The War Map Hall smelled faintly of steel and candle wax, its high-arched ceiling vanishing into shadow beyond the reach of the iron braziers. The air was cool despite the firelight, heavy with the unspoken tension that had lingered for days.
The war table dominated the center of the chamber. Carved from black marble veined with silver, it was more than furniture—it was a record of centuries of blood and borders. Thin silver inlays traced rivers, mountains, and keeps, each painstakingly accurate to the realm's geography. On its polished surface lay carved tokens: silver figurines for allied forces, crimson for Valeryn's own troops, and jagged shards of obsidian for enemy presence.
The eastern border was crowded with black shards, creeping toward the Saerath-ruled city of Dar'eth and, beyond that, Valeryn's own lands. The obsidian shapes seemed to multiply each day.
Kaelen stood over the table, his gloved hands resting on the cold marble. His eyes kept drifting eastward, to where silver and crimson stood hopelessly outnumbered.
The massive double doors groaned open. Sir Renic entered first, the lamplight glinting off the polished steel of his breastplate. His face was weathered from years of campaigning, his jaw set in grim determination. Behind him came Queen Dowager Elyra, robed in black silk trimmed with subtle embroidery of silver thread. Though she wore no crown, the air seemed to bend toward her presence.
Renic saluted briefly. "Your Grace." His voice carried the weight of urgency. "We've had fresh reports from the scouts. The vanguard that struck at Black Fen was only the tip of the spear. They're mobilizing in force, Kaelen—bigger than anything we've seen in a decade."
Elyra's gaze swept over the war table, lingering on the clusters of obsidian shards. "They're moving faster than expected."
Renic stepped closer to the table and placed a new token—a black shard—just west of the Saerath border. "By my count, if they push without slowing, they'll reach our eastern watchtowers in less than a fortnight. We don't have the numbers to match them. Even if we pull every able-bodied man from the western provinces, we'll still be short by thousands."
Kaelen's voice was low, but it cut cleanly through the air. "And your solution is to give Seraphina Drayven what she wants."
Renic didn't flinch. "If it keeps your soldiers alive, yes. Her terms are steep, but she offers more than soldiers—siege engineers, war mages, healers, supplies enough for a winter campaign."
Elyra moved to the table, her hand brushing over the silver figurine that marked Valeryn's forces. "He's right. Without the Saerath, we fight with what we have, and what we have will not be enough."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed. "You both speak as though she offers this out of charity."
Elyra met his gaze without wavering. "She doesn't. She offers it because she sees the value of Valeryn's loyalty—and your crown. If she secures both, she gains a steadfast ally on her western flank. She gains the prestige of binding herself to a king who has already won the loyalty of his people." Her voice cooled further. "And if you think for a moment that such a bargain doesn't also serve our survival, you are letting pride cloud your sight."
Renic gestured sharply at the eastern edge of the table. "Pride doesn't keep borders intact Kaelen, but soldiers do. And unless you've been hiding twenty thousand of them somewhere, we need hers."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Our army is not without strength."
Renic's reply was hard. "Strength without numbers bleeds to nothing. We have six thousand trained men in the eastern legions. Another four thousand in reserve. The rest are militia, farmers with spears. Even if they fight with courage, courage won't stop demon steel or break their ranks."
He tapped the black shards. "These aren't rabble, Kaelen. The scouts say they're deploying their elites—armored hulks with shield walls, winged scourges for air support, and heavy infantry that fights without tiring. If we meet them alone, we break."
Kaelen stared at the shards, hearing the words but resenting their truth.
Elyra's eyes shifted slightly, as though recalling something. "This isn't the first time this choice has been placed before this throne."
The room's air seemed to grow colder.
"Ten years ago," she continued, "your father sat where you stand. Saerath offered us alliance then, after the Siege of Dalreth. Their terms were lighter—troops in exchange for trade concessions and joint patrols. He refused."
Her voice became distant, almost like a story told from far away. The flicker of the braziers deepened into memory.
---
The War Map Hall looked the same, though the tokens on the table were fewer. King Alaric stood tall, his hair still black, his armor gleaming from the victory at Frostmere Pass. Renic—much younger—stood at his side. Across from them was the Saerath ambassador, a man in imperial blue and silver, unrolling a scroll.
The ambassador's voice was smooth. "Empress Drayven offers mutual defense. In exchange, she asks for oversight of trade routes through the Vale, and the stationing of a Saerath garrison in Valeryn's eastern fort."
Alaric had laughed—not mockingly, but with iron certainty. "Tell your Empress Valeryn bows to no throne but its own. We defend our own borders, keep our own steel sharp, and pay for our own wars. Let her keep her soldiers for her own troubles."
The ambassador had left, his expression unreadable. Elyra had said nothing then, but her eyes had followed him until the doors closed.
---
The memory faded. Elyra's gaze on Kaelen was steady. "He thought strength alone was enough. Perhaps it was, then but that time demons were fewer and the realm was stronger but times have changed."
Kaelen's hands tightened on the table's edge. "And if I bend now, what will our people say? That their king sold his crown to another ruler?"
"They will say," Elyra replied, "that you kept their homes from burning."
Before Kaelen could answer, the side door opened. A servant bowed low. "Your Graces… the healer requests your presence. The King's fever rises."
They left the hall in silence, their footsteps echoing down the cold stone corridors.
The chamber smelled of sage and candle wax. Heavy curtains muted the winter daylight. King Alaric lay against pillows, his breath shallow, skin slick with fever. The royal healer stood at the bedside, his face grave.
"He grows weaker," the healer murmured. "His strength may not last the week."
Kaelen moved to his father's side, taking the weathered hand in his own. Alaric's eyes fluttered open. "Kaelen… protect… them…"
The words were little more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of command.
Elyra's voice was quiet, but her meaning sharp. "You've heard him. Now protect them, however you must."
Renic stood at the foot of the bed, watching Kaelen. "I'll follow whichever road you choose. But choose fast—enemy will not wait for that."
Kaelen looked at his father, then at the shadows of the tapestries in his mind, the ones where kings stood victorious. He saw the black shards pushing at their border.
Finally, he straightened. "Send word to Saerath. Tell the Empress I will accept her terms."
To be continued…