The War Council
The throne room of Deamune's capital felt colder than the mountain wind outside.
A long oak war-table dominated the chamber, its surface crowded with carved markers and a stained map of the realm.
Candles guttered in iron sconces despite the daylight streaming through tall crystal-slit windows.
Princess Victoria entered with her three personal guards—Lyra, Aria, and Nia—their boots striking the marble floor in perfect step.
The King looked up from the map, his lined face shadowed by sleeplessness; the ring of generals straightened at once and bowed.
"What news, Father?" Victoria asked, her voice calm but edged with urgency as she moved to the table.
A scar-faced general, older than most, shifted uneasily.
The King answered instead.
"I'm afraid it is grim. The invaders are upon us, leading the… creature you warned of."
"They do not control that thing, Princess," the scarred general added hoarsely, resting both hands on the table as if bracing for another blow.
"I saw it myself. It rampages without sense—tearing apart our men and theirs alike."
Another officer—young, with the shine of new command still on him—spoke too quickly.
"We plan to send our fastest cavalry to draw the monster away from the capital. If they can keep ahead of it, they might buy us time."
Victoria's gaze lingered on the young man's clenched fists before she nodded.
"Lead it as far as you can. Tell them…" She let out a slow breath.
"Tell them to buy us every moment they can."
She kept her face unreadable, though her heart sank at the thought of the lives that order would cost.
"The human invaders call themselves the Sun Forerunners," reported another general, clearing his throat.
"Their magic is tuned against the dark-blooded. Our front lines cannot hold."
"Our troops are being routed," admitted the youngest officer, shame darkening his voice.
"If we cannot slow them, they'll reach the capital within a week."
Victoria understood the unspoken plea—they were asking their Seer-Princess to stand in the gap herself.
"I will face the Forerunners," she said firmly.
"But see that this… Titan… is drawn away from both the battlefield and the capital. What news of the refugees?"
A middle-aged captain answered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"They're slowed by the mountain passes—skirting valleys already burned.
So far the Forerunners haven't noticed them, but if we send an escort, it will draw pursuit."
The King's knuckles whitened on the map's edge.
"If the enemy discovers them, they have no defence."
"I said I will deal with the invaders myself."
The sharpness in Victoria's voice startled even her; she rarely let emotion slip.
But the weight of foresight and secrecy pressed harder than she'd expected.
A bold general broke the silence.
"What of the Dark Lord? He was meant to aid us."
"The Dark Lord will help no one if he dies here, you fool!"
The words escaped before she could leash them.
She bit back further reply, angry at herself for the lapse.
Lyra's voice cut the tension, low and formal as a drawn blade.
"Remember your place, General. You stand before Princess Victoria—Seer, Battle-Ruler, Protector of the Deamune."
Aria's tone was harsher, more direct.
"You'll not question her judgment," she snapped; dark shades coiled at her boots, whispering readiness.
Nia stepped forward with a flick of sardonic fire in her smile as blue-white flames rippled up around her.
"Any who defy her will answer to us… even you, King Lamahn."
At once the King and every general sank to one knee in a single wave of obedience.
"We serve Princess Victoria to the very end," they intoned.
"Then see that your duty is done," Lyra declared in her official role as Sayer.
Without another word, Victoria turned on her heel and strode out; her guards followed.
The council remained kneeling until the sound of her steps faded down the corridor.
---
Corridor Shadows
The marble hall beyond was silent except for their footfalls.
Tall windows bled in wan daylight; dust motes drifted like tired spirits.
"Thank you, Lyra. Aria. Nia…" Victoria's voice softened; the steel in it dulled for a heartbeat.
"I'm a little… overwhelmed."
"You miss him," Lyra said quietly—always the formal one, but her eyes gentled.
Aria, blunt as a hammer, muttered, "You saw him fall here through your Sight."
Nia gave a dry half-smile, her voice edged with wry humour.
"You can't hide this from him forever. Eventually he'll come knocking."
"I've blocked our bond," Victoria said, lowering her gaze.
"As long as I stay conscious, he won't sense anything."
Lyra's brows drew together.
"And if you collapse?"
"See that I don't," Victoria answered without slowing.
Aria changed the subject with a soldier's practicality.
"The wizard—this Emrys—can he help?"
"Emrys has done all he can. For now… he keeps him occupied."
Victoria inhaled once, steadying herself.
"The rest is on us."
Nia's usual humour vanished; her tone turned grim.
"Then it falls to us alone."
"Yes," Victoria said.
Her stride lengthened, determined again.
"Sacrifices will be made."
For an instant she touched the pendant at her throat—the charm that once linked her mind to the Dark Lord—and her eyes clouded as if at the edge of a vision.
Then she blinked it away and marched on.
---
The Last Stand
The desert air outside the capital shimmered with heat; ash carried on the wind stung the eyes.
Sir Andras, Knight-Captain of the First Order, raised his dented shield and caught a Sun Forerunner's strike with a clang that jarred his arms to the bone.
The blow forced him two steps back into the shrinking ring of surviving knights.
Around them, sand scorched black from earlier spells radiated heat like a forge.
They had begun as thousands.
Barely five hundred remained—scarred, soot-covered, shoulder to shoulder in a scorched circle.
Their sorcerers had all fallen to the Forerunners' strange light-woven magic.
The rest fought on with grim resolve.
Andras steadied himself, scanning the charred horizon.
Too many good comrades gone.
He would fight until his last breath—for his Princess, for Deamune, for the families fleeing through the mountain passes.
He thought of the rumours that the Princess held the favour of a MagalaN; he prayed they were true.
Yet even such a legend might not fell both this disciplined human army and the monstrous thing that stalked the distant hills, its occasional roar rolling across the sands like distant thunder.
A ripple passed through the enemy ranks as they parted for their leader.
A tall figure strode forward, golden-armoured and unhurried.
His cloak trailed like a banner in the hot wind; his smirk was as sharp as the blade at his hip.
His steps were measured, confident—the carriage of a predator certain of the kill.
The Deamune line tensed.
Andras barked for them to hold.
They obeyed without hesitation.
"Your ruler hides behind her walls?" the golden commander called, voice carrying in the dry wind.
"That beast that came through your portal will tear your realm apart.
"You fought bravely, but you're still dark-blooded vermin.
We'll watch your world burn and see that none of you breed again."
He paced before their shield-wall like a hawk eyeing prey.
"I am Faleone, Lord-Commander of the Sun Forerunners.
Remember that name in death.
"Any kin still breathing—wait for them; they'll join you soon enough.
Any last words, you filthy demons?"
"Stand your ground!" Andras roared, though one young cavalry knight broke formation with a cry of rage and charged.
Faleone only smirked and lifted one hand.
The charging knight froze mid-stride, yanked aloft as if hooked by the unseen.
"Foolish… but brave," the commander said almost kindly.
"I'll reward you by letting you watch your brothers die first—then you may follow them slowly."
The Sun soldiers' laughter rippled like a dark tide.
Faleone's other hand swept toward a cluster of knights; flames erupted among them, reducing warriors to ash in seconds.
"The Dark MagalaN will hunt you down for this!" the captured knight spat, voice raw.
"MagalaN?" Faleone's smile sharpened.
"So there is one in this wretched realm?
He'll die soon enough.
"If our Sun-Lord Dageal hadn't been delayed by that behemoth, your world would already be cracked like an egg.
No matter—the beast will serve our cause well enough."
He flung the captive aside; the knight crashed down beside Andras.
"Enough talk. Die now, demons!" Faleone signalled the advance.
Then, as the enemy line began to surge, the bodies of fallen Deamune stirred.
One by one the dead rose—silent, ash-streaked figures turning to face the invaders.
A ragged cheer broke from the exhausted defenders.
On the ridge above the battlefield stood Princess Victoria, cloak snapping in the desert wind, her three guards at her side.
Beside her, Aria raised her hands, the greatest necromancer of their realm, weaving darkness that bound the dead to rise again.
Victoria's eyes burned with unspoken resolve as she stepped forward through the tide of ash, the ground trembling faintly beneath her boots—as if something vast, far off, had shifted at the edge of the desert.
The Princess had arrived… and the true battle was about to begin.