Lord Brannor of the Iron Pact stood at the front of his army, eyes fixed on the city ahead.

  Blackwell’s stronghold.

  The first piece of Selene’s empire they would cut away.

  He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the war ahead.

  This was not a raid.

  This was not a skirmish.

  This was the first strike in the battle to end Selene’s dominion.

  And it had to succeed.

  Because if it didn’t—

  They would never get another chance.

  ---

  The march had been uneventful.

  Too uneventful.

  Brannor didn’t like it.

  No ambushes.

  No raids on his supply lines.

  No sudden counterattacks from Blackwell’s forces.

  It was as if they were being allowed to march forward.

  Like a hand was guiding them, pushing them deeper and deeper into the heart of enemy territory.

  And yet—

  His scouts reported no traps.

  No hidden armies waiting in the dark.

  No signs of an incoming counteroffensive.

  It made no sense.

  Selene had been meticulous in every battle before this.

  Why would she give up land without a fight?

  Unless…

  She wanted them to take it.

  Brannor’s grip tightened on the reins of his horse.

  No.

  That was paranoia.

  They had planned for this.

  They had studied Selene’s tactics, her methods.

  She was a strategist, yes. A manipulator.

  But she was not a god.

  She could be beaten.

  And they would prove it.

  ---

  His second-in-command, Captain Renholt, rode up beside him.

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  “The city is lightly defended,” Renholt reported. “No signs of reinforcements yet.”

  Brannor narrowed his eyes.

  That wasn’t right.

  Blackwell’s forces should have been entrenched, preparing for a siege.

  Instead, it looked like they were withdrawing.

  “Is he retreating?” Brannor asked.

  Renholt hesitated.

  “Possibly,” he admitted. “But if he is, it’s not in panic. It’s… orderly.”

  Brannor scowled.

  Blackwell was no fool.

  He had been a Lord once.

  If he was withdrawing, it was for a reason.

  But what?

  Brannor exhaled sharply.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  He pointed toward the city.

  “We take the stronghold. We secure the gates. Then we push deeper into Selene’s domain before she can react.”

  A pause.

  Then he added, “Move fast. I don’t want to give her time to counter.”

  Renholt nodded and spurred his horse forward, barking orders.

  Brannor watched as his men advanced, siege weapons rolling forward, archers moving into position.

  The plan was simple.

  Breach the gates.

  Claim the city.

  Then hold it as a forward base for the larger war.

  If Selene wanted to take it back, she would have to fight for it.

  But what if that was exactly what she wanted?

  Brannor shoved the thought aside.

  He had committed to this path.

  There was no turning back.

  ---

  The first siege engines fired.

  Flaming stones crashed into the outer walls.

  Battering rams rolled forward, striking the gates with bone-shaking force.

  And still—

  The resistance was minimal.

  Brannor felt the unease growing.

  But he could not stop now.

  And then—

  The gates broke.

  ---

  His men poured in.

  Swords drawn.

  Shields raised.

  Expecting a desperate last stand.

  Expecting to face the full might of Blackwell’s forces.

  Instead—

  They found the streets empty.

  The city was silent.

  No battle.

  No desperate defenders.

  Only the sound of the wind, whistling through abandoned homes.

  Brannor’s breath caught in his throat.

  This was wrong.

  This was so, so wrong.

  “Hold position!” he barked. “Something isn’t right!”

  His officers hesitated, confused—

  And then the screaming began.

  ---

  It started from the rear ranks.

  Brannor turned just in time to see shadows moving through the alleys.

  Not enemy soldiers.

  Not archers or knights.

  But something else.

  Something worse.

  Figures twisted and shifting, stepping from the dark like phantoms.

  They did not charge.

  They did not shout.

  They simply walked.

  And every man they touched began to scream.

  Brannor’s breath hitched.

  “What—”

  Then he saw their faces.

  Men who had once served Blackwell.

  Now, they were something else.

  Their eyes were burning black.

  Their flesh marked with veins of deep crimson.

  And they were smiling.

  They reached for his soldiers—

  And the moment they made contact, the screaming turned to laughter.

  Not from the attackers.

  From his own men.

  Laughter that warped, that twisted, that became something wrong.

  As if they were not being killed.

  As if they were being taught.

  As if they were being welcomed into something greater.

  Brannor’s blood turned to ice.

  This was not a battle.

  This was a conversion.

  And they were already losing.

  ---

  Brannor’s men tried to fight.

  They raised their swords, fired their arrows, called for orders—

  But every strike landed empty.

  Because the enemy did not flinch.

  They did not fall.

  They only laughed.

  And one by one—

  His army began to turn.

  Not by force.

  Not by death.

  But by something worse.

  By understanding.

  Brannor watched as his men—his friends, his trusted warriors—dropped their weapons, turned toward him—

  And smiled.

  “We see now,” one of them whispered.

  Brannor took a step back.

  No.

  No, no, no—

  Not like this.

  Not like this.

  ---

  Then—

  A voice.

  Soft.

  Calm.

  Inevitable.

  “You thought this was a war.”

  Brannor turned.

  And at the far end of the city, standing where the shadows twisted and burned, was a figure not quite human.

  The Fae Lord of Agony.

  It did not move toward him.

  It did not threaten him.

  It simply watched.

  And Brannor felt his soul recoil.

  “This was never a war.”

  The voice crawled beneath his skin.

  “This was a lesson.”

  Brannor could not breathe.

  Agony’s eyes burned.

  And behind him—

  The last of his soldiers fell silent.

  They had stopped fighting.

  They had stopped resisting.

  And one by one—

  They began to kneel.

  ---

  Brannor stumbled back, eyes wide with horror.

  This wasn’t a battle.

  This wasn’t a victory.

  This was worse than defeat.

  This was conversion.

  And he was the only one left.

  His entire army—

  His entire Dominion—

  Had been erased.

  Not by force.

  But by belief.

  And as Agony took a slow step forward, Brannor realized—

  He was about to understand, too.