The sun broke red over Twilight. Smoke from the vaults drifted east in heavy columns, marked by the smell of marrow ash and iron. The city was awake early, soldiers already on parade, merchants opening their stalls, priests calling people into shrines. Every sound carried rhythm, the pace of a capital that had learned to move in sync with its sovereign.
Noctis stood on the balcony overlooking the square. Eleven crowns were his now, bent in silence. Envoys had been sent, alliances proclaimed. The outside world called it diplomacy. Here, it was compulsion wearing the mask of choice.
Behind him stood the queens and his council: Lyxandra armored and alert, Seraphyne holding her spear at ease, Veyra with ink on her hands and a slate under her arm, Tina, Iris, and Clara carrying sealed packets for couriers.
Noctis spoke plainly. "Send the envoys immediately. The summit will be held here in Twilight, and it begins three days from now. I want every ruler sitting in this hall when it starts."
Veyra nodded. "Already mapped. Caravans, boats, riders—timing staggered. We'll have them seated by the fourth bell on day three."
"Good," Noctis said. "Make sure it happens."
The three women moved instantly, passing the packets to couriers waiting in the square. Hooves and boots carried the orders away.
Lyxandra asked, "And while the envoys ride?"
"We increase our arsenal," Noctis answered. He looked from her to Seraphyne and then to Veyra. "No stockpiles, no reserves left idle. Every rib, every vertebra, and every ampoule of marrow essence gets forged into something we can use. We are past the point of holding back."
He turned and led them down into the vaults. The air grew hotter, the stone darker, until the marrow forges opened before them. Dragon spines stretched across trestles. Ribs hung from hooks. Chains coiled in piles. Marrow essence glowed in racks of iron flasks.
The Titan Siege engines already stood ready—six Harrowers, four Molt-class catapults, dozens of Binders. They loomed in silence, dormant but waiting.
Noctis pulled off his gauntlets. He pressed his hand against his chest and cut a shallow line across his skin. Blood welled. It was not weak or wasted—it was command. Drops fell onto bone. Each drop hissed and burned, searing crimson sigils across pale surfaces.
The bones stirred. Vertebrae locked together. Chains rattled. Ribs bent into place. Essence caught fire inside marrow jars.
This was Blood Forging. Not hammer, not anvil. Just his will burning into matter.
"Rise," he said.
The first pile of bone obeyed. A new Harrower grew spine by spine, chest by chest. The marrow core lit red. The frame groaned, then stood upright, its galleries slotted into place. Another followed. Then another.
Lyxandra shielded her face from the heat. "How many can you handle at once?"
"I can handle as many as we have material for," Noctis replied. "The real limit isn't me. It's how much marrow and iron we can keep flowing. As long as the supply doesn't run dry, I'll keep forging."
He cut again. Blood dripped into fracture-chains. The links drank it, tightening until they vibrated. He pointed. "Bind."
The chains shot forward, snapped together, then retracted neatly into coils. The crews watching swallowed hard but kept their hands steady.
Seraphyne tapped her spear on the floor. "They look less like weapons, more like troops."
"They're both," Noctis said. "They're engines built to fight titans, but they'll follow commands as fast as any soldier. That's all that matters."
He walked down the line, touching each core, forcing more light into them. One by one the Harrowers came online until the vault shook with their resonance.
Veyra scribbled as fast as her hand allowed. "Three more Harrowers raised. Catapults reforged. Chains alive. Production tripled."
"Not just tripled," Noctis corrected. "We keep forging until every rib and every vertebra is used. Nothing stays in reserve."
He pressed his palm against one Harrower's chest. The marrow-core flared bright. He tested it. "Heel."
The engine dropped to one knee.
"Stand."
It rose.
"Kneel."
It obeyed again.
"Root."
Its feet slammed into the stone floor. The vault trembled.
"Anchor."
Chains lashed out, locking into walls, pulling the engine tight.
He released the command. The chains fell slack.
"They respond instantly," Noctis said. "There's no delay, no hesitation. They're keyed directly to me, and that's enough."
Lyxandra exhaled through her nose. "They'll terrify our enemies before they even fire."
"They'll hold a titan down," Noctis replied. "That's what counts."
He turned back to the crews. "By the time the summit begins, I want one Harrower standing in the square. It doesn't need to move or fight—just standing there will be enough. When the rulers see it, they'll understand exactly what we're preparing for."
Seraphyne's eyes narrowed. "And when their soldiers see it?"
"They'll accept it faster than any sermon can explain it," Noctis said. "Once their commanders fall in line, the rest will follow."
Veyra finished her notes. "Then we'll make sure the record shows it was inevitable."
By nightfall, nine Harrowers stood awake. Six Molt-class catapults glowed with caustic cores. More than twenty Binders coiled at the walls. The Sky-hooks flickered with lift-channels, half ready.
Noctis walked between them, blood drying on his hands. He did not slow, did not falter. Every step reinforced command. When he stopped, the vault hummed with obedience.
He looked at the queens, at Veyra, at the watching crews. "This is what we bring to the summit. We don't need long speeches or empty ceremony. We'll show them the proof. If they still want more convincing after that, then they're wasting everyone's time."
The days passed quickly, and Twilight prepared itself for the arrival of rulers. Word of the summit moved faster than horses could run. Messengers delivered sealed orders, and by the time the second dawn broke, the first columns were already visible on the horizon.
Noctis had demanded three days, and his commands carried weight no one could ignore. Each kingdom he had bent—whether by compulsion, doctrine, or council decree—sent their ruler or council head with escorts. The reason was clear: to discuss the coming war against the demons. But beneath that reason sat the truth. They came because he had told them to.
The great hall of Twilight had been cleared and prepared. Long tables were stripped away. A single massive circle of stone was laid in the center, ringed by chairs for the arriving rulers. Maps of roads, supply routes, and siege-frames were mounted on the walls. The hall smelled of fresh-cut wood, new torches, and the faint copper tang of iron essence that lingered from the vaults below.
Lyxandra oversaw the soldiers guarding the gates. "Every delegation enters in order," she said to her captains. "No arguments, no shuffling. The sovereign expects them seated without delay."
Seraphyne handled the drill yards. She had companies practicing with plaza-shields in full view of the arriving guests. "When they walk through the city, they will see discipline, not spectacle. Make sure their soldiers know our soldiers are sharper."
Veyra managed the schedule. She had scribes stationed at each entry point to record times, names, and standards. "We will know exactly when each realm arrived," she told them. "There will be no uncertainty in the record."
By midday of the third day, the delegations were gathering. The March-King arrived with lancers on dark horses, their armor shining, their banners snapping in the wind. The First Prince of the Mountain Thrones came next, his hammer elites marching in formation. The Caliph of the southern sands entered with his viziers and imams, his guards silent and veiled. From the Floating Temples came the High Prelate and his council, robes white and silver, faces stern but composed.
Others followed: the guild chairs of the Iron Coast, the River Princes, the elders of Frostharbor, the isle lords, the confederation electors, the Verdant League's councilors, and the senators of the Cedar Coast. Each delegation carried pride, but each delegation walked into Twilight's keep with controlled steps.
Inside the hall, they found what had been promised.
In the square outside, one Harrower tower stood upright, its marrow-heart burning faintly red. It did not move, but its size and weight filled the air. Delegations passed beneath its shadow before entering the hall. No speeches explained it. No heralds announced it. It simply stood there, proof of power too large to dismiss.
When all were seated, Noctis entered. He wore no armor, only a black cloak over simple clothes. His eyes burned faintly gold edged in crimson. He did not raise his voice. He did not spread his aura beyond what was necessary. He walked to the center of the circle and spoke.
"You are here because you understand the threat. The demons are coming, and they will bring titans with them. If you face them alone, you will fall. If you move without order, you will waste lives and break lines. That will not happen. You will coordinate through Twilight. Every levy, every shipment, every march will be aligned. If one of you fails to meet the schedule, your neighbor will bleed for it, and I will not allow that."
He looked around the circle. No one moved.
"You will deliver supplies on time. You will drill your soldiers to the standard I name. You will learn the command signals and obey them when they are given. You are not here to debate survival. You are here to survive by obeying the plan."
The March-King cleared his throat. "If a levy falters in the field, what then?"
"Then I will reinforce it," Noctis said. "But I will also know who failed. And when the war is done, I will remember it."
The First Prince leaned forward, his face grim. "And if demons strike two borders at once?"
"Then you will trust the arsenal," Noctis replied. "The Harrowers will hold titans. The Binders will lock their feet. The Molt catapults will break their lines. My command will direct them all. Your task is to provide soldiers who can climb, bind, and hold positions. Nothing more."
The Caliph spread his hands. "Our caravans must cross deserts. If timing slips, the schedule may falter."
Noctis's tone did not shift. "Then you will send double now, so you have room later. Do not tell me what may fail. Fix it before it does."
The High Prelate spoke softly. "The people must hear reason from their leaders. They will need words as well as orders."
"Give them your words," Noctis said. "Call it vision, call it wisdom, call it survival. I do not care how you frame it. What matters is that when the bells ring, your soldiers march."
He looked around the circle again. His voice stayed steady. "You are not allies. You are not equals. You are parts of a whole. That whole is Twilight. If that offends you, remember that offense will not stop demons from tearing down your walls. You will follow the plan, and you will live."
The hall was silent.
Lyxandra stepped forward and unrolled the timetable across the stone table. Columns of dates, routes, quotas, and drills filled the parchment. She spoke in her measured tone. "Here are your levies. Here are your deadlines. Sign your seals. Deliver as written."
One by one, the rulers leaned forward and pressed their marks. The March-King sealed first. The Prelate sealed without hesitation. The Caliph hesitated for only a breath, then set his ring down. The rest followed, until the parchment carried every seal.
Noctis watched each mark with calm eyes. When the last was pressed, he spoke again. "Then the summit is complete. From this moment forward, there is no delay, no excuse. The war begins now."
Three weeks after the summit, the arsenals of eleven nations had changed shape. Twilight's stamp was on every blade, every shield, every wagon wheel. The March lancers carried marrow-forged lances bound in fracture-chain. The hammer elites of the Mountain Thrones drilled with plaza-shields that locked into lattice on command. The Caliph's soldiers bore black-gold spears that hummed faintly with unholy resistance. Even the free militias of the Verdant League wore Twilight's mark, their helmets sealed with bone-inlaid sigils that no craftsman of their towns had ever known.
Everywhere, siege weapons followed the same design. Harrowers rose in the yards of distant cities, guided by Twilight engineers and marrowwrights. Molt catapults stood on coasts and high ridges. Binders crouched in shadowed barracks, waiting for the signal to run. It was not merely arming; it was assimilation. By the end of the month, every army in the alliance would march to the same commands, obey the same bell codes, and fight with the same arsenal.
But Noctis's work was not finished. Blood and bone were not enough. Siege-frames consumed essence, and essence was finite. He needed fuel that did not come from marrow or dragon bones. He needed what death itself had left behind.
The queens knew where he had gone, but no one followed him. The tomb lay beyond the ridges, in a valley where no birds flew. The air there stank of damp stone and rotting moss. The tomb mouth was a crack in the hillside, sealed with black iron that had rusted and wept for centuries.
Noctis pressed his hand against the gate. His blood seeped into the rust. The lock broke like brittle bone. He stepped into darkness.
The air inside was colder than winter and thicker than breath. The walls were carved with lines that had no meaning, only direction—spirals, loops, cuts. His footsteps echoed once, then fell silent as the stone learned his weight.
Wraiths did not wait in visible ranks. They clung to corners, to cracks, to the memory of life. Their whispers crawled along the walls. Some had once been kings, priests, or generals. Others had been nameless, their death leaving only hunger. All drifted here, tied to the tomb like moths nailed to wood.
When they saw him, they stirred. The first shapes slipped from the walls, pale smoke with faces that had forgotten how to close their mouths. They hissed, but the sound was not threat—it was need.
Noctis raised his hand. "I will not banish you. I will use you. That is the difference."
The words bound them. Wraiths that would have scattered instead coiled closer. Their whispers sharpened into questions, then into pleas. He cut his palm again. Blood fell into the dust. It hissed, and the chamber lit faintly red. The wraiths lunged—not to attack, but to drink.
His blood burned them, but it also anchored them. Their smoke condensed, their cries sharpened, and from each one a single shard of essence dropped to the floor like black glass. Wraith Essences—shaped fragments of will that could be burned in siege-frames or bound into soldiers to fuel obedience.
Noctis gathered them in his hand. The shards cut his skin but did not fall. They fused together in his grip until he held a sphere of black fire, pulsing like a heart that had never lived.
The deeper he went, the stronger the wraiths became. Some had faces stretched in endless screams. Others were armored in shadows, carrying weapons they had used in life. Each tried to resist him. Each failed when his gaze fixed them. He bled into the floor again and again, and the floor drank it. Wraith Essences rose like harvest from soil.
By the time he reached the tomb's end, the air was full of smoke. Hundreds of wraiths circled him, their whispers overlapping until they were almost words. Noctis stood unmoving, his blood dripping steadily, his aura pressing outward.
"You are not forgotten," he said. "You are conscripted."
The chamber shook. The wraiths screamed—not in defiance, but in recognition. Their forms collapsed into shards, raining onto the stone like black hail. When the sound stopped, the floor was covered in them.
Noctis knelt, swept them into his cloak, and sealed the bundle with his own mark. The bundle pulsed like a furnace. It would feed Harrowers for weeks.
When he turned to leave, the tomb was empty. The whispers were gone. Only the sound of his footsteps remained.
He stepped into the cold valley again. The sky above was gray, but it did not matter. His arsenal would burn brighter now.
But the tomb was not finished.
At the far end of the corridor, where the smoke had gathered thickest, the stone was not natural. A wall stood smooth, blackened, and carved with lines deeper than chisel marks. A seal.
It pulsed faintly, as if it had its own marrow-heart buried inside it. The wraiths had never crossed it. They had circled it endlessly, bound to its presence but unable to pierce it. Their hunger had been a distraction. The seal was the purpose.
Noctis stopped before it. His hand rested on the cold surface. The texture was wrong—neither stone nor iron. It felt like bone that had been carved and pressed flat, then fused into wall. His blood still dripped from the cut across his palm. He pressed it against the seal.
Nothing moved.
He narrowed his eyes and spoke aloud. "This is not just a grave. Someone locked something here."
The air thickened. The tomb itself seemed to listen. For a moment the temperature dropped sharply, frost blooming on the edge of the wall. Then faint writing burned to the surface, words in a language he did not recognize but understood anyway.
"Bound until sovereign blood returns."
He pressed harder. His blood seeped into the grooves, filling them like ink. The seal flared red, then cracked. The sound was like ribs snapping one by one. The wall split down the middle. Cold air rolled out, thicker than fog, carrying the stench of ages buried.
Beyond the seal was a chamber, round and wide, its walls lined with niches. In each niche lay something wrapped in cloth long since rotted, skeletal outlines barely visible. But the center held more. A dais rose, and on it rested a coffin made not of wood or stone but of black glass, its surface veined with crimson lines.
It pulsed.
Noctis stepped closer. The glass coffin was not empty. Inside lay a figure, armored in fragments, face covered by a helm split down the brow. No flesh clung to the bones, but no decay touched them either. Around the body shimmered a faint aura, pale and brittle, but still resisting the years.
On the coffin's lid, another line of script glowed faintly:
"The Wraith-King, scourge of ages, broken but not destroyed. He sleeps until claimed."
Noctis placed his hand on the lid. The aura pressed back weakly, like a dying man still trying to lift his sword. It was resistance, but it was not strong enough. His blood spread across the glass.
The aura cracked.
Essence poured out—not a scream like the lesser wraiths, but a single deep note that shook the chamber. The black glass fractured. Shards fell inward. The skeleton inside collapsed, but what remained was not bone. A core hovered above the shattered coffin: a crystal sphere the size of a heart, black fire swirling inside.
The Wraith Core.
Noctis lifted it in his hand. It burned cold. His veins flared, gold and crimson light mixing with black. For a moment, the tomb felt full again—not with wraiths, but with the memory of armies that had died long ago. Their obedience tugged faintly at the core.
"This will feed more than siege-frames," Noctis said quietly. "This can bend shadows."
He wrapped the core in his cloak and sealed it with his own mark. When he turned, the chamber walls pulsed once, as if acknowledging transfer of ownership. The frost melted. The seal cracked fully and collapsed into rubble.
Noctis walked out carrying both the bundle of Wraith Essences and the Wraith Core. The tomb was empty now. No whispers. No guardians. Just silence where death had been repurposed.