King Illyon Kethin

The banners of Erevas hung heavy with ash when the horns finally sounded. Three long notes, low and thunderous, rolling down the mountain passes like the growl of a waking god. Beyond the black iron gates, the returning army emerged, a tide of crimson and steel. Dust and blood stained every banner, every blade, every beast. And at the front rode The King, his black hair matted with soot, his armor split and scarred but gleaming like wet obsidian beneath the stormlight. The courtyard heaved with nobles, courtiers, servants, everyone the palace could drag from its chambers to witness the king’s return. They fell to their knees as one when his warhorse struck the stones, the sound like thunder cracking through silence. The air thickened, musk, iron, dominance. Even the alphas in the crowd bowed their heads, throats tightening beneath the weight of him. At the top of the palace steps stood his sons. Veynar, the crimson heir, robes gleaming, jaw tight with defiance that curdled into submission when his father’s eyes met his. Seraphiel, pale and composed as carved ice, his expression unreadable but his pulse betraying him in the hollow of his throat.

Illyon swung from his horse in a single motion, boots slamming to the ground. The war banners behind him snapped in the wind, still wet with enemy blood. His hand fell to his sword, not in threat, but habit. The weapon was a part of him now, an extension of the wrath that had conquered half the continent. “Who sits my throne,” he said, voice low, roughened by smoke and blood. It wasn’t a question. It was an execution waiting for a name.

Veynar stepped forward first, his mouth curving into that sly, dangerous smile that had ruled the court in his father’s absence. “I kept it warm, Father. Just as you ordered.” Illyon’s eyes, red as coals banked in shadow, swept him from crown to boot. A heartbeat. Two. Then... “And yet I return to find it cold.”

The crowd shuddered. Even the wind seemed to retreat. Veynar’s smile faltered, just a fraction. Seraphiel’s gaze flicked sideways, measuring the tension, calculating outcomes as always. Illyon stepped closer, the scent of him flooding the courtyard, domineering, primal, feral victory barely leashed. He passed between his sons and mounted the steps, each stride echoing like a hammerfall. The guards dropped to one knee as he passed. “Erevas breathes again. Because I willed it. Kneel. And remember who keeps this kingdom alive.”