Flames danced in the sky as if the heavens themselves were burning.
Screams echoed through the valley, men, women, and children all caught in the fury of a genocide. Blades tore through flesh, fire consumed homes, and blood soaked the earth. Those too weak to fight were butchered. The strong were chained, broken, enslaved.
In the shadow of a burning village, a wooden crate trembled.
Inside, a boy hid, no more than eight with his father curled around him, hand pressed tightly over the child's mouth to silence the sobs. The father's eyes were calm, but his body shook with dread. The box stank of ash and fear.
Then, the crate was torn open.
A soldier, eyes devoid of mercy, drove a spear through the man’s neck. Blood sprayed onto the boy’s face, warm, wet, unforgettable. His father’s body collapsed over him, lifeless.
The boy did not scream.
He couldn't.
He simply stared at the soldier’s face, the face that would haunt him forever.
And then
He woke.
Covered in sweat, breath ragged, heart pounding like war drums. But the face... it was still there. Burned into his mind. Etched into his soul.
He was no longer a child hiding under crates.
He was Drenak now. Warlord of King Zafayr’s Velmorian Empire. A demon made from memory and fire. And every face he saw, every soul he crushed, was just another version of that man.
Another offering to the nightmare he called justice.
The morning was cold, and the air was heavy with tension. Without wasting a moment, he put on his black armour, piece by piece, helped by his silent servants. His armour was dark with red markings, like dried blood. Outside his tent, the sky was full of grey clouds, heavy and dark.
The generals were already waiting near a big stone table. They were on a hill, looking over the lands of Baaghi, a tribe that used to be loyal but had now turned against the empire. The mood was tense. Everyone was quiet, watching Drenak as he stepped forward.
One of the generals spoke, "We should wait for the messenger. Maybe they are ready to talk. We should hear what he says before we go to war."
Drenak said nothing. His eyes looked far away toward the horizon, already planning the battle in his mind.
Then came a sound, slow, painful footsteps. Everyone turned. The messenger had returned. But he looked like a man who had come back from death. His face was bruised and swollen. One eye was shut. His lips were torn. He limped, dragging a broken leg, and leaned on a damaged spear.
He bent down on one knee. "Hail to Zafayr," he said weakly.
"Hail to Zafayr," Drenak replied, his voice cold.
The messenger took a shaky breath. "I went to speak for peace. I gave them your words... your offer of mercy."
Drenak stepped closer, his face calm but hard.
The messenger looked up, afraid. "They laughed. At you. At the king. And then..." He hesitated. "They said... ‘Fuck you, Drenak. Fuck Zafayr. And fuck the empire.’"
Silence fell. No one moved. Even the wind seemed to stop.
Drenak gave a single nod.
“Prepare the march,” Drenak said.
The generals obeyed without a word. Trumpets sounded. Soldiers gathered. Swords were drawn.
The army moved.
That night, fire filled the sky. The Baaghi people tried to fight, but they were no match. Their homes burned. Their soldiers fell. The cries of the dying echoed through the hills. Soldiers showed no mercy.
Only one was left alive, Quinn, the rebel leader. He was captured, beaten, and chained. Blood covered his face. Still, he did not beg.
Drenak entered the tent like a storm. His clothes were clean, but his eyes were cold. Followed by Kaaryon and Shavric, his loyal generals.
And every soldier bowed as he passed.
“Hail to Drenak, Hail to Zafayr,” they shouted.
Drenak raised his hand. Silence fell.
He walked up to Quinn. “I gave you food. I gave you peace. Why betray your blood?”
Quinn coughed and looked up. “You are not peace. You are the death. I am not your slave. I chose my own voice.”
Drenak gave a small smile and nodded at Kaaryon,
then Kaaryon drew his sword.
In one smooth move, he cut off Quinn’s head.
The body fell. The head rolled across the floor.
“Blood bastard,” Drenak said softly.
Shavric turned to a soldier. “Hang his head in the center of the city. Let all see what happens to traitors.”
Drenak stepped out of the tent
His Generals followed, silent and satisfied. Behind them, Quinn’s lifeless body slumped forward, the chains rattling in a pathetic final protest.
Outside, the winds howled through the valley like mourning spirits. The soldiers stood at attention, eyes fixed on their warlord.
“Burn the village,” Drenak commanded. “Salt the earth.”
“Yes, my lord,” Kaaryon said, without hesitation.
“But leave the children,” Drenak added, his voice cold and distant. “They will grow. And they will remember. I want fear to live for generations.”
Kaaryon paused for only a moment before nodding. “It shall be done.”
And so Baaghi was burned to ash.
The smoke rose high, black against the churning grey sky.
This was no conquest.
This was a warning.
The earth shook beneath the march of iron boots.
Thousands moved as one, a tide of black and red, pouring over hills and fields like a living storm. Their banners snapped in the cold wind, a black wolf's head crowned in crimson, the mark of Zafayr, the mark of dread.
At the front rode Drenak.
He did not wear a crown.
He did not need one.
A simple black cloak billowed from his shoulders, and atop his great warhorse, he seemed less man and more force of nature, a darkness made flesh.
Beside him, Kaaryon and Shavric rode in silence.
Kaaryon, the Blade of Drenak, his armor gleaming like bloodied steel.
Shavric, the Wolf General, his eyes sharp, always hunting for weakness.
Ahead, the ruins of Baaghi still smoldered. Blackened corpses lined the roads. The scent of burnt flesh and scorched earth fouled the air.
Drenak did not flinch.
To him, it was the smell of loyalty.
They rode through the ashes. Past weeping mothers, past hollow-eyed children who clutched each other and said nothing. Some spat at the ground. Some cursed under their breath.
None dared raise a hand.
Not when Zafayr’s banner flew overhead.
Not when Drenak’s shadow fell upon them.
At the center of the ruins, Quinn’s head hung from a crooked pole, rotting in the open air. Flies buzzed around it. Crows perched nearby, tearing at the remains.
Drenak paused his horse and looked up at the grisly trophy.
No words.
No prayer.
Only a long, silent gaze.
Kaaryon leaned closer. "They learn quickly, my lord."
Drenak said nothing.
He did not seek obedience through speeches.
He demanded it through memory, memory carved deep into the bone.
A distant sound broke the heavy silence, the hard gallop of a single horse cutting through the ruined fields.
From the haze of smoke and ash, a rider appeared. A Zafayr messenger, cloaked in black, his horse lathered in sweat and blood. He dismounted swiftly, boots sinking into the scorched earth, and dropped to one knee before Drenak.
“Hail to Zafayr. Hail to Drenak,” the messenger said, his voice rough from the ride.
Still kneeling, he raised both hands, offering a sealed letter, the sigil of Zafayr stamped deep in crimson wax.
Drenak took the letter without a word, his gloved hand closing around it with quiet force. With a small nod, he commanded the messenger to rise.
The air seemed to grow colder as Drenak broke the seal.
He unfolded the letter, scanning its contents with eyes that betrayed nothing.
Then, a slow smile crept across his face, a smile without warmth, a smile like the edge of a blade.
He spoke, each word falling like a death sentence.
"Begin the Red March," Drenak said, voice low and merciless.
"We shall conquer the Empire of Thalvryn."
Kaaryon wasted no time. He turned and gave the signal.
A horn blew, long, deep, and mournful, a sound that seemed to shake the heavens themselves.
Across the fields, the army of Zafayr roared in answer.
Thousands of iron boots slammed the ground in rhythm.
Swords were lifted high, flashing under the heavy sky.
Their shout rolled like thunder, wild and fierce.
The ground shook as the great army moved forward, a black and red wave rolling toward Thalvryn, unstoppable, and full of death.
And at the head rode Drenak, the Warlord without mercy, cloak snapping in the wind, the fires of Baaghi still burning behind him..
The Red March had begun.
And nothing would stand against it.