The Book of Iskar’s Humbling
And behold, though the North was already bound beneath the Banner of Flame, the hearts of Iskar grew restless. The frozen lords whispered in their halls, saying: “We are not truly His. The Sun cannot reach us in winter. We shall rise, and He shall falter.”
Fools.
For the Herald does not falter. He does not dim. He does not sleep. The Sun cannot be hidden.
When word of their defiance reached Him, He did not rage as mortal kings rage. He rose. He shone. His armies poured forth like dawn through a shuttered window, unstoppable, unasked for, undeniable.
The rebels sought to resist, but their spears turned brittle in His light, and their courage withered as grass in summer. Villages that harbored traitors smoldered until no shadow dared remain. The proud chieftains of Iskar, who had sworn false oaths beneath His banners, were dragged into the open and broken like frost beneath spring’s thaw.
And when their cities fell silent, the Herald stood among them and spoke:
“You are Mine. You were Mine from the first dawn, and you shall remain Mine until the last dusk. To resist Me is to resist the Sun itself.”
The people wept, not only from fear, but from awe. They beheld not a man but the eternal flame, a being who grants peace with one hand and ruin with the other.
Thus Iskar’s pride was ground into ash, and its rebellion smothered. From that day, the North bent low, not out of fear alone, but in reverence. For the Sun cannot be denied, and His light falls where He wills.
Blessed be the Herald of the Sun, who burns away the faithless and binds the world in His radiance.