The halls of the ruined palace echoed with Marcus Azkalin’s measured footsteps. Once, these corridors had been the heart of the Azkalin Empire, bustling with courtiers, scholars, and knights. Now, they were a shadow of their former glory—crumbling walls adorned with faded murals and banners, a testament to the decay of power.

  Marcus paused before a massive, ornate door engraved with the empire's sigil: an eagle clutching a scepter and crown. Flanked by two of his most trusted lieutenants, he stared at the symbol with a mixture of pride and frustration. The empire had fallen, but its spirit endured within him. And he would see it rise again.

  The death of Valgamt had been a heavy blow. The man had been a skilled general and a loyal servant, albeit one prone to underestimating his enemies. Marcus tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, its golden pommel glinting in the dim torchlight. Valgamt’s failure is a reminder—power alone does not guarantee victory.

  But Marcus’s mind was not on Valgamt or the battle he’d lost. His focus lay beneath the palace, where ancient secrets awaited him. The empire’s archives spoke of artifacts—powerful relics from the days when the Azkalin Empire ruled uncontested. These artifacts were said to hold unimaginable power, enough to tip the scales of any conflict.

  With the world in chaos and the empire fractured, Marcus had directed his energies toward unearthing these treasures. He knew they were key to reclaiming the empire's former dominance.

  A soldier approached, saluting sharply. “Lord Azkalin, the excavation team has broken through the final barrier. They’ve found something.”

  Marcus nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Lead me there.”

  The group descended into the palace’s depths, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The tunnels were illuminated by flickering torches, their light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness. Marcus’s summons followed closely.

  The Golden Knight, its towering frame radiating an aura of divine protection, its sword gleaming with an otherworldly light. The faint clink of its golden armor echoed with every step.

  The Nemean Lion, its massive paws silent on the stone floor, its golden mane shimmering faintly even in the dim light. It moved like a predator stalking unseen prey, its glowing eyes scanning the shadows.

  When they reached the vault, Marcus paused to admire the intricate carvings on the massive stone door. Scenes of battles, rituals, and coronations covered its surface, each one a fragment of the empire’s glorious history.

  A group of mages stood nearby, their robes marked with the sigil of the Crown’s Wrath. One of them, an elderly man with a hunched back, approached Marcus and bowed deeply.

  “We’ve just managed to dispel the final ward, my lord,” the mage said, his voice trembling with excitement. “Whatever lies beyond this door has been untouched for centuries.”

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Marcus gestured for them to proceed. The mages began chanting, their combined magic pushing the heavy door open with a grinding sound that echoed through the chamber.

  Inside was a room that seemed untouched by time. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal holding a single artifact—a staff of blackened wood inlaid with veins of gold, its head shaped like an eagle’s claw clutching a glowing crystal.

  Marcus stepped forward, his eyes locked on the staff. He could feel its power emanating even from a distance—a pulsing energy that seemed to resonate with his very soul.

  “The Imperial Staff,” whispered one of the mages. “A relic from the days of Emperor Caelorn himself. Legend says it can amplify a summoner’s connection to their summons, making them nearly invincible.”

  Marcus reached out, his fingers brushing against the staff. As he gripped it, a surge of energy coursed through him, and for a moment, the chamber seemed to tremble. His summons reacted immediately. The Golden Knight knelt, as if acknowledging a greater power, while the Nemean Lion let out a low, rumbling growl of approval.

  Marcus smiled—a rare, cold expression. With this artifact, he would cement his dominion over the fragmented remnants of the empire. Those who opposed him, like Emmet Fischer and his ragtag group of mercenaries, would be crushed beneath his heel.

  As Marcus left the vault, his mind turned to the state of the world. The apocalypse had brought ruin to all but the strongest. Yet it was also an opportunity, one he intended to exploit fully.

  The Crown’s Wrath had grown under his leadership, absorbing remnants of the imperial army and training a new generation of soldiers. His forces now numbered in the thousands, far outstripping the battalion Valgamt had led to defeat.

  But numbers alone wouldn’t be enough. Marcus knew that fear and awe were equally important weapons. The Imperial Staff, combined with his summons, would ensure that the Crown’s Wrath became an unstoppable force.

  As he reached the palace’s upper levels, Marcus called for his advisors.

  “Send word to the border regions,” he commanded. “Offer amnesty to those who swear loyalty to the Crown’s Wrath. Those who refuse… burn their villages. Let them see the price of defiance.”

  One of the advisors hesitated. “My lord, some of these regions are already under the protection of mercenary bands. The one they call Emmet Fischer has been gaining influence—”

  Marcus silenced him with a sharp look. “I am aware of Fischer and his band of misfits. He may have defeated Valgamt, but that was a skirmish, not a war. He lacks the resources or vision to stand against the Crown’s Wrath.”

  His voice turned icy. “Let him gather his forces. When the time comes, I will personally ensure that his so-called Haven’s Reach becomes nothing more than ash.”

  Later that night, Marcus stood on a balcony overlooking the ruins of the capital. The moon cast a pale light over the desolate city, its broken towers and empty streets a stark reminder of what had been lost.

  But Marcus didn’t see ruin. He saw potential.

  The empire’s glory would return, even if it had to be built on the bones of those who stood in his way. He tightened his grip on the Imperial Staff, feeling its power hum beneath his fingertips.

  “Soon,” he murmured, his voice carrying on the cold night air. “The Azkalin Empire will rise again.”

  Behind him, the Golden Knight and the Nemean Lion stood like silent sentinels, their presence a constant reminder of his unmatched strength.

  The world had fallen into darkness, but Marcus Azkalin was determined to reclaim the light—by any means necessary.