The Obsidian Palace loomed like a wound against the storm-lit sky, its jagged towers piercing through the ashen clouds that had not broken for days. A black rain pattered down upon the slanted spires, hissing softly where it met the heated veins of magic that threaded through the stone like lifeblood.
Deep within its heart, beneath the grand Throne Hall, where once music and diplomacy echoed off onyx pillars, now silence reigned — save for the crackle of rune-lanterns and the hushed, grim voices of war.
The War Chamber was a subterranean sanctum hewn from dark volcanic rock, lit only by the pale violet of floating glyph-lanterns. The war table, a vast slab of obsidian shaped like the outline of Aldrael itself, bore the glowing projections of flickering battlefronts, sieges in miniature, and pulsing red zones where contact had been lost.
King Rheon Aldrael IV stood at its head, his posture rigid, the Thousand-Thread Sigil woven in gold upon his dark crimson cloak. He was a tall man, regal in bearing but aged by war, his gaunt cheeks hollowed by sleepless nights and the weight of the dying realm. His fingers were bloodless on the edge of the table, gripping it as though to keep from being dragged into the churning chaos projected upon it.
Across from him stood General Torric Vale, broad-shouldered and gray-bearded, his armor engraved with runes that shimmered with active wards. He gave a short, respectful bow — not of deference, but of grim necessity.
"We've lost the Academy of Ilyrius, Your Majesty."
The words dropped into the chamber like an executioner's axe. A long silence followed — no gasp, no protest. Only the rustling of robes and the flicker of magic.
Rheon's voice was quiet. "All of it?"
Vale nodded, jaw clenched. "All of it. What remains is a crater — and something worse."
He tapped the edge of the war table. A portion of the map flared, revealing the circular ruins of Ilyrius. A smoky vortex lingered above it, spiraling in corrupted magic.
"We believe a portal has opened inside the academy. Not a standard gateway. Something… artificial. Stable. Designed to exist permanently. We've never seen anything like it. Our Arcanists speculate that this may be a new form of spatial magic, one that folds reality around it rather than piercing through."
A murmur passed through the room — a shiver of realization.
"The enemy is not arriving from Veyruun borders, sire. They're arriving through us."
Rheon turned toward him slowly. "And what of Commander Elric?"
The general's voice hardened. "Dead. His Arcane Division was annihilated by a construct that emerged from the portal. Twelve meters high, plated in silvered bone, fueled by soulfire. We lost the entire division — save for Captain Vonn and a handful of survivors. Without her intervention, we would've lost far more."
A figure stepped forward from the edge of the shadows — Captain Vonn, gaunt-eyed and smeared with dried blood, her arm in a sling. She stood at full attention despite her wounds. Her voice was hoarse but steady.
"I evacuated eighty-seven survivors from the lower levels, most of them students and mages-in-training. We held for six hours before fallback. I detonated the southern chambers to prevent pursuit."
Rheon inclined his head. "Your valor is noted. Your next orders will be given shortly."
Vale resumed. "The enemy's movement is erratic — not by land, but by direct emergence. They've appeared in seven locations across the kingdom in the past five days — all near former arcane sites or ley conduits. They're not attacking with conventional forces — they're unleashing targeted terror."
The map shimmered, showing red flares across the kingdom. Towns razed. Temples defiled. Magic silenced.
"In Caer Toren, they slaughtered every bonded mage and left their sigils carved into the walls — in blood. In Velcrest, they turned our own defensive constructs against us. And in Alwenreach… we still don't know what happened. Only screams through the aether for two minutes — then silence."
"And the casualties?" Rheon asked.
Vale's voice dropped. "As of this morning: 3,218 confirmed dead. 9,400 unaccounted for. That includes the entirety of the Ivory Ward, four knight-companies, and the elite Black Flame Arbiters. Civilian panic is spreading. Reports of visions, mass hysteria, and magical decay are rising."
The king closed his eyes. "And Veyruun?"
"Nothing official," Vale spat. "But they celebrate it openly. Their agents stir unrest across our borders. They call this vengeance for the Olyran Treaty. This isn't just war. This is retribution."
A silence followed — one so thick that even the runes seemed to dim, as if recoiling from the truth just spoken. Outside, thunder cracked like a whip across the highlands, shaking the obsidian bones of the palace. The storm had become a siege engine of the gods themselves.
The war room felt like a mausoleum now — each face around the table pale with dread, yet burning with a quiet fury.
Rheon Aldrael IV opened his eyes slowly.
He scanned the room — his gaze lingering on each face. Archmage Lenivar, clutching her staff like a lifeline. High Strategist Cor Valryn, his fingers twitching with unspoken plans. Lady Marshal Devrin, cold and silent, a statue carved from discipline. And of course, General Torric Vale, whose eyes still blazed with a soldier's defiance.
"Is the reprisal operation ready?" the king asked, voice like winter steel.
Vale straightened. "It is, Your Majesty. We've named it Operation Ash Requital."
He tapped the table, and a set of glyphs ignited, casting arcs of crimson light that spread across the map — targeting specific ley-nodes, arcane nexuses, and border fortresses in the southern ridge of Veyruun.
"We will strike three days from now, once our forces consolidate at Fort Myralis. The Shadowlance Riders have already begun silent advance through the Black Fen. The Flamebound are en route by skycraft. The first blood will be theirs."
Rheon nodded once.
"Good," he said simply. "Let the drums be sounded. I will speak to the people."
And with that, he turned from the war table, his crimson cloak flaring behind him as he walked toward the iron lift that would carry him above — to the palace steps, where fire and fury awaited.
Outside the Obsidian Palace, the capital of Caelvarad writhed with unrest.
Smoke curled from overturned braziers and shattered market stalls. A sea of citizens, nobles and commoners alike, had gathered in a chaotic storm of grief and rage. Some cried for vengeance. Others cried for their missing. And others still — agents of chaos or desperation — hurled rocks and curses toward the palace gates.
The storm clouds overhead had split, casting shafts of ghostly light through the drizzle — and in their wake, a horn sounded.
A deep, resonant, three-toned blast that silenced the city like a spell. The Drums of the Sigil followed — slow, echoing thuds that rattled through the bones of every man, woman, and child. Silence spread like a virus.
Then, the great obsidian doors opened.
Out stepped King Rheon Aldrael IV, clad in the black-and-gold armor of the royal line, forged from dusksteel and laced with memory-runes of every monarch before him. His crown was gone, melted and reforged into a war-helm — crested with the winged serpent of Aldrael, its mouth open in eternal roar.
The sight of him — not as a sovereign, but as a soldier — stunned the crowd.
He stepped forward to the edge of the high stone stair. Behind him, banners unfurled — crimson upon black, the Thousand-Thread Sigil blazing like fire against the sky. His voice, when it rang out, was amplified by rune-echo to reach every corner of the capital.
"People of Aldrael!"
"Five days ago, we lost the heart of our future — the Academy of Ilyrius, a beacon of light and learning. What came through that wound in the world was not merely an invasion… it was a curse cast upon our soil by those who have long coveted our fall."
"They came through magic they did not earn. They struck without honor. They did not declare war — they unleashed it."
"Veyruun celebrates our grief. They drink to the slaughter of our children. They laugh as we bury our dead. They called it vengeance for the Olyran Treaty… but we know the truth. This was never justice. This was never balance. This was hatred — pure, cowardly, festering hatred!"
"And so I stand before you now — not as a king, but as the first sword of Aldrael."
"And I say to Veyruun—we are not broken. We are not bowed. We are not done."
"Let this day be remembered! As the day we did not run. As the day we stood, shoulder to shoulder, and said: No more."
"From this moment forward, Aldrael is at war."
"Not for conquest. Not for power. But for every life taken. For every child lost. For every hearth desecrated. We will answer fire with fire. Blade with blade. Blood with blood."
"To the warriors — prepare your arms. To the mages — ready your sigils. To the healers — your hands will be needed more than ever."
"And to any among you — farmer, craftsman, scribe, merchant, outcast — who has the fire in their heart to fight for your homeland… the gates of the Royal Legion stand open. Join us. Stand with us. Strike back with us."
"Let the world remember — Aldrael is not a fallen kingdom. It is a kingdom rising in wrath."
The crowd stood still for a heartbeat longer.
Then — a single voice roared, then another, then a hundred more. Cheers burst like lightning, sweeping through the city like a tidal wave. Banners were lifted. Fists raised. The city, once seething in chaos, now pulsed with unity — a nation waking from grief into fury.
Cries rang out:
"FOR ALDRAEL!"
"FOR ILYRIUS!"
"FOR THE FALLEN!"
People surged forward — some kneeling to pledge. Others raising their blades high. Across Caelvarad, the drums changed tempo — the rhythm of war, fast and fevered, spreading like wildfire to every town, every outpost, every soul.
And high above, upon the obsidian throne now bathed in stormlight, King Rheon Aldrael IV turned away from the roaring city — and descended once more into the depths.
The war has begun.