The grand hall of Valoria glowed with torchlight. Flames danced against the
stone walls, casting shifting shadows across the purple-and-white banners that
hung from towering pillars. The air was heavy, as if every soul inside was
holding their breath. Nobles, council members, and the mages of the Tower sat
in tense silence, waiting for their king to speak.
Arthur occupied the central throne, posture firm, gaze steady. Beside him,
Clara sat pale and quiet, her presence heavier than anyone in the chamber yet
realized.
Arthur's voice broke the stillness, low but commanding.
"We have received a reply from the Council of Allied Kingdoms," he announced.
"They leave the matter of Riverbend's broken grain treaty entirely in our
hands."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the chamber, but fell away the instant
Arthur's eyes swept across them. His gaze settled on Hendrik, head of
intelligence.
"Hendrik. What of Riverbend under Roderick?"
Hendrik rose, lean and tense as always, a man who carried grim tidings like
a second skin.
"Your Majesty," he began, "the people are suffering. Taxes rise again and again
under the excuse of strengthening the army. Dissent is crushed. Many whisper
their anger at the treaty's end. Half the population lives in hardship, and
some have already fled toward our borders."
Gasps rippled through the nobles. Arthur only nodded slowly.
"And if we go to war," his tone sharpened, "does anyone here object?"
Silence fell like a blade. Nobles shifted uneasily, mages lowered their
heads, generals clenched their jaws. All of them knew the truth: if Valoria did
nothing after this betrayal, Solaris would tear apart its own pact. To let
Riverbend go unpunished was to invite dishonor and disaster.
Arthur allowed the faintest of smiles. His gaze turned to Clara.
"Then before we march," he said softly, "Clara… remind them who you are."
The chamber stirred in confusion. Clara rose slowly, her blue gown catching
torchlight, lending her an almost regal glow. Her hands trembled for a
heartbeat, then steadied as she lifted her chin.
"I am not only Clara of Ciolove," her voice rang clear. "I am Elara of
Riverbend, daughter of Alden, rightful heir to its throne. And now—Queen of
Valoria."
The hall erupted. Whispers burst into shouts of disbelief. A goblet slipped
and shattered on the marble floor. Mages muttered furiously, nobles turned
pale, stunned.
Only Marcel, Boris, and Hendrik remained composed—they had known. For the
rest, Elara's revelation fell like lightning across the night sky.
The head of the Diplomatic Council staggered to his feet, face flushed.
"Then war is certain. Riverbend has betrayed its word, and its rightful heir
stands here. Valoria must march."
No one opposed him. Nods spread like falling dominoes—reluctant, resigned,
but resolute. Mages bowed their heads. Generals tightened their grips on their
swords. The decision was sealed.
Arthur rose, his words ringing like steel.
"Prepare thirty thousand soldiers. We will take Riverbend."
The dam broke. The chamber filled with movement—captains rushing to gather
men, scribes scratching orders onto parchment, quartermasters counting wagons
and horses. Mages exchanged grim looks, already calculating the runes they
would carve into the battlefield.
Arthur remained still, hand resting on the hilt at his side, his eyes
unreadable. He knew what none dared to say aloud: every word here tonight would
be paid for in blood.
Days later, in the palace at Riverbend, Roderick tore open a sealed letter.
His eyes skimmed the words, then froze at the final line.
The signatures were clear:
Arthur, King of Valoria.
Elara of Riverbend, Queen of Valoria.
His hand shook. His breath caught. It was not the war that crushed him, but
the name. Elara—the girl he believed drowned, lost forever to the river—alive.
And worse, standing as queen beside his enemy.
"Traitor!" His scream thundered through the chamber, rattling goblets on the
table. Rage and dread warred in his veins.
The news raced across the world.
In Solaris, nobles whispered behind closed doors, eyes glinting.
"If Valoria takes Riverbend, they'll bargain peace from strength," one
murmured.
Another smirked. "Or while their army marches, perhaps we'll strike instead."
In Veritas, merchants cheered openly. War meant contracts, coin, and ships
to fill. The council declared neutrality, but taverns roared with raised cups.
In Northaven's timber halls, the merged voices of rangers and seafarers
clashed.
"Valoria grows greedy! They've taken Draxenhold, now Riverbend!" one general
barked. Some nobles shifted uneasily; others muttered grim approval. Better
Riverbend fall than themselves.
And in Valoria itself, the streets buzzed with fire. Some feared long war,
but most cheered when Elara's name was spoken as queen. To them, this was no
longer just Arthur's war. It was theirs—led by a queen who bore Riverbend's
blood yet chose Valoria.
That night, the kingdom became a forge. In barracks, war drums thundered.
Blacksmiths hammered without pause, sparks leaping as steel was born anew.
Armories opened, soldiers queued for their gear.
In the courtyards, warhorses stamped and snorted, harnesses buckled tight.
Wagons groaned under sacks of grain. Young recruits drilled under harsh shouts.
Mages carved glowing sigils into the ground, weaving wards of stamina and
steel.
Arthur stood on a high balcony, Elara at his side. His gaze never wavered
from the frenzy below.
"Thirty thousand soldiers will march. Every step is Valoria's vow never to
bow," he murmured.
Elara turned to him, her voice low but steady. "And every step will also be
your burden, Arthur. I will stand beside you—so you do not carry it alone."
At dawn, drums rolled across the capital.
Tens of thousands of soldiers filled the great square, armor flashing
beneath the morning sun. Purple-and-white banners rippled above them, met with
a roar from the crowd.
"Valoria! Valoria!" The cry shook the earth.
Arthur mounted his black steed, tall and unyielding at the head of the host.
Beside him, Elara rode a white horse, hair streaming in the wind, face resolute
though her eyes flickered with unease.
Marcel, Boris, and Hendrik flanked them as generals shouted down the lines.
War drums thundered in rhythm with the endless tramp of boots as the army
marched beyond the gates.
The people lined the streets, some casting flowers, others lifting hands in
prayer. Children ran alongside, eyes wide with pride at the sight of their king
and queen.
The march of Valoria rolled eastward, dust rising, banners soaring. War had
not yet begun, but the world already trembled with its echo.
And through it all, a new chant filled the air:
"Arthur and Elara! King and Queen of Valoria!"