The morning was grim. Thick gray clouds loomed above the borderlands, casting long shadows over the charred and stony plains where Lumisgrave ended and Eshalorn began. A bitter wind raced across the horizon, whistling through dry grass and stirring the capes of armored soldiers on both sides. Thunder rumbled faintly, as though the heavens themselves were watching, whispering omens into the ears of the brave and the damned.
Hooves clashed against dirt. Steel clanged and flags fluttered.
The Echelon Knights, shining in radiant formations, stood still and alert at the border under the banner of Lumisgrave. Beside them stood King Farhan, his long black and white hair swaying in the cold wind, the ends of his regal robe brushing the earth. His golden crown glimmered despite the overcast sky, and his eyes, sharp as the blades by his side, were locked on the distance.
Arslan stood behind him, adorned in dark combat attire, his eyes unreadable, his soul burning quietly beneath the surface. Around him stood the other Mythics—silent, alert. Kar'Thæl's essence whispered at the edge of Arslan's thoughts, cold but coiled, ready.
Then from beyond the rising ridge of the border hills, the sound came—marching.
Thousands. Not just soldiers—but giants of metal and magic.
BOOM.
The drums of war began.
From the fog, a formation emerged—the Magic Knights of Eshalorn. Their armor was gleaming violet-silver, and each of them walked in unison. Their bodies were flanked with spirits—shimmering entities, like fragments of raw elemental souls that floated above their shoulders, flickering and pulsing with distinct energies: fire, ice, wind, storm, stone, shadow. Some had multiple spirits trailing behind them in swirling dances of menace.
Between their ranks strode massive constructs—golems of spirit-bound steel. Enchanted beasts, bound by forgotten tongues. And at the heart of them all, riding a war-beast draped in obsidian armor, was King Mamba of Eshalorn.
He was a towering figure, clad in dark enchanted robes, his crown a twisted spiral of bone and black metal. A serpent-shaped spirit hovered at his side, coiling in and out of view like smoke in a storm.
The drums stopped.
Silence fell like a blade.
The two armies stood separated by just a stretch of deadland now—only a breath away from bloodshed.
Then, King Mamba stepped forward. His heavy boots crushed pebbles as he walked across the field. With every step, his spirit serpent hissed, gliding beside him like a living curse.
King Farhan raised his hand lightly, and his knights opened a path. He stepped forward to meet him, face to face.
The two kings stopped only yards apart. No barriers. No weapons drawn. Just two rulers, bearing the weight of nations.
Rain began to fall—slow, cold.
King Mamba's voice broke the silence.
> Mamba (calm, venomous): "If you surrender yourself, and hand over Lumisgrave, I will spare your life, Farhan."
His voice was deep and low, vibrating through the air like distant thunder. The Magic Knights behind him raised their spears slightly as if reacting to his mere tone.
Gasps stirred among Lumisgrave's army. One Echelon Knight gritted his teeth. Another raised her shield half an inch, barely restraining herself. Even horses shifted nervously.
King Farhan didn't flinch. His reply was swift and regal.
> Farhan (firm): "You truly think... you can beat us?"
His words echoed over the plains, not as a threat, but as a truth chiseled into the earth. Behind him, the Echelon Knights and the Mythics held their heads high. Arslan's gaze narrowed—Kar'Thæl stirred in his chest.
King Mamba smirked bitterly. His serpent spirit hissed louder now, swirling above him.
> Mamba: "You forget the past, Farhan. I have not. This is not about mere conquest. This is revenge for what you did to Eshalorn in the last war."
King Farhan's eyes sharpened with restrained fire.
> Farhan (controlled anger): "That war was a consequence of your father's tyranny, Mamba. I thought... perhaps you would break that chain. I hoped you'd attend the Grand Meeting. But instead, you chose this—war against us."
> Mamba (raising his voice): "I will never sit with enemies. Never bow to traitors! I will drown your capital in arcane fire before I bow."
> Farhan (resolute): "Then remember this day. You had a choice. And you chose destruction."
Thunder cracked directly overhead. The rain fell harder now, soaking armor and banners, streaming down faces—yet no one moved. A single drop trailed down Arslan's cheek, but he barely blinked.
Farhan stepped back.
Mamba stepped back.
> Farhan (raising his hand, commandingly): "To positions."
> Mamba (cold and final): "So be ready. For Lumisgrave will fall."
He turned, robes whipping in the rain.
> Kar'Thael (to Arslan, whispering inside): "The spark has lit the fire, boy."
Arslan's heart beat once—hard.
The skies roared. The first battle cries rang out.
Both forces began to move.