The Imperial Vigil

In the aftermath of the flame wyvern's onslaught, the cityscape stood as a grim testament to both the fury of nature and the resilience of its people. The once-thriving streets now lay in ruin, strewn with debris and charred remnants that bore witness to the devastation. Smoke coiled into the sky like funeral shrouds, the acrid scent of burnt wood and scorched stone thick in the air. The silence that had settled over the city was unnatural, broken only by the distant crackling of embers and the occasional moan of the injured.

Amidst the devastation, a makeshift triage center had been established in what had once been a bustling marketplace. Now, the place was filled with injured citizens lying on hastily arranged stretchers, their faces pale with pain and shock. Healers moved among them with quiet urgency, their hands glowing with feeble traces of magic as they worked tirelessly to mend broken bodies. Yet even the most skilled among them could do little for those whose wounds were too grave—those who had inhaled too much smoke or suffered burns too deep. Their silent despair was shared by the knights, whose soot-streaked armor bore the marks of battle. They worked tirelessly, clearing rubble and pulling survivors from the wreckage, their exhaustion etched into their every movement.

Once-grand buildings that had stood as symbols of art and wealth now loomed in ruin, their walls blackened, their rooftops caved in. Statues that had adorned the city squares lay shattered, their broken pieces scattered like forgotten relics. Yet amidst the wreckage, the spirit of the people endured. Those who had hidden during the attack now emerged cautiously, their expressions a mix of sorrow and anger. They sifted through the remains of their homes, salvaging what little they could, and offering aid to their neighbors. Grief and loss had bound them together in a way that prosperity never could.

At the heart of the destruction, a group of knights stood gathered. Clad in armor dulled by soot and battle, they were the city's last line of defense—men and women from noble families, some wielding silver-tier mana cores, yet even their magic had been insufficient to stop the wyvern's wrath. Their expressions were grim as they discussed their next steps, strategizing how to restore order and fortify the city against future threats. Determination burned in their eyes, though it was shadowed by the weight of their failure.

Then, the world stilled.

A hush fell over the devastated streets as something unnatural unfolded. At the city's center, where the wyvern's rampage had left the ground scorched and lifeless, a portal materialized. It shimmered with an eerie bluish-black hue, hovering just above the ground, its surface shifting like liquid glass. In its wake, an uncanny calm settled over the ruins, and in an instant, every lingering ember was extinguished. Smoke ceased to rise, as though the very air had been drained of warmth.

The gathered mages felt it first—the sudden stillness of ambient mana, which had been turbulent and chaotic since the battle, now settling as if subdued by an unseen force. Their breath hitched, eyes widening in silent alarm. This was no ordinary spell, nor was it the work of any local authority. This was something beyond them.

And then, from the portal, he stepped forth.

A lone figure emerged, each step deliberate, each movement carrying an undeniable weight. The air itself seemed to yield to his presence, bowing before an authority unseen yet deeply felt. The moment his boots touched the ground, an overwhelming pressure descended upon all present, freezing them in place. Conversations died mid-syllable, and every gaze instinctively turned to behold the man who had arrived.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding yet eerily silent. Dark brown hair framed a face of sharp angles and unwavering resolve. His eyes, a deep shade of brown, were piercing—assessing, calculating. His alabaster skin bore no sign of strain, no indication that he had rushed here or exerted himself in any way. Clad in a perfectly fitted silvery-white uniform, he carried himself with the practiced ease of a warrior who had never known defeat. A long brown cloak draped over his shoulders, weighed down only by the massive greatsword sheathed at his back.

But it was not just his presence that made the onlookers tremble—it was the emblem upon his chest. A badge of the blazing sun, intricately crafted from pure gold, gleamed under the ashen sky, catching what little sunlight remained. At a single glance, recognition dawned upon those who beheld it.

This was no mere knight.

This was a member of the Thrones—the seven most formidable warriors of the empire.

The realization rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. A collective intake of breath followed, and a name passed through trembling lips.

"Leon Adair... The Brown Throne..."

Silence stretched taut in the aftermath of the name being spoken. The Adair family was renowned, a pillar of the empire's might, their influence woven into the very fabric of the realm. Yet even among them, Leon Adair stood apart, a figure both feared and revered. His reputation was one of absolute strength, of victories that had turned the tide of wars. His presence here could mean only one thing—the empire had taken direct interest in this city's plight.

Behind him, a dozen magic knights followed through the portal, their movements sharp and disciplined. They took position in a swift, precise formation, surrounding the area with practiced efficiency. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. These were not ordinary soldiers but elite warriors, their strength beyond that of mere knights. The moment their boots touched the ground, the suffocating pressure lifted, allowing the citizens to breathe freely again. Yet none dared to move, nor to question the authority that had descended upon them.

Leon's gaze swept across the assembled survivors, assessing them in a heartbeat. Then, his voice rang out—deep, authoritative, and leaving no room for defiance.

"Bring me the captain of the city guards."

The command was simple, yet it carried the weight of a decree that could not be ignored.

"Yes, sir Adair!" One of the knights saluted sharply before turning to carry out the order.

The rest remained motionless, their presence alone enough to enforce obedience. Those gathered exchanged wary glances, whispers passing between them. What did this mean for the city? Why had a Throne come personally? Was this merely an assessment, or did it signal something more? Something far greater and more terrifying?

Leon remained impassive, his brow furrowed in concentration. He exuded a quiet strength, an aura that demanded respect without the need for spectacle. He did not need to flaunt his power; it was evident in every controlled breath, every calculated step. He was not here to prove himself—he already was legend.

The weight of his presence settled over the city like an unspoken decree. The people stood in uneasy reverence, knowing that from this moment forward, their world had changed.

Leon Adair—the Brown Throne—had arrived for imperial vigil.