CHAPTER 160: SHADOWS BESIDE THE THRONE

The wind howled across the blackened battlefield, carrying with it the scent of ash and war. Kairav stood still, his white cloak fluttering behind him like a ghost refusing to fade. Vyuk stood beside him, shoulders tense, eyes distant.

Kairav gently placed his hand on Vyuk’s shoulder.

"He’s not Zorawar anymore... don’t lose yourself trying to find him."

Vyuk didn’t speak. His fingers twitched slightly, almost reaching out — but they stopped midway. He couldn’t.

Kairav gave him one last look, then stepped back into the shadows. Within seconds, he vanished, as thunder cracked overhead and the sky turned grey.

On the way back...

Zorwath walked calmly, blood still fresh on his armor. He didn’t even look at Vyuk as he spoke, voice relaxed.

"They always leave when it gets hard. But not you. That’s why I trust you, Vyuk."

Vyuk’s reply was cold and sharp like a dagger.

"Don’t mistake my presence for loyalty. I just want to see how far you fall."

Zorwath laughed—a low, bitter sound.

"Then watch closely. The descent is beautiful."

Vyuk stood alone for a moment, surrounded by silence and the scent of blood drying in the dust. He looked down at his reflection in a shattered helmet—eyes empty, the silver streak in his hair more visible than ever.

"Am I still human... or just a shadow of him?"

He turned his back on the carnage and walked, each step heavier than the last. Behind him, soldiers roared in Zorwath’s name. In front of him, only smoke waited.

As Vyuk walked behind the marching troops, he caught a glimpse of a boy no older than twelve being forced to carry weapons for the soldiers. The child’s hands shook under the weight of an axe, his eyes vacant.

Vyuk muttered under his breath, "This wasn’t what we were meant to become."

A nearby soldier nudged the boy roughly.

Vyuk’s hand flicked. A shadow whipped out and tripped the soldier. He fell face-first into the mud.

"Watch your step," Vyuk said, voice flat.

The soldier glared at him but said nothing. No one dared challenge the Shadow General.

Vyuk slowed his pace, letting the army stretch ahead. He turned toward the forest path, briefly alone.

"I was supposed to protect the weak... not walk with monsters who burn them."

He stared at his gloved hands. They shook — barely — but enough.

Hours Later... The Burning City of Elmara

The city of Elmara begged for mercy.

It got fire instead.

Zorwath stood at the city gates, eyes glowing.

"No mercy. Anyone resisting will be made an example."

His soldiers—each marked with black creation runes—stormed in with flaming blades and magic in hand. Temples crumbled. Granaries burned.

Vyuk watched in silence.

But then he saw something.

A small child—no more than six—curled up beneath the rubble of a collapsed home, shivering. Her eyes wide, terrified.

For a brief moment, Vyuk was no longer General Vyuk.

He was a brother again.

He clenched his jaw, then raised his hand. A soft wave of shadow wrapped around the child, cloaking her from the soldiers’ eyes. He leaned close and whispered:

"Run. And never look back."

She blinked. Then ran.

He didn’t watch her go. He just turned around and walked back into the smoke.

He passed a burning market, where vendors once sang songs of spices and laughter. Now, they lay in pieces, their voices silenced. A woman cried out from inside a collapsed building. Vyuk’s hand twitched toward his sword—but stopped.

"Every time I act... I betray him. Every time I don’t... I betray myself."

His shadow lingered a moment longer than him, as if even it questioned his next step.

Smoke clung to Vyuk like a second skin. Each scream twisted in his ears like an accusation.

He passed a wall where someone had scrawled, "The fire took my mother."

Suddenly, a memory — his mother’s soft voice, braiding his sister’s hair while singing — flashed across his mind.

He blinked hard. The fire had taken that, too.

Two children ran past him, chased by a blood-drenched soldier. Vyuk didn’t think. A blade of shadow sliced through the air, missing the soldier by inches.

The man stopped, face pale.

"I was only—"

Vyuk cut him off, voice quiet but cold. "You were only following orders. I’ve heard that before."

The soldier backed off, ashamed.

The children vanished into the smoke. Vyuk stood still for a moment, letting the wind burn his skin.

"I can’t save them all. But I can stop us from falling further."

That Night... Inside Zorwath’s Tent

A single fire crackled inside the black tent. Zorwath sat cross-legged, staring into the flames. The silence was thick, heavy.

"Do you know what power does, Vyuk?" Zorwath asked, voice low. "It reveals the truth. And my truth is simple: peace must be forced."

Vyuk didn’t hesitate.

"You say ’peace’ while blood pools under your throne."

Zorwath stood slowly. His eyes glowed a deep, corrupted crimson.

"And for peace, if I must kill the gods themselves—so be it."

Vyuk said nothing. But his fingers curled into fists.

Zorwath stepped closer, the flames reflecting in his eyes.

"You still believe in the old world. The kings. The temples. Their fake mercy."

Vyuk didn’t flinch. "I believe in restraint."

Zorwath smiled sadly. "And I believed in hope. Look where that got me."

He turned away and walked into the dark, his shadow flickering behind him like a dying memory.

Zorwath reached for something behind him — a small wooden pendant shaped like a bird. He ran his fingers over it softly. His hand trembled.

Vyuk recognized it.

It was a gift from Zorawar’s mother... long ago.

For a moment, the great warlord looked like a lost boy.

Vyuk thought to himself:

"He’s still in there... but buried under too much rage."

Vyuk turned his back quickly, hiding the crack in his expression.

"Zorawar... do you even remember your own name anymore?"

He wiped soot from his hands. It wouldn’t come off.

That night, Vyuk dreamed.

He saw Zorawar—the old one—in a sunlit field. They laughed together, sparring with wooden sticks. Vyuk’s sister clapped in the background, their mother humming nearby.

Then a sudden shift.

The sun turned black. Flames licked the sky.

Zorawar’s eyes turned crimson. He raised a flaming sword, turning to Vyuk.

"You didn’t stop me."

Vyuk tried to speak, but his mouth filled with ash.

He awoke in cold sweat. Shadows danced across the tent walls like ghosts that knew his name.

The Rise of the Generals

The next morning, Zorwath summoned four men — warriors, monsters, outcasts.

One with crimson eyes that could petrify with a glare.

One who walked barefoot and controlled the bones of the dead.

One cloaked in blue fire that never extinguished.

One with chains wrapped around his arms, dragging captured spirits.

Zorwath raised his hand.

"From this day forward... you are my generals."

He looked at Vyuk last.

"And you, Vyuk... my First General. The Shadow beside the Throne."

Vyuk didn’t smile. He only nodded once.

As the other generals left to prepare, Vyuk remained. Zorwath looked at him.

"You’re still thinking about the girl, aren’t you?"

Vyuk’s silence was answer enough.

Zorwath chuckled. "You always were soft under all that shadow."

Vyuk met his gaze. "You used to call that ’human.’"

Zorwath looked away. "Then maybe I’ve evolved."

Zorwath turned to the gathered generals.

"The temples of the west hold the last of Aryavrata’s spirit. Burn them next."

The man with blue fire grinned. "Consider them ash."

The bone-walker spoke, voice hollow. "And the priests?"

Zorwath didn’t blink. "Let the gods mourn their own."

Vyuk spoke up, slow and deliberate. "You’re turning this into a holy war."

Zorwath looked at him. "It’s already a war, Vyuk. Holiness died long ago."

Later that day, Zorwath stood atop the scorched hill and raised his voice to the wind.

"To the king of Aryavrata... your time has ended."

He pointed toward the horizon.

"Go. Show them what the new world looks like."

The four generals disappeared into the air like curses carried by storm clouds.

Within hours, the capital of Aryavrata trembled.

The King of Aryavrata stood in his golden armor, sword drawn—too proud, too late.

The sky cracked open.

The four generals landed.

And in a flash of fire, bone, shadow, and screams—the King was dead.

The capital’s golden banners caught fire and dissolved into black ash. Screams still echoed long after the battle ended.

In the center of the ruins, the four generals stood in silence. Not one of them looked back.

The king’s golden crown rolled down the stairs and landed in the mud.

A child picked it up silently, hiding it beneath a broken cart.

Later, Zorwath’s sigil—twisted and burning—was hung on the palace gate.

Those who resisted were chained in the square.

From a balcony above, Vyuk watched the silent crowd below.

No cheers. No celebration. Just fear.

Zorwath appeared beside him. "They’ll learn to love us."

Vyuk didn’t answer.

That night, Vyuk stepped out of the war camp, staring up at the blood-red moon. He whispered to the wind:

"He’s walking a path soaked in corpses... and I’m walking right beside him."

He closed his eyes.

"But the day he loses even the last shard of his soul... I’ll become his executioner."

From the distance, thunder rolled across the mountains. Vyuk lowered his hood and let the wind hit his face.

Behind him, the camp prepared for the next strike.

Before him... the line he may someday have to cross.

That night, Vyuk sat alone under the moonlight with a torn scrap of parchment.

He wrote slowly, hands trembling.

"To my sister,

I saved a girl today. I think you would’ve liked her. She was brave. I still remember your voice when you used to scold me for chasing fireflies instead of studying.

Now I chase shadows.

I’m still trying. I don’t know what side I’m on anymore. I just know... I miss you.

—Vyuk"

He folded the paper, held it to his chest — then let the wind take it.