Subtitle: Silent Wings, Roaring Flames
A night before the battle
Ray and Robert stayed at the guest house of the king's palace. Ray couldn't go to the library but was summoned by Princess Alice; she came herself after hearing he had arrived but not come to see her. She was visibly angry—cheeks flushed, eyes sharp—and, without ceremony, seized his hand and dashed toward her own courtyard. Robert watched, speechless. He hadn't expected his son to move so quickly toward a future daughter‑in‑law.
Little did Robert know that Ray had almost accepted an offer from the third concubine, Alicia, who had tried to arrange her daughter's hand for him. Ray had refused, though, letting fate decide whether he and Alice would become lovers. If Robert had known, he would have scolded Ray for turning down such an advantageous match.
That evening Ray did not meet Aries—the academy kept Aries away at the time—but he did meet Alice's caretaker. He played with Alice for a while, telling her a new story. The courtyard was quiet except for the rustle of leaves and the soft cadence of his voice. By the time he finished, the princess had fallen asleep with a small, contented smile.
Ray returned to his own courtyard to find his father teasing him. The tease turned to scolding once Robert learned Ray had refused the match. Ray snapped back, reminding him that Robert himself had rejected offers of princesses and even Daymond's sister in the past. They traded barbs until fatigue won and they went to sleep, the courtyard moonlight pooling around their quiet forms.
A few hours earlier
The next day, plans were finalized and messengers sent. All dukes and nobles with golden-stage rank were summoned to the king's palace; they were instructed to bring subordinates of silver stage or above and to prepare for an attack. The summons gave no reason—only an urgent meeting at the palace—and so most followed orders without question, fitting themselves and their retainers in armor and weapons as if expecting the worst.
Duke Robert was first to sit in the palace's great conference hall. One by one, nobles arrived and took their places. The hall filled with low murmurs and the metallic clink of armor. When all who were silver stage and above had gathered, the king mounted the dais.
He began with a steady voice: the neighboring Ashbourn kingdom had been harassing us for some time. They had been on the defensive too long. Now, the Ashbourn must pay.
He named their grievance: Ashbourn had allied with a former inventor of their own realm and struck at one of their earls' houses—an attack that sought to dismantle their strongest formation shop. Daniel, driven by revenge, had nearly destroyed the Spencer family. Only Duke Robert's timely arrival had saved them.
The king's tone darkened as he explained Ashbourn's aim to weaken the kingdom further. It was then that Duke Robert stepped forward—the same man who had come days earlier proposing a secret strike. Robert's plan had two parts: a smaller, covert operation to kill Daniel and his backers, and a larger, decisive assault to cripple the enemy in a single blow.
After ample consideration, the king declared he would adopt the larger attack. Murmurs of surprise rippled through the hall; many of the assembled had expected to have been consulted. The king watched their faces—suspicion, surprise, veiled approval—and then revealed his reasoning: secrecy. The wall has ears, he said. Spies are everywhere. The plan must remain unknown until the moment it is executed. What Robert offered was too valuable to risk exposure.
Robert was invited to the dais and explained his strategy. Silence followed, then a swell of agreement and praise not only for the king's final decision but for Robert's cunning. A few in the crowd forced smiles; their eyes betrayed unease.
The king announced the mission would take place at night. No one was allowed to return home to gather their families. Everything needed for the operation had already been prepared. A few pleaded to leave briefly to tell their kin, but the king refused: secrecy was paramount. He offered reassurance instead — leaders' households would be told only that their liege would be away for a long time; the truth would not be revealed until the mission's success.
Understanding — or resignation — settled over the room. Groups began to whisper about logistics and timing. The king then distributed orders and the strange conveyances chosen for the assault: hot air balloons. Each balloon would carry twenty to thirty warriors, piloted by royal subordinates trained to steer and maintain concealment. Two hundred balloons in all stood ready, their pale envelopes a strange addition to the martial scene.
One by one, the balloons rose, pale ghosts lifting from the palace grounds. Concealment formations lay like netting across their structures as they drifted toward Ashbourn, arrayed under Robert's direction.
Present
High above the enemy kingdom, Robert made a hand sign; the pilots understood and adjusted their positions. The balloons clustered, dark against the starlit sky, and chose their stations above the Ashbourn lands.
At Robert's command, they struck. Explosive talismans blossomed in synchronized fury, cutting through the enemy's protective formation and sending plumes of smoke and sparks into the night. The initial barrage was not just a show of power — it was precision, timing, and the quiet malice of a long-brewing plan finally unleashed. Below, the kingdom flared and collapsed into chaos as the assault continued, talismans detonating in a calculated sequence to tear apart the defenses guarding the kingdom. Every line of protection was shattered, paving the way to seize control.