Hisfin, capital of the Kingdom of Hackal
"What are you doing here, Karen? I thought you hated coming to the palace."
"I still do, Self. I loathe dealing with those bootlickers… but His Majesty summoned me."
"You too? That's odd. The old man usually doesn't call us unless it's something serious."
"Watch your mouth, Self. Look where you are. If you want to die, do it alone. Don't drag me with you."
"You've got such a cheerful mood… You should leave your mansion more often. You're getting rusty."
Karen didn't reply. She kept walking toward a massive six-meter-high door. Simply placing her hand on it caused it to open silently.
Inside, the hall was adorned with tapestries embroidered with ancient emblems. Chandeliers floated suspended in the air, their white flames burning silently. A crimson carpet ran along the aisle toward the throne — a structure of translucent metal, occupied by an old man with a penetrating gaze.
Karen and Self knelt respectfully.
"We present ourselves before His Majesty."
"Karen, Self… it's been a while. Have you two forgotten about this old man?"
"Never, Your Majesty."
"Old man, I'm glad you're still alive," added Self, playfully.
"Ha! Maybe I'll outlive the two of you."
Karen frowned.
"Why did you summon us?"
The king stood. His voice, tempered by age, still resounded with authority.
"The war has begun, even if it doesn't seem like it yet. The Kingdom of Farves is preparing to invade us. It's not a rumor. It's a fact."
"Why now?" asked Karen. "Why at this exact moment?"
"Because they have the advantage," the king replied. "Their army has grown, their economy has flourished, and they've united their houses under a shared vision. We, on the other hand, have fallen into decay."
Karen nodded silently. Beside her, Self narrowed his eyes but said nothing. They both knew exactly what Arturt meant. They had seen it with their own eyes. That was why they withdrew from the Royal Council, from the palace, from the noble intrigues that reeked of stale power and self-interest. Although they themselves came from ancient houses, they had severed all ties years ago. They preferred the solitude of their domains over the venom of the court.
"The nobility abuses its power," the king continued. "Our institutions for magic and knighthood discriminate based on bloodlines. The development of new magical and martial talents has diminished to nearly nothing. Not from lack of potential, but because of corruption."
"And what's your plan?"
"To create accessible training centers. Distribute manuals, concentration crystals. Open the doors to anyone with ability, regardless of their family name. Even if they can't form a core, they'll still be able to use residual mana to temper their bodies. If they're not born as mages, they'll still become useful knights."
"But that doesn't solve the war that's already upon us," said Self. "That's a long-term fix."
Arturt nodded.
"Exactly. That reform is for the future. But I'm preparing for the present too."
He walked to a window overlooking the city blanketed in mist.
"I've ordered the reopening of the southern camps and the mobilization of independent squads. Exiles. Disbanded orders. People with no ties to the nobility. Some are rogue mages. Others, loyal soldiers forgotten by the court."
"Mercenaries?"
"Some," he said frankly. "But all with a purpose: to resist. For at least six months."
"And the resources?"
"I've frozen the rents of all noble houses," he declared. "Not just the major ones. All of them. 'Extraordinary tax for kingdom defense,' I'm calling it. The kingdom's gold slept while the borders bled. No longer."
"That'll earn you enemies."
"I don't fear them. I already have too many. Whoever opposes this… will face the crown."
"And the true front of defense?"
"Kirtfam. The coastal villages. That's where Sebast Greytel is and his line of defense. He's one of the few I fully trust. A man of integrity, admired by his people. And more importantly, capable of holding the line."
Arturt opened his palm. Two golden spheres, opaque and pulsing, floated above it.
"I guarantee nothing. But if your bodies are ready, they'll take you one step closer to true power."
Karen took hers without a word. Self examined his curiously.
"This is a promise, isn't it?"
"No. It's a test. And Hackal needs warriors who aren't afraid to fail."
—
Kirtfam — Property of the Greytel family
The quill slid with precision over the parchment. Sebast Greytel's study was silent, filled with the scent of tea and the soft glow of a floating lamp pulsing like a weary heart. Outside, the inner garden thrived with serene indifference.
His words were firm. Precise. Painful.
"Majesty:
I know you still hold hope for this kingdom — for its redemption, for its rebuilding. But I no longer see it.
Each time I walk through the streets of Hisfin, I see children with talent who will never be trained. Potential mages picking bread off the ground while nobles debate the color of their next ceremonial cloak.
Each time I sit at a Council table, I hear more excuses than solutions.
It's not war that threatens us. It's rot. The enemy's fire will only burn what is already dead inside.
You still believe Hackal can be saved. I no longer do."
Sebast looked up for a moment. He didn't hesitate. He lowered his gaze and wrote the final line:
"And if hope must die for something new to be born, so be it. I will choose the future with my own hands."
He signed it. Then rolled the letter and sealed it with a plain wax stamp.
Just then, a gentle voice broke the silence.
"Papa."
It was Lyel, his six-year-old son, peeking from the doorway with a storybook in his hands.
"Are you done? You said we'd play when you finished."
"And I keep my word," Sebast replied, his face softening.
He left the desk and took the boy's hand. Together they walked to the garden, where sunlight wove soft shadows across the grass. Sebast raised his palm and created a golden sphere of light that floated before them, pulsing as if alive.
"It's like the one in the library! Can I touch it?"
"If you can catch it," Sebast said with a smile.
Lyel laughed and ran after the sphere, which darted playfully between the trees.
Father and son smiled together, until a maid interrupted the moment.
"Master Greytel… Lady Elena requests you in her chambers."
Sebast nodded.
"Thank you, Maya."
He turned to his son.
"Stay here. I won't be long."
"Will you come back?"
"I always come back to you," he said, before stepping inside.
Elena waited, lying down. Her face was pale, but her smile was genuine. The light through the curtains gave her hair a gentle glow.
"Sebas…"
He sat beside her, holding her hand.
"How do you feel?"
"Like my body's a hundred years old… but my heart only a few days."
Sebast chuckled softly and brushed a strand from her forehead.
"You know I'll do anything. You know that, right?"
She nodded.
He took out a small vial of crimson, glowing liquid.
"It's the last one. But it'll buy you a little more time."
"And after that?"
"Then… we'll walk through the fire. Together."
She drank it without another word.
"Will it be worth it?" she whispered.
Sebast lowered his head, pressing his forehead to hers.
"For you, yes. For you… I'd burn this kingdom without a second thought."
They stayed like that, in silence, as the breeze moved the curtains with the delicacy of a world that, for them, still had meaning.
—
Caelgrand, Kingdom of Farves
A frozen silence ruled the northern roads. Frost clung to the edges of warped rooftops, while the first snow fell in fine flakes, uncertain between dust and ice. Naked branches creaked under the weight of cold, and the sky — gray as unpolished steel — pressed down with tense stillness.
Winter hadn't come with storms, but with a quiet that seeped into the bones. And in that quiet, the Kingdom of Farves prepared for war.
Siferv walked beside Eve, their black cloaks dragging over frozen ground. Both kept their faces half-covered. No one would stop them in that forgotten village. No one would recognize them. And if they did… they wouldn't live to speak of it.
"Are you sure this is the place?" asked Eve, stopping in front of a tavern that looked like a bloated corpse swollen with moisture.
"Yes. That's what Garlia said. Though if this is a trap, at least the liquor will be the last thing we taste," Siferv muttered.
Inside, the air reeked of sour alcohol, damp wood, and old meat. Several drunks slept at the tables. In the darkest corner, a woman with dark red hair drank alone, staring into her mug.
They didn't need confirmation. They knew who she was.
"You took longer than expected," said Garlia without looking up.
"Controlling thousands of corpses isn't easy," said Siferv, taking a seat. "Their movements are clumsy, constantly needing adjustment… and the control spell weakens the farther we get. We had to reinforce it three times just to get them past the second district without falling apart."
"And that's without mentioning the Devourer," added Eve in disgust.
"Is the Devourer still under control?" Garlia asked flatly, finally lifting her gaze.
"Enough," replied Siferv. "The manipulation spell works… but creatures of that level don't respond like the others. They require near-total control and a constant flow of mana. It's not enough to give commands. You have to keep it feeling beneath you — or it'll devour you first."
"And was it worth it?" Garlia asked, slowly spinning her mug.
Siferv narrowed his eyes.
"The Emerald City no longer exists. That monster did its job. More than enough."
Eve took a sip of something that smelled worse than it looked.
"Still… trusting the undead seems insane. Two of us could have erased those walls in an instant."
"What you two do leaves traces," Garlia replied. "What the Devourer does doesn't. No signature. No witness. Just fear. The kind that lingers in nearby cities for weeks."
Siferv gave a small nod.
"And speaking of fear…" Garlia pulled a folded letter from her coat. "This is the next step. Direct orders."
Siferv took the letter, opened it, and read in silence. A slight smile curved his lips.
"Kirtfam. We're to meet with Sebast Greytel."
Eve slammed her glass on the table.
"Greytel? The same one who could wipe out half an army if provoked? What kind of strategy is that?"
"One that's already in motion," said Garlia. "Greytel has distanced himself from the king. He has personal, philosophical… and familial reasons. He says the kingdom is lost. And he's chosen not to sink with it."
"And you believe him?" Eve asked skeptically.
"I believe in the outcome. If he opens the gates from within, we won't need sixty thousand corpses marching. Just a spark in the right place," Garlia said, with a twisted smile.
Siferv said nothing, staring at the paper a moment longer before igniting the tip of his finger with a black flame. The document burned silently.
"We move at dawn."
"And what's the final order?" asked Eve.
Siferv held their gaze.
"Cleanse the rot from the kingdom. Tear out whatever still thinks it can be saved. Hackal's future must have no roots."
Garlia stood without a word, tossing some coins onto the table. As she walked away, she murmured:
"Be quick. If the king of Hackal manages to organize his training camps and muster his armies… winning this war won't be so easy."
Eve and Siferv followed her out.
Outside, the wind blew colder still. The sky remained unmoving. The silence was complete — as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for a crime already planned.