Part 35

Under the Twelve Kingdoms rose a harsh administrative machinery, where the structure of governance was unyielding, and the punishments for crime were merciless.

The armies of the Balan princes were indomitable—thousands upon thousands of soldiers, with a curse and a prayer burning together in their hearts.
These soldiers never retreated; the very sound of their march made enemies tremble, and villages froze when their shadows fell.

In the kingdom of King Delran Balan lay an endless desert, where the footsteps of an enemy were like a death-bringing blade. His soldiers destroyed their foes while they were still melting like the red sands of the desert.

Among the Twelve Kingdoms the relationships were delicate, sometimes hiding resentment and intrigue, yet they always stood united when danger came for the empire. Every prince was ready to sacrifice himself for his province, but carried with him immense pride and games of power.

*****

Dark clouds thickened in the sky, as though some ancient sin had begun to descend.

Along the dust-choked royal road, a vast army halted in the middle.

Ahead lay a calm yet terrifying blue lake, beneath whose waters something was hidden. Around that lake, forming a slow circle, stood the forces of Gamar Balan—disciplined, silent, yet with every step summoning disaster.

Fifteen thousand Thanlas stood encircling the lake. The Thanlas were shaped like huge apes, yet their bodies were a strange creation—covered with ironlike bones so hard that even the strongest weapons could not shift them. Their muscles glowed like tongues of flame, and from their eyes streamed merciless tears of iron. Each Thanlas was a moving fortress, as though nature itself had given birth to giants whose single rampage could shatter an enemy’s ranks.

Gamar Balan himself was a master of strategy and a stern leader, bound to the Thanlas in an unseen, intimate bond.

The thunderous roar of the Thanlas was a silent weapon that shattered the morale of enemies. Their feet tore the earth apart, and the massive hammers in their hands could rip through an enemy host in an instant. The iron-hard ridges of their bodies seemed crafted by some unimaginable magic, shielding them from swords or arrows. The Thanlas were not merely an army—they were the emblem of Gamar Balan’s relentless power, and their very arrival signalled the beginning of an ancient trial by fire.

Around the lake gathered another thirty thousand soldiers of varied disciplines, their armour bearing different symbols and motifs, yet their eyes fixed on the same purpose—to defeat the horror hidden beneath the water.

There stood also five thousand mages, weaving counter-circles around the water, hurling ancient spells, their mouths uttering a grotesque language—the water trembled, foamed, as if some massive sleeping heart was slowly awakening.
In the air flickered the glint of magic, and the scent carried a hint of metallic blood. They were trying to lift the lake’s water into the air.

And there on the shore of the lake, before everyone, stood Gamar Balan—with the unerring sharpness of strategy in his eyes, and a silent command in his voice.

The entire army waited for that single moment—when the creature beneath the water would awaken, and those iron-bound moving fortresses would hurl themselves into battle against it.

*****

In the hands of these twelve fearsome kingdoms lay the control of the Balan Empire—a ruthless and irresistible power, a force that ruled not only over people, but also over their minds, their hopes and ambitions, and their fears. A power before which some would falter, some would surrender; and in whose shadow lay the story of a vast empire’s rise and fall.

Another king, Solran Balan, was the ruler of waters, reigning over rivers, lakes, and waterfalls. His soldiers, at the first sign of enemy aggression, would rise from the water and wield their swords, as if the water itself had merged with their weapons.

Those terrible twelve kingdoms of the Balan dynasty were a colossal alliance, where each prince was a living embodiment of death—resolute, unwavering, and merciless. They were not merely power, but the very symbol of punishment, a punishment that had never failed during their reign.
Each kingdom had its own distinct history, its own system of governance, and along with it, a mighty army whose might was unyielding—standing against them meant surrendering oneself to death.