the wound."

"Enough!" Fulgrus raised his blade. "Your race will haunt Lorian no longer. My wife and son will finally rest, knowing their deaths are avenged."

The Councilor's golden eyes gleamed, impossibly ancient. For a moment, Fulgrus hesitated. The Neph had seen conflicts that spanned centuries, wars that resolved over lifetimes. He knew something they did not.

The Neph whispered, "You have doomed us all. We held the barriers closed, but you... you have torn them asunder. The Layers will bleed into your world. The Age of Souls begins."

Fulgrus' sword fell, severing the Councilor's head in a single strike.

The Prideborn sighed. "You could have asked more questions."

Fulgrus growled, "A dying creature like that only spits lies. You know this."

They turned to the balcony, their footsteps heavy with exhaustion. The battlefield lay below, eerily silent. But their eyes were drawn upward.

The sky was shattered. Cracks spread like broken glass, and an azure mist seeped through, descending onto Lorian. It licked at the ground, hungry, malevolent. The mist seemed alive, devouring the land as impossible shapes and creatures emerged from the cracks above—a nightmare spilling into reality.

Fulgrus' voice was barely a whisper. "What have we done?"

The Prideborn's voice was grim. "We cut off an arm... now we bleed to death."