The day was grey and bitingly cold, and my body felt every inch of it. War is a young man's game, yet here I stand, older and slower, carrying the fury of loss and the weight of command on every step. I had been relieved when I finally retired, but my Malakar Empire was not. Frankly there's not a man in the world who can claim to be by equal in respect to martial command. Emperor Draxoion himself begged me himself to stay in command of the Red Army, I denied his grace though. I thought for sure the days blood and steel of the North were behind me.
But life rarely gives what we wish.
I stood atop the ridge overlooking my war camp, boots sinking slightly into half-frozen mud. Below me, rows of tents sagged beneath a dusting of snow, their once-proud banners hanging limp and faded. Soldiers moved slowly between them, hunched figures wrapped in furs, their breath fogging the air. No one spoke unless they had to. Words froze faster than blood out here.
I am Kael, Lord of the Karsen Reach. Born to rule, forged to fight. Fifty-three winters have hardened my body, but even more, they have hardened my sense of duty. They call me the Blackfang, a name earned through decades of blood and frost, a name whispered with both fear and respect.
I had three sons and I'll be damned if this war claim's anymore . Three boys who once filled my halls with laughter. The eldest, the boy who would inherit my title and my lands, was taken by the Empire, struck down far from home. The news reached me in the quiet of my retirement, a letter stained with ink and tears. It left me with two choices: grieve from afar, or return to the war I thought I had left behind.
Duty won.
I descended the ridge without hesitation, helmet secured, sword drawn. My men, some veterans who had served beside me before, some recruits who had only heard the legends, straightened when they saw me. Their fear hardened into resolve. That was my burden: to be unbreakable so others could stand.
The battlefield was chaos. Snow churned to mud beneath boots and hooves, the air thick with shouts and steel. The Empire's banners, black and crimson, cut through the fog like wounds in the world. I fought as I always had, pushing forward, my blade finding flesh, my shield splintering beneath blows meant to kill me.
They called my name as I advanced. Some in defiance. Some in terror.
The Blackfang does not retreat.
Then the world shattered.
A thunderous crack split the air as something slammed into my side, too heavy, too deep. Pain exploded through my body, white and blinding. My sword slipped from numb fingers as I collapsed into the mud. I remember the taste of blood. I remember trying to rise and failing.
When I awoke, the battlefield was silent. No horns. No banners. Only the wind and the distant cries of carrion birds. Whoever had saved me, friend or enemy, I never learned. My armor was torn, my wounds crudely bound.
By the time my army returned to claim the dead, there was no body to find. No lord to mourn. The Blackfang of the Karsen Reach vanished into the North, swallowed by frost and myth.
I did not correct them.
Far from banners and blood, I found a quiet place where no one knew my name, where the land was kind enough to yield food and the nights were silent. I laid down my sword. I learned the weight of peace.
For the first time in decades, I lived.
But the North never forgets, and neither does a father.