The storm had been raging for three days. Wind howled like a grieving widow, and rain lashed the cliffs in ceaseless sheets, carving paths into blackened stone as if the gods themselves clawed at the earth in fury. Below, the sea churned in violence, its foam-capped waves battering the rocks with a vengeance that no man could withstand. And above it all, on the highest precipice, the Bastion of Broken Kings loomed.

The fortress stood defiant, its walls scarred and weathered, a relic of a time when kings were gods among men. Now, it was nothing but a mausoleum, a monument to failure, where shadows whispered of betrayal and loss. The great torches that once burned bright atop its parapets had long since been extinguished, leaving only the smoldering embers of a forgotten legacy. This was no place for the living. And yet, here he was.

Kantyr trudged through the rusting gates, his boots sinking into the muddy path, each step a reminder of the filth that clung to him—body and soul. Once, he’d been a soldier, a commander, a man of honor. That was before the wars, before the bloodshed, before he had lost everything. Now, he was just a blade for hire, wandering from one battle to the next, seeking purpose in the chaos and finding only emptiness.

Inside, the Bastion was colder than the storm outside. Its corridors stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of shadow and silence. The stone walls were damp, weeping with the condensation of centuries. Once, these halls had been alive with the clamor of warriors, the feasting of lords, the murmurs of courtiers. Now, they were haunted by memories, the ghosts of a glory that had long since crumbled to dust.

“You’re late,” a voice rasped, breaking the oppressive quiet. It came from the throne room, a cavernous space that felt more like a tomb.

Kantyr’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword as he entered. The figure seated on the throne barely resembled a man. Gaunt and skeletal, Aelden, the last of the Broken Kings, looked more like a wraith than a ruler. His crown of blackened iron sat crooked atop a head bowed by time and despair, and his pale skin stretched tight over bones that seemed too fragile to bear the weight of his armor.

“You summoned me,” Kantyr said, his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine.

Aelden’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile, though it bore no warmth. His voice was dry, brittle, like dead leaves crushed underfoot. “I did. And yet I wonder if you came out of loyalty or mere curiosity. Perhaps neither.”

Kantyr stepped closer, his eyes scanning the room. The shadows moved unnaturally, writhing like living things. They coiled in the corners, watching, waiting. The air smelled of salt and decay, a pungent reminder that this place had been abandoned by life long ago.

“What do you want from me?” Kantyr asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Revenge,” Aelden hissed, the word dripping with venom. His voice carried the weight of centuries, each syllable a stone added to the burden of the past. “They betrayed me—my kin, my people, even the gods themselves. They tore my kingdom apart, left me to rot in this… tomb. But I have endured. And now, I would see them suffer as I have suffered.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows pressing closer. Kantyr felt the weight of the king’s gaze, like twin daggers piercing his soul. “And you think I’ll help you?”

“You will,” Aelden said, his voice dripping with certainty. “Not because you care for my plight, but because you have nowhere else to go. You are like me, Kantyr. Broken. Cast aside. What else is there for men like us but vengeance?”

Kantyr flinched at the words, though he tried to hide it. The truth of them cut deeper than any blade. He thought of the comrades he had buried, the battles fought and lost, the hollow ache that gnawed at him every waking moment. There was no redemption for him, no salvation. Only the sword, and the promise of blood.

“And if I refuse?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Aelden laughed, the sound as dry and lifeless as the stone beneath them. “Then you’ll join the others.” He gestured to the shadows, and Kantyr saw them for what they truly were. Figures, twisted and malformed, their faces frozen in eternal agony. Specters bound to the Bastion, prisoners of the Broken King’s wrath.

Kantyr’s grip tightened on his sword. “If I do this, you let me go. No oaths, no bonds. When your vengeance is done, so am I.”

Aelden inclined his head, a mockery of agreement. “Very well. But know this: vengeance demands a price, and it always collects.”

Kantyr stepped forward, his jaw set, his resolve firm. Outside, the storm raged on, the Bastion trembling under the weight of its fury. Inside, a pact was forged, one that would shape the fate of kingdoms.

“Let it begin,” Kantyr said, his voice a whisper drowned by the howling wind.

And so, the soldier and the Broken King set out on a path of blood and fire, a journey that would leave the world trembling in their wake.