The birth of the Valorian Empire spread like wildfire. Messenger birds
soared from Rivendale at dawn, and by nightfall their scrolls had landed on the
desks of rulers across Etheria. In crowded markets, merchants lowered their
voices when speaking Arthur's name, as if a storm might strike simply from
saying it too loud. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves and asked, "What
is an empire?" The answers came slow, uncertain.
In Solaris, the war room was stifled with unease. A map stretched across the
long table, fresh ink marking their retreat from Draxenhold. Candles dripped
steadily into silver dishes, each drop sounding sharper than any word. A
general slammed his palm against the table. "We are cornered from the south and
east if Valoria keeps advancing."
An old adviser shook his head. "Not by armies, General. We are cornered by
fear. Valoria is building now. When they are done, they will look to us."
A younger officer, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, rasped, "And when
they do? When they finally turn west, what will be left of Solaris?"
No one replied. Outside the window, the city still pulsed—markets traded,
carts rolled—but every laugh carried a bitterness none dared name.
In Veritas, glass halls shone beneath a serene afternoon sky. Ministers sat
apart, no clashing steel, only the scratch of quills across parchment. They
counted tariffs, debated licenses for universities, speculated on the price of
grain should Valoria's mana rail reach their markets. A portly minister cleared
his throat. "If we open trade, we prosper. But what if they demand more than
trade?"
Another answered evenly, "Better to prosper in the empire's shadow than
starve in fragile freedom." The words lingered. None objected, none agreed. In
Veritas, numbers cut sharper than swords—but that night, even numbers felt
blunt.
In Brightwall, capital of Sunstones, the king stood high upon a balcony,
eyes fixed eastward where Solaris had once pressed them hard. Below, the people
remembered the terror of Ironvale's siege. Now, with Solaris forced back by
Valoria's capture of Draxenhold, Ironvale breathed free again. Inside the stone
hall, nobles whispered like bees in a hive.
"Your Majesty," a young noble urged, "let Valoria keep Solaris at bay. We
must heal before we strike at anyone."
The king turned, fury still in his eyes. "And when Valoria decides we
are next?"
The noble bowed his head. "Then better to stand on healed ground… than to
fall on soil still bleeding."
Outside, Brightwall's night market glowed with torches. Some cheered that
the siege was lifted. Others feared that soon another banner would fly above
their walls. Sunstones chose silence, and in silence found their only weapon:
time.
In Silverwood, mist clung to cloaks and branches. Riders dismounted beneath
an ancient tree where the elders gathered. The scroll was read aloud. A woman
gripping a slender twig murmured, "Stone roads will come toward us. Either we
permit them… or they will come with harsher reasons." None replied. Only the
night birds cried.
Smaller kingdoms wrestled quietly with the news. A mother in a border town
hugged her child tighter. In mining camps, workers argued whether their ore
would go to broken Solaris or to rising Valoria. Everyone spoke differently,
yet all shared the same fear: the future was no longer theirs to choose.
By dusk, an official scroll arrived at the Alliance headquarters. Its seal
was heavy, its language stiff: Emergency Council. All envoys were
summoned within seven days. Beneath it, a single line in cold ink: To
review Valoria's membership, and the impact of its transformation into an
empire on Etheria's balance.
A young envoy whispered, "What does 'review' mean?"
An elder replied, "It means they have not decided if Arthur is ally or
enemy. And often, uncertainty is more dangerous than a poor decision."
Night settled over Kaelenspire. Hadrick entered Arthur's study, bowing low.
"Your Majesty. Solaris reels, Veritas counts, Sunstones wait, Silverwood stirs.
The Alliance calls for a council—they weigh whether Valoria is ally… or
threat."
Arthur lifted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "They always move
too slowly. By the time they decide, the world will already be different."
Hadrick drew another scroll. "Northaven, sire."
Arthur walked to the window, staring north. "What did you find?"
"Fractures," Hadrick said. "Nortwood hungers for forests and mines. Seahaven
longs only for safety—fear of bandits, fear of the sea. They want protection,
but trust no hand that offers it."
Arthur's gaze darkened. "If the seas are ever tamed, Northaven will be the
key to a new world."
"That door can be locked, sire," Hadrick said quietly. "And no key has yet
been chosen."
Arthur's tone was cold. "Then make sure the key rests in our hands."
Hadrick bowed. "I will prepare the path. Not threat, not force. An offer
they cannot refuse."
Arthur studied him. "And if some still refuse?"
"Then," Hadrick whispered, "we let them believe… that choosing us was their
own idea."
Far north, the timber hall of Northaven smelled of resin and smoke. Nobles
of Nortwood and Seahaven faced each other across the torchlight. An elder of
Nortwood growled, "We once dreamed of swallowing Valoria. We have forests, we
have lakes. Together, we could seize their mana stone mines and rise above all
others."
The hall fell silent. At last, a market leader from Seahaven spoke. "That
was before. When they were only a kingdom. Now they are an empire—and those
mines are guarded tighter than any fortress. Tell me, who still believes we can
fight them after Ethereal and Riverbend fell so quickly?"
No one answered. The crackle of the hearth was louder than their thoughts.
Ambition lingered, but fear loomed greater.
In the corner lay an unsealed letter, slipped in without notice. An
invitation from Kaelenspire. None dared touch it first. The torchlight swayed,
shadows stretching like grasping hands. And so the night ended before any knock
at the door—because sometimes, the silence before a knock is the loudest sound
of all.