Lucas and Isla arrived at the border of Cintrell under a gray, overcast sky. Awaiting them at the gates was Countess Norien(Nurin), cloaked in mourning black, her eyes hollow from sleepless nights and the recent death of her husband. With the Count's untimely passing due to illness, the burden of governance fell to her—while her son, Greg, still trained far away with the Military Association.
In their vulnerability, Valte struck.
Seizing on the absence of leadership, the Valte Kingdom raised a monstrous force, pressing into the borderlands. The Countess did what she could, managing the county's internal affairs, while her loyal Knight Commander, August, directed the military. But without true leadership, both the land and its people withered under fear.
Cintrell was crumbling.
So they sent for the capital—for salvation.
The Empire responded not with legions, but with two princes… and a mere three thousand knights.
After formal greetings, Isla vanished to scout the outer lands. Lucas remained, joining Countess Norien, Knight Commander August, and later Isla at the war table. Before them lay a sprawling map of Cintrell, scarred with red ink and charcoal markers. Each mark was a wound on the land.
August began, his tone grim:
"This is a war of attrition. Valte was prepared. In only weeks, they've raised over twenty thousand soldiers. Five thousand of them are cavalry alone—and more mercenaries arrive each day."
He jabbed a dagger into the map where enemy camps had formed.
Lucas leaned in.
"And how many do we have?"
August hesitated, then raised five fingers.
"Five thousand. excluding your divisions."
The Countess lowered her gaze. She had expected more—tens of thousands from the capital. Instead, she received two princes and a fraction of what she hoped.
Eight thousand against twenty thousand.
Isla, sharp as ever, asked,
"Can we expect aid from neighboring counties?"
August nodded.
"Darion and Salvador have pledged support. They'll arrive within the week."
He paused. His voice steadied.
There wasn't the slightest flicker of doubt in August's eyes. A seasoned war veteran, he had stood on countless battlefields and bled for every inch of ground. He understood one truth more than most—numbers did not always win wars.
The Countess, noble and kind-hearted, may not have grasped the full weight of what stood beside her. But August did. One knight captain was worth hundreds of seasoned warriors. And now, she had two. Two captains.She also had three 4-star aura masters—men who could carve through legions like fire through dry grass.
This wasn't an army. It was a blade honed by the Empire itself.
In the worst-case scenario, they only needed to endure—just long enough for reinforcements to arrive. But with the strength they held now, even that might not be necessary.
Lucas and Isla sat down before the war map, their eyes scanning the crimson marks that littered enemy territory. Silence hung between them like a blade. Outside the window, the sky had darkened, and the faint clang of armor echoed in the distance. A storm was coming.
"Mercenaries," Lucas muttered to himself, fingers tapping the hilt of his sword. "They're paid swords, not loyal soldiers. They won't fight to the death. Not unless they're cornered"
They exchanged a knowing look. Both had seen enough blood to understand: loyalty was a far rarer commodity than steel.
"August," Isla began, his tone cold and precise, "list our enemies. The ones that matter."
The old knight commander nodded grimly. He unrolled a separate scroll and began to speak, his voice heavy with the weight of the coming storm.
"First," he said, pointing to the top of the parchment, "the King of Valte. A former Tower Master of Dracia. He renounced the arcane seat to reclaim his bloodright. His mastery of high magic is unquestioned, and his ambition knows no restraint."
Lucas's brow furrowed. A Tower Master turned monarch was not an enemy to take lightly.
"Second," August continued, "the dragons. A pact was made with Dracia's Blue Tower Master, Eldrick, before his death. That alliance gave Valte command of twelve dragons—twelve," he repeated, as if the number itself was a wound.
Lucas tensed. Isla's expression remained unreadable.
"Third, their numbers," August said. "Twenty thousand troops. A tide meant to drown us."
"And fourth," he added, his voice lowering, "the possibility of foreign intervention. Dracia. And Teslon—the Mercenary King."
At that name, both brothers stiffened.
"Teslon?" Isla asked.
August nodded. "A five-star aura master. One of the strongest warriors alive."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled behind them, shadows dancing on the walls like wraiths of future dead.
But Isla's calm never wavered. "Dracia won't interfere," he said firmly. "Their council declared neutrality. Their borders are closed. They've suffered their own losses recently."
August exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest loosening just slightly. He trusted Isla's word more than any envoy's.
Still, the threat remained. The pieces were on the board, and the stakes had never been higher.
..................
Lucas remained silent. Isla stared at the map, his mind already moving like a blade through water. The numbers didn't matter. Valte's army had one fatal weakness—logistics.
"Supplies," Isla murmured. "That's their weakness."
He pointed to a location deep behind enemy lines—an isolated supply hub.
We sever that artery… and the beast bleeds slowly."
August nodded.
"And their cavalry?"
Isla's finger slid across the map—north of the supply line stood a massive dam.
"We destroy the dam. The flood will sweep through their cavalry camps. It'll drown the horses, ruin their provisions. Their strength becomes useless."
Lucas stepped forward.
"For this to work, we need a distraction—something bold enough to draw every eye."
Countess Norien looked up, unsure.
"And what will that be?"
Lucas met her gaze—and smiled.
"A duel."
Silence.
"I will challenge the King of Valte publicly. While all attention turns to me… Isla and the knights will strike. They will burn the supplies and break the dam."
The room sat in stunned silence. Then August chuckled dryly.
"A dangerous gamble."
"It's war," Isla replied coldly. "There's no safety here—only victory or death."
An envoy was dispatched at once to deliver Cintrell's challenge to the King of Valte—Roderick. A former Tower Master of Dracia and a royal of Valte blood. His power, like his pride, was legendary.
When he read the challenge, a cruel smile touched his lips.
"A duel?" he murmured. "How quaint."
And with terrifying confidence, King Roderick agreed.