Mist clung to the slopes outside the Crimson Dominion encampment like a heavy silk, concealing the breadth of their army. Tents stretched in disciplined rows, banners of crimson flaring in the wind, and between them moved the officers and mages whose eyes bore the weight of calculation and anticipation.
Inside the largest tent, the council gathered. Long tables of polished obsidian bore maps etched with ivory markers, each denoting fortresses, rivers, and ridges. Seliora moved between them like a shadow of command, fingers tracing paths no eye could see. Her eyes, sharp and cold, reflected nothing but strategy.
The evening sun burned low over the Crimson Dominion, casting long crimson shadows across the high walls of the palace. Its light glinted off the polished armor of Kaelith and the silent, ever-watchful Seliora as they entered the war tent. Maps of verdant lands, river systems, and mountain ridges were spread across the long oak table, threaded with golden ink marking supply lines and fortifications. The tent's walls were taut, embroidered with sigils of blood and command, whispering faintly in the presence of the royal siblings.
"We have seen the harvest of Elyndral," Kaelith began, voice calm but edged with authority. "The first victory is secured. Yet the next… Verdant Vale of Lutharn is unlike the others. Their strength is not just in men, but in magic. Their barriers are ancient, woven into the very land."
Seliora leaned over the map, her eyes cold, sharp as a blade's edge. "The barrier cannot be broken — and it will not be. There is no need. The Scarlet Bind will take the place of brute force. Our victory will be quiet, absolute, and unyielding. Let the pride of Verdant Vale work against itself."
King Veythar watched from the head of the table, silence speaking louder than words. Every general, every duke, every mage felt it: one misstep, one falter, and his gaze would descend like judgment.
Seliora broke the silence. "Verdant Vale of Lutharn. Magic-rich, proud, untouchable in their confidence. Unlike Elyndral, their defenses cannot be breached—not by blade, not by fire. And yet, magic is a structure. Every structure has its fault, every barrier its leverage. We will exploit it."
A mage, young and cautious, spoke. "Princess… if the barrier cannot be broken, how do we reach them? Their wards are absolute."
Seliora's lips curved, almost imperceptibly. "Do not think in terms of breaking. We bend. We manipulate. The barrier will not fall; they will not see it yield. But their strength will be their undoing. The vector will move through them, within the barrier itself, and turn obedience into inevitability."
A murmur ran through the council. Even Veythar's stern gaze softened—subtly—but approvingly.
Seliora's finger traced a golden line on the map. "Every soldier, every mage, every entomancer knows their role. Every step choreographed, every breath accounted for. The barrier is their cage, their pride their chain. They will obey not out of fear, but because it is their only choice."
A duke spoke, cautious. "Your Highness, the barriers are rumored to be impervious to conventional magic, even to enchanted weapons. How do we ensure that the Bind penetrates their wards?"
Seliora's lips curved faintly, almost a smile. "It is not penetration, my lord. It is infiltration. The Scarlet Bind does not smash. It waits. It spreads. Within the circle we create around the Vale, the blood of the people, of their own soldiers, becomes the conduit. They will serve their own demise, thinking they act by will. Only the Circle and the Bind know the truth."
Kaelith nodded, his eyes scanning the aerial layout of the Vale. "This is no mere conquest. It is a chessboard. Every soldier, every mage, every noble will be a piece moved by necessity, not awareness. The Vale will collapse from within, not by breaking the walls. Their pride will betray them."
Outside, the winds carried a faint scent of earth and flowering meadows, untouched by war. Verdant Vale of Lutharn hovered above the cliffs, a hanging island of jade and silver waterfalls, surrounded by a mist that glimmered with morning dew. From this height, it seemed impossible that blood and deceit could ever touch it, that the Crimson Dominion's reach could extend so far.
Yet, beneath the beauty, the people of the Vale were ready. Their mages had enchanted the land with wards; soldiers were trained for long campaigns in magical terrains; the queen herself had prepared a council of strategy and vigilance. The floating terraces and arcane towers glimmered like emerald teeth against the sun's fading rays. Pride radiated from every balcony, every sentry's stance.
Back in the tent, Seliora's hand rested on the table, tracing the boundaries of the Circle they would draw around the Vale. "The Scarlet Bind requires precision. It will not be immediate, and it will not be understood. But by the time they realize their own kin move against them, it will be too late. They will negotiate… or they will die. Both options serve the same purpose."
A younger baron, hesitant, asked, "And the people inside? The innocents?"
Seliora's gaze lifted, icy and deliberate. "Survival is measured by loyalty and strength, not sentiment. Only those who act under command will remain. Those who resist… they teach obedience through fear. Their suffering is necessary. Their minds will bend, even without awareness, to the will of the Crimson Dominion."
Kaelith's voice lowered, deliberate, commanding yet measured. "And the Hollow Dagger…"
Seliora's lips quirked ever so slightly. "The weapon will observe, silent and unseen. No hesitation. No interference beyond order. When the Bind takes effect, all else becomes a sequence of inevitability. She does not act, she executes the law of blood and command. That is her perfection."
The discussion paused, each lord and noble weighing the consequences in grim silence. Outside, the Vale shimmered, untouched yet watchful, a jewel suspended between sky and cliff, unaware of the invisible chains soon to encircle its people.
Seliora's hand hovered over the map, tapping a location near the northern ridge. "Here, the Scarlet Bind will spread first. The Circle is strongest at the apex — the Hanging Crescent. Our agents will enter the lower terraces as guides, unobserved. The barrier will shield them from observation, but not from influence. Once the Circle is closed, the rest follows."
A mage, tasked with the preparation of the Bind, bowed low. "The blood of the nobles, the sentries, and the city guards will serve as anchors. Once the Circle is complete, the Bind will proliferate throughout their veins, unseen. The barrier will feed it, not resist it. Their magic becomes their own prison."
Outside, the Vale's floating isles caught the last light, shimmering silver and jade. The waterfalls poured like crystal veins, the wind carried the fragrance of rare blooms, and from the highest spires, golden sunlight fell upon soldiers standing proud, unaware of the slow, creeping fate descending upon them.
Seliora leaned back in the chair, silent, watching the tent's entrance where a figure remained unseen to all. Beneath the folds of black cloth, chains hidden, the Hollow Dagger stood, unblinking, unspeaking, unmoving. The weapon's purpose was not perception but obedience. Its eyes — or rather, its empty masks — were fixed upon the map, upon the Circle, upon the strategy.
Inside, the dagger's consciousness moved in a strange, unfeeling rhythm. Thoughts did not bloom, memories did not stir, yet echoes of the words Seliora had spoken resonated faintly. Perfection. Execute. Obey. The dagger acknowledged the weight of its purpose, the gravity of command, the silent understanding that would one day intersect with destiny, and yet, nothing moved beyond order.
Kaelith rose, his shadow long against the maps. "Once the Scarlet Bind is activated, the Vale will bend, or break. The floating islands, their terraces, their spires — all will serve as instruments of the will. The barriers will become conduits, not shields. It is subtle. It is complete. It is… elegant."
Seliora smiled thinly, venomous and proud. "Elegance is survival. Precision is power. Mercy is a lie. Let them marvel at their own obedience before the end comes."
The tent fell silent once more. Outside, the wind stirred the banners of crimson, the soft hum of magical wards against the walls whispered through the stakes of the tent, and the mages' sigils glimmered faintly, waiting.
The Hollow Dagger shifted, subtle, almost imperceptible, and its thoughts lingered on one line Seliora had spoken: She will execute the law of blood and command.
Even in obedience, even in the hollow stillness of the weapon, the weight of those words pressed, a faint echo that, somewhere deep beneath, began to resonate. Not as rebellion, not as awareness, but as a whisper of the truth it had once been.
And outside, Verdant Vale shimmered in naive brilliance, suspended in its floating splendor, ready to meet the unseen chains, ready to bend, ready to fall to the Scarlet Bind.
The wind carried the scent of blooming flowers, the stone terraces stood proud and unsullied, and the golden light reflected across the water veins of the hanging islands. Soon, it would all be controlled. Soon, the blood, the pride, the loyalty of the Vale would march under unseen orders.
And in the center of it all, silent, unmoving, obedient, the Hollow Dagger waited.
For now, all was perfect. The game had begun.