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Ruins of Peace

Autor: Tyson Roy
last update Zuletzt aktualisiert: 2025-06-11 17:03:03

Dawn broke over Hollowgate not with triumphant trumpets, but with a silence so heavy it felt alive, thick as velvet, lingering in every shattered doorway, every scarred fountain, every broken statue. The city that had once shimmered like gold in the morning light now lay draped in ash and dust, its grandeur reduced to piles of ruin that whispered of laughter long vanished.

Elara Flameborne stood atop the crumbling eastern wall, the wind tugging at her cloak’s singed hem. Below her, the spires lay fractured, their once-proud stones jagged against a bruised sky. Temple roofs had caved in, leaving altars exposed to rain and ruin. Gardens that once bloomed with every shade of flower now smoked in tangled vines of charred ivy. Statues, heroes and gods alike were decapitated, their heads rolled among debris stained with dust and blood. Shards of crimson glass, ripped from cathedral windows, glinted like dying embers in the streets where children’s voices once echoed.

And in the midst of it
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Kael’s Last Stand

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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Betrayal of Lucien

    The first time Seren saw Lucien again, it was not in moonlight.It was in ashfall.The sky above the Ashborn’s last encampment was bruised the color of secrets—muted pewter, the hue of old regrets, as if the heavens themselves refused to forgive what was coming. Cinders drifted with no real direction, falling in slow, ceaseless spirals, soft as dust shaken from the hands of a world too weary to lift itself again. Nothing was warm, nothing glowed. Even the embers in the fire rings seemed cowed into silence.The sentries saw nothing on the ridges. No flames from the warding pyres. No howl from the wolves that scouted the perimeter, their silver eyes peeled for trouble. Just silence. A hush thick as honey, heavy as sleep.Lucien simply appeared—pulled from the ragged edge of shadow and memory, as if the ash itself had finally remembered him.He stepped past the last watchfire, his boots stirring a drift of gray flakes. Black from hood to heel, shrouded in regret, and carrying a blade tha

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    They came at dusk.Three witches robed in flame-silk, their garments tattered by time, their movements soundless. Their faces were half-burned, half-veiled, and their mouths sealed shut with threads of ember-iron, an oath no fire could melt.No one saw them arrive.No footsteps echoed. No scent betrayed their presence. They simply appeared, at the edge of the fire wards that protected the Ashborn camp, standing like memories carved from smoke and sorrow.Their presence was wrong in the way old magic was wrong, like a wound in time that refused to close.Seren met them first.She did not call for guards. Did not raise the Starbrand. Did not speak.She simply stepped toward them, spine unbent, eyes quiet.And waited.The tallest witch bowed, not stiffly, not in deference, but in ritual. An old gesture from before the Accord burned.From within her scorched sleeve, she drew a scroll. It was sealed in wax shaped like a wolf’s fang, bound in a crown of thorns blackened by spellfire.She of

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