That question had plagued their army, and quickly their attempts at grandeur fell to merely be the love of conflict. The want to fight filled their veins, and so the new assault began. Their anger and blood-lust gained ground, gained recognition and reputation. Their purpose had been lost, however, and so had their drive. With that drive, so too, did they fade from the visible world.

A spark.
Nothing in particular had caused that spark. Nothing had claimed their eye, or pulled them forward. "The filth should be laid to waste."
A voice stood out against the echoes, and as it sat, the eyes of their leaders awoken. There wasn't anything special about the voice, or it's words. Something in it, however, reminded them of their past determination. The finality with which they had once spoken. A smile spread.
"Rise, phantoms. There is aught left to do. Let us reform our kingdom.
Rise, phantoms of hope! Let us march as the Falsebound Kingdom!"