Blood of the first Age Chapter 15

 

Chapter 15  The Flame Prince

The desert feared only two men. One commanded storms. The other commanded fire. And soon they would inherit the world. News of Ashkara’s fall spread across Molochia like plague. Entire desert provinces panicked as stories traveled eastward through caravans and refugee columns: gothic fleets crossing dunes beneath thunderclouds vampire knights climbing burning walls, enemy generals devoured alive beneath moonlight. For the first time in decades, the empire of Baalania felt fear creeping into its foundations.

But within the black marble halls of the Ember Palace Baalaniah Mehmeth remained calm. Because he still possessed his greatest weapon. His son.

Prince Azrakar entered the war council chamber surrounded by heat. Not metaphorically. The air physically distorted around him. Torch flames bent toward his presence while black incense burned faster as he crossed the enormous obsidian hall lined with priests, generals, and chained scribes recording every word spoken beneath the Black Sun banners.

Even veteran commanders lowered their eyes as he passed. Not out of respect. Out of instinct. Azrakar looked strikingly similar to his father, yet far more dangerous in different ways. Where Mehmeth radiated cold intellect Azrakar radiated restrained violence.

Tall and broad-shouldered with bronze skin marked by sacred flame sigils across his throat and arms, the prince carried himself like a predator disguised as royalty. Long black hair flowed behind scorched black-gold armor while glowing amber eyes moved constantly with sharp awareness.

He was young. But war already lived inside him.

“You allowed the eastern king to take Ashkara,” Azrakar said calmly.

No one else in the chamber would have dared speak that way to the Sultan.

Mehmeth merely smiled faintly.

“I allowed him to believe victory was possible.”

The prince approached the giant war map slowly.

“And now?”

The Sultan’s fingers rested atop the eastern front.

“Now we measure him properly.”

Azrakar studied the reports silently of vampire storm magic, impossible naval warfare and immortal knights also of living shadows upon battlefields.

Then one name appeared repeatedly throughout the surviving accounts.

General Zerafin Lumina. Commander of Vahsravia’s eastern legions. The Silver Wolf of Elyria.

“He leads the next assault,” Azrakar observed.

Mehmeth nodded once.

“He is loyal to Dragun beyond reason.”

The prince smiled slightly.

“Good.”

Three nights later the armies met at the Valley of Black Glass. The battlefield had once been fertile land before ancient fire rituals transformed the desert into fields of volcanic crystal stretching endlessly beneath crimson skies. Jagged obsidian formations rose from the dunes like shattered mirrors while violent ash storms moved across the horizon beneath distant thunderclouds.

The perfect killing ground.

And both armies knew it.

General Zerafin Lumina stood atop a ridge overlooking the valley as the storm approached from the east.

Behind him waited the armies of Vahsravia: the silver-armored vampire knights, eastern infantry along with moon priests and siege crawlers and also cavalry mounted upon black warhorses bred for desert warfare.

Their banners snapped violently beneath gathering winds. At Zerafin’s side stood Mordecai. Silent.Towering. Watching the horizon like an executioner awaiting permission.

Then the desert began glowing orange. The Baalanian armies emerged through the ash storms like an advancing inferno: The fire priests carrying burning relics and bronze war elephants armored in obsidian steel with screaming fanatics dragging sacred cannons and Ashsteed cavalry galloping through smoke.

And at the center rode Azrakar. The prince advanced calmly upon his massive black Ashsteed while black fire drifted from the hooves beneath him. His armor glowed faintly beneath ash-covered skies while sacred flame markings pulsed across his exposed hands like molten veins.

The two commanders stared at one another across the battlefield. Storm. And fire. Then the horns sounded. The valley erupted into war.

Inferno cannons fired first.

Black flame exploded across the volcanic plains while eastern siege engines answered with silver artillery tearing through advancing Baalanian formations. Ash and thunder collided violently across the battlefield as thousands charged simultaneously beneath darkened skies.

The war became chaos instantly.

Vampire knights slammed into desert cavalry through smoke and fire while sacred flames ignited entire shield formations. Lightning struck obsidian towers around the battlefield continuously as shadow bats descended upon Baalanian archers from the storm above.

And at the center of it all Zerafin rode directly toward Azrakar. Their collision shattered the battlefield around them.

The Silver Wolf’s massive greatsword crashed against the prince’s curved infernal blade with explosive force, sending fire and silver sparks across the volcanic glass beneath their feet.

Azrakar grinned immediately.

“So this is the famous Lumina.”

Zerafin answered with another strike powerful enough to split stone.

“You talk too much.”

The duel intensified rapidly. Zerafin fought like a seasoned battlefield commander:

precise, disciplined, relentless.

Every strike forced Azrakar backward across shattered obsidian while silver runes along the general’s blade glowed brighter with each clash.

But the prince adapted frighteningly fast. Flames erupted around Azrakar’s movements as he began accelerating unnaturally through combat. Sacred fire spiraled around his body while molten heat cracked the volcanic terrain beneath every step.

Then he vanished.

The next strike nearly severed Zerafin’s arm.

The general barely blocked in time.

Shock crossed his face briefly.

The prince laughed. Around them the battle worsened.

Mordecai tore through Baalanian war beasts with monstrous brutality while eastern knights climbed burning siege towers beneath thunder and ash. Entire formations vanished beneath infernal explosions while vampire cavalry carved through fire priests in rivers of blood and smoke.

Above the battlefield the storm intensified. Because Dragun had arrived. Lightning illuminated the horizon as the Blood Sovereign himself watched from distant cliffs beneath swirling thunderclouds.

He did not intervene. Not yet. This battle belonged to Zerafin.

And Mehmeth understood that as well.

Far away across the battlefield the Sultan watched silently from atop a black siege tower. Two kings observing heirs of war.

Azrakar unleashed his full power suddenly.

Infernal fire exploded outward in a massive shockwave that shattered nearby obsidian pillars and incinerated several eastern soldiers instantly. Sacred flame sigils ignited across the prince’s entire body while his amber eyes burned like miniature suns.

Zerafin realized immediately:

This monster was still growing stronger. The prince attacked again. Faster. Violently faster. His blade became nearly invisible beneath black flames as he overwhelmed Zerafin through sheer ferocity. The general suffered multiple wounds across silver armor now glowing red-hot from heat while the battlefield around them collapsed beneath infernal energy.

Still Zerafin refused to fall. With a roar the general drove his greatsword directly through Azrakar’s chest. The battlefield froze. Even the prince looked surprised. Silver steel pierced clean through burning armor while blood spilled across volcanic glass beneath thunder and ash.

For one brief moment victory seemed possible. Then Azrakar smiled. Not painfully. Not fearfully. Hungrily. Black fire erupted from the wound itself.

The prince grabbed Zerafin by the throat one-handed and unleashed a point-blank inferno blast that hurled the general across the battlefield through shattered obsidian towers.

The eastern soldiers screamed. Mordecai immediately moved toward Zerafin but Dragun raised one hand from the cliffs. Stop. Because Zerafin stood back up.

Broken. Bleeding. Burned nearly beyond recognition. But alive. And still gripping his sword. Azrakar stared at him with genuine admiration. Then slowly removed the silver blade from his own chest as flesh regenerated through black fire.

“A magnificent warrior,” the prince admitted softly.

Lightning flashed across the valley.

“But not enough.”

Before the duel could continue

war horns echoed from the western dunes.

Retreat signals.

Mehmeth had seen enough.

Azrakar glanced toward the distant siege towers before looking back at Zerafin one final time.

Then the prince smiled faintly.

“We will finish this another day.”

And vanished into ash storms alongside the retreating Baalanian armies.

The Valley of Black Glass belonged to neither side afterward.

Only corpses remained.

And fear.

Because the eastern armies now understood something horrifying:

The heir of Baalania was not merely a prince.

He was becoming a weapon capable of rivaling kings.