Thunder Without Warning
The dawn cracked open with a low hum that wasn't thunder—but the answer to it.
From the East Wing courtyard, the earth vibrated in rippling pulses. Not from war drums. Not from battalions. No, something far stranger. Hooves—six of them. No, ten—slamming against stone, their cadence not of this world.
Then, without warning, they appeared—cutting through the gathering dawn and silence with their presence.
Six Thunderhoof Stallions emerged as if left behind by a divine storm. Their hides shimmered silver-blue, laced with veins of crackling energy. Each step sparked against the cobbles. Static blue trailed behind, and the ozone tang of conjured lightning filled the courtyard. Their manes flowed like wild banners of stormlight. One reared up. It released a bolt of lightning into the morning sky.
"By the gods," Wendy breathed, frozen in place. "Are we… riding those?"
"No," Karel said, adjusting his helmet. "They'll ride us. I've made my peace."
Andy cracked his neck. "Finally, something faster than I am angry."
Charles strode forward with practiced calm. He reached out, placing one hand against the snorting lead stallion's neck. Sparks leapt to meet him—gold meeting silver—and the beast didn't recoil. It bowed.
"We ride," Charles said, and every guard straightened as if lightning itself barked the command.
Servants ran in from all sides. A wave of chaos crashed into the calm. They hurried to pack up saddlebags, enchanted gear, extra scrolls, food for the trip, and last-minute packages. One footman carefully carried the tightly sealed alchemy kit labeled "Not for Exploding—Anya" to Charles's side.
Anya walked up, cloak billowing, clutching a jade-encrusted box with calm focus and stormy eyes. She stopped before the black carriage, face steady, eyes intense.
She started with, "emergency scrolls, recovery elixirs, and a coded talisman woven with bound lightning and tracking runes, linked to the East Wing estate. If something happens, the talisman's runes flare and pulse in warning."
Charles accepted the box from Anya, brushing her fingertips for a fleeting second as he took it.
Anya smirked. "Just come back—don't make me fetch you by the ears."
He gave her a sardonic smile. "You'd have to catch me first."
The Thunderhoof carriage glistened in the low light. Forged from obsidian-hardened ghostwood, rimmed with arcane etchings that devoured light. It radiated secrecy and style. No crest of House Ziglar, no banners.
Four Thunderhoof Stallions were yoked to the carriage, their bodies crackling with compressed electrical energies. Magical reins, woven from copper and mana-thread, linked them to the carriage, channeling power directly into the wheels. Their gait was unnaturally silent, each hoof step barely a whisper as energy dispersed into the stones, the air sparking with tension—marking them as faster and quieter than any noble parade.
Borris traced the carriage. "Elmer delivered: ten Thunderhooves and obsidian. Not bad."
Charles nodded. "Worth every coin. Tell the Empire I paid full."
At that moment, a new presence made itself known.
A wiry, bearded man with windswept gray hair and a perpetual smirk leapt from the driver's perch. He wore a travel coat woven with wind-imbued threads, his scarf fluttering in a breeze that wasn't even there.
Coachman Rob. Core Realm Rank 3. Wind affinity. Beast tamer. And apparently, a stand-up philosopher.
"Thunder's fed, route's clear. Weather's moody, but manageable. We're taking the scenic route."
"Define scenic." Charles raised an eyebrow.
"Three magibeast areas, haunted creek, forest that moves. Great view."
"Excellent. Survive and I'll promote you to Head Lunatic."
"Oh, I thought I already was."
With a slap to the reins, Rob vaulted back to his perch and gave a low whistle. The stallions twitched, electricity arcing from hoof to hoof.
Charles scanned his entourage, then climbed into the carriage. His companions mounted their Thunderhoof Stallions in sequence.
Kael, a Rank 10 swordsman with earth affinity, adjusted his massive claymore across his back with the calm of a man who could level a forest and still be home for tea.
Karel, a Rank 9 archer and rapier specialist with fire affinity, spun a fire-dappled arrow in his fingers with theatrical glee. "I shot down a dove this morning just to see if it would dodge. It didn't."
Wendy, poised like a coiled breeze, slipped into her saddle in one fluid motion, her Windblade Daggers glinting at her hips.
Borris checked his mount's straps, then glanced at Charles. "Try not to flirt with danger too hard, kid. We're out of bandages."
Andy, the Core 5 Berserker with metal attribute, slapped the stallion's flank and whooped. "This beast's got fight! I name him Sparky."
Donald, Core 6 swordsman and quiet tactician, merely nodded and unsheathed his blade a few inches—its glint warning enough.
And just like that, the procession rolled forward.
The doors to the East Wing opened with a creak. Not a lot of noise—just quiet respect. Storm-colored sky loomed above. It split open a little; a bolt of lightning shot across, as if saying hello to its own kind.
Charlemagne Ziglar rode away.
No crest. No song. There was only the hum of unseen power, the blur of silver hooves, and the promise of something waking up under the surface of the world.
While other nobles showed off their power with flags, Charles hid his behind shadows. And those who were brave enough to follow him would learn too late.
The storm does not get warmer. The storm came.
Arrival in Duranth – The House With No Crest
It only took an hour to reach the outskirts of Duranth—a journey that would've taken half a day by normal noble caravans.
The Thunderhoof Stallions glided over the winding roads like gods on a lightning circuit. No bumps. No jolts. No mercy for time itself.
Inside the obsidian carriage, Charles was fast asleep. He sprawled like a retired emperor across the cushioned interior. His breath was slow. His expression was one of serene authority—if not for the occasional half-snore.
Outside, the six guards and Coachman Rob had turned the road into their personal comedy stage.
"Karel, what if your horse sneezes in battle?" Andy asked.
"Same as you sneeze—everyone nearby's toast," Karel replied.
"Technically, just the first five meters," Donald muttered.
Kael shrugged. "Let's not sneeze, then."
"No promises!" Wendy grinned. "Sparky loves chaos."
"Sparky is my horse," Andy growled. "You named yours Staticus."
"Did not. I renamed him. He liked mine better."
Rob cackled from the front. "Kids, kids—no fighting on lightning mounts! Save it for the magibeasts!"
As they entered the main gate of Duranth, villagers and merchants turned to stare.
There were no flags. No noble crest. No proud trumpet announcement as they entered. Their dark carriage crackled with arcane energy, drawn by storm-born stallions. Six deadly silent riders, each dressed in unmarked armor, flanked the carriage. Their eyes scanned the crowds.
"Whose house is that?" someone whispered.
"I… don't know," another murmured. "But I'd like to never meet them in a dark alley."
And inside the sleek shadow-carriage, Charles shifted in his sleep, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—as if even in dreams, he could hear the sound of a storm making its entrance.
The Pact of Lightning and Wine
The morning sun washed over Duranth's eastern gate, casting a golden sheen across cobblestones slick from midnight rain. The city was just beginning to stir, its markets yawning open and noble houses still rubbing sleep from their silk-draped eyes.
Then thunder came—not from the sky, but from hooves.
Six Thunderhoof Stallions blazed through the gate like streaks of stormlight, trailing arcs of static across the damp stone. Behind them came the obsidian carriage. No sigil. No banner. No horns.
Just quiet awe.
Bystanders stood frozen as if the gods themselves had ridden past in shadow. Mothers hushed their children. Stall vendors held their breath. Someone whispered, "Which house is that?"
And no one knew.
At the Sorelle-owned rendezvous hall—an elegantly converted warehouse near the merchant's quarter—a flurry of attendants snapped to attention as the dark carriage arrived. Above the arched doors gleamed a discreet silver plaque etched with the sigil of House Sorelle.
Charles stepped calmly from the carriage as the doors opened.
Coachman Rob, wind-mage and occasional comedian, gave a lazy salute to the door guards and leaned against the lead stallion with a smirk. "Tell the Sorelles: Lightning brought friends."
Inside the hall, Lady Micah Sorelle stood waiting. Radiant in violet silk layered with embroidered gold clouds, she smiled with that signature blend of aristocratic poise and utter mischief. Around her, the new franchise vanguard assembled in professional formation—half warriors, half bureaucrats, all Sorelle-trained elites.
"Welcome to your first business war council, Lord Charlemagne," Micah said, sweeping her hand toward the team behind her.
Charles's eyes scanned the room with a tycoon's precision.
Danica, the bookkeeper, was already scribbling notes without blinking. She wore square spectacles enchanted to track numbers midair—currently, they showed Charles's personal net worth ticking up with interest.
Marlon, legal counsel, gave a curt nod. His robe had more clauses stitched into the hem than most trade contracts in the kingdom.
Alfie, training specialist, had arms like tree trunks and a smile like a proud dad at a bakery. He gave Wendy an approving look that made her straighten up instinctively.
Bona, marketing officer, was radiant and loud. "I made new banners for Tre Sorelle's launch. Silk from Ravenport, gold foil letters, scented with crushed starlily!"
"Sounds subtle," Charles deadpanned.
Micah snorted. "You should've seen the first draft. It sang."
Charles turned to his entourage. "Micah, meet the Iron Parade. Twins Kael and Karel—swords and sarcasm, respectively. Wendy, our future dagger in the dark. Borris—trainer, blacksmith, and miracle on legs. Andy and Donald—power and loyalty. And you already know Rob."
Rob waved from the doorway. "We don't shake hands. We just electrocute your palm with friendship."
Introductions complete, they gathered around a magically projected map hovering over the long table.
Danica stepped forward, tapping the map with her quill. "The first franchise branch will be located near Velmora's western district, three blocks from the Noble Academy and across from the Alchemists' Quarter."
Charles nodded. "Foot traffic, high-end clientele, and access to supply lines."
"Correct," Danica replied. "Also—no direct competition in a two-mile radius."
"Yet," Marlon added darkly.
Charles smirked. "Let them come. We'll bankrupt them with flavor."
Micah handed him a crystal folder. "This contains Victor's signed approvals, the land charter, and Sorelle Token identification for imperial inspectors. As long as you don't accidentally burn down the capital—"
"No promises," Charles cut in, already flipping through the documents.
Bona clapped once. "Now, logistics! Travel to Velmora normally takes three days, but with Thunderhoof speed, we'll be there by tomorrow afternoon. We'll rest at Rubai overnight—"
"—which has one tavern, no hot baths, and a feral goat problem," Alfie muttered.
"Perfect," Charles said. "My favorite conditions for dreaming up domination strategies."
The map zoomed to show Rubai, followed by Velmora's merchant gates, which pulsed gently in the illusion.
Micah's voice got serious. "Charles, this is our time. If this launch goes well, Tre Sorelle will be known as one of the capital's most important brands. This isn't just a gourmet expansion; it's a legacy."
Charles crossed his arms, and the lightning kept buzzing around him. "Then let's write it down in history. We don't sell food. We are selling respect in a bowl."
Borris grumbled his approval. "And maybe some magibeast ribs on the side."
"Agreed," Kael said, and Karel was already drawing new logos. "Put sparks in the name. Sparks that are real. Like real ones."
"Gentlemen," Charles said, turning toward the door with flair. "Prepare your weapons, your ledgers, and your silver tongues. Tomorrow, we begin the conquest of Velmora."
Wendy raised a brow. "Is it a conquest if they already want to give us money?"
"It's a conquest if you look good doing it," Charles said. "Now, someone feed the thunder horses before Rob tries to braid their manes again."
Rob, mid-braid, looked up. "Too late."
Laughter erupted.
And so, the two most unlikely armies—of chefs and knights, of schemers and swordsmen—gathered under one sigilless banner, preparing to ride at storm-speed toward the heart of the kingdom's golden city.