A week.
In the grand scheme of a continental war, it was a blink. But for a kingdom on the brink, mobilized by the will of a new, ambitious Queen who was herself a puppet to an unseen God-King, a week was an eternity of frantic, focused preparation.
Alaric Steele, from the remote, icy throne of his northern fortress, had sent the order. Queen Ondine Bellerose, in the sun-drenched, blood-soaked capital of Jorailia, received it not as a request, but as a divine mandate.
"Prepare the kingdom's forces," Alaric's voice had echoed from the Phone Artifact, smooth, commanding, and utterly final. "We are launching a full-scale offensive against the demonic filth infesting the Eloriath territories. You will be my hammer."
Ondine had smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. "As you command, my Lord," she had purred.
