Tashlan – Underground Caverns, Year 8002 A.A.
Far beneath the ivory towers and gilded domes of Carlon's capital lay a different kingdom—one that thrived in shadow and silence. The underground caverns of Tashlan were ancient, older than the marble streets above, their stone walls etched with forgotten runes now half-consumed by mildew and darkness. Green-flamed torches hissed from iron sconces, staining the slick walls with spectral light that shimmered like restless spirits. Smoke hung heavy here, clinging to every breath, its taste sharp, acrid, and faintly metallic.
In the largest of these hollowed chambers, a half-circle of cloaked Tracients gathered—boars with burnished tusks, serpents coiled in silent watchfulness, beasts whose paws and hooves scuffed the damp stone. Their collective breath seemed to shiver the stale air as they waited, not daring to speak, their eyes fixed on the throne of black obsidian and bone that rose at the chamber's heart.
Upon that throne sat Prince Erezhan.
Younger and leaner than his father, the Trisoc, yet no less commanding. His tusks, plated in red-gold, gleamed sharp beneath the shifting torchlight, and his red eyes burned with a cold, contained fury. Fingers drummed against the armrest—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm precise as the stroke of a blade. His robes of deep crimson fell about him in careful folds, and though his posture seemed almost relaxed, it carried the tautness of a hunting cat poised to strike.
"Earlier today," Erezhan began, his voice quiet, almost measured, yet it sliced through the cavern like frost through night air, "a tremor cracked the bones of Carlon."
The drumming stopped.
"It was no accident, nor the whim of the mountain. This was deliberate. Clean. The work of power—not random, but wielded with precision."
Slowly, deliberately, Erezhan rose. The shadows deepened around him as he stepped into the flickering light. His gaze swept the circle of cloaked figures, resting for a breath on each bowed head, each trembling limb.
"In the midland caves, my lieutenants engaged the Ronins," he said, voice calm, each syllable falling like a pebble into still water. "And failed."
Silence thickened, broken only by the hiss of torches. Then, from the gathering, a figure stepped forward.
Baraz, the rhinoceros Tracient, stood broken yet unbowed. His once-polished horn now bore a deep, blackened fracture running from base to tip, and purple burn scars twisted down his arm to his hoof. His breath came ragged, chest rising and falling in short, pained bursts. Head bowed low, tusks dull in the shadow.
"Forgive me, my prince," he rasped, voice hoarse as gravel. "They were not what we expected."
Erezhan's gaze, red and unwavering, narrowed slightly. "Explain."
Baraz swallowed, throat bobbing, pain flickering across his scarred face. "Sahira tried to take the Wolf's mind—Adam Kurt. But… he broke her. Burned out her third eye. Her mind… is lost. She lives, but she will never speak, never command again."
A murmur, low and fearful, ran through the circle. A serpent Tracient's tongue flickered, tasting the bitter air. Another beast shifted, claws scraping stone.
Erezhan's expression did not change. "Kurtcan," he said, the name tasting of history older than his reign.
Baraz nodded once, the motion slow. "And Kon and Kopa… they are not what rumor paints them to be. They are Hazël, yes—but stronger, tempered by survival. And they spared me, my prince. They could have killed me… but they did not."
For a moment, something flickered behind Erezhan's gaze—contempt, perhaps, or something colder still. His tusks glinted faintly.
"I am not angered by defeat," he said softly, each word deliberate. "Only by failure to learn."
Baraz dared raise his head, confusion mingling with pain. "My prince…?"
Erezhan turned from him, cloak brushing across the stone. His gaze swept the gathering once more, red eyes gleaming.
"If brute strength fails, then precision shall answer," he said. "The Ronins will expect fury. Rashness. We will give them neither."
He paused, letting the torchlight dance across his tusks.
"We will wait. And when they come—because they must—they will find us waiting."
His voice, quiet as it was, echoed through the ancient stone, lingering in the stale air like a promise.
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True Kürdiala – Grand Hall
Far from Tashlan's depths, beyond sunburnt dunes and sandstone walls, lay Kürdiala—a city that rose from the desert like an oasis born of stubborn hope and unbroken will. However , all of that just eing a façade The Grand Hall stood at its heart: a vaulted chamber of warm stone and ancient tapestries, where carved columns reached skyward and golden lanterns swung on long iron chains.
Tonight, the hall was alive. The scent of fire-grilled meats, honeyed dates, and spiced wine mingled with laughter that rebounded from the high arches. Bronze platters bore fresh fruit from distant oases, steam curling around pomegranate seeds and charred figs. Goblets clinked, and for a fleeting moment, war felt far beyond the walls.
At the high table, Adam Kurt sat silent.
Blindfolded as ever, yet something in his posture seemed softer tonight, the rigid line of his shoulders eased. The greenish-blue robe draped around him bore sigils, embroidered in thread so fine it shimmered when lantern light caught it. His paws rested lightly on the carved cedar table, fingers uncurling in a quiet, unconscious grace.
To Adam's right, Trevor Maymum argued animatedly with Jeth Fare, whose rat-like whiskers quivered with every word.
"I was sprinting," Trevor insisted, pushing his glasses up with a flick of his paw. "There's a difference between a tactical retreat and—"
"Retreat?!" Jeth barked, tail thumping the bench. "You squealed like a kit with a thorn in its tail! Even the rocks were laughing!"
Trevor sputtered, fur bristling, while laughter spread down the table, light and unforced.
To Adam's left, Kon Kaplan leaned back, arms folded, golden eye sweeping the hall. The scars across his muzzle were sharp lines in the lantern light, but tonight his gaze was softer, his posture less guarded. The set of his jaw, though still firm, spoke of quiet watchfulness rather than tension.
Further down, Kopa Boga sat beside Darius, whose presence seemed to steady the younger Tracient. Kopa flexed his newly healed arm, the stone-like pallor faded now to living hide. The memory of its weight still lived in his eyes, but the pain had passed, replaced by quiet relief.
"It's nice," Adam murmured, voice so low only Kon heard.
Kon turned, a faint smile tugging at his muzzle. "Yeah. It is."
He hesitated, golden eye steady. "Adam, I—"
Adam lifted a paw, resting it lightly on Kon's arm. The contact was brief, but spoke more than words.
"No, Kon," Adam said quietly. "Don't apologize. I turned away. Pushed you all aside. You stood by me, even when I buried everything under guilt. I failed you, not the other way around."
Kon's breath caught. His paw trembled faintly.
Adam leaned forward, blindfold dipping. Their foreheads touched, brief and solemn as prayer.
"Forgive me, brother," Adam whispered.
Kon's voice came rough, thick with something old and wordless. "Always."
The hall seemed quieter for a moment, the laughter distant, like memory.
At the end of the high table, Azubuike Toran rose. Black-and-white fur brushed by gold light, his violet eyes glinting with both age and fire. A golden goblet lifted in his paw.
"To brighter days!" His voice rolled through the hall, warm and commanding. "For Kürdiala, for ArchenLand, for Narn—" His gaze sharpened, voice rising.
"—and for Asalan!"
"FOR ASALAN!" The cry came as one, goblets lifted high, a single echo rolling beneath the vaulted ceiling.
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Moments later
The heavy doors swung open, iron hinges protesting. A figure strode across the threshold: Ekene Çelik, cloak dusty from the desert road, crimson sash wrapped tight at his waist. His cheetah paws stepped lightly, but purpose etched every line of his stride.
Toran turned, voice even. "General Ekene?"
Ekene bowed, paw pressed to his chest. "My King. Urgent news."
The warmth of celebration froze. Laughter died, replaced by the soft rustle of cloaks and the quickened breath of waiting hearts.
"Our traders and ambassadors in Carlon," Ekene said, voice sharp, "have been arrested. Prince Erezhan accuses them of treason and interference. Their homes raided. Goods seized."
A ripple moved through the hall like wind through dry grass.
Trevor leaned forward, glasses catching the lantern light. "They've broken no law. This is absurd."
Jeth slammed a paw on the table. "Obvious bait. He's daring us to answer with force."
Darius's voice rumbled, low and controlled. "Hostages. A reason to paint Kürdiala as the aggressor."
Kopa spoke, voice quiet. "He wants us to strike first, so Carlon can claim innocence."
Adam sat still. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest betrayed life beneath the blindfold. "He's setting the board for war."
Toran's gaze dropped to his goblet. The wine within barely trembled, yet he stared into it as if seeing beyond the walls.
"Prince Erezhan learns," Toran murmured. "But not quickly enough."
He rose, the hush of robes across stone loud in the quiet.
"We do not answer fear with fear," Toran said, voice gathering strength. "If they wish to see us rage…"
His violet eyes lifted, bright with a fierce calm.
"…we will show them resolve."
Adam pushed to his feet, robe falling in a quiet cascade.
Kon stepped closer, golden eye steady. "What do we do?"
Toran's smile was thin, edged with iron.
"We will pay Carlon a visit."