Chapter Six: City of Carrion

  Carrion.

  A festering, bloated city perched on the edge of the rotting swamps. Once a bustling hub of trade and magic, it had decayed into a den of vice and corruption. The streets were rivers of mud and waste. Merchant lords ruled from crumbling towers, guarded by mercenaries and half-trained mages who sold their spells to the highest bidder.

  Lucien stood atop a ridge overlooking the city, the wind tugging at his bloodstained cloak. Behind him, the Thorn Legion waited—a thousand hardened souls forged in terror and ambition.

  "They think their walls will protect them," Lucien said, more to himself than to the commanders at his side.

  The city's defenses were laughable—cracked stone walls, rusted gates, and a handful of aging siege engines. Carrion’s rulers had grown fat and complacent. They believed no threat could reach them from the cursed wilds.

  They had no idea that a monster was at their doorstep.

  Lucien raised his fist. The signal.

  The Thorn Legion descended.

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  Night fell as they reached the outer farms. Lucien ordered them burned. Screams rose into the smoky sky as panicked farmers fled toward the city’s gates, hammering and pleading for entry. The guards, fearful and overwhelmed, opened the gates without checking who they admitted.

  The Trojan Horse was complete.

  Lucien’s infiltrators—dozens of them—blended into the chaos of the refugees. Hidden blades under rags. Poisons concealed in clay jars. Spells whispered under breath.

  Inside the city, the true slaughter began.

  Guard posts were sabotaged. Wells poisoned. Panic spread like wildfire. By dawn, Carrion’s defenses were in total disarray.

  Lucien led the main force to the gates, where the remaining guards—half-drunk and terrified—barely mounted resistance. The Thorn Legion swept through them like a scythe through brittle wheat.

  Lucien himself stormed the Merchant Council’s Hall, a once-grand building now blackened by soot and apathy. The merchant lords groveled, offering gold, slaves, artifacts.

  Lucien accepted their gifts with a smile—then personally slit each of their throats, one by one.

  Blood pooled on marble floors.

  He ascended the council’s dais and addressed the cowering remnants of Carrion's elite—the surviving merchants, guildmasters, and minor sorcerers.

  "You will serve."

  His voice rang with iron finality.

  "Or you will feed the swamps."

  One sorcerer, a gaunt man in tattered robes, dared to raise a trembling hand and mutter a defiant spell.

  Lucien hurled a dagger faster than thought. It pierced the mage’s forehead, pinning him to the stone wall like a grotesque tapestry.

  No one else objected.

  Carrion fell within a single day.

  Lucien established his rule immediately. The Thorn Legion occupied key positions—granaries, arsenals, the mage towers. Dissenters were rooted out, tortured, and made public examples. Crucifixions lined the streets.

  But Lucien was not merely a conqueror. He understood power had to be sustainable.

  He opened the granaries—under his banners.

  He organized labor—under his chains.

  He restored the trade routes—under his taxes.

  In two weeks, the people of Carrion—those who survived—no longer whispered of rebellion.

  They whispered of the "Thorn King," the "Blood Sovereign," the "Breaker of Chains."

  Lucien smiled as he stood atop Carrion's highest tower, surveying his growing domain.

  This was only the beginning.

  Beyond Carrion lay greater prizes—walled cities, enchanted fortresses, entire kingdoms rotting from within.

  And he would devour them all.