The morning rain had cast a silver veil over the Royal Capital. Clouds drifted like solemn guardians across the gray skies, and droplets fell steadily onto the grand marble terraces of the palace. The soft rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, not fierce enough to frighten—but enough to signal change. The capital city, usually echoing with activity, had taken on a strange serenity. The cobblestone paths gleamed wet, and cloaked figures hurried under awnings, whispering about the sudden weather.
In the highest tower of the palace, where the King often took council or sought moments of reflection, a large window overlooked the drenched city. King Farhan stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, the long folds of his deep blue and gold robe brushing against the polished floor. Raindrops slid down the tall glass panes like restless tears.
Suddenly, footsteps approached behind him.
A guard in silver-and-black uniform bowed low. "Your Majesty… a traveler has come from Eshalorn. He claims urgent news."
The King didn't turn. "Is he trustworthy?"
The guard hesitated. "He bore the seal of the Eye of Eldren… the hidden network."
Now King Farhan turned, the storm's reflection in his eyes. "Bring him."
Moments later, a drenched man in a hooded cloak stepped forward. His boots left a trail on the polished floor. The hood was pulled down to reveal a face rough with stubble, sharp with years of survival and fear.
"Your Majesty," the man bowed with a soldier's discipline. "My name is Varun. Spy to the Watch of Eshalorn. I come with grave news."
The King studied him for a moment, then gestured. "Speak."
Varun's voice was low, intense, and fast. "King Mamba of Eshalorn is preparing an invasion… not in months or weeks—he moves now. His elite force, the Magic Knights, are mobilizing. They are no ordinary fighters. Each one is bonded with a Spirit of Power—some elemental, some demonic. It is said even the weakest among them could face a battalion alone."
King Farhan's eyes narrowed. "Where did you hear this?"
"I infiltrated the court chambers," Varun said, water still dripping from his cloak. "King Mamba has made a public declaration—he will march through the Wounded Range and descend upon Lumisgrave. His goal: complete control. He believes your forces have grown soft with council and ceremony. He intends to strike before the next moon rises."
The room chilled.
King Farhan stepped forward, his presence commanding. "Did he say when he intends to cross the border?"
"By next dusk," Varun whispered.
A silence fell so deep that even the rain beyond the window seemed to hold its breath.
The King gave a slow nod. "You've done your duty, Varun of the Watch. Rest while you can. Guards—escort him to safety."
Varun bowed deeply and was led out.
The moment the doors closed, King Farhan turned sharply. "Send word. Summon the Council. At once."
Within the hour, the storm's grayness had deepened, thunder crawling low across the skies. The circular Council Chamber, carved from obsidian and silver-lined roots of the Heartwood Tree, buzzed with quiet urgency. The five high seats, raised slightly above the ground level, were already filled.
Julious, Leader of the Guardian Council, leaned forward, his young face dark with concern.
Parche of the People's Forum folded his hands, already sensing the unrest this news would spread.
Rivers of the Council of Veins, older and sharp-eyed, was quiet—calculating.
Camero, Chairman of the Police Department, sat stiffly, tension obvious in his usually calm posture.
King Farhan entered last, the golden serpent crest upon his robe shining under the firelight. No one stood—his command needed no protocol.
He stepped into the center. "A spy from Eshalorn brought us a storm. King Mamba prepares to invade—by dusk tomorrow."
The air tensed. Camero's eyes widened. "With what force?"
"His elite." Farhan's voice was steel. "He's unleashing the Magic Knights—a unit bonded with spiritual entities. Their powers are not illusions or borrowed incantations. They are enhanced by ancient Spirits. Bound by rituals lost even to the Library of Veins."
Julious stood, robes whispering against the floor. "If this is true, then we're not facing an army… we're facing legend."
Rivers finally spoke. "We must respond. Immediately."
The King raised a hand. "I have already decided. We will alert the Echelon Knights of every rank. Zenith, Apex, Mythic, Omega, and Alpha. This will not be a battle of borders. It is a battle of legacy. This is a war for survival."
Camero stood. "The people must be warned."
Parche shook his head. "And cause panic? No—we must prepare silently but swiftly."
Julious added, "Then let us send scouts to confirm. We can't commit forces blind."
King Farhan nodded. "We will. But our preparations must not wait. This war… must show Mamba that Lumisgrave is more than he imagines."
The next few hours transformed the peaceful Royal Capital into a silent war forge.
Armories opened their deepest vaults. Artificers began enchanting weapons with relics not seen in decades. Messages—carried by air familiars and shadow messengers—sped toward the floating Zenith Bases, the abyssal Omega Vaults, and the coastal Apex sanctums.
Within the Grand Courtyard, rows of soldiers trained in the rain, blades flashing under lightning. The mythic banners were unfurled, fluttering despite the downpour.
Meanwhile, the King stood upon the high balcony of his tower, watching the storm-ridden city below. His eyes weren't on the soldiers. They were on the skies.
Julious stepped closer. "Arslan could tip the war. He could be our greatest weapon."
"I will not risk Arslan," the King said, still facing the storm. "He holds a darkness I've yet to understand. And Kar'Thæl is not something I want provoked in the middle of a battlefield."
"But if the Magic Knights—"
"Enough." The King turned now, his face stern. "We have enough to fear. I won't add a flame I can't control."
Julious nodded silently, though unease remained in his expression.
As night fell, the clouds still wept over Lumisgrave. But the capital stood strong, its towers glowing like stars beneath the rain.
In the great hall, the King addressed the Royal Guards and a division of Mythic-ranked warriors, their eyes reflecting firelight and thunder.
"Tomorrow," he said, "a tyrant will test our walls. But Lumisgrave was not built on fear. We are forged from storms, from sacrifice. Let King Mamba come. Let his Spirits roar. We will meet them not with desperation—but with defiance."
Cheers echoed through the hall.
"Mythics," he continued, looking at a small group near the front, "You carry the trust of this nation on your backs. Your blades, your power, your courage—will inspire more than fear. It will inspire legend."
One of them, a tall warrior with lightning tattoos on his arms, raised his blade. "Then let the storm test our steel, Your Majesty!"
Farhan smiled. "Let it."