Author's Note: 27k — thank you all. The North awakens; hold your breath.
Night was falling — thick as a veil over the towers of the East.
Lanterns were being lit on the balconies, and the distant sound of hooves echoed along the roads leading to Viscount Ardentis's castle.
Inside the great hall, the air was heavy with heat and lamp smoke. Maps, goblets, and scrolls covered the central table, where the viscount stood surrounded by his counselors and officers.
The man was impossible to ignore — burly, bald, his face carved by wine and power.
A golden tooth gleamed whenever he spoke, reminding everyone that in that room there was no space for contradiction.
One of the sentinels rushed in, sweating beneath his light armor.
He bowed with respect, but urgency trembled in his voice:
"Milord… they've set camp a few kilometers from here. Black banners. The numbers are great — and they grow by the hour."
A murmur spread like a spark among those present. One counselor tried to speak, but the viscount raised his hand, commanding silence.
He rose slowly, the weight of his body making the floorboards groan.
He looked around — at the fearful faces, the lowered eyes — and struck the table with his palm.
"Where is Lady Sèsinmè?!" he roared, his voice echoing through the columns.
No one answered.
Only the crackle of torches.
He breathed deeply, sweat shining on his forehead.
The smile that followed was tense, dangerous — the golden tooth reflecting the light like a blade.
"Summon her immediately," he said, voice lower, but far more menacing. "And tell her she'd better bring good explanations."
He took a step forward, facing his officers.
"I want to know what that woman thinks! When an army marches to our doors—" his voice reverberated, filling the hall, "—if she has no answers, I'll tear them out myself."
The silence that followed was thick as smoke.
One of the counselors cleared his throat, ready to apologize for someone not even present, but stopped at the look Ardentis gave him.
The viscount turned his back, cloak dragging over the stone floor.
Outside, the distant cry of crows crossed the night sky.
And the first omen of war hung over the East.
Moments later, hurried boots echoed down the corridor.
One of the guards announced in a firm voice, still breathless:
"Lord Ardentis, Lady Sèsinmè Adanhoun has arrived."
The viscount was already seated, his gaze fixed on the entrance.
The door opened.
Sèsinmè entered with light steps; her red dress brushed softly over the cold stone floor.
Before she could raise her head in greeting, a goblet was hurled toward her.
It missed by mere inches, shattering against the wall behind her.
Wine slid slowly down the stone — like a thread of blood.
She only smiled.
Serene.
Almost amused.
Her deep brown skin glowed faintly, with a nacreous sheen under the light.
Gray-silver eyes, the color of omen — they turned glasslike when the vision awakened.
Long black hair, straight with soft waves, adorned with tiny red beads, symbols of blood spilled and history endured.
She stood 1.70 meters tall, carrying herself with the bearing of one born to command: straight shoulders, lifted chin, composure unbroken before the fury of men like Ardentis.
With calm, measured voice, she said:
"Would you care to share what troubles you, my lord?"
The viscount smiled — a dry sound that soon turned into deep, harsh laughter that grew heavier and darker.
The room shrank beneath that laughter.
Suddenly it stopped; Ardentis glared at her, fury blazing. Clenching his fist, he struck the table hard enough to make the goblets rattle.
"A few kilometers from here, an unknown army has set camp," he roared, his voice echoing off the columns. "Like hungry wolves closing on my gates!"
Ardentis leaned forward, gaze sharp as a blade about to fall.
"So?" he snarled, each syllable dripping venom. "Where is your so-promised path now, Bokònò? Or does your sight fail you whenever I need it most?"
"I am sorry, my lord," she said softly, voice steady. "But I cannot see all paths for you. Yet, once I glimpse the one that walks toward us, I will know how to counsel you."
He advanced on Sèsinmè with heavy steps, his presence crushing the air between them.
In one brutal motion, he seized her arm and shoved her against the wall; the impact made her shudder slightly, shoulder meeting stone.
The counselors stepped back — frozen, silent — watching, fearing their own heads might be next.
"When you and your people were about to be sold as slaves," Ardentis went on, his tone thick with scorn, "you swore you'd guide me to a path of glory and fortune. A year ago, I refused alliance with the central king of this empire because you told me there was another way. And now look where you've led me!"
He threw her to the floor with contempt.
Sèsinmè fell, her body striking the stone lightly; she raised her eyes — calm, unsupplicating — measuring something only she knew.
The hall held its breath.
Ardentis stared at her for a long moment — the golden tooth gleaming in his mouth, fury and calculation mingled. Finally, he spoke, with deliberate coldness:
"Know this — I will not tolerate another failure. If you fail, I'll end the miserable lives of your entire people — and then yours."
A sentence without melody.
The counselors looked away; the torches crackled, and the night seemed to grow heavier.
Sèsinmè moved slowly.
Not with fragility — but with the calm of someone who has never depended on another's mercy.
Her palm touched the stone floor, and she rose in one fluid motion, like water reclaiming its shape.
She didn't fix her dress, didn't seek lost dignity — because it had never been taken.
She lifted her chin.
Her gaze met Ardentis's, and for an instant, the whole hall seemed to shrink.
A silver gleam ran through her eyes — swift, like a blade catching light — and the torch flames wavered.
"The paths still move, my lord. Forcing answers before their time only leads to the ruin of those who demand them."
No bow. No reverence.
She turned and walked toward the exit with soft steps — and each one sounded like a verdict.
No one helped her.No one dared touch her.
The doors closed behind her with a heavy sigh of wood and iron.
The hall remained still…
And only then did someone exhale, as if they had forgotten how to breathe.
Outside, in the empty corridor, Sèsinmè stopped.
Her eyes turned glasslike — pure silver, like mist over a blade.
The air thinned.
A voice — ancient, distant — whispered, not in sound, but in being:
He comes.
Sèsinmè blinked, and the vision vanished.
Silence seemed ready to crack.
The future breathed within her — cold, inevitable.
"So the dragon wakes…" she murmured.
And walked on, without looking back.
Inside, destiny moved in whispers.Outside, it marched.
The wind sliced the field like a cold wire.
Lanterns swayed among the tents, long shadows staggering like specters.
Éreon stood before the central flame of the encampment, his face marked by the unsteady glow of fire.
He didn't speak.He didn't rest.
He only watched the horizon — where darkness met earth, and fate waited still.
The sound of armor — lamella scraping, metal against metal — cut through the night.
Silent training.
Contained discipline.
Soft steps on dirt.
Éon approached.
"Still can't sleep?"
Éreon didn't answer at once.
The wind blew — heavier this time, as if the air itself were being pressed by something approaching.
At last, he murmured:
"I was unconscious for eight and a half months. Someone has to keep watch while the soldiers rest."
Éon exhaled — half laugh, half resignation.
"I suppose that's a convincing excuse."
Éon followed Éreon's gaze to the tent where the two children slept.
The candle inside cast small shadows across the canvas.
"Why did you bring them?" — the question came low, without accusation… yet heavy, like wet stone.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Inside Éreon's mind, a voice — soft and distant as a fading memory — chimed like muffled bells:
Take care of our girl…
For a moment, his eyes drifted, as if seeing something Éon never could — something ancient, precious, and doomed.
Éon saw it.
Didn't understand — but saw.
Éreon blinked, his soul returning to his body. His features hardened again, solid as steel.
"You should rest," he finally said, without looking at him. "Tomorrow you'll clear the way for our troops. The Viscount has trained warriors. We have the untested."
He turned his face slowly, the flame reflecting in his eyes, making them look far too old for the body they inhabited.
"The hardest part will fall on you and Marcus."
Éon nodded once — nothing heroic, only a brother accepting the weight he had always carried beside him.
He took two steps away — but hesitated.
"And you?" he asked softly. Almost a plea that didn't want to be one.
A flicker passed through Éreon's eyes. Something human, fragile, cruel… and tender.
"I'll do what I can to keep as many of them alive as possible."
There was no promise of victory.No arrogance.Only truth — bare, heavy, inevitable.
Éon stepped back, slow over the cold earth, until he vanished among the tents.
Éreon remained still, the wind brushing the black banner above him, making it flutter like an omen.
War began before dawn.And he was awake for every second of it.
Dawn didn't rise — it tore the horizon.
Broken gray. Biting cold.The field, once uneasy silence, now breathed in rows.
Soldiers aligned. Shields firm. Steps restrained, yet hands trembling.Not fear — but the body understanding before the mind that war had already begun.
And far ahead, cut against the pale sky, the Viscount's walls rose like teeth of stone.
Still distant — but close enough to remind them that every step that morning was a step toward the inevitable.
Éreon walked along the front line.
No sword.No personal banner.
Only the weight of his own existence — and the gaze that seemed to pierce time and weigh lives as one weighs destiny in silence.
Every soldier he passed straightened, as if their bodies refused weakness in his presence.
It wasn't shouting that raised them. It was gravity.
At his side, Marcus mounted, and Éon adjusted his gauntlets.
"There they are," murmured Éon, eyes on the walls.The wind carried the distant scent of wet stone and iron.
Éreon didn't look away.
"We don't march yet," he said, calm, almost gentle."First, they must believe we will not retreat.Wars begin before the first step… and are won in the silence that comes before it."
The black banner swayed, slow, like a prophecy.
And when the sun finally broke behind them — timid, almost afraid to witness —none of them moved a single foot.
They only looked ahead, facing the world that would try to break them.
Because in that instant, before the roar, before the blood, before the clash of steel and flesh…
They were alive.And they knew it.