Chapter 19

  The Lord Chancellor stood there like an immovable monument of order amidst the burgeoning chaos of Drymon. He blocked the narrow passage that led from the magnificent arcades of the main street into the inner sanctum of the palace district. Behind him loomed the massive silver gates, acting like an impenetrable shield between the reality of the street and the King's throne.

  His outward appearance was a provocation to any clear categorization. He wore the flowing, heavy robes of a high scholar, crafted from deep blue velvet and embroidered with the silver constellations of the eastern star map. Yet the way the fabric fell over his shoulders could not hide the underlying, wiry musculature of a man who had spent half his life in the saddle or in the field. He seemed a bizarre mixture of a librarian guarding the world’s secrets and a warlord prepared to burn a city down for those secrets.

  The most striking feature, however, was the scar. A brutal, whitish rift that bisected his face diagonally. It began above his right eyebrow, pulled across the bridge of his nose, and ended at the bottom of his left lip. It lent his face an asymmetrical hardness that only amplified his stoic gaze. In his eyes lay an attentiveness I knew all too well from my time with the Order—the excellent discipline of a man who could coordinate a thousand variables simultaneously.

  He was flanked by three elite guards, so motionless that I would have taken them for statues were it not for the low, rhythmic hum of their equipment. They wore seamless, golden Arcane armor. These harnesses were no mere metal plates; they were lined with liquid mana that flowed in fine engravings over the surface, generating a permanent protective field. Their visors were closed, mirrored golden surfaces behind which no human eye could be seen. They held their halberds in a perfect vertical, the tips glowing with an unstable white that suggested they could release a discharge at any moment that would vaporize an entire alley.

  "Stop," spoke the Lord Chancellor. His voice was not loud, but it possessed the cutting sharpness of steel on stone.

  I stepped forward, my golden glow—Gravor’s handiwork—still pulsing in a gentle rhythm to emphasize my supposed holiness. "I am Luken Lesko, Paladin of the Eagle Order. I demand entry to speak with King Sothar. We bring information of the highest urgency."

  The Lord Chancellor did not stir. His gaze slid over me to my companions. He lingered a moment too long on Maira, whose dark aura he undoubtedly sensed, then brushed over Arik, whose ash-born nature clearly unsettled him. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Vin.

  I felt Vin flinch beside me. She was filled with a deep-seated unrest that had nothing to do with fear of violence. It was shame. Back then, when she had left Thivan, it was she who had shattered the young prince's heart. She hadn't just left him behind; she had robbed him, taking precious artifacts and his trust to finance her own life. To see him again now, while he stood on the verge of seizing absolute power, was like a walk to the scaffold for her.

  "The Eagle Order enjoys high standing in Caleon, Paladin," the Lord Chancellor began, his voice now sounding almost like that of a teacher rebuking a wayward student. "But you appear in a time of highest alarm. We know of the threat in the North. Our golems are mobilized, our generals occupy the passes. What information could you possibly possess that my scouts have not already delivered to us?"

  "You know of an army," I countered, taking a step closer, the light of my armor flaring brighter. "But you know nothing of the man who leads it. You know nothing of Reyn. He is no ordinary warlord. He is a rift in the order of the world. He wields powers that will make your golems look like toys."

  The Lord Chancellor raised an eyebrow. The scar on his face contorted in a grotesque manner. "A bold judgment for someone who has just stumbled through our gates. The protection of the Eagle Order is a diplomatic privilege, not a key to the throne room during a state crisis. And who are your companions? A woman who smells of necrosis, a being made of dust, and..." He paused, fixing Vin once more. "...an Elf whose face looks strangely familiar. Did King Sothar not once have an... ally who disappeared under similar circumstances?"

  Vin inhaled sharply. "My name is irrelevant, Chancellor," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "What is relevant is that Thivan is in danger. Not just from the army in the North, but from the arrogance this festival radiates. Reyn will strike when you feel most secure."

  The Lord Chancellor laughed softly, a dry, joyless sound. "Security is an illusion we afford ourselves so as not to go mad. But we are not unprepared. The walls of Drymon are linked to the King's life. If he falls, this city falls."

  I felt Gravor growling in my head. Let me crush him into the ground, Luken. One small pulse and his fancy robe becomes his shroud.

  "Be silent, Gravor," I murmured internally. I had to beat this man with reason, not violence.

  "Chancellor," I said loudly and firmly. "You are a man of discipline. You do not see the scar on my face, but I carry it in my soul. I was with the Inquisition. I have only recently seen the destructive power our common enemy possesses. He does not just gather soldiers; he gathers the rage of the outcasts. If you deny us entry, you take away Thivan’s only chance to understand the enemy’s tactics before the first lightning strikes."

  I pointed to Arik. "This man here is an Ashblood. He is a being that turns to ashes and was born in a place you only know from books. Maira understands the plagues Reyn has unleashed in the North. We are not here to steal or murder. We are here to ensure that Caleon has a future."

  The Lord Chancellor remained silent for a long time. He seemed to weigh my every syllable, analyzing my body language, testing the authenticity of my Paladin light. His elite guards remained unmoved, yet I noticed one of them slightly loosen the grip on his halberd—a sign that the immediate intent to kill had given way to cautious waiting.

  "You speak with an authority beyond your years, Luken Lesko," the Chancellor finally said. He stepped to the side, though he did not yet fully clear the path. "But the risk remains. If I let you before the King, I stake my head and the stability of this coronation on it."

  He turned directly to Vin. "You broke him back then, didn't you? He was a different man before you left. Weaker, yes, but also more human. If he sees you now, it could do two things: either it gives him the strength he needs, or it is the final push that drives him into the madness that the failed coupling has already prepared."

  Vin lowered her head, her hair veiling her face. "I know what I did, Chancellor. And I know I can give him nothing back. But I will not let him die without knowing what is coming for him."

  The Lord Chancellor looked at her for a long time. A spark of something that looked almost like compassion flashed briefly in his stoic gaze before the mask of the veteran settled back into place.

  "Very well," he said, signaling the guards. "I will lead you to the King. But on one condition: the Arcane Guards will not take their eyes off you for a single moment. One wrong move, one unauthorized spell, and you will be executed before you can address a single word to His Majesty. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly," I replied, feeling the tension in my chest ease slightly.

  The Chancellor turned and placed his hand on a rune on the silver gate. With a deep, vibrating hum, the massive wings began to open. Beyond them stretched the royal garden, a place of such artificial beauty that it felt almost unreal, and at the end of the path rose the Palace of Sothar, shining like a mountain of pure light.

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  We set off, while the elite guards were immediately replaced by three more who took their place at the gate. The Lord Chancellor strode ahead, his robes billowing in the wind, while the three golden guards surrounded us like shadows.

  Vin trembled slightly as we walked down the path. I knew the hardest part was yet to come for her. She didn't fear the guards or the Chancellor. She feared the man she had once taken everything from, and who now decided the fate of the East.

  Arik and Maira remained vigilant, their eyes wandering over the magnificent facades. We were deep in the lion’s den, and the air up here was thinner, charged with a tension that was close to discharging.

  "Almost there," I whispered to Vin.

  She didn't answer, but she held her head high. We were ready for the meeting that would decide the future of the East.

  -

  The wind lashed against the tent walls of dragon scales—a hollow, ominous clattering that underscored the rhythm of Reyn’s rising anger. His army had reached the northern border at a speed that had surpassed even his boldest expectations. But this swiftness was a double-edged sword: Caleon’s golem units had detected the vibrations in the ground early, and the signal fires on the ridges of the Iron Mountains had already carried the warning south.

  Reyn stared at the strategic maps spread across his desk. The rejection by the Scar-Horde and Morgaine’s cool detachment weighed heavily on his plans. He had the barbarians, the loyal support of the northern Dragonfolk, and a multitude of other outcasts, but against the united power of Caleon—against the countless golems and the disciplined magic of the Sothar Guard—it might not be enough. He needed a second front. He needed a dagger to plunge directly into Caleon’s unprotected back while his army stormed the gates in the north.

  Corven, his most capable commander, was already coordinating the first strike against the border fortress of House Wolfsgrund outside. One could hear the distant roar of the half-giants and the clashing of iron as the siege engines were moved into position. But Reyn was focused on something else. He wove his mana-threads into the air, tapping into the dark currents to establish an astral transmission reaching far to the south, where the volcanic foothills formed the home of the Heartfire Legion.

  The Heartfire Legion was perhaps the largest and most battle-hardened clan of Dragonfolk to ever exist. Led by Pyrax the "Igniter," they had once been the fiercest rivals of House Sothar. A people forged from fire and defiance.

  The image flickered, sparks flew from the ethereal projection, and finally, the head of Pyrax materialized. His scales were a deep, glowing red, his eyes like molten gold. His horns were banded with rings of black iron, bearing witness to countless victories.

  "I have an off—" Reyn began, his voice cool and calculating.

  "Silence, shadow-freak!" Pyrax countered with a vehemence that made the astral projection tremble. The Dragonfolk’s voice sounded like the grinding of lava rock. "Your offers are of no interest to us. We have spoken before, Reyn, and my answer has not changed. The time for revenge is over. Sothar’s rule offers us security, trade, and a place at the table of civilization. That is worth more than any short-sighted gratification you promise us. We are already on the march to Drymon to swear fealty to the new King. Heartfire Legion out—"

  "STOP!" Reyn bellowed.

  In that moment, for the blink of an eye, he lost control over his suppressed power. A deafening thunderclap crashed directly over the camp, and a massive bolt of black lightning struck an ancient oak only a few meters from the tent. The wood splintered with a bang that made the earth tremble. Fortunately, the sudden downpour that accompanied the thunder prevented a forest fire, but the effect was achieved. Pyrax the Igniter, who feared little, visibly flinched within the projection.

  "Listen to me well, you armored fool," Reyn hissed, his eyes glowing with an ominous, violet storm-light. "You speak of security? You speak of a place at the table? Thivan Sothar will not let you at his table. He will feed you under it like dogs as long as you are useful, and slaughter you as soon as his golems no longer need competition. You want to swear loyalty? You are swearing fealty to a dying man!"

  Pyrax quickly composed himself, his jaw grinding. "You understand nothing of honor, shadow-born. In all of Tirros, there is no greater abomination than betrayal during a coronation. The gods themselves would turn away if we raised a hand against our liege while he receives the crown. My word stands. The Heartfire Legion breaks no oath for a storm that may have passed by tomorrow."

  "Your word?" Reyn laughed contemptuously. "Your word is bound to an order that is already burning! Caleon is a house of cards. Barwan is already trembling in his metal casing. When my army breaks the northern gates, Thivan Sothar will have no time to reward your loyalty. He will throw you and your people into the front lines as cannon fodder to save his own skin. Is that the place at the table you desire? A grave in the Black Woods?"

  Reyn stepped closer to the projection, his features appearing gaunt and fanatical in the eerie light. "I offer you more than just revenge, Pyrax. I offer you true dominion over the South. When Drymon falls, there will be no more Sothars to dictate how much fire you may breathe. You will be the masters of your own lands—no taxes, no golems watching over your villages."

  Pyrax snorted, and small flames flickered from his nostrils. The conflict within him was palpable. Centuries-old resentment against the Sothar fought against his people's deep-rooted code of honor. Betrayal at a coronation was indeed a shame that would last generations. But the prospect of true freedom was a poison slowly seeping into his thoughts.

  "You demand that I lose face before all the lords of Caleon," Pyrax said gloomily. "That we go down in history as honorless."

  "History is written by the survivors," Reyn countered immediately. "Do you think anyone will care about oaths when the old world lies in ashes? In the new order I am creating, loyalty will be measured by strength, not by outdated ceremonies. Thivan Sothar is a relic. He is a sick boy trying to glue a broken throne back together. Do you truly want to die for a relic?"

  Pyrax remained silent for a long time. The fire in his eyes seemed to flicker as he weighed the possibilities. Reyn sensed he had the Dragonfolk on the hook, but he couldn't pull the line too tight. Dragonfolk reacted poorly to coercion; they needed to feel the decision was their own.

  Finally, Pyrax spoke again. His voice had grown quieter, but it still carried the weight of his station. "I will not abort my march. We will be at the gates of Drymon in two days, as planned. We will be there when the bells ring for the coronation."

  Reyn narrowed his eyes. "That is not a decision, Pyrax. That is hesitation."

  "No," the Igniter replied proudly. "That is a test. If your army is strong enough to reach the gates... if I see that the storm you speak of can indeed shake the walls of the Sothar... then the Heartfire Legion will pass its own judgment. When we stand before Drymon and the world is already sinking into chaos, we will decide who the true ruler of the East is. But do not expect us to cast the first stone. We will not betray for a lost cause."

  Reyn considered the glowing face of the Dragonfolk. It wasn't the perfect result, but it was enough. An unpredictable legion of dragon warriors right at the city's gates, just waiting to reconsider their loyalty the moment the first crack appeared in the wall—that was the perfect distraction. Thivan would be forced to tie up troops at the gates to watch his "allies" while Reyn's main force struck in the north.

  "Agreed," Reyn said with a cold smile. "I will give you a sign, Pyrax. When the sky over Drymon turns black and the lightning of the storm splits the towers, then you will know that the time for oaths is over. Ensure your warriors are ready. It would be a pity if the Heartfire Legion missed the moment history is rewritten."

  "We will be ready," Pyrax rumbled. "But do not forget, shadow-freak: if you fail, if your army shatters against the borders, then I will be the first to serve Thivan Sothar your head on a silver platter to prove my loyalty. Our pact is of fire and smoke. It can vanish at any time."

  "It won't," Reyn replied with certainty.

  The astral projection dissolved, the sparks fading and leaving Reyn in the relative darkness of his tent. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the distant rumbling of the siege engines at Wolfsgrund reminded him that the clock was ticking.

  He sat back at his desk and ran his hand over the maps. The Heartfire Legion was the deciding factor. They would plunge Thivan into paranoia. A king who could not trust his own guests was already half-defeated.

  Reyn felt a familiar tremor in his hands—not from fear, but from anticipation. The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together. The warning Luken and his group brought to Drymon would be lost in the flood of events. By the time Thivan realized the enemy was not just coming from the north but was already at his gate, it would be too late.

  "Soon," Reyn whispered into the silence of the tent. "Soon the light of Caleon will be extinguished, and the storm will cleanse everything."

  He rose and stepped out of the tent. Corven was already coming toward him, Der helmet blackened with soot but with a triumphant glint in his eyes.

  "The outposts of Wolfsgrund have fallen, Lord," Corven reported. "The way to the pass is clear."

  Reyn nodded. He looked into the gray sky of the North. The first domino of the war had fallen.