"You've been recalled," Fien said, her voice carrying through the quiet like the echo of a battle drum. "There's nothing I can do about it."
She stood before the Stezan army, their brown-furred war bears huffing clouds of breath into the cold morning air. The centaurs beside her remained still, proud and ready—they had come to fight for her willingly.
"You've always called me Queen," she went on, eyes sweeping across the ranks. "And I know you meant it. I won't ask you to prove it."
Silence. That heavy, emotional silence where even the wind seems unsure if it should blow.
"I won't bargain. I won't beg. I'll only say this—" she paused, lifting her chin, "—you gave more than I ever asked. You fought like legends. If I could write your names in fire across the skies of Senedro, I would."
Shæz, watching just behind, couldn't help it—she smiled. That was the Fien she remembered. That raw charisma. That queen's soul. An orator by blood, by rage, by sorrow. The kind you followed not because she asked—but because you just couldn't walk away.
"If you have to leave… then leave," Fien said. "No curses. No shame. But know this—when the stories are told, when our children's children speak of this night, they won't remember who left."
She paused, staring straight into them. "They'll remember who stayed."
That silence? It cracked. "Now. Who stays with me?"
Nothing. A moment. Then Geleam—one of the Seven Generals of Steza—stepped forward. For one terrifying moment, Fien thought no one would move. That the silence meant she'd lost. But she didn't let it show. Not once.
Geleam knew what this meant. Treason. Exile. Maybe death. Still, he stepped forward. He took a deep breath and pulled off the silver crest from his shoulder.
"I stay," he said. "I, Geleam of the House of Medenka, of Steza, do solemnly swear by all I hold sacred: to serve Her Majesty, Queen Fien, with loyalty and honour. I will protect your life, uphold your law, and obey your command until my last breath—or until you release me from my duty. I vow this before gods and men."
He fell to one knee and raised his sword. And then it broke. Not the sword—the moment. Like glass under heat.
"We stay!" roared the ranks behind him.
A flood of soldiers raised their weapons. "For the Queen of Ash and Fire! For Fien, and no other!"
The sound was like an avalanche of steel and belief. A battle cry made of hearts choosing their side. Only six commanders held back. And someone—no one knows who threw the first blade—made a decision. Steel flashed and the six fell. Clean, brutal, final. In one breath, the army was hers.
Gideon's Plan A just died on the battlefield of loyalty. Dezo's army now marched for the Queen. And Dalab… was about to learn the sound of reckoning.
Fien smiled—but only for a second. War had many ways of thanking its queen.
Gideon was deep inside Deliah's temple. The air was thick with incense and shadow, a place both sacred and sinister. War was upon them, and rituals had to be done—old rites from the forgotten world. The witch herself, Deliah, moved silently as she anointed him with oils and whispered words that twisted around his mind like smoke. Gideon felt the weight of power settling on his shoulders, but also a chill crawling up his spine—and beneath it, the cold bite of fear that whispered he might lose more than just a throne this time. This wasn't just any war.
Deliah's eyes gleamed in the half-light—ancient, unreadable, and sharp as obsidian—her voice weaving promises wrapped in shadow and smoke. Gideon swallowed hard, the ritual stirring something darker beneath the surface of this war.
Outside the temple, Max paced near the dungeon of whores, the rough cobblestones echoing beneath his boots. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped Milia's, the weight of this world pressing down like iron chains.
"We have to leave," he said low, voice tight with urgency. "This war, this madness—it's not ours. I wanted an alliance against the Shams, not a senseless world war three over a throne soaked in fucking history and death."
Milia's eyes flicked toward the temple, then back to Max. The tight line of her jaw betrayed the storm inside, torn between loyalty and survival for she loved the city.
But Max's conviction was ironclad, and together they slipped away into the gathering shadows, leaving behind the rising thunder of war preparations.
Back inside, Gideon met with Meta, his ever-watchful right hand. The clang of armor filled the chamber as Meta strapped plates and tightened belts. Gideon's face was grave, the mask of a king forced into a war he never wished to fight.
"This is a war I wouldn't choose," Gideon said, voice low but firm. "But choose it we must. Even if I step down tomorrow, Fien's thirst for battle won't quench. She wants war, and by the gods, she shall have it."
Meta said nothing, his silence heavy with unspoken fears.
And outside the city walls, Fien's army stood like a living storm—soldiers poised, weapons gleaming in the fading light. The air crackled with tension. They were ready to fight for every stone, every breath of the city they loved. This wasn't just a battle; it was a reckoning.
The gates remained closed, a stubborn barrier between peace and chaos. Gideon's delay was no accident—it meant the war would rage within Dalab's heart. The queen was willing to gamble everything, her gaze burning with fierce determination.
The city's fate hung by a thread, and the drumbeats of war grew louder with every passing moment.