The morning came heavy with urgency. The skies above Vel Dragan were iron-gray, the kind that promised either rain or ruin. The palace courtyard was already awake messengers running, armor clattering, banners snapping against the wind.
The great doors of the throne hall burst open. General Alberto Hest, mud-splattered and windburned, strode in without hesitation. He dropped to one knee before Silas, who was seated at the council dais, eyes sharp and alert.
"Your Majesty," Alberto said, voice low but strained. "Arizon's army is on the move. Scouts confirm full mobilization across the Southeastern Plains. Siege engines, cavalry, and their war banners Kal Vorynn intends to march."
A cold silence fell across the chamber. Damian and Ryker exchanged grim looks.
Silas rose slowly, the folds of his dark cloak brushing the marble. His voice, calm but thunderous in its weight, cut through the still air.
"How far have they advanced?"
"Not yet across the border," Alberto replied. "But they will. Within days, at most."
Silas exhaled, deep and deliberate. His golden eyes glowed faintly with mana. "Then the storm has come."
---
The Palace Warning
Within minutes, guards were dispatched throughout the palace. Courtiers and attendants scrambled as orders rippled outward. Silas personally sent a sealed message to the eastern wing—where Empress Elmira and Princess Elmisa resided.
When they arrived in the imperial audience chamber, Silas stood before the grand window overlooking the city. His expression was unflinching.
"Your Majesty," Elmira began, "we've heard the commotion. What has happened?"
Silas turned to face them. "The Arizon Dominion has declared its intent through movement, not words. War is imminent. You must decide now return to Varkan for safety, or remain here and witness what follows. The wedding will take place only after this conflict ends."
Elmisa's brows furrowed, lips parting slightly. "You would send us away?"
"I would protect what diplomacy has not yet cemented," Silas replied evenly. "War doesn't distinguish between royalty and soldier once it begins."
Elmira's gaze softened, but her tone remained firm. "Then Varkan will await your victory, Emperor Silas. Do not let this empire fall it would break the balance of the continent."
Silas bowed slightly. "That balance will hold. I promise you that."
---
The War Council
Hours later, the war council convened in the imperial strategy chamber. Maps stretched across the vast table, candles flickering over painted plains and rivers. The air was thick with tension and the faint metallic scent of mana-infused ink.
Around the table stood Eldarion's six generals—each one a pillar of the empire's might:
General Gregor Blackridge, his weathered face hard as iron.
General Damian Rystar, calculating and composed.
General Ryker Dain, ever-cautious, his brow furrowed in thought.
General Alric Vey, silent, mana aura flickering faintly around him.
General Alberto Hest, fresh from the field, fury still burning behind his eyes.
General Marvus Eldin, quiet but steady, the unseen backbone of supply and logistics.
Silas placed both hands on the table, the empire's heart laid bare before them.
"Gentlemen," he began, his tone deep and measured, "the Arizon Dominion believes Eldarion fractured—still licking its wounds. They're wrong. We will show them an empire reborn."
He pointed to the southeastern border marked with crimson ink. "Kal's forces number roughly sixty thousand. His strategy is clear: strike the plains, take Vel Serath, then push to Vel Dragan. But he underestimates our reach."
Damian nodded. "The Draken Vanguard can move faster than any unit they've ever faced. If we deploy in shadow formation, we can harry their supply lines before they even reach the first ridge."
Ryker frowned. "That will spread us thin. If they feint and swing north—"
"They won't," Silas interrupted, his gaze sharp. "Kal is proud. He'll want open confrontation to prove his might. Alberto, you'll lead the vanguard defense here—"
He tapped the map near the river pass. "—cut off their advance and delay them."
Alberto smirked, fire in his eyes. "Gladly, my Emperor. I owe them a visit after that ambush."
"Gregor," Silas continued, "you will anchor the main line at Vel Serath. If the Arizon strike, they'll hit you first. Hold them until reinforcements arrive."
Gregor's gravelly voice rumbled like thunder. "They'll break against our shield, I swear it."
Silas turned next to Alric. "I want the mages deployed along the ridge and city walls. Barrier runes, mana cannons, and relay stones active by dusk. No magic left dormant."
Alric inclined his head. "Consider it done, Emperor."
Finally, Silas looked to Marvus. "Supplies and reinforcement lines must run without interruption. I want the northern granaries secured and distribution centers protected."
Marvus nodded. "It shall be so."
---
Mobilization
When the council adjourned, the palace thundered to life. Messengers galloped through the city, soldiers marched through the gates in perfect rhythm, black-and-gold banners unfurling in the wind. Bells tolled across Vel Dragan—the deep, resonant sound that every citizen knew meant one thing: the empire was on alert.
From the common markets to the noble districts, people stopped and looked toward the palace, fear and pride mixing in their eyes. Blacksmiths began forging, clerics prepared mana wards, and families stocked provisions.
The Imperial Drakes, fifty thousand strong, assembled across the empire—infantry in dense formations, cavalry polishing steel, archers stringing mana-bound bows. The Draken Vanguard moved in silence, their armor shimmering faintly with ethereal power, eyes cold and ready.
Silas stood on the highest balcony of the palace, the city stretching beneath him like a living tapestry. Damian stepped up beside him, cloak fluttering in the wind.
"Everything is moving, my Emperor," Damian said. "The people are preparing, the army is ready."
Silas's golden eyes burned against the horizon. "Good. Because the age of peace has ended. Now begins the proving ground of kings."
Lightning split the clouds, echoing across the plains like a divine warning.
The drums of war had begun to beat.
Far to the southeast, in the obsidian halls of Aurel, Emperor-General Kal Vorynn reclined in his throne, the polished steel reflecting the morning sun. Through the tall windows, he could see banners rippling across the plains, soldiers marching in perfect cadence, cavalry squadrons wheeling in formation, and siege engines rumbling toward their rendezvous points. His army was already on the move, guided by the iron hand of Supreme Commander Argen Lamenos, and nothing would stop them.
Kal's lips curled into a wolfish grin. "Eldarion… all of it… fertile lands, rich mines, obedient people," he hissed, his voice thick with greed. "Soon, it will be mine. Every gold coin, every inch of soil, every banner bowed to me."
He leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of his throne, eyes glinting like shards of obsidian. "They think their walls, their academies, their Draken Vanguard can protect them? Fools. While they bask in their illusions of power, we march. We strike. And the man who dares call himself Emperor? I will break him, piece by piece, for my own glory."
A low, dark laugh rolled from his throat, echoing through the vaulted hallways. It was a sound soaked in ambition, corruption, and an insatiable hunger. Kal's gaze swept over the war maps sprawled across the table before him. Lines traced the routes of his forces, arrows pointing to Vel Dragan.
"Argen Lamenos," he said sharply, voice like iron grinding over stone. "Do not fail me. Eldarion will fall, and when it does, the world will know that the Arizon Dominion answers only to power… and to me."
The halls of Aurel trembled slightly under the march of thousands, a physical drumbeat of conquest. Kal leaned back, eyes closing, savoring the coming chaos. "Yes… soon, Eldarion will be mine," he whispered, a greedy, reverent tone. Then he laughed again—low, cruel, and entirely certain of victory.