Tears of Fallen Angel

Heavy footsteps echoed behind Alethion, accompanied by the sound of clashing metal—the resounding clang of a heavy black armor reverberating through the ancient trees. The sound alone was enough to instill fear, yet Alethion did not turn. He knew who was approaching.

The figure drew closer until he reached Alethion's side, then sat down beside him without uttering a word.

Raising his hands, he removed his helmet—an enormous piece adorned with large, twisted horns, as if they belonged to an ancient beast emerging from the depths of darkness. As the helmet fell onto the grass beside him, his hardened face was revealed—the face of Ragarath, the man who had not changed for a hundred years. His voice had not weakened, his strength had not waned.

In a deep, thunderous voice, like a lightning strike on a stormy night, he said:

"Alethion... we must respond to the counselor of the Kingdom of Ilexilia."

Clear words. Direct. No room for delay.

At that moment, Alethion slowly turned, his violet eyes reflecting the cold fire burning within him. He did not hesitate, did not think twice. He spoke sharply, as if the decision had been made the moment his daughter fell into his arms:

"Ragarath… summon the Five Generals. I want to discuss this matter with them."

Ragarath needed no further explanation. He did not need to hear more. He nodded in acknowledgment, then rose, picked up his helmet, and tucked it under his arm.

Before stepping away, he spoke a single word in a deep, commanding voice:

"As you command, King of the Immortals."

Then he turned and began moving, seeking out each general one by one to gather them from the corners of the cavern.

The five generals gathered around Alethion in the heart of an ancient stone chamber, where flickering flames danced within the torches, casting ominous shadows over their faces. The air was thick with tension and suppressed hostility, for tonight's discussion was not merely about war… but about vengeance against the human kingdom that had betrayed them.

Alethion, his voice deep and dry, looked at their grim faces before speaking:

"I have heard that the King of Ilexilia seeks our aid in conquering the Kingdom of Nythera..."

He paused for a moment, then continued slowly, his words burning like embers in his chest:

"Our homeland—the land that exiled us, despised us, betrayed us… enslaved the immortals."

He looked at them all before adding, in a voice even more dangerous:

"And he offers us anything in return for our assistance."

A heavy silence fell. The first to break it was General Ragarath, the fiercest warrior of the immortal army.

"Betray Nythera?!" (He slammed his fist on the table, making the ancient stones tremble under his strength.)

"This is madness! No matter what they did to us, Nythera is still our homeland. We may hate them, we may despise them, but to fight them?!"

He then looked directly at Alethion, his expression both angry and conflicted:

"You're not seriously considering this offer, are you?!"

Serinos responded to Ragarath:

"Calm yourself, Ragarath." (He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in deep thought.)

"Don't let your emotions control you. The humans have shown us no mercy. They exiled us from our lands, betrayed us time and time again. Do you truly think they would accept our existence if they had the choice?"

He glanced at everyone with sharp eyes before saying darkly:

"Nythera is no longer our homeland—it has become nothing more than a den of traitors. Humans are weak, but they are cunning, and if we do not destroy them now, we will not rule later."

Valinor:

(He smirked slyly, spinning his sword between his fingers slowly, as if savoring a thought forming in his mind.)

"I think the King of Ilexilia is desperate, and that's why he's asking for our help. And when a king is desperate..." (He paused for a moment, then glanced at everyone with calculating eyes.)

"We can demand a price far greater than just gold."

He then tilted his head slightly toward Alethion, asking in a soft yet dangerous voice:

"The real question is... why stop at Nythera? Why not use this opportunity to end the human bloodline altogether?"

Darcian:

"The weakness Ragarath shows disgusts me."

Darcian spoke with disdain, crossing his arms, his voice seething with restrained fury.

"The humans have shown us no mercy. They cast us out like dogs, enslaved us, and burned our homes. I don't care if Nythera was once our homeland—it no longer is. It is merely a city that must be crushed beneath our feet."

Then he turned to Ragarath directly, his eyes burning with hatred:

"If you cannot fight against them, perhaps it's time for you to step aside."

Valeria:

(She had been sitting in the back, arms crossed, her eyes silently observing them all. Finally, she decided to speak.)

"Everyone here sees the matter from a different angle, but all of you are thinking with your emotions."

She stepped forward, placed a hand on the table, then spoke clearly:

"The question is not only whether we help Ilexilia or not… but what we do afterward."

Then she turned to Alethion and spoke directly:

"You know that this is not just a war between Ilexilia and Nythera. There are other forces lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for us to move."

Alethion:

Alethion gazed at them all before closing his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the decision he had to make.

"What do I want?" (He slowly opened his eyes, staring at them.)

"What I want is for us to claim what we deserve. And for that… the palace of King Theodor II and his lands. It is the key to our coming power."

He paused for a moment, then added with sharper determination:

"We will aid the King of Ilexilia in erasing the Kingdom of Nythera completely—we will reduce it to ashes from which nothing shall rise. But we will not fight for free. When our plan succeeds, the palace and its lands will be ours, and we will take the first true steps toward our ultimate goal..."

Then, he looked at them all with merciless eyes, his voice as grim as an inevitable fate:

"Bring forth the Pure Sword… the only blade capable of killing me. And when it is done, you shall all attain what you long for..."

Silence reigned for a few seconds before Darcian broke it with a short laugh, saying with sarcasm:

"At last, we're starting to move seriously."

The generals exchanged glances—some with cold smiles, others with nods of agreement. The decision had been made.

"Then, we shall march toward our goal..."

And so, the Immortal Army began its march—not just to aid Ilexia, but to fulfill the destiny they had awaited for so long... and to bring an end to all who stood in their way.

Alytheon sat upon his cold stone throne, his elbow resting on an ancient golden armrest, while the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the walls of the ancient hall. His deep voice rose, like an ominous echo foretelling doom:

"Darcian, go and bring the royal advisor of Ilexia… Let him hear the answer from me personally."

Darcian nodded with military discipline, struck his chest in a swift salute, and replied in a firm tone:

"As you command, King of the Immortals."

He turned and left with steady steps, leaving behind the solemn silence, broken only by the crackling flames of the torches. Mere minutes passed before Darcian returned—but he was not alone...

Behind him walked a middle-aged man, his neatly trimmed beard and luxurious attire reflecting his status as a royal advisor. He tried to maintain his composure, yet he could not conceal the tension in his eyes as he stood before Alytheon. Beside him walked a young girl with soft brown hair and wide eyes, carrying an innocence unfit for a world stained with blood. She was the very same girl Alytheon had watched by the water spring—the girl who stirred the memory of his lost daughter…

Alytheon lifted his head slightly, his cold, unreadable gaze fixed upon them. Then he spoke slowly, as if delivering an irrevocable decree:

"Listen well, Advisor..."

"We will aid you in eradicating the kingdom of Nythira. We will erase it from existence, burn its palaces, tear down its walls, and make its kings scream the names of their gods before we crush them beneath our feet."

He paused for a moment before adding in a sharper tone:

"However… Theodoric II's palace and its lands shall be ours. The Immortal Army does not fight for free, and you know well that your army's next destination is there."

The advisor watched him intently, and before he could respond, Alytheon continued in a low, yet chilling voice:

"If you do not agree to this condition… then there is no deal."

The advisor did not hesitate for long, as if he had anticipated such a demand. His expression burst with relief, and he quickly nodded, speaking with eager enthusiasm:

"Yes, yes! My king will surely agree! This is a fair request!"

Alytheon remained still, showing no interest in the man's reaction. Instead, he slowly turned his gaze to the young girl, his violet eyes lingering on her for long seconds. He saw her—but at the same time, he saw his deceased daughter in her place…

He exhaled slowly before speaking in a voice low but as sharp as a blade:

"Take good care of your daughter, Advisor. Do not let any harm befall her."

The advisor looked at him in surprise but did not hesitate to respond firmly, as if his words were an unbreakable oath:

"If she is harmed in any way, I will become a demon who destroys everything in my path to reclaim what is hers."

A faint smirk appeared on Alytheon's lips, but it was not one of warmth—rather, a cold, mocking smile. He gazed at the advisor like a mere pawn on a much grander chessboard before saying in a sarcastic tone:

"For that reason exactly..."

Then, he turned to one of his soldiers, making a subtle gesture with his hand. The soldier immediately stepped forward, bowing respectfully. Alytheon continued in a commanding voice:

"Escort him back to his kingdom. Let him deliver our response to his king, and return to me with their answer."

The soldier bowed, then approached the advisor and his daughter, motioning for them to move. Though tense, the advisor was nothing more than a man who saw a golden opportunity for his kingdom—so he proceeded without protest.

Alytheon watched them silently as they departed the hall, then murmured to himself, his voice barely audible but carrying a meaning that was both clear and earth-shattering:

"Now… everything begins to move as it should."

The night was cold, the sky shrouded in black clouds that hid the moon, as if foreshadowing the doom of the coming war.

In the heart of the Immortals' village square, where the air was thick with the scent of ash and iron, a faint voice rose from the very ground itself—summoned from the depths of hell.

Slowly, a body rose, as if it had just emerged from an abandoned grave. It was the soldier Alithion had sent to the Kingdom of Ilexia. He fully emerged from the darkness, then stood directly before the King of the Immortals, dropping to his knees in a bow of respect, his voice trembling between awe and loyalty:

"My lord... the king agrees. The palace will be yours immediately after its capture, but our army must assist them in crushing the Neithera."

For a moment, Alithion said nothing. He merely stared at the soldier with a cold gaze, as if he had already known the answer. Then, slowly, a sinister smile began to form on his lips. It was not a smile of joy, but the smile of a wolf who saw the trap set before him—yet chose to walk into it with the confidence of kings.

He tilted his head slightly, then closed his eyes, reaching through the shadows to communicate with Darsian, who sat atop a giant tree in a distant valley, gazing at the stars with contemplative eyes as if conversing with them. Yet his inner voice was present, awaiting his commander's orders.

"Darsian… gather the armies now. Our war begins in two days."

There was no hesitation in the response. Darsian's voice came through the telepathic link, firm and resolute, without even shifting his gaze from the sky:

"As you command, King of the Immortals."

Alithion slowly opened his eyes, then turned to face the village, where the black banners of the Immortal Army fluttered in the cold wind.

The morning was grim despite the rising sun, as if the sky itself was anticipating the inevitable fate that would unfold in just a few hours. The wind was cold, caressing the black banners of the Immortal Army, which billowed in the air with a solemn majesty.

In the vast square before Alithion's old village, five commanders stood side by side, like dark pillars bearing the very shadow of death upon them.

At the center stood Alithion, the King of the Immortals, his unwavering stance exuding absolute authority. His black armor gleamed faintly in the dim light, and upon his chest, the golden sun emblem seemed to fade beneath a shroud of darkness. His eyes, two merciless violet stars, held an unreadable depth, while his long black hair swayed slightly with the breeze.

To his right stood Rajarth and Darsian. Rajarth, clad in lighter black armor designed for his unparalleled speed as a duelist, rested his hand on the hilt of his longsword, his stern expression betraying no uncertainty.

To Alithion's left stood Valinor, his heavy black armor matching Rajarth's but distinct in one detail—his helmet bore massive, forward-curving horns, giving him the appearance of a demonic warrior risen from the depths of hell. His grip was tight around his colossal battle-axe, a weapon capable of shattering shields with a single blow.

A few steps away stood Serinus, the elven archer. His lean frame was clad in a sleek black leather armor suited for his agile movements. A black mask concealed his mouth and nose, adding to his aura of mystery. His glowing violet eyes scanned the horizon with a cold, calculating gaze, his arrow nocked and ready to be loosed at a moment's notice.

Behind the commanders stood Kaylor, Alithion's son, who appeared to be in his twenties in human years but had lived for nearly a hundred and thirty years. His slender figure was wrapped entirely in black, designed for an assassin lurking in the shadows. Twin poisoned daggers rested in his hands, his cold eyes silently assessing everyone's weaknesses.

Beside him stood Vilaria, the sorceress of darkness, draped in a black cloak adorned with cryptic silver engravings. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and in her grip, a staff of ancient bones gleamed with an eerie blue glow. Her expression was devoid of emotion, like a statue carved to embody destructive power.

Before them all, the Immortal Army stretched into the distance—twelve thousand warriors devoid of mercy, standing in formations of lethal precision. The infantry stood at the front, their black shields forming an impenetrable wall, their swords glinting under the faint sunlight. Behind them stood the sorcerers, their black robes billowing with the wind, dark energy swirling around them as if they were beings pulled from the void itself. Further back, the archers stood ready, bows drawn, poisoned arrows prepared for flight, their armor light to allow swift movement.

But the most unsettling sight of all… was the assassins.

They were small in stature, their forms resembling children who had yet to reach fourteen, yet their eyes held no innocence—only the gaze of seasoned killers who had spent over a hundred years mastering the art of death. Their faces were partially covered, adding to their eerie presence, and their fingers hovered over their daggers, poised to strike the moment the command was given.

Everyone was prepared…

No sound filled the air except for the howling winds and the rhythmic flapping of war banners above their heads.

They all knew that tomorrow would not merely be a battle—it would mark the dawn of a new era.

An era of darkness that would drown the Kingdom of Neithera beneath the sword of the King of the Immortals.