The war chamber smelled of iron and old smoke.
Maps covered the stone table at the center of the room, their edges worn thin from years of use. Red marks carved deep into the parchment showed borders that no longer meant much. To King Varyon, borders were only temporary lines.
He stood alone, hands resting on the table, staring at Nyvoria's land as if it already belonged to him.
"They grow too comfortable," he said.
The generals around him remained silent. They had learned long ago that the king did not ask questions. He spoke expectations.
"Nyvoria hides behind spirits and prayers," Varyon continued. "They believe defense makes them righteous."
His fingers traced a path across the map, stopping at a cluster of cities near the border.
"It makes them weak."
One of the generals shifted. "Your sons are already mobilizing, my king."
"Good," Varyon replied. "Let them compete."
He straightened, turning away from the table. The firelight caught the scars along his arms marks from battles fought long before most of his sons were born.
"Aethros was not built by waiting," he said. "It was built by taking."
There was no mention of the children taken from Nyvoria villages. No mention of the cries, the burned homes, or the fear spreading across the land. Those things did not matter to him.
Only results did.
When the generals were dismissed, Varyon remained behind. He poured himself a drink and stood before the tall windows overlooking the capital. Below, soldiers marched in perfect lines, banners snapping in the wind.
Seventeen sons.
Seventeen blades.
Only one crown.
For a brief moment, the king's reflection stared back at him in the glass. Hard eyes. No doubt. No regret.
Kael's face crossed his mind—calm, controlled, different from the others.
Varyon's expression darkened.
"Do not disappoint me," he muttered, though he wasn't sure if he meant Kael… or himself.
Outside, the drums of war began to beat again.