Unlike Alison's blunt, martial aura, Thymur exuded quiet calculation. When he bowed, it was deliberate, measured.
"Your Majesty," he greeted, his voice smooth, carrying an undercurrent of intellect.
"Sit," Renher commanded.
Soon after, the remaining council members filed in—seasoned captains with weathered faces, a few young commanders eager for distinction, scribes already preparing quills and parchment.
The room filled with the murmurs of strategy and the scent of hot wax dripping from the great chandelier above.
Renher raised a hand. Silence fell.
"Report on the war's progress," he said. "Casualties, expenditure, and yield."
Thymur stood without hesitation, as though expecting the command. He unrolled a scroll, his tone precise, clinical.
"Since the war's initiation, our records confirm—
47 soldiers fallen,
45 heavily injured,
300 with lighter wounds,
15 mages sustaining minor injuries.
The total expenditure—food, weapons, medical aid, funerals, wages—amounts to approximately ten thousand gold coins.
However, the spoils of war—orc hide, weapons scavenged, and mana stones—have yielded twelve thousand. Possibly more, once all are appraised.
Given our annual income of a hundred thousand from taxation, trade, and mercenary contracts, the war remains economically profitable.
More importantly, the eradication of the orc menace secures our borders for at least a generation."
He lowered the scroll, expression unreadable.
A murmur spread across the table. One young captain leaned toward another, whispering, "Profitable. War spoken of like a merchant's ledger."
Alison's eyes snapped to him. "Better to weigh profit than count bodies without meaning," he growled.
The younger officer flushed and looked down.
Renher's gaze, cool and steady, swept the room. "Both matter," he said, his voice like steel on stone. "The lives of my soldiers are worth more than coin—but coin keeps their families alive after they are gone. Allocate a portion of our revenue to the households of the dead. Priority in castle employment to their kin—maids, chefs, stablehands, whatever they are suited for. No widow or orphan will starve under my reign."
A ripple of approval ran through the chamber. Even the younger captain who had spoken out lifted his head with newfound respect.
The council pressed on, strategies clashing like blades:
—A seasoned veteran argued for a direct siege.
—A younger officer proposed baiting the enemy into ambush.
—Alison countered with a call for fortified lines, buying time.
Thymur, ever calm, suggested a layered advance, with mage artillery softening enemy strongholds before infantry pressed forward.
The debate grew heated, hands slamming the table, quills scratching furiously as scribes struggled to keep pace.
Renher listened in silence, his expression giving nothing away. But within, he weighed each proposal with the cold efficiency of a commander who knew hesitation could spell death for thousands.
It was then Thymur's gaze shifted. The mage's eyes narrowed toward the window.
There, perched unnaturally still upon the stone ledge, was a pigeon. Its feathers were ruffled by no breeze. Around its leg gleamed a crimson seal.
Thymur's pulse quickened, though his face betrayed little. He rose smoothly, staff in hand, and approached the bird.
The others barely noticed, their voices still rising in argument.
Renher, however, did. His eyes followed Thymur with sharp intent. The mage was not a man easily stirred.
Breaking the seal with a flick of his thumb, Thymur scanned the parchment. His golden brows drew together, though only for a heartbeat before he smoothed his expression.
When he turned, his throat cleared softly—a sound that cut through the council's noise like a blade through silk. Silence descended.
"This," Thymur said, his voice low and deliberate, "is a message from the Mage Association. They have decided to lend us their aid in the coming battle."
A ripple of shock swept the room. Captains exchanged bewildered glances. Scribes froze mid-stroke.
Even Renher's stoic features shifted. His eyebrow arched ever so slightly.
For a heartbeat, the chamber remained frozen.
The Mage Association—Skairus' ancient, aloof order of spellcasters—had not aided the empire in centuries. Their neutrality was as unshakable as stone. For them to suddenly intervene… it was nothing short of unprecedented.
Whispers erupted.
"The Mages?" one captain muttered, half in disbelief.
"They never involve themselves in wars of men," another scoffed. "Why now?"
"A trap," said a third, his tone edged with suspicion.
Alison's fist slammed against the table, silencing them. "Trap or not, their power is undeniable.
A battalion of battle-mages could turn the tide in a single night." His scarred face hardened. "But why offer it freely? Nothing in this world comes without a price."
Thymur held the parchment delicately between his fingers. His calm gaze swept across the chamber. "It says only this: 'For the sake of balance, we march beside you. Expect us before the moon wanes.'"
"Balance?" Alison spat. "Their riddles and games—always balance, never loyalty.
Tell me, Thymur, are we meant to welcome them like honored guests, not knowing when the dagger might come for our backs?"
Thymur's eyes flickered with restrained irritation, though his tone remained even. "Better to wield their strength than leave it in the hands of another. Whatever their motives, denying their aid would be folly."
The council fractured along those lines. Half sided with Alison—suspicious, wary, warning of treachery.
The other half echoed Thymur, speaking of opportunity, of unmatched magical might that could shatter enemy strongholds without a drop of Skairus blood.
The noise swelled—voices clashing, accusations flaring.
Renher remained silent. His hands, scarred from countless battles, rested calmly on the table. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp as drawn steel, shifting between his generals, weighing every word.
Finally, he rose. The scraping of his chair against stone cut through the argument like a blade.
"Enough."
Renher's voice cut through the murmurs,high and deliberate.
"What do they offer?"
Thymur unrolled the parchment further, eyes skimming quickly. His tone was measured, but the faint tremor in it betrayed even his surprise.
"Their forces will include:
— Twenty-five low-level mages,
— Ten intermediates,
— And…" He paused, his gaze flicking briefly to Renher before finishing. "One advanced mage."
The room fell utterly silent.
An advanced mage.
The words landed like a thunderclap. To the common folk outside these walls, it might mean little. But here, among generals and officers, every man and woman understood the gravity of it.
An advanced mage was no mere reinforcement—they were calamities in human form. A seventh-circle caster could erase armies with a single spell, bending the elements to their will.
Where an intermediate mage could burn a regiment, an advanced mage could topple a fortress.
The Skairus Empire itself could boast only seven such beings. Kaileen was one, Thymur another. The rest were scattered across the realm—advisors, guardians, diplomats who represented the Empire's might.
For this campaign, Renher had been content with only Thymur at his side. One advanced mage was more than enough.
Now the Mage Association was offering another.
A ripple of unease moved through the council. Alison leaned forward, his hand pressing against the table. "If they send one of their advanced…" His voice faltered. "The balance of this war shifts before it even begins."
Renher's gaze sharpened, his fingers steepled before his lips.
"And their price? The Mage Association never acts without motive."
Thymur exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling as though bracing against the weight of the words. "Forty percent of the spoils of war. And…" he glanced down at the parchment again, "…first pick of all magical materials harvested from the orcs. They demand a slight price concession for any they leave behind."
The chamber stirred with protest. Several generals exchanged heated whispers, their voices rising. "Forty percent—?" "They would gut the profit—" "The mana stones alone could—"
Renher silenced them with a single, sharp look.
Profit. That word meant little to him in the face of lives spared. He leaned back in his chair, lips curving into a faint smirk.
"A bargain," he said simply.
The tension broke. Alison blinked at him, startled. "Your Majesty?"
"This war was never waged for coin," Renher declared, his voice carrying across the chamber with the certainty of iron. "It was waged to secure our borders and crush the threat that stalks our people. If a share of spoils buys us their aid and ensures victory with fewer graves dug, then let it be so."
The council fell silent once more, chastened. Even those who had doubted lowered their gazes.
"We will accept their aid. But on our terms. Their battalion will be positioned on the flank, where their power can crush the enemy yet never pierce our heart should betrayal strike.
Alison—prepare contingency lines in case their spells turn against us. Thymur—you will liaise with them directly. If their loyalty falters, I expect you to be the first to know."
Alison gave a firm nod, though unease lingered in his eyes. "It will be done."
Thymur bowed with a hint of satisfaction. "As you command, sire."
Around the table, the other officers murmured agreement. Order returned, the clash of voices subdued by Renher's decisive will.
He leaned forward, placing both hands upon the scarred wood. "Remember this: allies may shift, strategies may change, but our strength lies not in borrowed power. It lies in the blood and steel of Skairus. That will never waver."
"Send word immediately," Renher continued, turning to Thymur. "Inform them that their assistance is welcome. And tell them this—Skairus will bear the cost of their wounded. Every mage they send will return home, no matter what it takes."
Thymur wasted no time. He drew fresh parchment, dipping quill into ink. His strokes were quick, precise, yet Renher noticed the faintest upward curl at the edge of his mouth. The mage approved of his emperor's decision.
As the letter was sealed with crimson wax, Renher rose to his feet. His gaze drifted toward the great map stretched across the war table, its painted forests and rivers now seeming more tangible, more urgent.
The Bailus Forest loomed on its northern edge—an endless sprawl of dark canopy and treacherous swamp.
Orc banners had been sighted there, their encampment shielded by nature's cruelest terrain. Crossing it with soldiers alone would have bled them dry.
But with the Association's mages? The swamp would part, the forest would burn, and the orcs would find no shelter in root or shadow.
Renher placed both hands upon the table, his voice a quiet promise to himself.
"This ends swiftly."
A unified chorus answered, "For Skairus!"
The words echoed off the chamber walls, carrying conviction. For a moment, the weight of uncertainty lifted, replaced by shared resolve.
With that, the meeting adjourned.
Armor clinking, Renher strode from the chamber. His destination was clear—the royal armoury. One final task awaited before the march to war: to retrieve Excalibur, the blade that had carved both his legend and his empire.