Under the sparse moonlight veiled by shifting clouds, the wheels of a dark-painted carriage rolled to a smooth stop before the gates of the Central Keep. The vehicle bore the insignia of a burning sea serpent, the emblem of House LeFlamme.
Before the footman could act, the carriage door opened. A polished black boot met the cobblestone, followed by the rest of Derrick LeFlamme, heir to the ducal line.
The footman gave a small bow as Derrick stepped out. The torches lining the gate flickered, their light catching on the clam-shaped medals across his chest, casting them in shifting iridescence. He moved with quiet purpose, each step echoed crisply across the stone floors. His formal uniform, deep navy trimmed with silver, fit him like armor sculpted for ceremony and command. On his right sleeve, the embroidered golden pearl marked his rank, a symbol he had earned not through name alone but through blood, sweat, and merit.
At the inner gate, the guards saluted with practiced precision and straightened backs. Their demeanor showed quiet discipline reserved for someone they respected, and their eyes gleamed with admiration. Derrick returned their salute with the same firm clarity, his expression composed.
Inside the Central Keep, the halls stretched with austere grandeur. The walls and columns were aged and worn, but the torches along the path gave them life, casting restless shadows that flickered with every gust of air. The corridor narrowed as he made his way toward the highest tower, a gradual funnel drawing him closer into Kalamar's seat of command.
His boots met each step of the stone stairway with measured rhythm. Breath even, posture sharp, he carried himself with a calm that had become second nature. The sword at his side felt lighter than the thoughts circling in his head.
Mors Furia's been quiet lately. Frederick's definitely up to something, but it's subtle, he's too low-key. He's gathering manpower and pulling in supplies, probably under the radar of most of the northern border checks. That man's lost everything. The kind of desperation that comes from that... it makes him dangerous. He has no noble's pride left to hold him back, no fear to keep him cautious. His whole gentleman schtick is all for show. Heh...
But this shop... why the hell is it the one thing that's caught his attention? It can't just be some new game, no matter how flashy it looks. My sister seemed obsessed, but even she wouldn't lose her head over some flashy game unless there was more to it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze still fixed ahead.
I'll keep an eye on her tomorrow. Hopefully that's all it takes. I really don't want us tangled up in whatever this mess turns out to be.
The last step echoed beneath him as he reached the top. Before him stretched a short corridor, at the end of which stood a pair of massive reinforced oak doors. Intricate golden warding runes were etched across their surface, pulsing faintly with contained power.
As he approached, two knights clad in full combat armor straightened and saluted in unison. Derrick responded in kind, without hesitation.
"Captain LeFlamme. The council is expecting you," one of them said, while the other activated a rune set into the wall. The doors responded with a low hum, then slowly creaked open, revealing the chamber beyond.
~~
The chamber beyond the doors was broad and solemn, lit by steady mana crystal fixtures embedded into the stone walls. This was Kalamar's war room. Not some ornate hall for pomp and ceremony, but a space built for strategy, decisions, and the burden that came with both.
At the center stood a wide rectangular table carved from dark ironwood. The surface was marked with scratches and faded scorch lines, remnants of years of incense usage, and long nights of argument. A detailed topographic map was etched into its surface, with small flickering glyphs hovering over key locations. Some pulsed slowly to mark outposts or patrols, others shimmered faintly where recent intelligence had flagged a concern. Metal markers were arranged in careful groupings, color-coded to represent units, threats, and strategic chokepoints.
Weapons lined the walls, secured neatly into recessed racks. Spears, greatswords, and old magic staves sat alongside more modern arms. None were ceremonial. They were worn and real, each one carrying a piece of Kalamar's military past. The room smelled faintly of steel, old parchment, and burnt resin.
On the far wall, above a raised platform, hung the flag of Kalamar. The fabric was a pale blue, embroidered with a silver clam at the center. Simple, yet it bears the pride of Kalamarians in their birthplace and naval heritage. Beneath it stood a suit of antique armor, the kind worn centuries ago by the city's early defenders. Its polished surface caught the light, the white plume on its helmet slightly faded from age.
Scroll racks and report shelves lined the edges of the room, filled with open ledgers, sealed missives, and stacks of stamped intelligence logs. Quiet rustling came from a clerk in the corner who was organizing papers into neat rows, careful not to disturb the rest of the room.
Around the table, several of Kalamar's top officers were already seated. Some looked up when Derrick entered, giving small nods or quiet acknowledgments. A few just watched him. The room didn't go silent, but the tone shifted, like a ripple of tension pulling tighter.
Derrick stepped in without pause. The heavy doors shut behind him.
He moved to take the empty seat beside Captain James. Across the table, the high seat waited. James, as always, sat with his arms crossed and his back straight, a quiet confidence resting in his posture. He was older now, but his presence still carried the weight of experience. Derrick knew the man well, as James had trained him during the start of his military career. In fact, two of the medals on his chest were earned on campaigns under James's command.
The younger officers still called him the Steel Heart Casanova, though Derrick never understood how the nickname stuck. Though he knew that this stalwart knight requested to work in the city guards instead of receiving further promotion in the army was due to his family, which he respected a lot.
He gave James a nod, then looked toward the end of the table, where the two most important figures in the room sat.
On the right was Wynna LeFlamme, the duke's right hand, an esteemed vice president of the Ocean Heart guild, and his aunt.
She wore her hair tied back, streaks of silver cutting through black like ink across parchment. Her glasses caught the light as she looked up, but her violet eyes were already scanning him, quietly observant. She wore a tailored navy-blue dress beneath a robe etched with runes so fine they looked like embroidery. A stack of reports lay at her side, and one hand still held a quill. Wynna always gave the impression of someone who had already read every report in the room before breakfast. She wasn't just a strategist, she was a scholar through and through, the kind who remembered supply chains down to the last crate. Even now, she didn't speak. She simply gave Derrick a small nod and a brief, knowing smile.
Beside her sat the current Duke of Kalamar, who is famously known as the LeFlamme Thunderman, his father.
Doran LeFlamme didn't wear armor. He didn't need to. A short-sleeved navy shirt clung to a body built from decades of battlefield command. His arms were huge, veined, riddled with scars, and solid with muscle. The kind of strength that didn't come from lifting in training halls, but from hauling comrades out of ship wreckages and pushing through the blaze of battle in the frontlines. He wore two platinum rings, both set with deep sapphires that gleamed faintly in the crystal light. His beard was scruffy, not quite maintained, but it didn't take away from the force of his gaze. When he looked at Derrick, it wasn't with judgment or warmth, just a steady, unreadable focus.
After a beat, Doran gave a small nod.
"Hmm... Let's begin."
``
Within the rough, black waters of the Gussian Sea, far south of Kalamar, a merchant ship strained against the fury of the waves. Wind howled against the sails, and lightning danced across the clouds above like judgment from the heavens.
The ship rocked violently, one tilt away from capsizing.
"Calm the ship down!" came a voice from within the main cabin, panicky and seething with impatience.
A moment later, the waves parted unnaturally. The raging sea went still around the hull as if shackled by invisible hands. The ship surged forward, cutting through the water like a predator in pursuit. Behind it, a trail of blood spread through the surf, mixing with salt and foam.
Inside the captain's quarters, the atmosphere was heavy. The dark wooden walls were covered in scratch marks and old stains. At the center, a man sat on a bed, hunched over in silence.
The door creaked open. A lanky figure entered, drenched from the storm. He carried a rope in one hand, three severed heads swinging from it by the hair.
"You really made me waste perfectly good offerings, Bi-mana attuned peasants are not that easy to come by, you know?" the man drawled, his grin wide and unrepentant. His eyes gleamed unnaturally under the flickering lantern light. "You're quite overbearing like a lord. Still acting like nobility, even after all this time. But you're no baron now, remember? You botched the ritual, got caught like a fool, and now here we are."
He tossed the heads onto the floor with a wet thud. They rolled across the planks and came to a stop at the foot of the man on the bed.
The seated figure caught one of them absently as it bounced toward him. He stared into the man's cocky gaze, then he tossed the head aside without a word.
Bloodshot crimson eyes met the lanky man's smug expression. his rage simmered beneath the surface, cold and quiet.
Orman Bilaten, once a Baron of Elum—now nothing more than a disgraced exile.
His golden hair curled like a crown around his head, his dark robe barely hiding the ragged clothes beneath. He had a sheathed dagger on his waist, it bore his family's crest. A tree turned on its head, roots clawing up toward the sky while the leaves withered at the ground.
"Don't get smart with me, Nas." His voice was sharp now, voice scraping out from between clenched teeth. "You're nothing but a damn handyman the High Priest threw at me like a bone. You're not my equal. You're not even my servant. You're a lowborn mutt, so follow orders and keep your shit-tongue shut."
Nas's slit-pupilled eyes gleamed in the lantern light, his grin stubbornly in place.
"Touchy," he muttered while licking his lips, rocking back on his heels. "I must've hit a nerve." Arrogant scum! Once you have no use to our cause, your corpse will be tossed aside, not even fit for sacrifice, he thought coldly, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve.
"Well then," Nas drawled, voice thick with mockery, "what brilliant scheme do you have in store this time, milord?" He gave a mocking, theatrical bow, dripping with insolence. "Surely you won't involve the local mage guild this time, right?"
"Hmph! It was just my miscalculation that a once corrupted official would find her morality and compassion and expose me!" The ex-noble yelled as he stood up.
"Even then, what I did, did not warrant exile. I only used the most worthless of peasant lives, the rats from the slums that have no hope of ever having even a decent life. I did them all a favor! They should've understood that I was only releasing them from their insufferable realities!" Orman spat indignantly, his hands curling into fists with his nails digging deep into his palm's flesh.
"What's done is done... Just focus on what comes next. The Gathering can't be exposed again, especially if we gain nothing from it." Nas said as he stared at the ceiling in a daze.
"Don't worry, I'm working with a local gang this time, We have a specific target that the Blind Elder asked for. Once we're done with that, we'll need to go to the extreme north and convene with the rest of the gathering." Orman replied.
Nas sighed, "Hoooh... It seems that the elders stopped you from fulfilling your plans, aren't you an unlucky one."
Orman's forehead scrunched, he glared insidiously at the indifferent peasant. "The Blind Elder's request isn't something I take lightly. Also, it's obvious that I will need more time after failing, laying low in the far north is a good deal since I can gather more resources and strength to make sure of my eventual success. I only need to bide my time for a few years, a decade at most. By that time, I shall burn that fat pig of a duke to a crisp and lay waste to his duchy. Even Elum will need to bow down to me!"
If only you could even reach that point, the gathering doesn't really have high expectations for this lunatic. You're already a dead man! Do you really think that you can make a mess without sacrificing yourself in Kalamar? Where the Thunderman lives? Nas snickered in his mind.
The ship continued swiftly toward Kalamar, the full moon hung above as the skies became clear, like an eye surveilling all under its gaze.