Then he called his aide to bring a piece of paper and wrote with a trembling hand, but his thoughts were steady:
"To the King of Neval,
We will meet on the banks of the great river, five days from now.
Don't delay. I hate waiting.
The Iron King."
He folded the letter, sealed it with his gray volcanic stone seal, and handedto the messenger.
As the messenger prepared to leave, the king whispered to himself:
"The truth?
It's not the land we seek...
for this war
It's just the game...
A pastime for kings in an age without real war."
Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if recalling a distant memory, and said:
"Let the fun begin..."
In the heart of the Iron Kingdom—where walls were made of stone and hearts were made of steel—lived the sole heir to the throne, living a life far removed from royalty. A man in his forties, he was known in the inner-city districts only as **Peter**. Neither the palace servants nor even the highest officials knew his true name or identity. To them, the heir was a ghost—invisible and inaudible. The old king made sure things remained that way.
Peter, as the people knew him, was a symbol of gentleness, kindness, and remarkable intelligence. He had worked quietly in the queen's library since childhood, arranging books, answering questions, engaging in dialogue with scholars, and listening to and solving the problems of the common people. No one imagined that the humble librarian would one day wear the crown of the kingdom.
Only three people knew his true identity: the old father himself, his loyal advisor, and his mother, the queen. On rare nights, Peter would secretly visit the palace through hidden passages, attending secret meetings as a silent observer in the shadows.
One evening, as the moonlight spilled over the marble floors of the palace, the advisor looked at him and asked, "Why have you chosen this path? Why do you live hidden among the people?"
Peter smiled gently and replied, "To rule thousands of people, you must understand how they think. Their dreams, their fears, their hatred of kings and their trust in them. I couldn't do that from within palace walls, behind guards and titles. Among the people, I move freely. I learn freely."
But beneath his noble facade, Peter was far from naive. He possessed one of the most brilliant minds of his generation. A shrewd strategist, he could read political moves like a game of chess, always thinking two—or even five—steps ahead.
He had planted hundreds of spies within the Neval Kingdom—some disguised as merchants, others as soldiers, and a few close to King Julius himself, carrying with them the same silence and cunning as Peter.
His ambition was not merely to inherit the Iron Throne, but to unite the two kingdoms—the Iron and the Neval—under one ruler. Not for power alone, but because he believed that the old thrones would only survive in a changing world under the leadership of a mind superior to all others.
Every idea he proposed hit the mark. Every plan he devised was executed with astonishing precision. He always outpaced his rivals, always at least two steps ahead. Those who met him felt he belonged to a different breed entirely.
He was noble, brilliant, and manipulative—but fair. He knew when to be stern and when to show mercy. He rarely showed emotion, but those who truly knew him understood: beneath his calmness burned a fire that would never die.
The fire of a man born to rewrite history.
The day after receiving the Iron Kingdom's agreement to battle, King Julius made his next move. He dispatched the cunning sorceress, Catelyn, as a royal envoy to finalize the terms. She rode proudly, draped in silver and crimson, her presence alone a statement of beauty and danger.
The days passed.
Three days before the war, Julius made a surprise visit to the warriors' training ground. There, amid the sound of clashing steel and burning breath, he stood tall and addressed his soldiers. His voice, commanding yet calm, carried words of fire and pride—of glory, sacrifice, and immortality awaiting those who fight with honor.
Two days passed after that speech, each day heavier than the last.
Then came the night of battle.
Julius lay in his chamber, silent beneath the golden banners. He closed his eyes with a faint smile on his lips—as if heaven itself awaited him at sunrise.
And when that morning came, the Golden Lion rose.
Clad in battle armor, he mounted his pitch-black horse. To his right rode the Silent Shadow—the mute assassin whose presence sent shivers down his spine. To his left was Catelyn, her sword gleaming, her gaze fierce.
Flanked by his elite guard, Julius looked ahead at the open road.
He raised his fist, the sun gleaming the lion crest on his chest, and declared, "To victory!"
And with that, the march began—the first step toward a war that would be etched in history.