Walls crumbled and remnants of shattered debris scattered all over the place. Trebuchets lined the battlefield, their massive frames standing firm at the tower edge of the castle. Soldiers scurried in haste, preparing for the impending onslaught. The paint of the walls peeled of like dried skin, clays blistered with each vibration of the earth-shattering steps of the approaching army.

  Stones hurled without stop, waves upon waves of projectiles raining down upon the castle walls.

  Trumpets rung. The sun drenched in red as each blood gushed into the field. Swords clashed against in mid-air deluged in a relentless desire for victory and survival. The war, the bloodshed, feast upon the madness of battle.

  The land fed blood, the anguish cries of the fallen, hands clawed, their teeth grazing the soil, scraped against the dirt in a desperate attempt to cling to life.

  Their words spoke of valor and madness, of sacrifice and brutality, stories either forgotten or remembered. Ideals pave the world to new order, to new ideas, war turned to necessity.

  From the ridge of a castle, a lone figure stood, sword held high, directing the soldiers to hold their ground against their enemy unrelenting advance. The castle heard his voice. The echoes reverberating through the walls. The man remained unyielded, instilling courage to those who fought under his banner.

  Man can never be separated from nature, love, compassion, were an integral part that define humans as a species, communities thrive precisely of such symbiotic relationship, same innateness that each could understand. But at the same time, driven with debauchery and cruelty.

  The king, or the man, understood this. The gap of knowledge between gods and mortals are always seen by its influence, one, who proclaim, authority, but absent of their own indifference. Meanwhile, the other, proclaim idealism, but fails to see its changes.

  Those who can't stomach a life without a particular desire to quench their needs, are always obsessed. If they can't fulfill this desire, they revert into beast, or revert into a husk that only thirst for lust. This unbridled willful practice of obsession blind their eyes, to think, to be aware. For the complacent mind, they would readily abandon the strength and the courage of their heart.

  Pride is the highest sin, but it's also the highest virtue. It's the only value, honor, that man, and alike, could stay upright to their visions of the future, to proclaim their ideas, untainted by corruption. It was that pride that kept the vision alive, free from corruption, and yet capable of consuming the soul. In the heart of this storm, pride became the defining trait of a king, one who understood that the finest of men could rise from ashes if they dared to dream beyond the present, beyond the mundane.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  This day, for the first time in history, an Anurand will take place in matters of gods, and matters of mortals.

  Two indistinguishable identities, now bridge by one singular king.

  "Men! Today is the day our enemies will know fear! Too long that this kingdom had shed its blood. Too long have we watched our enemies revel in their victories while we withered in stagnation. Today, everything will change."

  "I’ve come to liberate all of you from this stagnation, this complacency, this decay. I am the king—the highest of all—and hereby proclaim… Brehaut shall rise!" His voice surged with power, each syllable cutting through the din of battle. "This kingdom will ascend to the greatest heights!"

  The moment the words left his lips, the very earth seemed to quake. The soldiers—once tired, once faltering—felt a surge of renewed strength. The roar of battle crescendoed, the clash of steel on steel echoing like a symphony of defiance. Their courage swelled, their resolve hardening like iron. Their swords were lifted high, as the enemy's faltering lines broke with the soldier's blood curdling cries. The tides had shifted, as if the will of the king had broken their chains, and the kingdom of Brehaut was finally rising.

  This day, the world would remember. This was the day Brehaut would rise.

  ***

  "Woah! Is that trolls, but they are, umm, different?" Lionel said. "Why do they look like goblins, Choppy?" From afar, huts could be seen settled in a shoved burrow snow, they were small, but had enough space to house furniture around its corners. The roof curved around its pointy top, wrapped in furs thick enough to protect its surface from hailing storms.

  Trolls with a stature of a goblin could be seen going out from their huts, each carrying wood, furs, distributing its resources in a nearby woodshed, while most gurgled at the corner, laughing in merry along with the company of their kin. Their tools were rudimentary, enough to last them for days. The village wasn't much of a sight, but nonetheless, it was organized.

  But that's only the part of it. For whatever reason, the troll's village were separated apart from the middle, distanced by what appeared to be their ritual ground. The sigil circle was split into half, with the snow melting to preserve a piece of land blossomed in green. Myriads of starlight were still present, replacing snowflakes into twinkling lights.

  This was not a doubt an ascension, a unique phenomenon that only happens when everything sets into motion. The changes happened recently, even the humid were still starting to adapt to the environment, nourishing certain plants to adapt to their new climate. The sky, the occasional raindrops, reflected the entire landscape similar to a snowglobe witnessing its rapid transformation.