A general born to rule

An unholy kingdom

Marcus and his troops rode through the narrow, cluttered streets of the Kingdom of the Holy Gates, a once-glorious realm known for its faith, power, and resilience during the Demonic War and the Great Human War. Now, however, it felt far from the beacon of righteousness it claimed to be. As they moved further into the kingdom, Marcus's sharp eyes took in the sights around him. The streets were filled with misery.

He saw demi-humans, most of them homeless, begging for food. They huddled together in corners, covered in ragged cloaks. Wagons loaded with cages passed them, each cage filled with enslaved elves, dark elves, and demi-humans. His stomach churned at the sight, especially when he spotted a female dragonkin, her wings bound and her face streaked with tears.

The sight struck him harder than anything else. As they passed, the dragonkin caught his scent, her eyes widening with a spark of recognition. She struggled to stand in her cage, desperately trying to catch Marcus's attention.

"Please...," she begged, her voice hoarse. "You carry the scent of Empress Valdrianna. Please... help me..."

Her words cut through Marcus like a blade. He froze for a moment, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. This was a fate she did not deserve, and yet there was nothing he could do now, not here. Marcus clenched his jaw, promising himself that something would be done, but for now, he had to stay focused.

As they pressed on toward the heart of the kingdom, the contrast between the outskirts and the capital became more pronounced. While the outer regions were rife with poverty and suffering, the capital was clean, pristine even. Crime was cracked down upon swiftly here, guards ensuring that any misdeeds were met with immediate, and often brutal, justice. Yet, the deeper Marcus and his men ventured into the city, the clearer it became: all the law enforcement, all the focus of the kingdom's strength, was directed inward, towards the preservation of the capital, while the outskirts were left to rot.

This is wrong, Marcus thought as they approached the gates of the royal palace.

The castle loomed ahead, adorned with Christian crosses and holy symbols, the banners of the Kingdom of the Holy Gates flapping in the wind. The air inside was thick with incense, and as Marcus entered the grand throne room, he felt a weight settle on his shoulders. The hall was lined with holy relics, massive tapestries depicting victories in battles, and stained glass windows that told the stories of saints and heroes. At the end of the hall sat King Theophilus, a man draped in fine robes, his golden crown glimmering beneath the beams of sunlight pouring through the windows.

"Welcome, Lord Marcus of Valorcrest," Theophilus greeted him, his voice booming with authority. "It is an honor to host a representative from such a... progressive nation."

Marcus offered a respectful nod, though his mind churned with thoughts of the suffering he'd just witnessed. "Your Majesty," he began, choosing his words carefully, "I couldn't help but notice the state of the outskirts. There seems to be a great deal of unrest and-"

The king cut him off with a wave of his hand, a practiced smile stretching across his face. "Ah, yes, the outskirts... nothing of concern. Small disturbances, nothing more. We have everything under control. Now, let's discuss matters of more importance. Tell me, how fares Valorcrest?"

Marcus clenched his fist behind his back, suppressing the urge to lash out at the dismissive tone. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, those disturbances are not trivial. What I saw was... alarming. Enslaved elves, demi-humans, even children running from your guards. This isn't just unrest; it's a powder keg waiting to explode."

Theophilus's eyes narrowed slightly, his smile fading, but he quickly masked it. "I assure you, Lord Marcus, we have everything in hand. The outskirts are nothing but distractions from the greater purpose of the kingdom. We maintain peace, order, and-"