THE MARCH BEGINS
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They left Aurelthane’s estate not to cheers—
—but to silence.
Not the somber quiet of mourning.
Not the fragile hush of fear.
A silence carved from respect,
from understanding,
from the collective breath of a town that knew:
The Crimson Dice may not return.
But if anyone could walk into the Crimson Spire and come back with a child in their arms…
it was them.
Families lined the road.
Tradesmen stood with hats pressed to their chests.
Children clung to their parents’ sleeves.
Not a single lute played.
Not a single cup was raised.
No celebration.
No festival.
No spectacle.
Just Thornmere—
heart aching,
eyes burning,
watching heroes ride toward the storm.
Elyra on Midnight, bow across her back.
Sereth on her steed, jaw set and deadly calm.
Elaris with skeletal silhouettes drifting behind him like silent guardians.
Kaer sharpening his blade while riding, steel whispering.
Garruk cracking his knuckles with thunderous anticipation.
Vex and Laz twinning in flame and swagger.
Arden glowing faintly, like dawn in mortal form.
Pancake perched proudly atop Elyra’s saddlehorn, cloak fluttering dramatically.
A little girl stepped forward and placed white wildflowers on the ground as they passed.
Elyra’s voice cracked.
Sereth reached over and squeezed her hand.
Elaris lowered his hood and nodded to the gathered people.
And Thornmere whispered, as one:
“Bring him home.”
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THE ROAD EAST — DAYS OF FIRE, DAYS OF STEEL
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Day One
The roads wound through soft green countryside.
Golden fields rolled like waves.
The Dice rode in tight formation, tension underlying every conversation.
Kaer dissected battle plans aloud.
Arden discussed divine wards with Elaris.
Vex and Laz argued about whether explosions or fire-based subterfuge “send the better message.”
Garruk kept checking his axe like it might vanish.
Elyra rode ahead sometimes—
the scout in her emerging—
eyes hard, heart trembling.
Sereth kept a constant watch on the skies.
Elaris kept reliving Azhareth’s voice in his mind:
“I beg you.”
He had heard dragons roar,
gods whisper,
undead scream—
—but never a dragon beg.
Day Two
Clouds thickened.
The wind sharpened.
The plains grew dry and lifeless.
They trained as they rode—
throwing knives into trees,
casting spells into the night,
running mental rehearsals of the Spire.
Elyra broke off for a quiet word with Sereth at dusk:
Elyra (soft, fearful):
“Mum… what if he’s hurt? What if Azhareth lied?”
Sereth brushed a hand through her daughter’s white-and-black hair.
Sereth:
“He didn’t lie.
I saw his face, Elyra.
That was not malice.
That was guilt.”
Elyra swallowed.
Sereth kissed her forehead.
Sereth:
“We’ll bring him home.”
Day Three
The sun rose blood-red.
The plains grew jagged.
And in the distance—
like a shard of obsidian embedded in the world—
the Crimson Spire pierced the sky.
Crimson lightning flickered around its peak.
Dark smoke coiled like serpents around its upper balconies.
Glass shards glittered in the wind like falling snow.
The air itself hummed with Lattice corruption.
Garruk muttered a prayer to whatever gods listened to barbarians.
Kaer closed his visor, voice low:
Kaer:
“This is it.”
Elaris tightened his grip on the reins.
Sereth looked at him, their resolve united.
Elyra inhaled sharply, clutching her locket.
The Dice slowed to a stop.
The earth rumbled beneath them.
And somewhere far away—
in a realm between realms,
lit by mirrors and black sand—
a devil leaned back in her throne of broken lattice,
quill tapping her lip.
Her voice drifted over worlds,
over planes,
over fate itself.
Valthrix (soft, thrilled):
“Let the games begin.”
The words slammed into the world like a curse.
And in that instant—
the Crimson Spire awakened.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
THE CRIMSON PLAINS — THE WELCOME OF WAR
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The moment the Crimson Dice set foot on the Crimson Plains, the world shifted.
Not metaphorically.
Not emotionally.
Literally.
The air thickened—heavy, metallic, tasting faintly of glass and blood.
The wind died.
The sky hushed.
The earth vibrated with a distant, unnatural heartbeat.
And then they saw them.
Hundreds.
Rows upon rows of soldiers—if the word even applied anymore.
Their armor was cracked and warped, fused with crimson veins of Lattice corruption.
Their movements were stiff, jerky, like puppets with too many strings.
Flesh long dead.
Eyes hollow.
Voices stolen.
Husks.
Remnants of an army that should have been buried decades ago.
The Dice halted as the horizon shifted—the corrupted legion parting just enough for a mounted contingent to emerge.
Seven riders.
Seven hollow figures.
Their mounts were skeletal mockeries of horses, ribs glowing with dull red light, hooves leaving smoldering impressions in the earth.
The lead rider stopped before the Dice, head tilting with an unnatural crack.
When it spoke, the sound was gravel dragged across stone.
Soldier:
“You are expected… at the Spire.”
The Dice formed a tight circle around Elyra and Sereth—an instinct older than training.
The husk’s head twisted, surveying them with empty sockets.
Finally, it croaked:
Soldier:
“Sheathe your weapons… and you will not be attacked.
Draw them… and there will be violence.”
A tension like lightning crawled through the Dice.
Kaer’s hand hovered over his sword.
Garruk’s fingers flexed around his axe.
Arden’s halo flickered to life in a thin, warning shimmer.
Vex and Laz whispered in Infernal under their breath.
Sereth and Elyra’s hands instantly went to their bows—
—but before they could draw, a voice cleaved the silence like a knife dragged along glass.
A sound every single one of them knew.
Silvenna.
Her tone was honeyed poison.
Silvenna (off in the crowd):
“Not advisable… hawk…”
Every corrupted soldier snapped into readiness.
Hundreds of sword hilts clicked in unison.
The sound rippled across the plains like the world cracking open.
Sereth’s eyes narrowed, body coiled like a storm about to break.
Elyra’s braid whipped in the wind as she pivoted, searching for Silvenna’s silhouette.
The dice locked into a protective formation—
Until Elaris lifted a hand.
A single gesture.
Measured.
Controlled.
And both rangers—reluctantly—removed their hands from their weapons.
The tension didn’t drop.
It simply became quieter.
Sharper.
More lethal.
Silvenna materialized through the ranks, gliding like a spectre across polished glass.
Her crystalline joints clicked softly.
Her gown of fractured reflections trailed behind her like a broken rainbow of death.
She smiled.
A smile that could kill hope itself.
Silvenna:
“Wonderful. Cooperation. How refreshing.”
She clapped her hands once—
the sound sharp as a blade.
Immediately the corrupted army split, forming a clean, horrifying corridor leading toward the Spire’s main gate.
The Dice looked at one another.
No words.
They didn’t need them.
Elyra swallowed hard.
Sereth squeezed her hand once.
Elaris breathed out slow and steady.
Kaer nodded.
Arden’s brow furrowed in silent prayer.
Garruk cracked his neck, teeth bared.
Vex and Laz each took flanking sides, eyes glowing.
Pancake, cosmic and unbothered, hopped onto Garruk’s shoulder with divine menace.
Silvenna bowed slightly.
Silvenna:
“Shall we?”
Her veil of crystal shimmered as she turned, gliding ahead toward the Spire, snapping her fingers for them to follow.
Hundreds of corrupted helmets slowly turned to watch the Dice pass.
The Dice stepped forward as one.
Step by step.
Warriors walking through a graveyard
of those who once believed
they could not lose.
The Crimson Plains swallowed the sound of their footsteps.
The Spire loomed ahead, throbbing with crimson thunder.
And above them, unseen, a dragon watched—with golden eyes full of guilt and fear.
The Dice passed beneath the raised blades of an army that wanted them dead.
But they did not falter.
Not for one breath.
Not for one heartbeat.
They walked straight into the lion’s mouth.
Because their son—
their brother—
their nephew—
their beloved—
was inside.
And nothing on this earth could stop them now.
THE CRIMSON SPIRE — THE DESCENT INTO HER DOMAIN
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The gates sealed behind them with a groaning, organic shudder.
And the Crimson Spire swallowed the Dice whole.
Inside, the walls were alive.
Veined.
Pulsing.
Thick trails of red—blood or lattice ichor—ran down the slanted crystalline angles like tears shed by a tortured god.
Every few seconds the entire tower throbbed, sending a sickening ripple of light through its structure.
A heartbeat.
Unstable.
Hungry.
Elyra grabbed Sereth’s hand, their breaths synchronizing in unease.
Kaer set his jaw.
Garruk bristled.
Arden whispered protective prayers under his breath.
Vex and Laz walked closer together, weapons hidden in sleeves.
And Pancake’s fur stood on end, cosmic energy flickering around him like static before a storm.
Silvenna glided ahead through the pulsing corridor, her reflection fracturing across every mirrored surface like a thousand grinning ghosts.
Without looking back, she spoke—voice a lilt of silk and knives.
Silvenna:
“Can you feel her energy, Shepherd?
Her lattice… beautiful, isn’t it?”
Elaris didn’t slow.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t indulge.
His hand tightened at his side, necrotic light leaking from trembling fingers.
Elaris (low, deadly):
“Where is my son.”
Silvenna tutted like a disappointed governess.
Silvenna:
“Oh, Elaris…
In time.
Make yourselves at home.”
She gestured to the walls.
They screamed.
Not aloud—
but in vibrations through the Lattice itself.
Whispers.
Thousands.
Men. Women. Children.
Some begging.
Some raging.
All trapped.
Elaris flinched—just barely—as he heard it:
A chorus of torn souls,
some ancient,
some heartbreakingly recent.
He braced a hand against the wall—and recoiled instantly as voices tore through him like claws.
The tears he didn’t mean to shed burned crimson as they fell.
Then—
A whisper crawled into his skull, layered with age and sorrow:
Azhareth (telepathic, urgent, cracking):
Do not engage, Shepherd.
You will die.
Elaris stiffened.
Azhareth:
Follow the glass witch to the chamber.
Your son is alive.
But she has him now.
There was a pause.
A quiet, devastating one.
Azhareth:
There is nothing more I can do to protect him.
Elaris inhaled sharply through his teeth.
Ahead, Silvenna smiled as if she felt the dragon’s words.
Behind them, Sereth slowed.
Her hand drifted to her stomach—a reflex she developed while pregnant—but this time it wasn’t maternal instinct.
It was pain.
Deep.
Soul-deep.
Remnants of her time as the Scarlet Huntress.
Crimson Queen’s whispers pressed against her mind like rusted barbs, dredging up memories she’d buried:
Killing for the Queen.
Hunting innocents.
Seeing herself in the mirror with eyes not her own.
Feeling her essence replaced with commands.
Sereth blinked hard, trying to stay in the now.
But flashes hit her in stabs of red—
Hunt for me, Sereth.
Bring me the girl.
End him for defying me.
The Shepherd will kneel.
A soft cry escaped her as her vision blurred.
Elyra instantly caught her by the arm.
Elyra herself was pale, legs trembling slightly—
a phantom echo of the paralysis the corrupted lattice once inflicted on her.
She felt the weakness under her skin.
Felt the ghost of numb legs.
Felt the wrongness tugging at her joints.
But she forced strength into her stance.
Elyra (hoarse whisper):
“Not again…
I’m not—
I’m not breaking again.”
Sereth squeezed her hand despite her own spiralling panic.
They walked.
They endured.
Silvenna slowed, finally turning fully to face them—
her body splitting into four mirrored silhouettes for a heartbeat before reforming.
Her gaze locked with Elaris.
Silvenna (smiling wide):
“Witch, Shepherd?
I accept the title.”
Elaris stepped closer, shadow rising off him like smoke.
His voice was frost and fury combined.
Elaris:
“Lead on, witch.
And pray that my son is unharmed.”
Silvenna’s grin widened to something monstrous,
cracks spreading like spiderwebs across her face as she curtsied.
Silvenna:
“Oh, Shepherd…
This way.”
She floated deeper into the Spire, the Dice following with weapons ready, hearts pounding, and the Lattice itself screaming around them.
Ahead lay the chamber.
Ahead lay Varno.
Ahead lay the Queen.
The truth.
The full power of the corrupt Heart.
The Devil’s plan.
The Dragon’s desperation.
And the beginning of the end.
