A tense stillness hung over the fields outside Melnock. Even the birds had fled the skies that morning.The wind moved across the plains, but the grass did not answer it.

  It was the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the soft shuffle of armour plates and the steady, nervous breaths of those waiting to fight. Tens of thousands stood shoulder to shoulder, men and women alike, some clad in polished white armour trimmed with gold, others wearing mismatched gear scavenged from homes and workshops. Farmers, craftsmen, soldiers. All united by the same fear, the same resolve.

  No one spoke.

  Then the gates of Melnock began to open. Someone behind the lines retched quietly, the sound swallowed by armour and fear.

  The massive wooden doors creaked apart slowly, the sound echoing across the plains like a warning bell. From within the city rolled a great war tank, its white-and-gold plating gleaming beneath the rising sun. Behind it emerged the King of Shahero, riding atop a massive lizard-like beast. Its scaled body rippled with muscle as it moved, claws digging into the earth.

  The king wore ceremonial armour, white and gold, immaculate despite the dust of war. A long red cloak cascaded down the beast’s back, stirring in the wind like a banner of defiance.

  As he rode forward, the army parted to let him pass. He brought his mount to a halt at the very front of the line and drew a long, steady breath.

  “Today,” the king called out, his voice carrying across the field, “I stand beside my people.”

  The army leaned forward as one.

  “If I die,” he continued, raising his sword, “then I die with the heroes of our nation.”

  A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd. Armour clanged as fists struck breastplates and shields. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their voices. Even as the crowd roared, the king felt the weight of an ending settle in his bones.

  Then, silence again.

  It was shattered by an almighty crash from the sky.

  Thousands of heads tilted upward as dark shapes tore through the clouds. Shoven vessels screamed through the atmosphere, trailing fire and smoke as they descended. One by one they slammed into the land beyond the fields, shaking the earth on impact.

  The ships’ ramps dropped. As those first boots struck earth, a rumble passed through the land. Some swore that they felt the ground recoil, as if the world rejected what had come.

  Wave after wave of Shoven poured out, towering figures clad in brutal armour, weapons already raised. Without hesitation, they charged.

  The Shaheran army surged forward to meet them. A young soldier at the front whispered a prayer he didn’t believe in as he ran.

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  The first shots rang out. Royal Guards at the front fell where they stood, bodies collapsing into the grass before they could even draw their blades. Still the army ran, leaping over the fallen, screaming as swords were drawn on both sides.

  When the two forces collided, the clash was deafening.

  Steel met steel. A soldier before the king gets a round of ammunition fired into his chest, as he falls to the floor in front of him, the King looks down, he knows his days are numbered, a soldier forgotten in history. Blades flashed, then vanished beneath blood. Green and red spilled freely, soaking into the earth until the field itself seemed to bleed. Bodies fell, trampled beneath boots and claws alike. Cries of pain and fury filled the air, swallowed by the chaos. Those without armour realized too late that there was nowhere left to run.

  More Shoven ships ripped through the sky.

  More soldiers came.

  The Shaherens were being overrun.

  The king fought at the front, cutting down enemy after enemy, but as he looked across the field, he saw it clearly, the land drenched in the blood of his own people. The tide was turning.

  Then Slamm emerged. The air seemed to recoil from Slamm, as if the world itself recognized its conqueror. Magic faltered in his presence. Flames dissipated. Spells collapsed with no where to go. Even the bravest warriors felt their strength drain as he walked.

  He forced his way through the battlefield, towering and unyielding, his presence alone causing Shaheran soldiers to falter. He stopped just metres from the king. As Slamm advanced, the king remembered every treaty signed in good faith.

  The two rulers faced one another.

  The king hesitates for only a heartbeat.

  In that moment, he saw the future, cities burning, children hiding, the sky thick with smoke.

  Then he chose to fight anyway, he knew his destiny.

  The King of Shahero struck first.

  His blade cut deep, slashing across Slamm’s face and carving a vicious scar. Slamm snarled, but did not fall. With a brutal kick, he sent the king crashing to the ground. The king’s sword flew from his grasp, skidding through the blood-soaked grass.

  Before the king could rise, Slamm seized the fallen blade.

  In one merciless motion, Slamm brought it down.

  The king’s head fell free, rolling to Slamm’s feet.

  For one soul crushing moment, the world held its breath, even the Shoven stopped moving.

  Then something broke, something unseen.

  The battlefield froze.

  Slamm placed one heavy foot upon the king’s body, lifted the severed head high, and roared. The Shoven answered with savage cheers, snorts, grunts, armour clashing in triumph.

  The Shaheran army broke.

  Some fled. Others were cut down where they stood. Shots rang out as retreating soldiers fell one by one. The ground churned into mud beneath them, no longer able to hold the weight of the dead.

  Slamm turned to his army, holding the head aloft.

  “This world is ours now!” he bellowed. “For too long we were bound to the moon. Now, we claim our own!”

  The Shoven roared again.

  And Melnock burned.

  The smoke rose for days.

  Some claimed they saw shapes and faces moving within, the souls of those who fell. Wings fire, shadows watching from beyond the sky.

  And from that day forward, magic began to change.

  Thanks for reading!

  Every time someone spends a few minutes in the world of Shahero, it honestly means more than I can properly put into words. Seeing people follow the journey of Tyron, Samantha, Lazarus, Freya, Cid, and Zara makes all the hours of writing worth it.

  If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to leave a comment or follow the story. I read every comment, and it genuinely helps the story reach more readers here on Royal Road.

  A few people have also asked how they can support the project as I work toward eventually publishing the book. If that’s something you’d like to help with, there’s a support link below that goes toward editing and preparing the story for print.

  No pressure at all though—reading the story is already huge support.

  Question for readers:What moment in this chapter stood out to you the most?

  See you in the next chapter.

  — Matthew Cooke-Sumner