Chapter 98 – War on the Eastern Wind
The sun never truly rose in Draventh.
It bled dimly through the blackened skies as smoke from the collapsed Vorn estate continued to rise. Cleanup crews and imperial enforcers scoured the rubble. Word of the incident had already spread through the Iron Empire like wildfire.
Jean stood atop the eastern tower of the Imperial Citadel, Luxclade sheathed across her back, cloak torn and singed. Beside her stood the Iron Empress Valessia, her expression carved from stone.
"You sealed it," Valessia said. "But now they know."
Jean nodded grimly. "The Magistery is working with the dragons. Maybe not openly, but in secret. They provided the rites, the knowledge—maybe more."
Valessia didn't flinch. "Then it's treason on a world scale."
Behind them, Kaelis and Silvia approached. The latter bore the broken black ring once worn by Duke Vorn—now nothing but dust.
"We tracked the magical residue," Kaelis said. "The energy used in the rite was drawn from a leyline network. One that runs east—deep into Magistery lands."
Jean's jaw tightened. "They're summoning more eggs."
Valessia turned toward the war table.
It showed the eastern frontier of the Iron Empire, its border flanked by fortified cities and outposts: Balmorath, Crestfold, and the Stormhollow Ridge.
"Then we must act before the Magistery unleashes what they're hiding," the Empress said. "I will rally my Four Ducal Armies. But even united, we may not be enough."
Jean looked toward the edge of the map—where Luther territory bordered the eastern ridgelines.
"I'll return to the Clan," she said. "We can't afford our divisions now. The succession war must end."
Silvia met her eyes, and for the first time, there was no doubt—only resolve.
"Then we march together," she said. "As Luthers."
---
The chamber grew silent.
Until Valessia, Empress of Iron, reached out her gauntlet.
"An alliance, then. Between Iron and Light. Between sword and flame."
Jean took her hand.
And for the first time in centuries, Luther and Drakon stood as one.
---
Far away, in the floating spires of the Magistery, masked mages watched the flame.
The dragon whelp's eye, sealed in crystal, still glowed faintly.
"The Emissary grows stronger," said one. "Too strong."
Another voice, deeper and darker, responded from the shadows.
> "Let her grow. The higher the flame, the more glorious its fall."
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