From the crest of the overlook, the view of the valley was almost serene. Below, what had been the sprawling border town of Oakhaven was now an immense grid of glowing embers, pulsing like a dying heart against the black canvas of the night.
The heat could melt any nearby bodies, but with the help of protection magic, the front-line mages were able to cast more flames without being burned. The once green mountain plains were now an ocean of fire. There are flames and ashes everywhere, and the lightning has no plans to cease striking the infrastructure above.
On the top of the hill, standing, was the king of the Solar Kingdom. The agony of the crying, burning tribe of necromancers below is a pleasure to him. He smiled watching the town burn to ashes.
King Alistair drew a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, letting the heat of the air brush against his face. Beside him, Vane adjusted the high, embroidered collar of his robes. The vizier's silhouette was thin and sharp against the backdrop of the blaze, his hands folded neatly inside his long sleeves.
"It is done, Your Majesty," Vane murmured softly, his voice barely rising above the distant crackle of burning oak.
"Not a single soul stirred from their cots. The sleep herbs in their wellhead worked precisely as planned."
"Very well, do you smell that, Vane?" the king asked, a slow, thin smile touching his lips.
"Ash and scorched earth, sire."
"No," Alistair corrected, opening his eyes to watch a roof collapse inward, launching a spire of sparks into the dark sky. "It's the smell of victory. A clean slate. The smell of a new start for this realm, built on genuine, undisturbed peace."
Vane bowed his head slightly. "A peace that could only be bought with absolute certainty. Had we marched with banners and trumpets, their grave talkers would have raised the dead from three counties before our vanguards reached their gates. The casualties on our side would have been catastrophic."
"And the common folk would have panicked," Alistair added smoothly, turning his head slightly to glance at his vizier. "Which brings us to the narrative. History is a garden, Vane. If you do not prune it yourself, weeds will choke the truth."
"The story is already written, sire," Vane replied without a beat of hesitation. "By morning, word will spread through the capital that this clan of necromancers attempted a foul, dark ritual to unleash a plague upon our kingdom. Alas, their own unstable, cursed magic backfired, igniting a hellfire that consumed their sanctuary before our heroic garrisons could arrive to save them."
Alistair let out a quiet, rumbling chuckle. "Poetic. Tragic, even. We shall declare three days of mourning for the 'corrupted souls' lost to their own dangerous hubris. Perhaps I will even donate a chest of gold from the royal treasury to build a memorial shrine at the valley's entrance."
"A masterstroke of piety, Your Majesty," Vane said, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "The regional lords will praise your compassion, and the peasantry will sleep soundly knowing the dark arts perished in their own flames. No one will ever know the fire was carried in by our own quiet hands."
Alistair turned his back to the burning valley, pulling his cloak tighter around his chest as the mountain air began to cool.
"Make sure the perimeter guards leave no survivors, Vane. Not a child, not a spirit, not a scrap of parchment. When the ashes cool, I want only silence."
"It will be as you command, my liege," Vane said, bowing deeply as the king began his walk back toward the hidden camp. "Clean, absolute, and forever righteous."
In the heart of Oakhaven, where the inferno roared highest, one modest cottage burned with a desperate, hidden grief.
Inside, beneath the scorching floorboards of the master pantry, lay a tiny, invisible, spell-warded chamber that was crafted in secret by parents who had felt the subtle, creeping shift in the air long before the Solar Kingdom's quiet strike.
Within its cool, stone confines, a small girl hammered her fists against the shimmering barrier of light, her voice cracking into breathless sobs as she pleaded through the glass-smooth warding.
"Mother! Father! Please, I beg you, open it! Let me out!"
Beyond the magic, her mother leaned her forehead against the glowing threshold, tears evaporating against her overheated skin. She could hear the roof beams groaning overhead and taste the sweet, deadly sleep herb thick in her own lungs, but she held the chamber spell firm with the last flickering ember of her strength.
She pressed her palm to the invisible wall, shielding her child from the blazing doom above, trapping her in life while the rest of Oakhaven burned.
As the poor little girl was crying inside, a strange cat as red as blood showed up beside her. In the arcane texts, these beasts were the elusive familiars of necromancers—mythic, terrifying, and as rare as dying dragons.
It did not purr. It spoke directly into her mind, a voice like velvet drawn over razor wire.
In her head, the cat unveiled the massacre unfolding beyond the chamber walls. She saw the grass painted in red, the icy corpses of her kin, and the cold-blooded mages who laughed amidst the carnage. Wrath surged through her veins, hot and blinding. Yet her rage was useless as she was a defenseless child, and they were masters of death.
"There is no point in surviving..." Her voice broke, a desperate whisper swallowed by the dark. Swollen, frostbitten hands beat weakly against the cold stone door until her strength gave out. "Why, Mother? Why didn't you just take me with you?"
The crimson cat stepped into her line of sight, its eyes glowing like two burning coals in the pitch black.
There is a point, the voice echoed softly in her mind, laced with an ancient, dark promise. I will help you tear them apart. One by one. Until we destroy the whole Solar Kingdom. Give me your trust, little one, and we will take your revenge.