Step. Step.
The unicorn took two deliberate steps forward, hooves pressing into the earth with a grace almost divine. Then, lowering its noble head, it nudged Asher’s chest with surprising intimacy.
Asher blinked, caught off-guard. His brows knit slightly, a flicker of recognition dawning across his face. Could it be…?
Wasn’t this the same magnificent creature he had glimpsed in the desolate forest nearly a year ago—if not longer? The memory had dulled with time, like mist over glass, but the impression of that encounter remained carved into his mind. A regal silhouette, cloaked in shadow, proud beyond measure.
And now, here it stood—before him.
Technically, their army had crossed through that forest during their campaign, but they’d passed miles away from that long-lost glade. What reason could there be for this proud beast to seek him out now?
“You needed a horse,” Paul murmured, his voice hushed in reverence. “And the finest of them all came to find you. You are truly God’s favoured.”
Even Paul—seasoned and seldom shaken—wore a mask of awe. He knew what stood before them. The Son of the Wilderness, the only unicorn known to walk their land. A steed so fast, it could outpace a dragon’s flight in full sprint. A beast that bowed to no master.
A king among horses.
But this king had come.
And it had bowed its head to Asher.
Paul’s thoughts reeled. There had been rumors. Whispers of a man touched by divine will. A man chosen to bear the name Kyros, something never before recorded in Tenaria’s long annals. The man who had defied death’s embrace—the Undying Lord.
God’s Favoured.
Asher slowly peeled the glove off his hand and reached out. His palm, roughened by war yet gentle in motion, brushed against the unicorn’s neck—then slowly slid along to its face. The unicorn did not flinch. If anything, it leaned into his touch.
Nero, ever watchful, stepped forward with a basket of apples fetched by Cynthia. Before Asher could even lift one, the unicorn had snatched a mouthful with a snap of its strong teeth. Asher laughed, a rare sound, warm and infectious.
“I guess we don’t only have the edge in technology,” Paul said, eyes still wide. “We have heaven on our side too.”
Laughter rippled through the camp—first Paul’s, then others. Like sunlight spilling over cold stone, the tension that had gripped their hearts eased. Though each soldier had the forged memories and skill of seasoned knights, none could pretend they didn’t feel the looming weight of battle.
They would soon face an enemy with fire-breathing wyverns, an air cavalry, and the dreaded Immortal Legion of the imperial family.
But now…
Now, hope had a horn and stood upon four hooves.
The appearance of the unicorn was no mere blessing—it was a proclamation.
“What will you name it?” Alec asked quietly, his gaze never leaving the creature’s brilliant obsidian coat and crystalline horn.
“Velmorne,” Asher said.
As though understanding, the unicorn neighed loud and proud, its silver eyes gleaming with approval.
“Bring me my saddle,” Asher called. “Sapphira stitched it herself. I couldn’t give it to Nero, though he begged.”
Nero darted away like a boy on a mission, and soon returned with the custom saddle—black with silver trimming, adorned with sunburst sigils. Asher secured it gently upon Velmorne’s back, whispered something only the unicorn heard, then mounted.
Velmorne reared up, its hooves slicing the air before stomping down with such force the earth groaned and cracked beneath it.
Only then did Asher exhale.
“We march once the sun begins to dip,” he said.
And so the march resumed—this time, not just with thunderous steps and clanking steel, but with whispers. Stories of Velmorne, the King of Horses, passed from one ear to another, like fire catching dry brush.
Two weeks later…
In a quiet farming village under House Nubis’ dominion, a woman plucked corn from a stalk. Her hands moved, but her thoughts drifted—gray and weary.
Men from the town had been conscripted, sent to reinforce Castle Black—a fortress barely holding the line. None returned. The enemy was too strong.
The United Army wielded horrors—wyverns that spat fire, air cavalry that blotted the skies, and the Imperial Immortals, warriors said to have conquered death itself.
The woman’s face was pale, eyes dull. All around her, other serfs worked silently, the only sound that of wind and brittle stalks.
“Our town isn’t far from Castle Black,” someone murmured nearby. “If it falls… will we be next?”
“I heard the United Army lets their men go wild,” another replied. “They burn and kill and take whatever they want…”
“Is this how the prince intends to unite the empire?”
The woman didn’t answer. Her fingers froze on the corn husk.
“It’s war,” she told herself.
Then, the earth trembled beneath her feet.
A low rumble. Then stronger. And stronger still.
Gasps erupted as heads turned. Dust spiraled in the distance—a legion was approaching.
They had never seen armor like it—jagged, majestic, black as obsidian and edged in red. Two horns crowned their helms like those of ancient beasts. Their tower shields glinted, and their tall spears stood upright, a forest of war.
Behind them came cavalry—mounted not on horses, but on monstrous beasts that looked part eagle, part bear. Creatures from legend.
And then he came.
A man astride a unicorn.
His white hair danced in the breeze, falling to his broad shoulders. The unicorn beneath him seemed made of shadows and starlight, its crystal horn glinting like dawnlight. Beside him rode warriors in dull-gray armor, red cloaks fluttering behind like banners of blood.
Behind them… machines. Wooden behemoths. War towers. Titan X.
The serfs fell into silence. Breathless. Stunned.
The woman stared, heart thudding in her chest.
“Help…” she whispered, eyes wet.
“Help has arrived.”
“We camp here,” Asher said, his voice calm yet firm.
Nero gave a swift nod and turned to Levi, who reached for the long black horn at his side. He lifted it high and blew. A piercing sound tore through the air like a knife through silk, rising above the clink of armor and the steady rhythm of marching boots.
In an instant, the great army came to a halt, like a river frozen mid-flow.
“Feed the men and let them rest. We ride again at twilight,” Asher continued as he swung down from Velmorne’s saddle, his boots crunching against the dry earth. “We reach Castle Black before nightfall. We need every ounce of strength by then.”
His eyes swept once across the farmland nearby. Rows of weary serfs hunched under the sun’s gaze, their backs bent beneath years of toil. For a moment, his gaze lingered on them—haunted, resigned—but then, like a shadow slipping behind a curtain, he turned and strode away.
Asher walked alone.
Past the banners.
Past the resting soldiers.
Past the eagle-bears tethered in a restless line.
Until the clamor of camp faded, and only the sigh of the wind and the distant cries of birds remained. He stopped at the edge of a low hill and stood still, the wind toying with the strands of his snow-white hair.
Ahead, far beyond sight, was Castle Black.
He couldn’t yet see its dark towers or obsidian ramparts, but he could feel it in his bones. The place where the empire had drawn its line. Where he would meet the might of the united lords. And beside him in that hour… an ally he never thought he’d have.
His hand slipped to the dagger at his belt.
‘The Sirius upgrade lifted me to Ancient rank… and that surge of power healed my body. But…’
His eyes narrowed slightly.
‘I need to know if that was a one-time miracle or if my regeneration has truly returned. I cannot charge into the jaws of three kings on faith alone.’
He slipped off his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his tunic. The cold bite of steel met skin. A thin red line bloomed on his forearm.
He watched in silence.
The wound lingered for a breath… two…
Then he felt it. A subtle itch, like vines knitting beneath the skin.
The flesh closed up before his eyes.
A puff of warm air slipped from his lips as his tense shoulders loosened.
It was back.
Everything was in place now. The men. The beasts. The strength. The will.
And ahead, awaiting them beneath the shadowed sky, was the United Army—bearing the banners of High Prince Aaron Nethaneel, the cruel King Reuel Zaur, and the strategist Count Wyvern.
Three pillars of the Empire.
Three thrones determined to crush him.
Asher sheathed the dagger, turned, and walked back toward his camp. His face was steel. His stride, fire.
Nightfall would come.
And with it, reckoning.
____
A/N: 400 chapters!!!
Honestly, I appreciate the two readers who gifted me. I’ve never had it and yeanred to at least have a feeling and I got it twice in one day!!
I appreciate it. Thanks a lot. Even to those who haven’t gifted me. The fact that you still read is good enough.