Lord Casimir stood in the war room, surrounded by maps that no longer brought him any comfort.
Red markers indicated supply depots. Blue showed troop staging areas. Green marked training grounds hastily constructed in fields that should have been growing crops. And in black, stretching across the eastern edge of every map -the Gate.
"The northern grain stores are nearly depleted," reported Master Aldwin, the kingdom's treasurer. The man looked like he'd aged ten years in the past month. "We've requisitioned everything we can without causing famine, but it's not enough."
"How much do we have?" Casimir asked, though he already knew the answer would be inadequate.
"Enough to supply our standing army for four months at current consumption rates. Maybe five if we ration strictly." Aldwin consulted his ledgers with shaking hands. "But- if the other kingdoms send forces as expected - we'll need supplies for ten times that number. Possibly more."
"Then we requisition more," Casimir said flatly.
"My lord, the people are already struggling. Taxes have tripled. The nobles are-"
"The nobles will contribute or they'll find themselves defending their estates personally when the gate opens." Casimir cut him off. "And the people will pay higher taxes or we will all cease to exist in four months. Present the choice honestly and let them decide."
Aldwin swallowed hard but nodded. He knew Casimir was right. They all knew. The math was simple and brutal: prepare now at great cost, or die later at no cost at all.
The treasurer departed, leaving Casimir alone with the Captain of the Royal Guard.
"Recruitment?" Casimir asked.
"Proceeding, but slowly." Captain Vorin was a veteran of three gate defenses, a man who understood what they were preparing for. "The summons letters have gone out to all registered mages. We've received responses from about two thirds of them. The rest are either ignoring the call or can't be reached."
"Send follow-up notices. Make it clear refusal means treason charges."
"Yes, my lord." Vorin made a note. "For regular soldiers, we're seeing better numbers. Every village has quotas now. Most are meeting them, though the quality varies significantly."
"Quality can be trained. Bodies can't be conjured from nothing." Casimir moved to another map, this one showing training schedules. "How long until the new recruits are combat-ready?"
"For basic defensive formations? Eight weeks minimum. For competent combat effectiveness? Twelve to sixteen weeks." Vorin paused. "We have less than four months, my lord."
Casimir studied the training grounds marked in green. Fields converted to practice yards. Farmers learning to hold spears. Merchants' sons drilling with swords they'd never touched before last week. "Prioritize defensive tactics. The High Archmage's formations can multiply effectiveness, but only if soldiers can maintain basic discipline."
"The formations help," Vorin acknowledged. "I've seen the demonstrations. But training soldiers to use them properly still takes time."
Time. Everything came back to time.
Four months, and High Archmage Leon was spending eight weeks of it traveling to show Solmara a gate they'd already described in exhaustive detail.
Casimir pushed down his frustration. The High Archmage had to go - Solmara needed to see the threat personally before committing forces. Diplomatic necessity. But it didn't change the fact that Leon's expertise was desperately needed here, coordinating defensive preparations, training mages in his formations, solving the thousand small problems that arose daily.
"Continue recruitment," Casimir said. "Double the quotas if necessary. We need numbers."
"The people won't like it, my lord."
"The people won't like dying either. They can choose which they prefer."
Vorin departed with his orders, leaving Casimir staring at the maps.
The kingdom's coffers were emptying at an alarming rate. Potions, magical equipment, weapons, armor - all being produced in quantities that would drag Aldoria under if they survived long enough to worry about finances. Blacksmiths working through the night. Alchemists brewing healing draughts by the barrel. Enchanters reinforcing armor until their mana depleted daily.
The entire kingdom had become a war machine, grinding toward a single purpose: survival.
Casimir walked to the window, looking out over Rallegard. The capital was transformed. Training yards occupied every open space. Merchant quarters converted to armories. The harbor crowded with ships being fitted for troop transport. Everywhere, the frantic energy of a nation preparing for war.
But would it matter? Against a gate that spanned miles.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," Casimir called.
A courier stepped in, young and breathless from running. "Lord Casimir, urgent news from the gates."
"What now?" Casimir asked, turning from the window.
"The Confederation of Free Cities has sent an envoy, my lord. They're at the castle gates. Waiting for the king's welcome."
Casimir snapped around. "They're here? Now?"
"Yes, my lord. Arrived within the hour. The captain of the gate sent me immediately."
"Did they send an advance notice? A message bird?"
"None that reached us, my lord."
Casimir felt his jaw tighten. Of course they hadn't. Solmara had at least provided a week's notice before their ships arrived. Had made arrangements, allowed time for proper preparation. The Free Cities apparently saw no need for such courtesy.
Decades of isolation between the kingdoms had made everyone forget basic diplomatic protocols. Or perhaps they simply didn't care.
"Where is His Majesty?" Casimir asked.
"In council meetings regarding supply distribution, my lord."
"Inform him immediately. I'll greet the delegation." Casimir grabbed his robe from the chair where he'd draped it hours ago. "Have the throne room prepared for reception."
The courier bowed and fled.
Casimir swore under his breath as he fastened the robe. The Confederation of Free Cities. A loose alliance of merchant republics and independent city-states to the south. Wealthy, well-armed.
Their soldiers would be invaluable. Their resources even more so. The alliance needed them.
Which meant Casimir had to smile and play host to delegates who couldn't be bothered with common courtesy.
Leon was away showing Solmara the gate - an eight -week round trip that took the kingdom's most valuable asset away from the capital when he was needed most. And now another delegation had arrived, demanding attention, requiring diplomatic handling that would consume more time and resources.
If it wasn't because this alliance was desperately needed, Casimir would have sent them back to their confederation with instructions never to return.
But they were needed. Their soldiers were needed. Their resources, their mages.
So Casimir swallowed his irritation, straightened his robe, and set off to play host