It was two months after Leornars Servs Avrem had returned to Avangard. The news of his killing of a Demon Lord was not a simple rumor; it was a contagion of unease that swept through the neighboring nations. They did not fear his strength—they feared the implications of it. A man who could slay a force of absolute chaos was a man who transcended the established order.
High above the clouds, in the impossibly tall Skyvault Citadel of the United Kingdom of Zextria, a secret assembly was underway. The Citadel was not merely a building; it was a feat of forgotten architecture, its marble and crystalline spires perpetually dusted by the mist of the upper atmosphere, lending it the look of a mountain carved from frozen starlight.
Inside the Hall of Ascendancy, Queen Seralyndra of the Elves sat on a massive, fluid-silver throne. She was not alone. Eleven other Leaders of the Demi-Humans were arrayed around a crescent table of polished onyx, each cloaked and cowled, their features obscured—a ceremonial show of unity and paranoia. The very air in the vast hall was thin and cold, scented with ozone and ancient stone.
Seralyndra, her silver-blond hair woven with moonstones that caught the weak, distant light, cleared her throat—a sound that cut through the expectant silence like a knife.
"It has come to my attention," she began, her voice a low, melodic alto that nevertheless carried to every corner of the room, "about the kingdom of Avangard. It seems to have matured from a nuisance into a factor. We must assess it, quickly, as a potential threat or an essential ally. Delegations must be sent to Avangard."
The tension in the room thickened, almost visibly swirling the faint mist that clung to the floor.
"What about the issue in Durmount Kingdom?" a voice, deep and gravelly, asked from the dwarven delegation. It was Thane Bronn Ironmouth's second, his frustration barely contained.
Seralyndra's elegant fingers drummed lightly on the arm of her throne. "The issue of Durmount is severe, Thane, but we cannot intervene till needed. Durmount Kingdom is a viper pit of racial discrimination and systemic oppression. We cannot be associated with them. To intervene is to legitimize their internal failures. Avangard, for all its mystery, at least focuses its gaze outward."
"So, Avangard it is," said a sharp, scaled voice from the Dragonkin section. "But what if they are hostile? What if this Leornars seeks to swallow us, as the empires of old did?"
Seralyndra leaned forward, her eyes—the color of fresh moss—hardening. "We assemble the Union of Stars—the full accord. And we eliminate them, as swiftly and decisively as we did in the uprising of the city of Nisgh. Let them be a lesson in the fragility of upstarts."
A collective, barely perceptible shudder went through the cloaked figures. The memory of Nisgh was one of cold, surgical annihilation—a necessary horror the Union had kept locked away.
Before the debate could escalate, the massive, reinforced door to the Hall of Ascendancy groaned open, revealing a messenger. The young woman, a mixed-race human, was trembling from the height and the weight of the moment. She carried a single, cream-colored letter.
"What is it?" Seralyndra demanded, the regal patience in her voice fraying.
"Lady Seralyndra," the messenger stammered, holding out the missive as if it might burn her, "there's a letter… from Avangard."
The reaction was a silent, simultaneous gasp. The cloaked figures shifted uneasily.
"Avangard?" the Dragonkin representative hissed, his voice betraying a raw, naked shock. "They dared to breach the Skyvault Citadel's inner sanctum?"
Seralyndra snatched the letter. The parchment felt cool and heavy in her hand, sealed with a crest she did not recognize—a single, stylized silver quill piercing an ornate crown. Her sharp, elven eyes scanned the concise, elegant script. A slow, chilling smirk curved her lips.
"My, my," she murmured, her voice laced with grudging admiration. "He's bold. He hasn't sent a delegation. He has invited himself. The Veiled King is coming." She let the silence of the room absorb the audacity of the announcement before adding, with a low, dangerous laugh, "Prepare the dais. He arrives tomorrow."
The following day, the Skyvault Citadel lived up to its name. It loomed above a floor of dense, swirling clouds, its white stone spires piercing the blue-black expanse like the teeth of some ancient, fossilized god. The central dome, an architectural marvel of enchanted obsidian and crystal, was a swirling vortex of electric blue and cold starlight, creating an inner sky perpetually on the verge of a silent, gorgeous storm.
Leaders from every major race—the stoic Dwarves, the proud Elves, the fiery Dragonkin, the elusive Gnomes, the sturdy Half-Giants, and the various beastfolk—had gathered. They were summoned not by the Union, but by the mysterious ruler of the rising Western Empire—Leornars Servs Avrem, the Veiled King.
He stood on the central dais, a raised platform of polished marble inscribed with astronomical charts that seemed to thrum with a faint, internal light. He was bathed in the cold, unearthly glow that filtered through the dome. His robes were a masterpiece of tailoring, shimmering like liquid dusk and absorbing any ambient light, making him appear less a man and more a dimensional tear. His face was half-hidden behind a silver mask, intricately etched with flowing script in a language older than even the oldest Elven tongue.
The air was so still it hurt the lungs. Leornars did not appear strong or menacing, merely inevitable.
His voice, when it came, was a masterpiece of control—measured, patient, and carrying a timbre that suggested vast, untroubled depths.
"The world trembles at the edge of ruin," he began, his gaze sweeping over the assembled dignitaries, lingering on no one in particular. "You all feel it. The rot in your roots, the silence in your stars, the decay in your bones. The old orders are failing. The threats—from the East, from the abyss, from within—are strengthening while your systems fracture. I offer unity, not subjugation. A single accord to preserve all, lest the whole world be consumed by a chaos you can no longer contain."
He paused, allowing the raw truth of his statement to hang in the crystalline air.
Queen Seralyndra of the Elves rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate, her moon-gown flowing around her like river mist catching the blue light. Her green eyes, usually so serene, burned with a furious, ancestral distrust.
"You offer chains with a silver tongue, Veiled King," she said, her voice dripping with frost. "We remember your ancestors. We remember the burning of Ilvannar—the last great unity, where Elven blood was used to forge the Human Empire's walls. Our silence on the matter of the Demon Lord was a courtesy, not an endorsement. You speak of preservation, but your very presence here is an act of overreach."
Leornars inclined his masked head, a gesture of polite acknowledgment. "The sins of my predecessors are not my own, Queen Seralyndra. I deal in the present and the future. Ilvannar burned because the Elves of that era chose pride over pragmatism. Do not make their mistake again. Your pride is a luxury the world can no longer afford."
Seralyndra drew a sharp breath, her hand tightening into a white-knuckled fist. "Our sovereignty is not a luxury. It is our heritage."
Before Seralyndra could continue, Thane Bronn Ironmouth of the Dwarves exploded from his seat. Bronn was a pillar of rune-engraved muscle and bristling, soot-blackened beard. His massive, rune-engraved fist slammed onto the stone table with a deafening CRACK, sending tremors through the dais.
"We are Dwarves! We were forging steel when your ancestors were still painting mud on their faces!" he bellowed, his voice a guttural growl that echoed in the high vault. The sheer noise seemed to make the very clouds outside churn. "Unity forged by outside flame is brittle and false! We mine our own fate in the deep rock! The Elven Queen speaks of pride, but what do you know of labor, of grit, of the true, honest weight of a promise? Your 'accord' smells of soft words and hidden traps. We will not sell our mines, our forges, or our allegiance for your silver-tongued promises. We refuse!"
Leornars met the Dwarf's furious gaze, his posture unchanged. "A deep mine is a dangerous place, Thane Bronn. Even the most honest steel eventually rusts when exposed to enough internal rot. I see the cracks in your foundations. They are deeper than your strongest shafts."
Finally, High Envoy Tazheran of the Dragonkin rose. He was a magnificent, terrifying specimen—tall, covered in scales of iridescent bronze, with a crest of horns sweeping back from his brow. He did not shout or rage. He merely smirked, arms folded, his scaled brow furrowed with ancient, dismissive contempt.
"You cannot bind the sky, Veiled King. Your roots will never reach us," Tazheran drawled, his voice a low, dry rasp, like stones scraping together. "We, the Dragonkin, are the fire in the core of the world. We permit the existence of kingdoms like yours. We do not join them. Your offer of unity is an offer of a cage, no matter how golden you paint the bars. You concern yourself with terrestrial politics. We concern ourselves with the alignment of the stars and the heat of the molten heart of the earth. You are beneath our consideration."
"The earth you speak of is restless, Envoy," Leornars replied, his voice still a calm counterpoint to the Envoy's arrogant dismissal. "The molten heart is unstable. Pride is a weakness that nature exploits without fail. You may fly high, but even the highest spire is rooted in ground that can shake."
And so, one by one, they rejected him. Not with the calculated fear they felt in the secret chamber, but with something worse—dismissal, rooted in a millennia of unchallenged sovereignty. The summit ended with no treaty, no allegiance, and no hope for unified defense.
The Veiled King inclined his head slightly, a final, unreadable gesture. There was not a flicker of disappointment in his golden eyes, only a cold, quiet certainty.
"Then I shall remain your stranger," he said, his voice dropping to a final, resonating murmur. "May your paths be bright. You will find that the darkness does not wait for an invitation."
He departed the Citadel alone, his figure a silhouette lost to the wind and the swirling, atmospheric mist, leaving behind a profound, almost paralyzing silence.
Weeks passed. The world, having watched the summit with bated breath, relaxed. The Great Powers had held their nerve. The Western Threat was dismissed.
In the dwarf strongholds of Ghur-Darhal, however, the breathing space did not last. The mountains were always a dark, oppressive place, but now a profound rot had set in. A strange, flesh-eating plague took hold—spores blooming in the deepest, most critical shafts of the Ironheart mine. It was not a magical curse, but a biological terror, sickening hundreds of miners and war-smiths. The air in the deep caverns became thick with the sickly-sweet smell of decay and desperation. The Dwarven healers, skilled as they were in bone-setting and fire-alchemy, could not identify, let alone stop it.
The High Council was ready to seal the entire mine, condemning hundreds to death by plague or starvation, when a courier arrived. He was cloaked in ash-grey velvet, his face unseen, bearing a single, unremarkable phial of shimmering, cerulean liquid.
The gift: an elixir from the Western Empire.
"A gesture of goodwill," the attached note read in immaculate Dwarvish script. "Sovereignty is sacred. Health is essential. No need for repayment."
The Dwarves, suspicious and furious, tested it. The elixir worked instantaneously. The spores withered. The victims healed. Within a day, the Ironheart mine was saved.
Simultaneously, in the ancient elven forest of Lys'Nirath, the sacred Whispering Trees began to rot from within. The source was a relic: a beautiful, shadow-carved harp gifted to Queen Seralyndra by a long-dead, politically ambitious suitor. The corruption was insidious, turning the sap black, the leaves brittle, and the roots—the soul of the forest—weeping black ichor. The best Elven mages were baffled, their cleansing spells only accelerating the decay.
The curse lifted only when a single Western envoy—an unassuming scholar—arrived. He carried no weapons, made no demands. He performed a purification rite under moonlight, using a forgotten sequence of sigils drawn not in ink, but in pure, distilled starlight. The black ichor evaporated. The trees sighed, and their leaves turned an impossibly vibrant green. The scholar left before dawn, vanishing into the wood as if he were never there.
And in the mountains of the Dragonkin, where the molten flows were the lifeblood of their civilization, chaos reigned. The fire-routes collapsed. Molten flows, usually placid and predictable, turned violent, rupturing protective caverns. Nests of sacred Dragon eggs were scorched by unnatural eruptions. The Dragonkin mages fought the chaos with their own immense power, but every solution bred two new problems.
Then, a silent flight of black-winged wardens arrived. They were non-Dragonkin, powerful, and utterly disciplined. They were summoned by no one. They did not speak to the Dragonkin leaders. They merely went to work, quelling the chaos and shielding the eggs with impossibly strong, rapidly grown obsidian spires they drew directly from the earth's core, stabilizing the eruption zones with surgical precision.
None of the aid was asked for. All of it was given. Quietly. Efficiently. Without demand.
In a secluded tower in the Elven Queen's palace, a thousand feet above the restored forest floor, a mirror of dark obsidian glimmered with shifting, silvery light. This tower was warded against all eavesdroppers, known only to a trusted few.
Within the mirror's shimmering surface, the Veiled King stood, hands behind his back, his silver mask catching the faint light. He was far away, yet his presence filled the small, circular room.
"They believe they refused me," Leornars murmured, the sound quality in the mirror perfect, as if he were standing next to her.
Across the veil, Queen Seralyndra appeared—not in her courtly silks, but in practical, supple shadow-leathers, her crown absent, her hair tied back in a single, severe braid. She leaned against a stone sill, a smirk—cynical and cold—playing on her lips.
"And now they come to us with open hands," she confirmed. "My reports from the dwarves of Ghur-Darhal are already piling up. They are asking for more 'elixirs of goodwill.' They are asking for a standing agreement for 'environmental stabilization.' They are negotiating their own chains, Leo."
Leornars corrected her gently. "Not out of loyalty, Seralyndra. But need. They had a problem too deep for their traditional solutions, and I provided the solution without asking for credit. Need that becomes reliance. Reliance becomes trust. And trust, Queen Seralyndra, becomes power—the only power that is truly indelible."
Seralyndra pushed off the sill and walked to the mirror, placing a delicate hand on the obsidian. It felt cold. "As planned. The core of my agreement with you was this: I give you strategic access to the remnants of the old world, and you give me the only way to save my people from themselves. Their pride, their independence—these are the vulnerabilities that have been exploited for centuries. You simply sped up the inevitable decay."
"Their pride is a weapon I can turn inward," Leornars agreed. "By solving their problems, I do not conquer their lands. I conquer their imagination. They will never again face a crisis without first thinking of the Western Empire's elegant, unasked-for solutions. That is the true victory."
Seralyndra nodded slowly, her green eyes dark with a complicated mix of ambition and bitter resignation. "You've given them a lifeline that only you can maintain. The edges are unraveling, just as we intended. I have already begun the process of recalling my most stubborn diplomats from the Union. They will be replaced by... pragmatists."
Leornars gave a slight, satisfied tilt of his masked head. "Pragmatism is the only true religion in politics."
—Dwarven Kingdom of Ghur-Darhal, Present Day—
The bells tolled at dusk, a mournful, rhythmic clangor that was muffled by the thick, sulfurous air of the mountain-city.
General Krovgar Flamevein, Thane Bronn's fiercely loyal right-hand, stood atop the rain-slicked fortress walls of Thrumhallow. The capital's jagged spires jutted from the mountain like obsidian spears, only their tips visible beneath a sky choked with unnatural soot and cold, drumming rain. The constant firelight that usually defined Ghur-Darhal seemed sickly and weak.
In his gloved, calloused hand was a sealed parchment—a letter from the Western Empire, promising a new, more effective strain of the plague-cure, and gently inquiring about trade normalization. Krovgar had not read beyond the first line.
"We were never meant to bow," Krovgar growled, the phrase less a declaration of defiance and more a desperate, religious mantra. He crumpled the fine envelope into a ball of soaked fiber and threw it into the abyss. "Not to gods. Not to ghosts. And certainly not to masked fops who send perfumed cures."
The Dwarven High Council—the eleven oldest, most respected clan-leaders—had gathered in the deep Council Hall, shrouded in self-imposed shadow. Suspicion was their shared cloak. They spoke, their voices low and rasping, of how the Western elixirs had softened their people, how their miners now whispered the Veiled King's name when no healer could save them. They spoke of the mirror—a communication device they'd been forced to accept to coordinate plague-relief—which seemed to return no matter how many times they sealed the room or destroyed the glass.
A desperate choice was made: cut the ties. Sever the strings. Reassert their own identity before it was chemically erased.
By nightfall, the forges of Thrumhallow roared with a different fire—not one of creation, but purge.
The first act was ceremonial, savage, and necessary for morale.
Alchemists shattered dozens of bottles of the shimmering, cerulean liquid, the precious cure splashing uselessly onto the stone floors. The crowd of onlookers, a mixture of citizens and guards, cheered, a sound both relieved and slightly hysterical.
Guards dragged the handful of Western envoys from their provisional inns and homes. Their velvet cloaks were stained with spit and coal. They were given a bag of silver and a choice: leave the mountains immediately, or be thrown into the chasm. All chose exile.
Finally, in the Temple of the Deep Flame, the holiest site in the kingdom, High Magus Brokk, his face a mask of resolute fury, personally crushed the glowing gem gifted by Leornars' envoy—a stone that had subtly amplified their internal fire-spells. Shards of it, humming softly even as they scattered across sacred stone, were ground to powder.
The people cheered until their throats were raw. Freedom, they called it. Sovereignty, they proclaimed.
The cheering stopped at dawn.
The forge-fires would not light.
Not by flint, not by the deepest, most powerful fire-spells of the Magus, not by the infusion of sacred fuel. No amount of heat or tinder would burn. It was not that they were extinguished; it was as if the very concept of fire had sworn rebellion against the Dwarves. The massive bellows stood silent, cold.
The anvil-steel blackened. It did not melt, but became strangely soft and malleable as wax when touched by a hammer. Sacred veins of ore, untouched for millennia, crumbled into non-magical dust when mined. Hammerheads, including the Thane's ceremonial weapon, cracked as if struck by divine vengeance when they made contact with anything.
From the citadel's highest tower, ash began to fall—fine, silent, white.
No fire had caused it. No one could explain the meteorological anomaly. It simply drifted down, covering the soot-blackened city in a pale, funereal coating.
Then, in the sealed, guarded war-tower, the mirror returned—unsealed, unbidden, shimmering with cold light.
And within it stood Leornars Servs Avrem, unmasked.
Krovgar's Fall and Seralyndra's Silence
General Krovgar, his beard sodden, his massive chest heaving with impotent rage, stormed into the tower. The mirror's silver light cast him in ghostly, distorted hues.
"You dare—! You dare impose a curse on the greatest kingdom of the stone! We have stood against armies, against demons, against time itself! You will answer for this act of war!"
But no voice came from the glass. Leornars simply watched, his golden eyes unreadable, his unmasked face a study in serene power. He looked, Krovgar realized with a sickening lurch, impossibly young, yet ancient in his demeanor.
Krovgar reached for his axe—a movement purely instinctive—then stopped. Behind him, a frail, rattling cough echoed.
High Priestess Merra, the most revered of the Temple elders, her robe singed from a close encounter with the returning plague-spores, stood trembling in the archway.
"The rot," she whispered, her voice dry as dust. "It's returned, Krovgar… but it burns now. It doesn't just decay; it consumes the life force. The elixir… we needed the elixir, Krovgar. We chose pride over our people."
Krovgar staggered back, the reality of their self-inflicted wound hitting him with the force of a battering ram. "This is witchcraft… a targeted sabotage!" he roared at the mirror. "You are a tyrant, a monster!"
And still, the mirror said nothing.
Until Leornars tilted his head, a subtle movement that held more menace than any shout.
"You never asked for the cure either. You were given the solution to your problem, freely. Then, you decided that accepting goodwill was a weakness. You chose to destroy the kindness, General. My curse, as you call it, is simply the world continuing its natural decay without my uninvited intervention. Your strength was never in your fire, General. It was in your willingness to fight the dark. I simply showed you how dark your world would become without me."
Krovgar stood frozen, his rage crumbling into despair. The mirror pulsed.
Before dusk, a sleek, arrow-shaped ship of shimmering moonsteel descended onto the citadel tower, landing with a soundless, impossible grace.
Queen Seralyndra of Lys'Nirath, clad not in silks but her efficient shadow-leathers, stepped forth without any escort. Her silver hair, whipping in the mountain wind, looked impossibly clean against the general grime. She entered the Hall of Dust, surveying the defeated Dwarves with an expression of cold, pragmatic pity.
She placed a scroll of pale vellum upon the cold stone table. It bore the seal of the Elven Union, now fractured and reformed.
"We signed," Seralyndra stated simply, her eyes unreadable, her voice devoid of judgment. "We chose survival."
Krovgar, looking like a crumbling statue, stared at her. "You kneel to him? To a masked tyrant who strikes at the core of our being?"
"No." She smiled faintly, a hard, weary, political smile. "We simply recalled a call we never answered. We signed the Accord of Pragmatism. It requires no kneeling, General. It requires only an agreement to consult on shared threats, and to accept pre-positioned aid for existential crises."
Krovgar's voice cracked, a sound of profound spiritual breakage. "We swore... never to surrender our independence. Never to kneel to another empire."
"You don't need to kneel," she whispered, leaning close, her green eyes piercing. "That's the beauty of it. Leornars doesn't want you to swear allegiance. He wants you to become dependent on his solutions. You will maintain your Council, your titles, your armor. You will simply find that your autonomy is an illusion, sustained only by his silent, continued generosity. He is not a conqueror, Krovgar. He is an administrator of necessity."
Krovgar stared at the sealed document, the fate of his kingdom suddenly weighing more than the mountains around them.
—Skyvault Citadel — Mirror Room—
Far above the world, the atmospheric storm swirled outside the enchanted dome like a coiled leviathan—vast, indifferent, and beautiful.
Leornars Servs Avrem stood at the center of his observation room in the Skyvault Citadel. His mask was back on, the silver gleaming like a second, cold moon. His expression, hidden from all but himself, was one of intense, calculating focus.
A servant—a small, highly efficient gnome—approached, parchment in hand.
"Thrumhallow. Signed," she said softly, handing him the document.
He nodded once, accepting the scroll but not looking at it.
> "They believe they chose to return," he said, the mask giving his voice an ethereal echo. "They think their survival instinct was the final push. But you cannot recall a call you never heard—Because I never spoke it. I simply showed them the silence that follows when I stop listening."
He turned, cloak whispering behind him, and stepped into the darkness of the passage, the signed document already forgotten.
—Avangard, The Crystal Throne Room, Present Day—
Leornars sat on his throne in Avangard's main palace, a seat carved from a single, faultless piece of amethyst that glowed with a deep, internal violet light. The room was vast, paneled in dark, silent wood, contrasting sharply with the crystal and the stark white of Leornars' robes. The air was warm, rich with the scent of paper and aged leather—the smell of governance.
Stacian stood behind him, acting as a combination of bodyguard, strategist, and confidante. Her sharp blue eyes, usually so alert, were slightly glazed with intellectual fatigue.
"What just happened?" she asked, her voice low. "Everything seemed to happen so fast I can't process the political fallout. One moment, they were all hostile, the next, the Elves and Dwarves are signing Accords of mutual defense and resource sharing."
Leornars ran a gloved hand over the smooth arm of the crystal throne.
"Exactly," he said, his tone one of quiet satisfaction. "The other races thought I came to bargain, to debate, or to threaten. They expected an invasion of armies. I simply eclipsed them. There were no negotiations or treaties needed in the traditional sense. I didn't ask for their armies; I asked for their continued existence. By proving my ability to solve problems they couldn't even name, I made my empire indispensable. Now, the major races are quietly, defensively backing Avangard. The only true threat to us is the Great Empire of Surlian—a nation built on a thousand years of pure, unapologetic expansion. Our forces might be good and strong against provincial kingdoms like Durmount or Lurtra, but not against The Empire."
Stacian's eyes brightened. She moved from behind the throne to stand beside him, resting her hand lightly on the throne's smooth amethyst flank.
"What if we annexed the nations who just signed the Accord—the Elves, Dwarves, and Dragonkin? With their resources and specialized forces, we'd have a large kingdom and forces strong enough to meet Surlian head-on."
Leornars shook his head slowly. "A logical, but fatally flawed, idea. If we did that, there would be an immediate, pervasive, and furious resistance against us. We would spend years suppressing internal rebellions, diverting massive resources and attention. And if Surlian caught even a whisper of that internal fracturing, they would launch a devastating, preemptive attack. We would be annihilated. Annexation is for the weak-willed who cannot tolerate the facade of independence. I am not weak-willed."
"So what do we do?" Stacian asked, moving to a nearby map table, her finger tracing a path along a central continent.
Leornars' gaze followed her hand, his eyes focused on the southern regions. "We first strike Durmount, and then shift immediately to Seraphim and the Holy Kingdom."
Stacian frowned, leaning over the map. "Durmount? It's a logistical nightmare. And striking Seraphim right after would be reckless. It's too large, too powerful, and too close to the Surlian border. That's an overextension of our supply lines."
"Yes, it is," Leornars agreed, getting up from his throne and walking to the map table to stand beside her, his voice dropping in pitch. "So, we are playing a gamble. Durmount is a massive liability—an atrocity of racial discrimination that generates instability and humanitarian crises. It's a wound on the southern continent. We seize it, not to hold, but to cleanse it. We install a transitional government, stabilize the region, announce its independence, and then move immediately to Seraphim and the Holy Kingdom."
He pointed a long, precise finger at the three locations on the map.
"Durmount: Surgical strike, regime change, stabilization, and immediate release. A dazzling show of pure, non-colonialist power. This confuses Surlian's analysts. They'll be expecting us to hold the territory. We don't. We confuse them, then launch a massive, full-scale attack on the traditional seats of power in the region—Seraphim and the Holy Kingdom—before Surlian can react. They won't know which strike was the feint and which was the true thrust."
"Oooh, I get it now," Stacian breathed, her mind racing. "A calculated, high-speed series of moves. The goal isn't to conquer the south in one go; it's to make Surlian believe we're too erratic and too fast to corner. Seize, cleanse, release, strike. So the underlying plan is, essentially, seize and defense-by-chaos."
Leornars snapped his fingers once, the sound sharp and echoing in the massive room.
"Exactly. Speed and moral shock are our weapons against Surlian's sheer size. But my biggest concern, Stacian, is this cancer of the south: the slave-trading rings and the sickening trade in Pollium." His voice hardened, a sudden, cold fury replacing the tactical calm. "No one should have authority over another person's destiny. The commodification of life—it's not only strategically unsound, creating billions of enemies—it's utterly repulsive to me. That system must be eradicated entirely, root and branch, not just in Durmount, but everywhere."
He looked away from the map, his golden eyes filled with a distant, terrifying idealism. "Our first moves must not only be militarily sound, but morally necessary. That is the true difference between an Empire of Conquest and an Empire of Accord."
"The logistics for Durmount are already being prepared," Stacian assured him, her tone now purely professional. "But strategically, where do we shift next, after the South is in flux?"
Leornars got up from the table, his silvery robes whispering again. He walked to the massive arching window of the room, looking out over the city that was his base.
"Durmount is a strategic necessity. But our next move is a philosophical one. We need to cement the Accord, and we need specialized, powerful allies who won't be swayed by Surlian gold or dogma."
He turned back to Stacian, the gold of his eyes glinting in the light.
"We are going to the great Forest Nation of the Spirits."
. She was a being of dangerous elegance, and in this secure room, she no longer bothered to conceal her demonic heritage.
"The south will be a slaughterhouse, Lord Leornars," she stated, not in disapproval, but in analytical assessment. "Surlian will move slower than we anticipate, but the moment they understand we are not holding Durmount, they will realize the depth of your unconventional strategy. It buys us three weeks, maybe four, to secure the Spirit Forest."
Leornars was already moving toward the grand double doors. "Three weeks is an eternity in this new game, Stacian. And securing the forest is not about time; it is about establishing a foundation of trust with the only power in the continent not rooted in pride or greed. The Spirits deal in principles. That is a language I prefer."
The doors opened onto the vast, echoing outer hall. A group of seven figures, his most trusted inner circle, snapped to attention. They were a study in purposeful diversity, drawn from the broken kingdoms and discarded peoples of the continent, bound by their absolute devotion to the man they served.
First was Zaryter, a man whose features were sharp and ascetic. He was Leornars' chief intelligence officer, draped in a cloak that seemed to absorb ambient light. His eyes, though perpetually tired from processing mountains of data, missed nothing. He carried no visible weapon, relying on the information he held to be his shield and sword.
Beside him stood the twins, Zhyelena and Zhyier. Zhyelena, dressed in functional, scaled armour, was a Dragonkin, smaller than the High Envoy Tazheran, but radiating an intense, focused heat. She was the mistress of artillery and siege engines. Her brother, Zhyier, was a contrast: quiet, thoughtful, his human features bearing a slight, melancholy cast. He managed logistics, ensuring every cannonball, every grain of feed, and every piece of mail was exactly where it needed to be.
Then came Bellian, a towering Half-Giant with a face that seemed carved from granite and a demeanor that belied his profession—he was Leornars' master of covert infiltration and close protection. He was followed by the low, muscular shadow of Ascian, Leornars' personal war-beast—an Inferno Wolf with a coat the colour of cooling magma and intelligent, burning amber eyes. Ascian didn't walk; he flowed, a restless engine of silent destruction.
Bringing up the rear were Salene and Ayesha. Salene was a gnome, impossibly quick and focused, responsible for arcane communication and signal interception. Ayesha, her head wrapped in a thick, practical scarf, was a muscular, four-armed beastkin from a nomadic tribe. She carried not a weapon, but a large, heavily reinforced leather bag slung across her back, which, judging by the slight scraping sounds, contained strange and volatile metallic components for the inevitable Purification Rites and Containment Spells.
"Lord Leornars," Zaryter said, bowing his head slightly. "The path is clear. The escort is minimal, as requested. The route will take us through the lower districts and past the old market square. The city is... excited for your appearance."
Leornars merely nodded, acknowledging the coded warning in Zaryter's tone. "Excitement is fine, Zaryter. Just ensure it does not boil over. The Spirit Forest is our current target. Stacian has already informed you of the strategic rationale. What are your operational concerns?"
Zhyelena, the Dragonkin twin, stepped forward, the scales on her cheeks shimmering faintly. "My Lord, the spirit nations, particularly the Sylvan Court, are not a military target. Their defenses are subtle—they control the very flow of flora and fauna. My siege engines will be useless. Even a single sustained flame could be countered by instant, suffocating overgrowth. Our approach must be diplomatic, with an overwhelming capacity for defense, not offense."
"Precisely," Leornars confirmed. "We are going to offer a trade. We will secure the human-controlled borders around their territories, cleansing the regions of bandits and resource exploitation, in exchange for their knowledge and—if possible—their specialized forces for the larger conflict."
Stacian, now walking at Leornars' right hand, offered a rare, slight smile, a glimmer of teeth beneath her lips. "The spirits' primary power is their ability to see the purity of intent, not just raw strength. They will be hostile to any perceived military presence. We must be sincere."
Zaryter chimed in, adjusting his cloak. "My Lord, my latest intercepts show that the Surlian Empire is also making tentative diplomatic overtures toward the Sylvan Court. They are offering to build a massive Pollium refinery on the forest's edge, promising to share the energy yield. A resource the spirits have no use for, but the offer itself is a point of contention."
Leornars stopped at the massive archway that led out to the palace grounds. He looked at Stacian. "So, a diplomatic race. How do we measure our chances of convincing a race whose currency is sanctity, against an empire whose currency is raw power?"
Stacian's smile widened, cold and tactical. "If you are asking if you can simply win through sheer force of will or overwhelming power, Lord Leornars…" She paused for dramatic effect, her black wings twitching slightly.
"Absolutely not."
A sharp intake of breath came from behind them. Zaryter was visibly shaken. "But, my Lady Stacian! Even if Lord Leornars cannot secure victory purely through strength, then what chance does the rest of the continent, or even our combined armies, stand against them? I don't... I don't stand a chance."
Leornars cast a look back at Zaryter—not of anger, but calm instruction. "Stacian is correct. Zaryter, your reliance on power figures must end. The Spirits do not care for the size of our swords, but the sincerity of our shield. We will win not with force, but by providing a service they cannot deny—protection from external corruption. Now, let us move. The city waits."
The palace gates opened, revealing the vibrant, sprawling city of Avangard. It was a young city, full of clean lines, efficient design, and a mix of races previously unseen—a tangible result of Leornars' policy of non-discrimination. The atmosphere was a frenetic mix of innovation and controlled fervor.
As Leornars and his small, imposing procession moved into the central avenue, a roar erupted.
The people of Avangard were packed ten deep along the route. They were not screaming names or political slogans. They were cheering.
"The White Plague!"
"Long live the White Plague!"
"The Rot is Cleaned! The White Plague Protects!"
The name, initially an epithet coined by scared rivals after the orchestrated collapse of Ghur-Darhal, had been absorbed and inverted by the Avangard populace. It was a moniker of respect, of fear, and of awe. He is the disease that cleanses the rot.
The noise was deafening—a chaotic, joyful sound unlike the ordered respect of a traditional monarchy. Leornars walked with his head held high, acknowledging them with a slight wave of his hand. He wore a simple, unadorned white coat over his black tunic, a deliberate choice to embody the nickname.
Bellian, the Half-Giant, walked slightly ahead, a living shield, his granite face impassive despite the wave of noise.
"They believe in the principle, My Lord," Bellian rumbled, his voice barely audible over the crowd. "They believe in the clean slate. The moment you showed that power was not for domination, but for stability, you became more than a king. You became a concept."
A woman rushed forward, breaking the line, holding up a small child whose legs were encased in metal braces. Before Bellian could stop her, she pushed the child's hand out.
Leornars paused. He gently took the child's hand, his expression hidden by the shadow of his hood, and gave the child a moment of focused attention. Ayesha, without a word, reached into her large, rattling bag and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden charm. She pressed it into the child's palm. The woman cried out in thanks and was immediately pulled back by the sheer force of the crowd's excitement.
"Superstition is a powerful tool, Ayesha," Leornars murmured as they moved on.
"Practicality, My Lord," Ayesha replied, her four arms easily steadying the contents of her bag. "A simple ward charm. It reminds them of the order we bring. It costs us nothing and buys us everything."
The crowd continued to surge. The sheer devotion was unnerving. They cheered for their king who had not asked for tribute, but who had solved their impossible problems. They cheered for the man who was now, indisputably, the greatest administrator on the continent. The procession finally reached the waiting, horse-drawn carriage—a plain, unornamented vehicle that spoke of efficiency, not opulence.
As they boarded, the door closing out the roar, Zhyier, the logistics twin, spoke, his voice quiet and strained.
"My Lord, forgive my forwardness, but Zaryter's concern is valid. If Surlian reaches the Spirits first, and they secure the Pollium trade agreement… they will have an energy source that will make their armies virtually unstoppable. We must not fail here."
Leornars settled into his seat, his gaze distant. "Failure is not an option. But success will not be bought with gold or steel. It will be bought with an absolute moral stand against the current structure. We must be the shield that protects the innocent from the rot that we are preparing to cleanse."
His attention shifted to Stacian. "Let us turn our minds back to the immediate rot. Stacian, what is the status of the deep slave lines? The ones running through the Seraphim capital?"
Stacian's eyes narrowed, all lingering traces of a smile gone. "Seraphim is the worst, My Lord. The capital's market is supplied by a major rig forty miles south of the city—a key waypoint before transport across the inner seas. The cruelty is legendary. It's what we agreed on: the moral strike must precede the military one."
"It must be stopped," Leornars stated, his voice firm, final. "Today. We must show the people of the south that the White Plague is also a light in their dark places."
Forty miles south of the bustling, gilded capital of Seraphim, the air was thick with the stench of salt, sweat, and fear. This was The Iron Gullet, a major, hidden waypoint in the vast, insidious slave trade that fueled the region's corrupt economy.
Inside a cramped, makeshift stockade—a fence of rusted bars and splintered wood—were two dozen cages, each filled with newly captured demi-humans from the frontier tribes.
In one cage, barely large enough for a small family, three figures huddled. Lyra, a young Beast Kin girl—no older than twelve—with the delicate, pointed ears and soft fur of a desert fox, watched with a raw, agonizing intensity. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Her mother, a strong-boned woman named Vila, her face streaked with grime and tears, worked with an impossible focus. Vila had managed to conceal a thin, filed piece of shard-steel—a remnant of a broken cooking knife—in the knot of her hair. For the last four days, under the cloak of night and the constant, rattling noise of the rig, she had been meticulously filing the bottom-most bar of the cage.
Next to her, Lyra's two younger sisters, Lina and Kael, slept fitfully, their small bodies tangled together.
The grating, whisper-soft sound of steel against metal finally stopped. Vila's rough fingers felt the vibration. The bar was almost severed.
"Lyra," Vila whispered, her voice a strained, brittle sound. "Now. Quickly. You must go. I can't get the gap big enough for us, but you can squeeze."
Lyra stared at the newly-filed gap, then at her mother and sisters. The sheer, overwhelming reality of the choice slammed into her—a physical blow that stole her breath.
"Mama, no! I won't leave you! We stay together!" Lyra hissed, her voice cracking with terror.
Vila grabbed her daughter's face, her eyes—the same amber as Lyra's—burning with a terrifying, absolute love. "Listen to me, Lyra. My time is done. Lina and Kael need me here, to draw the guards, to buy time. Your time is just beginning. You are the fastest. You are the smartest. You are the strongest."
She pulled Lyra close, pressing her cheek against the girl's soft, fox-like fur. "Do you remember the stories of the place the guards fear? The place where their paper-money is useless? Avangard. It's forty miles south of here, across the dry basin. They say the veiled king there, the one they call the White Plague, treats the slaves as equals. They don't want your freedom, Lyra. They want your strength."
Vila pushed her daughter firmly towards the cut. "Go. Find them. Tell them what is here. Bring help. If you fail, we all fail."
Tears, hot and unstoppable, streamed down Lyra's cheeks, mixing with the dust and grime. She looked back at her mother, at her sleeping sisters, the image searing itself into her memory. This was the final, agonizing goodbye.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and with a painful grunt, began to force her small, flexible body through the gap. The jagged edges of the broken bar scraped against her ribs, but she pushed harder, fueled by a mixture of terror and her mother's desperate command.
With a final, sickening scrape, she tumbled out onto the damp earth. Free.
Lyra took one last, agonizing look back at the cage. Her mother was already reaching for a small, half-rotted piece of cloth, preparing to stuff the gap and buy precious minutes.
"I promise," Lyra choked out, the words thick with grief and resolve. "I'll come back, Mama. I promise."
She turned, her small legs coiling, ready to spring into the deep, cooling shadows of the night.
That was when the light hit her.
A massive, beefy Seraphim Guard, his face scarred and bored, was making his final patrol check before the shift change, a weak lantern swinging in his hand. He stopped dead, his eyes widening from boredom to shock.
"You! Get back in the—"
Lyra didn't wait for him to finish the word "cage." The guard was too close to her mother, too close to her sisters. If he raised the alarm properly, they would all be caught.
She lunged. Not with a shout, but with a choked, furious sob. Her small, desperate fist, fueled by fear and adrenalin, impacted against the heavy, rusted cage bar beside the guard's head.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. Lyra felt a blinding jolt of pain shoot up her arm. She cried out, her small knuckles splitting open, blood immediately welling up and staining the rusted metal.
The guard was stunned by the sudden, animal ferocity and the sight of the blood. He stumbled back, clutching his own head, realizing the danger too late.
Lyra didn't stop. The pain was irrelevant. Her mother's face, her sisters' sleeping bodies, was all she saw.
In a move of pure, desperate instinct, she darted under his flailing arm, grabbed the leather tie of his heavy, canvas jacket, and used his own momentum against him, slamming his thick body backward against the bars of the cage he was meant to protect.
The air rushed out of the guard's lungs. His lantern fell, sputtering and dying on the ground.
Lyra scrambled, not looking back, her bloody fist clutching the precious ground. The memory of the pain and the sight of her mother's resolved, terrified eyes fueled her legs.
"I need to get to Avangard!" she gasped, a raw, ragged whisper torn from her lungs. "Get help!"
Behind her, the first, piercing sound of a whistle sliced through the night. It was followed instantly by a guttural, shouting chorus. The Seraphim Guard, realizing what had happened, erupted into chaos. Doors slammed open. Men bellowed orders. The Iron Gullet had been breached.
Lyra kept running, the dry, rocky earth tearing at her bare feet, the sound of the rising alarm, the shouts, and the pounding feet of the guards echoing the frantic drumming of her own heart. She was small, she was fast, and she was desperate.
She was running south. Forty miles. The only thing that mattered was the light she had been promised at the end of the world: Avangard.