The three divergent selves stepped forward to the base of the Cinder Gate in total, rhythmic all at once.
First came Lord Ren.
The Ash Emperor walked with slow, heavy strides, his iron shin guards ringing against the soot-coated flat stone slabs. He stood before the crimson bull-hide parchment, towering over the first seal—the broken crown on the anvil.
Across his scarred lower jaw, the white line of his crossbow injury pulsed with dark, royal fire. He raised his right hand, the uncut iron signet ring on his thumb catching the flickering torchlight.
He didn’t look at the three thousand refugees. He looked directly into the stone eyes of the First Dynasty gargoyles that flanked the gate.
“I’m Ren Vale,” the Emperor spoke, his voice rolling through the cave with the weight of thirty fallen legions. “Lord of the Ashen Marches. Commander of the Iron Covenants. Warlord of forty campaigns that bought only graves. Before this stone and before the ashes of Khorat, I cast down my command. I forfeit the crown. I forfeit the legions. I surrender my sovereignty to the dust from which it came.”
The Emperor closed his fist, turning the signet ring inward until the iron cut into his palm.
