The last time the Emperor appeared in public, he was said to be around 170 years old—yet he didn’t look a day over 20. He was seen walking the streets of the White District, his Empress by his side, her delicate hand resting in his. She was as breathtaking as the rumors claimed—the most beautiful Empress in history, with cascades of red hair flowing almost to the ground and skin so pale it nearly glowed in the sunlight.

  The Emperor himself was unremarkable in appearance—average in height, lean in build, with forgettable brown hair. But there was nothing unremarkable about the man.

  Two guards flanked them, tall, silent, unreadable. Just two. And even they were there only for show—everyone knew the truth. Nothing in this world could harm the Emperor.

  They walked briefly through the Citadel. And then… nothing.

  For twelve months, the Emperor vanished. It wasn’t unusual for him to retreat into his Tower for a few weeks—sometimes months—to attend to matters only he understood. But a year? A full year without a single word from him, or any sign of his presence? That was unheard of.

  “The Emperor is sick. He’s dying,” they whispered. At first, it was a joke, a laughable notion. But then… the doubts began. And then the rumors. They spread like wildfire, twisting with every retelling. His magic is failing him! He’s already dead and they’re hiding it! His new Empress poisoned him! He has ascended to another plane, leaving us behind!

  And while the Southern District was too consumed with their own struggles to pay much attention to idle talk, things were moving, in the Citadel. There, amidst the revelry of the nobles’ halls and the beautiful whitestone streets, you could see it. The tension in their eyes. Nobles walking with solemn expressions, generals casting furtive glances, the quiet whispers that something was coming. They were right.

  They say the Elves of the Rainlands were the first to receive the Gift—children born with strange and unexplainable powers, gifts they could barely control. It wasn’t just the children, though. Adults, too, could sometimes manifest abilities—though less often, and less reliably. It was an enigma, something that defied understanding.

  And then, as though the Gift had spread like a seed across the land, it reached the races of men. First it came the dark-skinned people of Yusundal, in the south, and it spread all the way to the pale Northmen of the Greylands. Magic coursed through them all, those lucky enough to be chosen by it, at least.

  The land had grown restless with uncertainty. With the Emperor’s absence stretching into its second year and the Gifted rising in strength and number, the whispers grew louder. Warriors and mages and healers with powers that could match the Emperor himself. Heroes, they called them, spreading promises of a better future.

  Then rebellion came. It started small, only a few villages in the countryside of Ceralia, but it spread like a plague. In only a couple of weeks, the whole kingdom was up in arms, the ambitious prince-turned-king Karl the 12th, who was rumoured to have taken the crown from his father by force, appointed himself as leader of the Rebellion. Only a few days later Yusundal would join in on the rebels side.

  The small kingdom of Salyra, wedged between them, declared its neutrality—but neutrality was not enough for Yusundal. They demanded Salyra take a side. Their refusal to do so was answer enough to the Yusundali, and they put the kingdom to the sword. No member of the royal family was spared.

  And the Emperor did nothing.

  It was that moment that tipped the scales, that confirmed the rumors in the heads of those that still had doubts. The Rainlands, sensing an opportunity, cast their lot with the rebels. And just like that, the three great kingdoms of the South—Ceralia, Yusundal, and the Rainlands—marched towards the Sisters, their banners unfurled in open defiance.

  In the North Lands, King Elbert—the Coward, they called him—sent his armies. But he would not leave the safety of Port Bleak’s castle, swearing fealty to the Empire while his soldiers bled on distant fields. He would not risk himself, not even as his armies marched south. Even with the Northmen on their side, the Imperial army found itself outnumbered three to one. The Sister Cities, however, had been built by the Emperor himself. And the walls? High enough to mock any would-be conqueror, built by Yerev the Builder himself. Surely, they would stand.

  That would have been true once. But no longer. Not in the Year of Heroes.

  Historians still argue over whether the city ever had a chance. Some claim its fall was inevitable, that the Gods themselves had decreed it, and no strategy, no act of mortal will, could have changed what was to come. That the Emperor had offended them, that he had tried to become a God himself, and that he was punished for it by being stripped of his power, and forced to watch from atop his White Tower, as his beloved city was torn apart.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Others, less superstitious, lay the blame squarely on the Imperial Army, its leadership riddled with miscalculations and arrogance. The worst of these, they say, was the failed attempt to halt the southern advance of Ceralia and Yusundal before they could cross the Daughter.

  The strategy had seemed sound. Destroy the bridges. Hold the riverbanks. The Daughter’s freezing currents would do the rest. No army in full armor could hope to cross under fire—not against a well-defended shoreline. And so, with the river serving as a natural barrier, the bulk of the Imperial forces were sent west to confront the elven army, deemed the weaker threat.

  The plan itself was not the failure. Tactically, it made sense. But tactics crumble in the face of the unexpected.

  The rebels had prepared for this. The elven retreat was not a sign of weakness—it was a trap. And as the Imperial Army pressed forward, orcs descended upon the empire from the north. Not raiding parties. Not scattered warbands. Legions. Thousands of them, marching in terrifying unison. No one had expected that, because it had never happened before.

  Panic spread through the ranks. Fear turned into chaos. The lines broke—shattered before they could even mount a real defense. And once the orcs began their push, there was no stopping them.

  The Imperial forces at the Daughter, left behind to guard the riverbanks, suddenly found themselves trapped. On one side, the advancing armies of Ceralia and Yusundal. On the other, a slaughterhouse of elves and orcs. The river had once been their greatest defense. Now, it was a death sentence. Men flung themselves into the icy waters in a desperate attempt to escape. Most drowned. The rest were cut down where they stood.

  The day would come to be known as the Battle of the Daughter, or the Massacre of the Daughter. And no matter which name was used, all would agree: it was the day the rebels won.

  The siege that followed was little more than a formality. A matter of time.

  The rebel armies camped outside the southern walls, content to wait. The Imperial army was shattered, its remnants scattered to the wind. Civilians, those with the means or foresight, had already fled through the northern gates, seeking refuge in lands yet untouched by war. And even with their numbers thinned, the defenders of the city could hold the walls—the granaries of the North Lands were full, enough to sustain them for months, perhaps even years.

  But Cedric the Shipbuilder saw to that.

  The elven hero took his fleet into the northern sea, vanishing into the storms, sailing so far from land that no Imperial ship ever caught sight of him. He circled the entire continent, unseen, and landed where no one expected—on the northernmost shores, deep in the heart of Imperial territory.

  With only a few hundred men, he burned the fields, razed the storehouses, and shattered the northern supply lines before the Empire even realized what was happening. There was no one left to stop him. The bulk of the northern army had already marched south, leaving the lands above the strait defenseless.

  It did not take long for Elbert the Coward to surrender. He declared his allegiance to the rebels before the ashes of his own fields had even cooled. But not all of his people followed. The Northmen were the Emperor’s most loyal subjects, and when their liege turned his back on the Empire, many refused to do the same.

  They took up arms beneath the Imperial banner, and they died beneath it.

  But the Empire didn’t just crumble without a fight. A whisper of vengeance came in the form of a nameless Gifted.

  One night, someone, something, slipped into the Yusundali camp, unseen, unheard. By morning, most of the kingdom’s high command lay in their tents, throats slit.

  The assassin was never caught. He was never named. And yet his actions, while bold, did little to save the city. If anything, they only sealed its fate.

  Because at dawn, when the bodies were found, panic spread through the Yusundali ranks. Soldiers murmured of treachery, of dark omens. But all of that was quickly put to a stop.

  The legendary hero, Martha the Hammer, worshipped by the Yusundali troops, strode into the command tent, plucked the fallen king’s crown from his lifeless head, and set it upon her own—still slick with blood. Then, she raised her warhammer to the sky and ordered her armies to assault the walls immediately.

  She led the charge herself. Some say the Gods had gifted her that hammer, that it was no ordinary weapon. That when she struck the city walls, the stones themselves crumbled at her touch. Whatever the truth, Yerev’s Wall was breached, and Martha was the first through.

  The rebels rampaged through the streets, cutting down what little resistance remained. And when they reached the White Tower, it was Martha who entered first. The Emperor was declared dead before the sun had set, said to have been killed all the way up in his tower, but no one ever saw his body.

  And so, the Empire fell once and for all. And the four Kingdoms were free at last after 172 years of Imperial rule.

  And the four crowns and the united orc tribes decided to sign a pact in blood, a peace of one hundred years. And they divided the Lands as such:

  Karl the Bold would rule over Ceralia, as his family had for a thousand years, as well as absorb the lands of Salyra within its own kingdom.

  Vyan Naranthis claimed the Kingdom of the Storm and the Forest, where elves had ruled since time immemorial.

  Martha the Hammer crowned herself Queen of Yusundal, amidst the cheers of her army. Their capital, Yusund, was renamed Martha’s Victory after her triumphant return back home.

  Elbert the Coward was allowed to keep his throne, despite having fought for the loyalists’ side. Soon after however, he would be found dead in his bed, his throat slit.

  And in the misty forests of the Southwest, the orcs claimed dominion at last, receiving the city of Fort Gorlan, as promised at the beginning of the war. And no man or elf would set foot in their forest without permission, except for the Yusundali, as Warmother Rukka and Martha the Hammer became sworn sisters on the battlefield.

  As for the Sister Cities, in which these pacts were signed in blood, they were declared neutral ground. No kingdom would claim the Sisters, ever. They would be ruled instead by the Nivori family, alone and independent.

  Thus ended the Rebellion. And with it, the Year of Heroes.