Ashen Throne

The world was shifting. Not in the sudden collapse of empires, nor in the fire of open war. Not yet. But in the quiet, in the spaces between battles, where the old ways were cracking, and something else, something forgotten, was rising to take their place.

The great kingdoms of men still held their banners high, though the hands that gripped them trembled. The West, once strong, once proud, stood divided. Their rulers whispered of peace while sharpening their blades, their hearts still burdened by the weight of past wars.

The Firstborn, the elder race, those who had once shaped the fate of all things, now lingered at the edges of their own world. Their halls, once filled with song, now held only echoes. Many had already departed across the sea, and those who remained watched, waited, knowing the shadow they had once defeated was stirring again.

But the East...

The East had already fallen silent.

And the Southlands, a land of fire, of ruin, of soil that had long since forgotten the taste of peace, they would be the first to break.

It was here that the rumors first began. The whispers of something moving beneath the surface, of a name long thought buried returning to the tongues of the forsaken. A name carried by those who had been cast out, those who had no home, no light, only a will to survive.

A name that belonged to him.

And now, he and his soldiers marched.

The forest was still, but it was not quiet. The wind moved through the trees like a whisper, the leaves shifting with unease. The creatures of the woods had already learned to listen, to feel when something unnatural disturbed their home.

And tonight, the air was wrong.

Isilwen stood among the branches, her presence hidden as only one of her kind could be. She had sensed them long before they came into view, their movements pressing against the life of the forest like a sickness spreading through a body.

Then she saw them.

Figures moving through the undergrowth, their forms cloaked in darkness. Their skin, scarred, burnt, twisted by the sun they could no longer endure, marked them as exiles. But they did not skulk like broken things. They marched.

And at the head of them, him.

He walked with purpose, his gaze set forward, unflinching. Though his armor was worn, his presence was unshaken. The others followed him not out of fear, but out of something deeper. Belief.

She had heard whispers of him, though the tales were scattered. A relic of the Firstborn, but no longer one of them. A creature shaped by cruelty, yet not entirely consumed by it.

And yet, he still moved with their grace.

The Draugr were restless as they passed through her domain, their hands resting on weapons, eyes flickering to the shadows. They knew they were being watched.

And so did he.

One of them stumbled.

A soldier fell to his knees, his breath ragged, his armor cracked and stained. The others barely slowed, for wounds were nothing new to them. They had marched through fire and blood before, and they would march through it again.

But Isilwen did stop.

She left the safety of the trees, stepping onto the soft earth she had planted, seed by seed, with her own hands. This forest was hers, not by conquest, but by creation. She had nurtured it, willed it into being. And now, it recoiled at what walked beneath its boughs.

And yet...

She knelt before the wounded soldier.

His breath came in sharp gasps, his body shaking from a wound left untended for too long. His kind were not meant to be cared for. They were discarded, expected to endure. But Isilwen had seen enough suffering in her long years.

She pressed a hand to his wound, feeling the fever burning beneath his skin. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but he did not strike her.

The others had stopped now. The air thickened, waiting, watching.

The soldier's kind were feared, hated. They were meant to be nothing more than weapons, tools in a greater war. But she had never seen them that way.

"May it be enough," she murmured, letting her power flow through her fingertips.

The soldier's body tensed. His breath caught, then slowed, the pain ebbing from his face. His fingers dug into the earth, as if grounding himself in a sensation he had never known before-relief.

Isilwen exhaled. The wound was not fully healed, but the worst of it had passed.

Then, steel touched her throat.

The warmth of healing magic drained away, replaced by the cold bite of a blade.

She did not move.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze-and met his.

He stood above her, his sword steady, his expression unreadable. Shadows flickered across his face, the fire of his soldiers' torches casting jagged light over his scarred features. His people did not bow. They did not kneel. They did not accept mercy.

And yet, she had touched one of his own. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest held its breath. And Isilwen realized something.

This was not just a passing army.

They were heading somewhere.

And if she did not move carefully, she would be forced to follow.