Tribia
The crimson sun was slowly sinking beyond the horizon, flooding the land with a dense red glow. It seemed as though the very sky above Tribia had been soaked in blood. The wind wandered lazily among the bodies, stirring torn banners and the hems of dead men’s cloaks. Fallen warriors lay everywhere. Now and then, drunken cries from the victors ripped through the silence, yet even those sounded muffled, as if the world itself had grown weary of war.
Tribia had fallen. The great kingdom of the Midland Realms, which for centuries had held its neighbors in fear, had become a heap of smoldering ruins in only five days. Upon tall stakes at the city gates blackened the heads of its rulers. King Frid and Queen Polyxena stared eastward with empty eye sockets — toward the land from which the King of Kings had come. Beside them were the heads of their last allies: King Illar and Queen Chloe. The last monarchs who had dared oppose Deonis had departed the world of the living. And yet the war was not over.
The South had been conquered. The West had bowed before the new king. Ancient cities had fallen, old dynasties had vanished, and even the memory of the former world had begun dissolving into the smoke of burning cities and rivers of blood. Only the North remained untouched. There, beyond the endless Valley of Lakes, where cold winds swept in from the stone wastelands, still lived those who had not sworn themselves to the King of Kings.
Deonis drained his cup in a single swallow. The bitter wine burned his throat before spreading through his body with pleasant warmth. For a moment, it eased him. The noise of the hall and the feast drifted away behind a thin veil of haze. The king exhaled heavily and set the goblet down.
“More!” someone shouted.
Maetis was already laughing, slapping Aurelius on the shoulder. The two of them had stood beside Deonis almost his entire life — first as boys at the court of Alkedia, then as warriors, and now as commanders of the King of Kings himself. Together they had crossed the entire path: from the conquest of the West and South to the Midland Kingdoms.
Deonis rose to his feet.
The noise died instantly. Dozens of eyes turned toward him.
They called him the King of Kings. Some spoke the name with awe, others with fear. In twenty years, Deonis had subjugated nearly the entire known world. Cities opened their gates before him — or burned to the ground. Kings bowed their heads or lost them upon the block. Songs were already being written about him: to some he was the chosen of the gods, to others the herald of a new dark age.
Deonis himself had never doubted who he was.
Since childhood, his grandmother Daria had told him:
“The blood of the supreme god Protus flows through your veins.”
He remembered her voice better than his own. Remembered her warm wrinkled hands, the scent of incense, the whispered nighttime stories of heroes, gods, and the dark ruler Morden.
“Everything you can see to the horizon and beyond will one day belong to you,” she would say.
And Deonis believed her.
When he turned fourteen, his father took him on campaign for the first time. Deonis’s father had fought wars almost without pause: repelling raids, forging alliances, marching to war again. Sometimes he won victories; sometimes he was forced to retreat. But little ever changed. Alkedia remained a small kingdom, lost among stronger neighbors.
Deonis understood early: if the world would not bow before you, then you must force it to bow.
He refused to waste his strength endlessly defending borders. Instead, he began gathering people around him and reshaping the very nature of war. Deonis lured seasoned fighters into his service, paid mercenaries generously, forged profitable alliances with merchants and nobles. Every piece of gold won in his early victories he poured back into the army. His forces grew together with his ambition.
Alkedia ceased to be a small kingdom.
It spread across the west to the shores of the Wide Sea and stretched southward — a rich, warm land drowning in gardens and gold. Alkedia became the capital of a new empire, and above its white walls rose the temples of Protus.
“I need rest,” the king said calmly, though Flavius frowned at once. He had known Deonis too long to believe this was mere exhaustion after battle.
The king left the hall and entered the chambers of the dead Frid. They greeted him with heavy silence. The room still smelled of another man’s life: incense, old wood, wine. Tapestries hung upon the walls, carved furniture shimmered with gold, and above the broad bed loomed a magnificent canopy.
Deonis poured himself more wine and approached the window.
Dusk was slowly descending upon the land. To the very horizon stretched the fires of campfires — hundreds, thousands of them. His army was celebrating victory.
Behind him, a door creaked softly. Someone entered the chamber with careful, nearly soundless steps.
“Pour yourself some wine and come here,” Deonis said without turning.
He knew it was Flavius. As always — calm, composed, silent. Many at court feared him almost as much as the king himself, though Flavius rarely raised his voice or showed anger. Decrees passed through his hands, he negotiated in Deonis’s name, and prepared the decisions the king later approved. He had fought beside Deonis since youth, and in times of peace preferred the company of books to people.
“The battle cost us dearly,” Flavius said quietly.
“But it ended in a great victory.” Deonis kept his gaze on the window. “Now the Midland Lands are mine in their entirety. The mighty and unconquerable Tribia and Illar will become provinces of Alkedia. Tell me — could you ever have imagined such a thing?”
Flavius was silent for a moment.
“You have achieved something great, my king. I never doubted you would.”
“Nor did Daria. Do you remember how she spoke of Protus, god of sun and seas, descending into my mother’s bed to conceive me?”
“Your grandmother was a wise and respected woman, my king.”
“They say she could hear the gods.” Deonis drank from his goblet. “And looking at all I have created, I believe it’s true. The gods lead me forward. How many kingdoms have fallen at my feet...”
He smirked faintly, tilting his head.
“Frid and Illar truly believed that united they could stand against me. Against me.”
Flavius said nothing. Deonis noticed his gaze — intent, heavy, as though the adviser constantly wished to say more than he allowed himself.
“You did not come here to speak of victory,” the king said quietly.
Flavius paused.
“No, my king. I am concerned about your health. The attacks are becoming more frequent.”
Deonis gave a bitter smile.
The last attack had come two nights ago. The pain always arrived without warning. First came a faint heat beneath his ribs, then a violent strike, as though red-hot iron had been driven into his chest. His body ceased obeying him. Convulsions followed.
That frightened the king more than death itself.
Death in battle he accepted as part of the path. There was no humiliation in it — only the end of an equal duel. But these attacks were different.
Deonis did not fear pain or the end. He feared the moment others would see it. The moment the warriors who had followed him through cities and wars would understand that their king could fall not by a sword, but by his own body.
And that was enough.
Enough for doubt to take root.
And doubt destroys power faster than any enemy.
The thought made Deonis clench his jaw. Slowly, he exhaled.
“I know,” he said after a long silence. “But the priests are powerless. Every last one of them.”
“Then it is time to seek another path, my king.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Torsland, my king. I believe the time has come to go there.”
Deonis fell silent in thought.
He had heard of Torsland many times from his grandmother. Daria spoke of it as a distant island where people possessed ancient knowledge and knew how to commune with divine entities from other worlds. According to her, that knowledge came from the dwarves.
“The dwarves are no simple folk,” her soft, hushed voice echoed in his memory. “They are ugly and cunning. Their dwellings lie deep beneath the earth, where they keep their riches and their secrets. If you are not of Torsland, it is best not to deal with them. They cannot bear humans. Do not wander into their caves, my boy — they may turn you to stone.”
“I have heard that Morden’s black amulet is hidden on Torsland,” Deonis said, staring toward the dying horizon. “They say the dwarves stole it from the Dark Lord and concealed it in their depths. Or perhaps the tribes of Torsland still possess it. There are even rumors... that Morden died there.”
Flavius exhaled.
“There are too many versions of his death to believe any one of them,” he said. “But one thing remains unchanged, my king: time is against us. Your attacks are growing worse. Priests and healers have failed. Torsland is our only hope. We must sail there as soon as possible.”
He paused.
“A great empire cannot exist without a great king. Especially...” Flavius looked at him more carefully, “...while you still have no heir.”
At that moment, footsteps sounded beyond the door — heavy, noisy, tangled with laughter. Then came a knock.
“Aurelius and Maetis,” Flavius frowned. “I specifically forbade them from coming here.”
Deonis did not answer. He stepped away from the window and lowered himself into a chair.
The knock came again.
“Enter,” Deonis said.
The doors swung open, and Aurelius and Maetis entered the chamber. Both were drunk: flushed faces, heavy eyes, wreaths of withered flowers tangled in their hair.
“My king, it’s wrong to celebrate victory without you!” Aurelius declared first.
“Yes!” Maetis chimed in. “The cellars of these kings hold excellent wine. And their women are nectar of the gods themselves. You should forget your burdens for at least one night.”
“The king desires silence,” Flavius said sharply. “You are disturbing him.”
“And you won’t even drink to victory?” Aurelius turned toward Deonis.
Deonis smiled faintly and shook his head.
These two had been with him all his life. First as boys at the court of Alkedia. Then as warriors. Now as generals. The son of an adviser and the son of a merchant, they had grown beside him, studied beside him, fought beside him, marched through campaigns and conquests together.
“I want silence,” Deonis said. “This victory does not erase my other concerns. There is still much to be done.”
“It could all wait,” Aurelius muttered. “We earned our rest.”
“Perhaps,” Deonis replied. “But not now.”
“You live a dull life, my king,” Maetis smirked. “Even the gods feast sometimes.”
“The gods live forever,” Deonis said quietly, gazing out the window where the sunset was burning away, “while mortals have too little time to waste it.”
“You are right, my king,” Flavius added. “Empires are not built on idleness.”
Silence settled over the chamber.
Aurelius grew more serious. Maetis stopped smiling. Flavius did not take his eyes off Deonis.
“So what comes next?” Aurelius asked. “The North? Astrag?”
“No,” Deonis answered. “First, Alkedia.”
“And after that?” Maetis asked.
Deonis looked directly into his eyes.
“And after that — Torsland.”
The words hung in the air.
Aurelius and Maetis exchanged glances. Surprise, unease, and disbelief mixed in their expressions. Clearly, they wanted to say something, yet neither dared.
Deonis looked at them and added:
“I have business there. And it must be resolved as quickly as possible.”
