The air carried the sharp tang of salt and the distant cry of gulls, a reminder of Velmora's dominion over the western sea routes, where its iron navy stood as a bulwark against the world. The kingdom, nestled between coastal forests of ancient cedars and towering naval harbors carved into the cliffs, hummed with the uneasy rhythm of change, its people whispering of omens in the shifting tides. News of an attack on the farming village of Aster town, a quaint settlement nestled along the River Aster, had just reached Queen Rebecca's ears, delivered by a frantic rider whose horse stumbled into the palace courtyard, its flanks streaked with mud and sweat, its eyes wild with exhaustion. The rider spoke of Zarephari banners fluttering amidst the chaos, golden lions emblazoned on crimson shields, though the identity of the aggressors remained shrouded in uncertainty, a mystery that gnawed at the fragile peace.
Peace had reigned between Velmora and Zarephar for fifteen years, a delicate balance maintained through bustling trade routes laden with spices and silks, and political marriages that had once united their royal bloodlines, now strained by this sudden act of violence. This sudden breach gnawed at the queen's resolve, especially as her reign was still fresh, marked by the recent passing of her father, King Tom Lane, whose absence left a void as vast as the ocean itself. The king had been ill for almost a year when he passed away living the kingdom for his hair Rebecca, her only surviving child. His other children had passed including her only son who was supposed to be the heir to his throne.
As the news of the attack reached the queen, she grew worried, caught in a dilemma how to react to such an act of aggression on her land. The news was given to her in the council meeting over three hours ago and had not yet come up with an appropriate response to it. she did not know what to tell the council, as she received different advice from the council members on how to proceed with the matter. As she was still drowning on her own thoughts, she had a knock on her chambers.
"Come in" she said.
Walked in Serad, the commander of her army and an old family friend. He was a friend to his father and had led the army for over 30 years.
"You were quite at the council meeting", she said, "you have no advice for me" she said, with a sarcastic smile in her face."
"Well, most of the advice presented at the council meeting both have valid merits, it is all about what you believe best suit you." He responded as she listed, his voice a low rumble. "You can decide to order your army to respond to the attack and hit back but then what? Maybe all this is a plot to see how you would react. Which makes the situation even more complicated. Maybe it is not the Zarepharns who attacked you but someone who want it to look like they did. I don't see any reason for them to launch a direct attack like that and risk a war with us. But, if you fail to react, they might say you are weak and if you decide, send your army south to answer for the attack, they might say you are overreacting, starting a war without really understanding who attacked your lands and why." My advice is you send a handful of soldiers south to the village to investigate. And if the Zarepharns decided to attack us, then you should send a raven demanding an explanation for their actions."
Later than night, lying on her bed, she laid there thinking of what her father would do, commanding fleets with a certainty she feared she lacked. He knew that whatever he decided to do, the people will find away to make her look bad. Their whispers already spreading through the coastal towns, tales of a queen too young, too soft, to lead in times of war. Deep down he wanted to react to such an act of aggression. If it was up to her, she would match south with the full force of her army to attack Zarephar. As the moon rose over the cliffs, casting silver light through her window, its pale glow illuminated the map of the kingdoms on her wall, the River Aster a thin blue line separating Velmora from the golden sands of Zarephar—a line now stained with blood.
..….
The sun dipped low over the jagged peaks of Dravonar, casting long shadows across the golden sands of Zarephar. Within the marble-walled palace of the Lion Queen's Dominion, King Darius sat upon his obsidian throne, his weathered hands gripping the armrests as a messenger knelt before him, breathless and dust-covered. The air in the council chamber was thick with tension, the scent of sandalwood incense doing little to mask the unease that rippled through the gathered nobles. The news had arrived like a sudden storm: an attack on a farming village in Velmora, just across the now-troubled River Aster. The king's piercing gaze swept the room, landing on the twin sons who flanked him—Prince Kael and Prince Torin—each a mirror of ambition and rivalry.
Darius leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Speak, messenger. What madness has befallen us? An attack on Velmora, you say? By whose hand?"
The messenger, his voice trembling, recounted the tale: a swift raid at dawn, riders bearing the golden lion banner of Zarephar storming the farming village of Aster town, leaving fields ablaze and villagers scattered. No survivors had returned with clear accounts, but the evidence pointed unmistakably to Zarephari forces. The king's jaw tightened, his mind racing. Peace had held between Zarephar and Velmora for fisteen years, a fragile alliance forged through trade routes and political arrangements. This act threatened to unravel it all, and Darius knew the weight of suspicion would fall heavily upon his kingdom.
He turned his gaze to his sons. Kael, the elder by mere minutes, stood with a smug grin, his dark hair slicked back, exuding the confidence of a man who believed the throne was his birthright. Torin, leaner and more reserved, shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the floor. The twins had long been locked in a silent competition, each vying to prove their worth to their father. Their rivalry had driven them to reckless extremes. Kael's escapades in the brothels of the southern districts were whispered about in every tavern, while Torin had taken to secretive training sessions with the Sandguard Cavalry, pushing his body to the brink of exhaustion. Neither would admit to weakness, especially not now.
"Which of you ordered this?" Darius demanded, his voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. "Speak, or by the twin suns, I'll have the truth flayed from you!"
Kael stepped forward, his chin lifted defiantly. "Father, I was nowhere near the border. I spent the night in the city, enjoying the company of friends. This is some Velmoran trick to sow discord!"
Torin, rubbing sleep from his eyes, muttered, "I was asleep in my quarters, as any sane man would be at dawn. This reek of a setup. Perhaps the Emberbound Legions of Dravonar meddled—jealous of our prosperity."
Darius's eyes narrowed. He knew his sons' habits well—Kael's penchant for debauchery and Torin's late-night wanderings—and neither alibi rang true. Yet, without proof, he could not accuse them outright. The council, a circle of grizzled advisors and priestesses, murmured among themselves, their star-readings offering no clear insight into the attack's origin. The king slammed a fist on the throne, silencing the room.
"Enough!" he roared. "This is no time for your childish games. If Zarephar's banner was raised in this raid, it was done without my command. We will summon the council and uncover the truth. Kael, Torin—prove your innocence, or I'll disinherit you both and name the next stable boy my heir!"
The twins exchanged a glance, a flicker of mutual loathing passing between them. As the council convened, the chamber filled with the clatter of armor and the rustle of robes. The high priestess, Lysara, stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding. "The stars align with chaos, my king. The attack may be a spark, but the fire could spread. Velmora's new queen, Rebecca, will not sit idly. We must send emissaries to explain—lest war consumes us all."
Darius nodded, though his mind churned with doubt. He dispatched a raven to Velmora, demanding an audience with Queen Rebecca, and ordered a small contingent of Sandguard Cavalry to investigate the border. Yet, as the council debated, a shadow loomed in his thoughts. Could one of his sons have orchestrated this to gain favor? Or was an enemy within—perhaps a rogue faction—seeking to destabilize his rule?
Meanwhile, in the southern district of Zarephar, Kael slipped away from the palace, his mind racing. The brothel he frequented, a den of silk curtains and spiced wine, had been his refuge from his father's scrutiny. Last night, he'd overheard a drunken soldier boasting of a raid, hinting at a plan to provoke Velmora. Kael had dismissed it as idle talk, but now the pieces fit too neatly. Had his own men acted without his knowledge? He cursed under his breath, knowing Torin would seize any chance to pin the blame on him.
Torin, too, had his secrets. Awakened by the summons, he'd been deep in the desert, training with a band of outcasts he'd secretly recruited. They spoke of a vision—a prophecy tied to the Isle of Nehmaris, where the Library of Forsaken Paths whispered of power beyond the kings' grasp. Torin believed seizing the Font could secure his throne, but his plans required subtlety. If Kael's recklessness had sparked this conflict, Torin saw an opportunity to outmaneuver him.
Across the Darnath Ocean, the Isle of Nehmaris pulsed with an ancient energy. Kaela of Vireth, standing atop the basalt cliffs, felt a shiver as the wind carried whispers of war. The public facade of the library buzzed with monks and scroll-runners, but beneath, the Order of the Forsaken Paths stirred. Ralen, her childhood friend and Sentinel, approached, his sword gleaming in the fading light.
"Trouble brews," he said, his voice steady. "Velmora's attacked, and Zarephar denies it. The Font grows restless."
Kaela nodded, her shadow echoing tugging at her mind—visions of burning villages and a crowned figure weeping. "The Order must act. If war comes, the Font's power could fall into the wrong hands."
In Velmora, Queen Rebecca paced her chambers, the raven's message clutched in her hand. Serad's advice echoed in her mind, but her heart burned for retribution. She summoned her council once more, her voice firm. "We send scouts to Aster and prepare the navy. If Zarephar denies this, let them prove it. But we will not be weak."
As night fell, a new player emerged. Tirian, the desert rebel, rode into Velmora's coastal town of Calforis, his horse lathered with sweat. He'd heard rumors of the Bleeding Path stirring, a rogue faction within the Order seeking to unleash the Font. His warning to Kaela had gone unheeded, but now, with war looming, he knew the truth: the attack was a diversion, a means to draw the kingdoms into chaos while the Font's power was seized.
In the council of Zarephar, Darius listened as Lysara revealed a troubling omen: a star had fallen near the Isle of Nehmaris, a sign of the Font's awakening. Torin seized the moment, suggesting a pilgrimage to the island to seek its wisdom. Kael countered with a call to arms, proposing a preemptive strike on Velmora to assert dominance. The king, torn, adjourned the meeting, his trust in his sons shattered.
Days later, the scouts returned to Velmora with grim news: the raiders wore Zarephari armor, but their tactics bore the mark of Dravonar's Emberbound Legions. Queen Rebecca's resolve hardened. She dispatched a fleet to patrol the western sea routes, her storm-blessed warriors ready for battle. In Dravonar, King Harok, ruler of the Ash-Clad Empire, feigned ignorance, though his forges hummed with new weapons. He, too, had heard of the Font's stirrings and saw an opportunity to expand his dominion.
The Isle of Nehmaris became the nexus of intrigue. Lioren, the young novice scribe, stumbled upon an ancient scroll in the library's depths, its text hinting at Vaelros the Hollow Flame's return. Haunted by dreams of a fiery figure, Lioren confided in Kaela, who saw her own shadow echoing align with his visions. Ralen, ever loyal, vowed to protect them, but Tirian's arrival with news of the Bleeding Path forced a reckoning.
As tensions escalated, a mysterious figure watched from the shadows—a woman cloaked in desert robes, her eyes glowing with temporal magic. She was Azmera, a seer of the Order, tasked with guarding the Font's balance. She knew the attack was no mere border skirmish but a catalyst for a greater conflict, one that would test the kingdoms' fates.
In Zarephar, Darius confronted his sons in private. Kael admitted to loose talk among his men, though he denied ordering the raid. Torin revealed his outcast band, confessing a plan to use the Font against his brother. Furious, Darius stripped them of command, appointing Lysara as interim leader of the Sandguard. He sent a second raven to Rebecca, offering a summit on neutral ground—the Isle of Nehmaris.
Rebecca agreed, seeing a chance to avert war. She sailed with Serad and a small retinue, while Darius and Lysara followed. Kaela, Ralen, Tirian, and Lioren prepared to meet them, the library's wards humming with anticipation. As the delegations converged, Azmera emerged, her voice ringing with authority. "The Font reveals all paths. Choose wisely, or all will fall."
The summit began with accusations—Rebecca demanding justice, Darius seeking peace. But as Lioren read the scroll, a vision engulfed them: Vaelros rising from the Font's crypt, his Hollow Flame consuming the land. Kaela's shadow echoing flared, showing a future where she led a united front against him, guided by Ralen's discipline and Tirian's courage. The kingdoms, once divided, saw a common enemy.
Azmera proposed a pact: Zarephar and Velmora would ally, with Dravonar's inclusion contingent on proof of its involvement. Scouts were sent north, while Kaela and her companions descended into the Hall of Echoes to confront Vaelros's echo. There, they faced trials of fire and time, emerging with a fragment of the Font's power to seal him anew.
The kingdoms signed the Pact of Nehmaris, a fragile truce bolstered by trade and mutual defense. Rebecca and Darius returned to their thrones; their rivalry tempered by necessity. Kael and Torin, humbled, swore to serve the alliance. On the Isle, Kaela painted a mural of Vaelros's sacrifice, a reminder of the paths forsaken.
Yet, in the Darnath's depths, a new island rose, its shores glowing with an unnatural light. The Bleeding Path watched, their plans far from thwarted.
The sun dipped low over the jagged peaks of Dravonar, casting long shadows across the golden sands of Zarephar. Within the marble-walled palace of the Lion Queen's Dominion, King Darius sat upon his obsidian throne, his weathered hands gripping the armrests as a messenger knelt before him, breathless and dust-covered. The air in the council chamber was thick with tension, the scent of sandalwood incense doing little to mask the unease that rippled through the gathered nobles. The news had arrived like a sudden storm: an attack on a farming village in Velmora, just across the now-troubled River Aster. The king's piercing gaze swept the room, landing on the twin sons who flanked him—Prince Kael and Prince Torin—each a mirror of ambition and rivalry.
Darius leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Speak, messenger. What madness has befallen us? An attack on Velmora, you say? By whose hand?"
The messenger, his voice trembling, recounted the tale: a swift raid at dawn, riders bearing the golden lion banner of Zarephar storming the farming village of Aster town, leaving fields ablaze and villagers scattered. No survivors had returned with clear accounts, but the evidence pointed unmistakably to Zarephari forces. The king's jaw tightened, his mind racing. Peace had held between Zarephar and Velmora for fifteen years, a fragile alliance forged through trade routes and intermarriages. This act threatened to unravel it all, and Darius knew the weight of suspicion would fall heavily upon his kingdom.
He turned his gaze to his sons. Kael, the elder by mere minutes, stood with a smug grin, his dark hair slicked back, exuding the confidence of a man who believed the throne was his birthright. Torin, leaner and more reserved, shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the floor. The twins had long been locked in a silent competition, each vying to prove their worth to their father. Their rivalry had driven them to reckless extremes—Kael's escapades in the brothels of the southern districts were whispered about in every tavern, while Torin had taken to secretive training sessions with the Sandguard Cavalry, pushing his body to the brink of exhaustion. Neither would admit to weakness, especially not now.
"Which of you ordered this?" Darius demanded, his voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. "Speak, or by the twin suns, I'll have the truth flayed from you!"
Kael stepped forward, his chin lifted defiantly. "Father, I was nowhere near the border. I spent the night in the city, enjoying the company of friends. This is some Velmoran trick to sow discord!"
Torin, rubbing sleep from his eyes, muttered, "I was asleep in my quarters, as any sane man would be at dawn. This reeks of a setup. Perhaps the Emberbound Legions of Dravonar meddled—jealous of our prosperity."
Darius's eyes narrowed. He knew his sons' habits well—Kael's penchant for debauchery and Torin's late-night wanderings—and neither alibi rang true. Yet, without proof, he could not accuse them outright. The council, a circle of grizzled advisors and priestesses, murmured among themselves, their star-readings offering no clear insight into the attack's origin. The king slammed a fist on the throne, silencing the room.
"Enough!" he roared. "This is no time for your childish games. If Zarephar's banner was raised in this raid, it was done without my command. We will summon the council and uncover the truth. Kael, Torin—prove your innocence, or I'll disinherit you both and name the next stable boy my heir!"
The twins exchanged a glance, a flicker of mutual loathing passing between them. As the council convened, the chamber filled with the clatter of armor and the rustle of robes. The high priestess, Lysara, stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding. "The stars align with chaos, my king. The attack may be a spark, but the fire could spread. Velmora's new queen, Rebecca, will not sit idly. We must send emissaries to explain—lest war consumes us all."
Darius nodded, though his mind churned with doubt. He dispatched a raven to Velmora, demanding an audience with Queen Rebecca, and ordered a small contingent of Sandguard Cavalry to investigate the border. Yet, as the council debated, a shadow loomed in his thoughts. Could one of his sons have orchestrated this to gain favor? Or was an enemy within—perhaps a rogue faction—seeking to destabilize his rule?
Meanwhile, in the southern district of Zarephar, Kael slipped away from the palace, his mind racing. The brothel he frequented, a den of silk curtains and spiced wine, had been his refuge from his father's scrutiny. Last night, he'd overheard a drunken soldier boasting of a raid, hinting at a plan to provoke Velmora. Kael had dismissed it as idle talk, but now the pieces fit too neatly. Had his own men acted without his knowledge? He cursed under his breath, knowing Torin would seize any chance to pin the blame on him.
Torin, too, had his secrets. Awakened by the summons, he'd been deep in the desert, training with a band of outcasts he'd secretly recruited. They spoke of a vision—a prophecy tied to the Isle of Nehmaris, where the Library of Forsaken Paths whispered of power beyond the kings' grasp. Torin believed seizing the Font could secure his throne, but his plans required subtlety. If Kael's recklessness had sparked this conflict, Torin saw an opportunity to outmaneuver him.
Across the Darnath Ocean, the Isle of Nehmaris pulsed with an ancient energy. Kaela of Vireth, standing atop the basalt cliffs, felt a shiver as the wind carried whispers of war. The public facade of the library buzzed with monks and scroll-runners, but beneath, the Order of the Forsaken Paths stirred. Ralen, her childhood friend and Sentinel, approached, his sword gleaming in the fading light.
"Trouble brews," he said, his voice steady. "Velmora's attacked, and Zarephar denies it. The Font grows restless."
Kaela nodded, her shadow echoing tugging at her mind—visions of burning villages and a crowned figure weeping. "The Order must act. If war comes, the Font's power could fall into the wrong hands."
In Velmora, Queen Rebecca paced her chambers, the raven's message clutched in her hand. Serad's advice echoed in her mind, but her heart burned for retribution. She summoned her council once more, her voice firm. "We send scouts to Aster and prepare the navy. If Zarephar denies this, let them prove it. But we will not be weak."
As night fell, a new player emerged. Tirian, the desert rebel, rode into Velmora's coastal town of Calforis, his horse lathered with sweat. He'd heard rumors of the Bleeding Path stirring, a rogue faction within the Order seeking to unleash the Font. His warning to Kaela had gone unheeded, but now, with war looming, he knew the truth: the attack was a diversion, a means to draw the kingdoms into chaos while the Font's power was seized.
In the council of Zarephar, Darius listened as Lysara revealed a troubling omen: a star had fallen near the Isle of Nehmaris, a sign of the Font's awakening. Torin seized the moment, suggesting a pilgrimage to the island to seek its wisdom. Kael countered with a call to arms, proposing a preemptive strike on Velmora to assert dominance. The king, torn, adjourned the meeting, his trust in his sons shattered.
Days later, the scouts returned to Velmora with grim news: the raiders wore Zarephari armor, but their tactics bore the mark of Dravonar's Emberbound Legions. Queen Rebecca's resolve hardened. She dispatched a fleet to patrol the western sea routes, her storm-blessed warriors ready for battle. In Dravonar, King Harok, ruler of the Ash-Clad Empire, feigned ignorance, though his forges hummed with new weapons. He, too, had heard of the Font's stirrings and saw an opportunity to expand his dominion.
The Isle of Nehmaris became the nexus of intrigue. Lioren, the young novice scribe, stumbled upon an ancient scroll in the library's depths, its text hinting at Vaelros the Hollow Flame's return. Haunted by dreams of a fiery figure, Lioren confided in Kaela, who saw her own shadow echoing align with his visions. Ralen, ever loyal, vowed to protect them, but Tirian's arrival with news of the Bleeding Path forced a reckoning.
As tensions escalated, a mysterious figure watched from the shadows—a woman cloaked in desert robes, her eyes glowing with temporal magic. She was Azmera, a seer of the Order, tasked with guarding the Font's balance. She knew the attack was no mere border skirmish but a catalyst for a greater conflict, one that would test the kingdoms' fates.
In Zarephar, Darius confronted his sons in private. Kael admitted to loose talk among his men, though he denied ordering the raid. Torin revealed his outcast band, confessing a plan to use the Font against his brother. Furious, Darius stripped them of command, appointing Lysara as interim leader of the Sandguard. He sent a second raven to Rebecca, offering a summit on neutral ground—the Isle of Nehmaris.
Rebecca agreed, seeing a chance to avert war. She sailed with Serad and a small retinue, while Darius and Lysara followed. Kaela, Ralen, Tirian, and Lioren prepared to meet them, the library's wards humming with anticipation. As the delegations converged, Azmera emerged, her voice ringing with authority. "The Font reveals all paths. Choose wisely, or all will fall."
The summit began with accusations—Rebecca demanding justice, Darius seeking peace. But as Lioren read the scroll, a vision engulfed them: Vaelros rising from the Font's crypt, his Hollow Flame consuming the land. Kaela's shadow echoing flared, showing a future where she led a united front against him, guided by Ralen's discipline and Tirian's courage. The kingdoms, once divided, saw a common enemy.
Azmera proposed a pact: Zarephar and Velmora would ally, with Dravonar's inclusion contingent on proof of its involvement. Scouts were sent north, while Kaela and her companions descended into the Hall of Echoes to confront Vaelros's echo. There, they faced trials of fire and time, emerging with a fragment of the Font's power to seal him anew.
The kingdoms signed the Pact of Nehmaris, a fragile truce bolstered by trade and mutual defense. Rebecca and Darius returned to their thrones, their rivalry tempered by necessity. Kael and Torin, humbled, swore to serve the alliance. On the Isle, Kaela painted a mural of Vaelros's sacrifice, a reminder of the paths forsaken.
Yet, in the Darnath's depths, a new island rose, its shores glowing with an unnatural light. The Bleeding Path watched, their plans far from thwarted.
….
The news of the attack on the village of Aster in Velmora traveled fast, carried by the wings of ravens and the whispers of traders crossing the rugged Vonar Mountains. By the time it reached Dravonar, the sun hung low over the black peaks, painting the sky a deep orange that reflected off the ash-covered slopes. The kingdom of Dravonar, a land of fire and stone, sat nestled in the north, its blacksteel forges glowing like embers against the dark rock. The air smelled of sulfur and molten metal, a constant reminder of the kingdom's strength, built on the backs of its warrior-priests and the sacred flames they worshipped. At the heart of the kingdom, in the towering fortress of Cinderhold, King Rourke sat on his throne of blackened iron, his sharp gray eyes scanning the faces of his council as the report was delivered.
King Rourke was the oldest of the three rulers, his hair a stark white against his weathered skin, his hands scarred from years of wielding a blade in battle. At sixty-two, he carried the weight of a lifetime of wars, his mind sharp and cautious, shaped by the hard lessons of the past. He ruled Dravonar with a steady hand, but he never trusted peace to last. Long ago, he had set up a network of spies across the kingdoms, a web of eyes and ears that stretched from the sandy dunes of Zarephar to the stormy shores of Velmora. These spies, men and women trained to blend into crowds and listen in shadows, reported every movement of troops, every whisper of unrest, and every attack on the lands. Rourke had built this network after the last great war, a bloody fight that had scarred the land and his memory, teaching him to always be ready for the next betrayal.
The messenger, a young man named Taren with a nervous stutter, stood before the throne, his hands trembling as he held a crumpled scroll. "M-my king," Taren said, his voice shaking, "word from the south. A village in Velmora, called Aster, was attacked. They say Zarephari riders did it, flying their lion banners. Fields were burned, and the villagers fled. Queen Rebecca is gathering her council, and King Darius of Zarephar denies it was his doing."
Rourke leaned back in his throne, his fingers tapping the armrest, the sound echoing in the stone hall. The council, a group of battle-hardened generals and flame priests, waited in silence, their eyes fixed on their king. The news did not stir Rourke as it might have stirred the younger rulers. He had seen too many wars, too many false flags, to jump at shadows. If Velmora and Zarephar wanted to fight, it did not trouble him much—at least not yet. Dravonar sat far to the north, separated by the Vonar Mountains, a natural wall that had protected his kingdom for centuries. Let the southern kingdoms tear each other apart, he thought. It would only make Dravonar stronger.
But Rourke's mind drifted back to the last war, a fight that still haunted his dreams. It had been over thirty years ago, when he was a younger man, strong and fierce, leading his Emberbound Legions with a burning sword in hand. That war had been about Lake Ostra, the vast body of water that sat in the heart of the continent, its fish and fresh water a lifeline for all three kingdoms. For centuries, the lake had been shared, its shores a place of uneasy peace where fishermen from Velmora, Zarephar, and Dravonar cast their nets side by side. But Dravonar, hungry for power, had tried to take full control of the lake, to claim the right to fish and sail on it for themselves. Rourke, then a new king, had led the charge, believing his kingdom's strength could bend the others to his will.
The war had lasted three long years, and it was a brutal fight. Thousands of soldiers died, their blood soaking the shores of Lake Ostra, their bodies left to the crows. Velmora and Zarephar, usually at odds, had joined forces against Dravonar, their armies marching north to push Rourke back. But Rourke was no ordinary leader. He was a master of strategy, a king who knew how to use the land to his advantage. He had held off the combined armies for a full year, using the Vonar Mountains as a shield. His troops set traps in the narrow passes, dropping rocks and fire on the enemy below. He abandoned villages, leaving them empty for the invaders to find, then circled around to strike from behind, catching them off guard. Time and again, he outsmarted the armies of Velmora and Zarephar, his Emberbound Legions moving like shadows through the ash and stone.
In the end, the war had ended in a truce. The three kingdoms, worn down by loss, agreed to share Lake Ostra equally, its waters a symbol of their hard-won peace. But Rourke never forgot the cost, nor the way the other two kings had looked at him across the table when they signed the pact—wary, respectful, but always watching. They all knew his skill in battle, his knack for turning the odds in his favor. And Rourke knew they would never fully trust him, just as he would never fully trust them.
Now, as Taren finished his report, Rourke turned to his spymaster, a wiry woman named Lira with sharp eyes and a scar across her cheek. She had been with him since the war, one of his best eyes in the field, and now she oversaw the network that kept Dravonar safe. "What do your people say, Lira?" Rourke asked, his voice calm but firm. "Is this Zarephar's doing, or something else?"
Lira stepped forward, her hands clasped behind her back. "My king, my spies in Velmora saw the attack. They confirm the banners were Zarephari, but the riders moved too fast, too clean—like they wanted to be seen. In Zarephar, my people heard whispers of unrest. King Darius's twin sons, Kael and Torin, are fighting for his throne. One of them might have ordered the attack to stir trouble, to prove their strength. But there's more. Some of my men near Lake Ostra saw strange figures moving at night—cloaked men, not soldiers, heading toward the Isle of Nehmaris. They carried no banners, but they moved with purpose."
Rourke's eyes narrowed. The Isle of Nehmaris, the small island in the center of Lake Ostra, was a place of mystery, home to the Library of Forsaken Paths—a temple that hid more secrets than it shared. He had heard stories of the Order that guarded it, of magic tied to time and fate. If someone was moving there, it could mean trouble bigger than a border skirmish. But for now, his focus stayed on the two kingdoms to the south.
"Keep your eyes on the island," Rourke told Lira. "And send more spies to Velmora and Zarephar. I want to know if their armies move. If they fight, we'll watch and wait. Let them weaken each other. But if this is a trick to pull us into their mess, we'll be ready."
The council murmured their agreement, though some of the younger generals, eager for glory, shifted restlessly. One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Gavix, spoke up. "My king, if they fight, we could take the lake again. Velmora's navy is strong, but they'll be distracted. Zarephar's cavalry won't cross the mountains easily. We could move now, while they're busy."
Rourke shook his head, his gaze hard. "No, Gavix. We don't move until we know more. The last war cost us too much. I won't risk another unless the prize is worth the blood. For now, we strengthen our defenses. Double the patrols in the mountains. Make sure the forges run day and night. If war comes, we'll be ready to hold our ground."
As the council broke apart, Rourke stayed on his throne, his mind turning over the past. He remembered the war's final days, the way the air had smelled of smoke and death, the cries of the wounded echoing across the battlefield. He had been proud of his army then; of the way they fought against impossible odds. But he also remembered the faces of the soldiers he'd lost, boys barely old enough to hold a sword, their lives snuffed out for a lake they'd never control. That war had taught him caution, and he would not forget its lessons now.
Outside Cinderhold, the forges roared to life, their flames lighting up the night. The Emberbound Legions trained in the shadow of the mountains, their obsidian armor gleaming, their swords flashing as they prepared for whatever might come. Rourke's spies slipped back into the darkness, their footsteps silent as they moved south, watching, waiting, reporting. The king stood at his window, looking out over his kingdom, the red glow of the forges reflecting in his eyes. Let Velmora and Zarephar fight, he thought. Dravonar would endure, as it always had.
But deep in his gut, Rourke felt a flicker of unease. The cloaked figures near Lake Ostra, the whispers of the Isle of Nehmaris—it all pointed to something bigger, something darker. He had fought wars of steel and fire, but this felt different. And though he would not admit it, even to himself, the cautious king of Dravonar feared what might be waking in the heart of the lake.