The chamber was quiet except for the low, persistent strain of wood under weight. The bed creaked steadily, a background sound that neither of them acknowledged, like the ticking of a clock that marked time rather than urgency.
Veyra lay across the sheets, braced on her forearms. She stared at the wall ahead of her, not because she needed to look at it, but because it helped her focus. Reports required precision. This one more than most.
Behind her, Noctis waited. He did not speak until she was ready.
"Report," he said.
Veyra inhaled, steady and controlled.
"The granaries have been expanded to double their previous capacity," she began. "However, the strain is already apparent. Drawing civilians into training rotations reduced labor in the outer fields. The balance holds for now, but it's tight."
"How long?" Noctis asked.
"Through the autumn," she said. "Possibly early winter if yields remain stable. After that, we'll need outside shipments or formal rationing. Preferably shipments. Rationing too early will damage morale."
"And water?" he asked.
"Stable," Veyra replied. "The new seals, lock schedules, and inspections reduced loss and contamination. Wells are cleaner. Distribution is predictable. That system is holding better than expected."
Noctis gave a slight nod—approval, brief and unspoken.
"And armaments," he said.
"That's still our weakest point," Veyra said. "The forges can't scale fast enough to meet demand. We've shifted fully into recycling damaged equipment. Broken plates are reforged into breastplates and helms. We've prioritized spears, arrowheads, and shields over complex weapons."
She hesitated only long enough to be precise.
"At current output, we can maintain what we have. We cannot rapidly expand."
"How many remain unequipped?" Noctis asked.
"If mobilized today," she said, "roughly five thousand militia-grade civilians would lack full arms and armor."
"And your response?" he asked.
"I redirected guild quotas immediately," Veyra said. "Luxury production was suspended. Smiths, leatherworkers, and carpenters were reassigned to emergency output. Designs were simplified. Repair and reinforcement were prioritized over replacement."
She glanced slightly to the side, then continued.
"It's effective in the short term. It won't support prolonged, high-intensity warfare without new material sources."
Silence followed—not judgment, just space to continue.
"Politically," Veyra said, "our neighbors have noticed the changes. Walls reinforced. Markets turned into drill yards. Civilian movement regulated. Some believe Twilight is preparing for expansion."
"And the others?" Noctis asked.
"They're divided," she said. "A few are openly discussing sanctions. Others are quietly sounding out defensive alliances—against us. No formal action yet, but their tone has shifted from curiosity to caution."
Noctis leaned closer, his voice even.
"And what did you tell them?"
"I kept my statements narrow," Veyra said. "I confirmed defensive construction. I did not deny their suspicions, but I didn't validate them either. I let them fill the gaps themselves."
"That creates uncertainty," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "Uncertainty slows decision-making. It keeps them watching instead of acting."
"And what do you believe?" Noctis asked.
Veyra answered without hesitation.
"I believe Ashara is changing faster than its neighbors expected. I believe resentment will come before understanding. And I believe that without these measures, the city wouldn't survive what's ahead."
His hand pressed more firmly between her shoulder blades—not demanding, but grounding.
"You didn't hesitate," Noctis said. "Not when resources tightened. Not when rumors spread. Not when people looked to you for certainty."
"I couldn't afford to," Veyra said. "If I hesitated, others would have panicked."
"And they didn't," he said.
"No," she agreed. "They didn't."
Noctis was silent for a moment longer, then spoke.
"You are the hand of Twilight," he said. "Orders move through you. Stability moves through you. This city holds because you hold it steady."
Veyra lowered her head slightly—not submission, but acknowledgment.
"I understand the responsibility," she said. "And I accept it."
"Good," Noctis replied. "Then you will remain exactly where you are."
Her reply was quiet, firm, and unshaken.
"Yes, Master."
The forges of Twilight roared louder than they had in a century.
Bellows thundered without pause. Hammers rang in overlapping cadence. Smoke rolled thick through the stone halls, stinging the eyes and coating skin in ash. Sparks burst and fell like rain—yet the flames themselves did not burn red or gold.
They burned dark.
Black fire licked the crucibles, touched by the Sovereign's will. It gave no warmth, only pressure—a sense that the air itself had weight.
Noctis stood at the center of the forge floor, stripped of cloak and armor. Sweat ran down his bare arms and back, evaporating before it could fall. One hand hovered above a great crucible set into the stone, iron bands glowing faintly as they struggled to contain what churned within.
Outside the forge doors, lines stretched deep into the streets.
Civilians and soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting their turn. No one was forced forward. No one was dragged. When each reached the crucible, they pricked their palm, murmured no prayers, and let a measured offering of blood essence drip into the vessel.
None hesitated.
None refused.
The crucible responded to them. It churned and thickened, the surface rippling as their offerings were taken in. Noctis's spirals flared along his arms and shoulders, glowing through sweat-dark skin. His aura threaded itself through the molten mass, binding blood and iron into something new.
When he thrust both hands into the crucible, the air shook.
There was no scream of pain—only resistance, as if the forge itself strained against his grip. From blood and iron came form. Blades rose first, long and severe, black as obsidian and edged with a dull crimson sheen. Armor followed—plates layered and angular, etched with lines that mirrored the new walls of Twilight. Shields emerged last, broad and unforgiving, shaped to turn force aside rather than absorb it.
Every piece carried the same presence.
Ominous.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Twilight made solid.
A soldier knelt as Noctis placed the first completed set upon him. The armor sealed with a low hum. The man rose slowly, as if adjusting to new gravity. He stood taller. Straighter. The metal drank the forge-light until the air around him seemed dimmer.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"These are not trinkets," Noctis said, his voice carrying easily over the roar of the forges. "This is what your blood buys. You give me strength, and I return it as weapons that will not break."
His gaze swept the gathered crowd.
"Twilight does not beg," he said. "Twilight arms itself."
The response was immediate. Cheers broke out, rough and raw. More stepped forward. More palms were cut. More blood fed the crucible.
But even as steel piled high and the forge thundered on, Noctis knew the truth.
Weapons could not feed an army.
The palace council chamber was quieter than the forge, but no less tense.
Maps were spread across the table, corners weighed down by daggers. Ledgers lay open beside them, columns of figures marked and remarked in red ink. Veyra stood to one side, arms folded, saints arrayed behind her in silence.
Noctis traced a line of numbers with his finger. His brow furrowed.
"Your rations won't last a year at this pace," he said. "Not with this many mouths and this level of activity. War will last longer than a season. Fields cannot keep up. Caravans will be cut."
He looked up.
"You need food that does not rot," he said. "Food that does not wait on harvests. Food that walks into battle with you."
The saints shifted. Alyndra inhaled sharply.
"You mean—"
"Yes," Noctis said flatly. "Vampires."
The word settled into the room like a dropped weight. There was no outrage, no shock—only the sober understanding of what it meant.
"We form two legions," Noctis continued. "Those who choose the night will be converted. They will live on blood instead of bread. On the battlefield, they will drink from the enemy and stand long after mortal lines would break."
His gaze hardened.
"Each saint will command one Night Legion. Fourteen legions in total. They will be my fangs in the dark."
He waited. No one spoke.
"For those who will not convert," he went on, "there will be Day Legions. They will swear the same oath. They will fight the same war. But they will be sustained by grain and water and will fight beneath the sun."
Two armies.
One purpose.
Veyra spoke at last. "Voluntary, then. No forced conversions."
"Correct," Noctis said. "Twilight is not built on fear of me. It is built on the rhythm I give. Let them choose their rhythm—night or day. Either way, they belong to us."
The council nodded. The logic was sound. The problem lay elsewhere.
Alyndra gave voice to it. "Sovereign… the Night Legions will awaken to strength they've never held. Blood techniques. Unholy endurance. The tension between holy and unholy power."
She hesitated, then finished, "You train us—the saints. Who trains them?"
The room fell silent.
Noctis pressed a hand to his temple. For the briefest moment, the strain showed in the set of his jaw.
"You expect me to forge weapons, raise walls, train you," he said, "and shape entire legions of vampires. All at once."
He exhaled slowly.
"Even I cannot divide myself that many ways."
The ache pulsed behind his eyes, but his voice remained steady.
"If I spread myself too thin, nothing is finished," he said. "If I leave the Night Legions untaught, they become a danger to themselves as much as to the enemy."
He looked at the saints—each one of them.
"You are not ready," he said. "And yet you must be. Because if you are not, the Night Legions will collapse before they begin."
Silence stretched. His fingers drummed once against the table. Hard. Final.
"This is the cost of building an empire of shadow," Noctis said at last. "And I will not accept weakness."
His gaze burned.
"Not in you.
Not in them.
Not in me."
The ritual basin lay at the heart of Twilight's central square.
Once, it had been a fountain—broad and shallow, fed by clear channels from the western aqueduct. Children had chased one another around its rim in summer heat. Merchants had rinsed dust from their hands before returning to their ledgers. It had been a place of noise and movement, of ordinary life.
That life was gone.
The basin had been cut deeper into the stone, its walls thickened and reinforced with bone-forged struts set at precise intervals. Old carvings were ground away and replaced with runes etched cleanly into the rock—marks of containment, binding, and measured flow. The channels that once carried water outward were sealed. What the basin would hold tonight was not meant to spill.
At dusk, the square filled.
Noctis stood before the basin, still and centered, his presence pulling the space tight around him. Behind him, the fourteen saints formed a wide circle, each positioned at a cardinal point or between, creating a living boundary. Their armor caught the last light of day, dull and steady, not ceremonial.
Beyond them, civilians gathered in silence.
There were no chants. No music. No coaxing words.
Those who had sworn to join the Night Legions stood apart from the rest—men and women who had stepped forward days earlier, names recorded, consent given without pressure. Farmers with scarred hands. Smiths with shoulders bent from years at the forge. Hunters, guards, mothers whose children watched from the edge of the crowd. Their eyes were steady. Some were afraid. None were uncertain.
Noctis drew a blade across his palm.
His blood flowed black-red, thick and luminous, spiraling faintly as it fell into the basin. The water hissed as if meeting heat, its surface shivering as the first drops spread. The clear reflection vanished, replaced by a darkening pool that seemed to deepen even as it filled.
He did not stop.
He opened his hand fully and let the blood run, controlled and deliberate. The runes along the basin's walls began to glow—dim at first, then steadier—as his essence threaded through the water and settled into containment.
The square remained silent.
Then Noctis closed his hand and stepped back.
The volunteers came forward.
Not all at once. One by one. Each pricked their palm and let a measured offering fall into the basin. Drop by drop, their blood mingled with his. The pool thickened, its surface pulsing faintly as life and death entwined. The air grew heavy—not with heat, but with pressure, like a storm held just above breaking.
When all had given, Noctis raised his hand.
"This pool binds you," he said. His voice carried easily across the square, flat and unadorned. "My blood and yours. You enter it as citizens of Twilight. You rise as soldiers of the Night."
He let his gaze move across the volunteers.
"Hunger will not rule you. Fear will not chain you. You will carry my mark and obey the saints who command you. Step forward only if you accept that without reservation."
No one moved away.
The first volunteer approached.
He removed his cloak, folded it carefully, and placed it at the basin's edge. He bared his arms, then lowered himself into the pool. The liquid clung to him, thick and resistant, closing over his legs, his torso, his shoulders. He submerged fully and drank as instructed.
The basin shuddered.
Crimson light rippled outward as the runes flared brighter. Beneath the surface, his body tensed, muscles drawing tight as the change took hold. The water churned once, then steadied.
The crowd did not breathe.
The man broke the surface with a sharp inhale. His eyes were clear. His veins glowed faintly beneath pale skin, then faded. He climbed out of the basin without help, steady on his feet. The hunger that should have torn at him was quiet—bound, contained.
Another followed.
Then another.
Each volunteer entered the basin, submerged, drank, and emerged changed. Pale, stronger, but controlled. No screams. No frenzy. When they stepped out, their eyes went first to Noctis, then to the saints who waited to receive them.
The saints moved forward.
Alyndra placed a hand on a new soldier's shoulder, grounding him. Varun tested another's stance, pushing hard to see if he would falter. None did. They adjusted. They held. They stood.
The first Night Legion formed a line without being told.
Noctis regarded them in silence, then spoke.
"You are not beasts," he said. "You are soldiers. Your hunger is bound. Your discipline is your life. Fail, and you shame me. Obey, and you will stand when others fall."
The saints saluted. The new vampires answered with a bow of their heads.
Veyra stepped forward, her cloak trailing softly across the stone.
"Your lives change tonight," she said, her voice clear and practical. "You drill at dusk. You rest by day. Your barracks are relocated to the shaded quarter, where direct light will not reach you. The city will adjust to you—and you will adjust to it."
She turned to the civilians watching.
"Those who do not choose the Night will fight as Day," she said. "Together, we are one army. Divided by rhythm, united in purpose."
The crowd murmured its assent—not fear, but understanding.
The first Night Legion stood waiting, disciplined and silent. Noctis felt the familiar ache behind his eyes. The saints were not yet masters of unholy training. The work ahead was immense.
But the first step had been taken.
The fangs of Twilight had been born.
The conversions continued deep into the night.
Time lost its sharp edges as the ritual repeated itself again and again. Braziers replaced torches as the light softened, casting a steady glow across the square. Observers were dismissed in quiet rotations, but the line of volunteers never thinned. Each stepped forward when called, removed their cloak, cut their palm, and let a measured offering of blood fall into the basin without ceremony or hesitation.
They lowered themselves into the pool slowly, feeling the thickened liquid close over their skin. When they submerged, they drank as instructed and remained beneath the surface until the binding took hold. Those who rose did so with a sharp intake of breath that quickly steadied. Their skin paled, their bodies hardened, and although hunger stirred within them, it never seized control. Twilight's rhythm settled into their veins as a second, quieter pulse.
The saints moved among them with calm efficiency.
Alyndra guided each newly risen from the basin, her hand firm on their shoulder as she assessed balance and awareness. Varun tested posture and strength without warning, pushing to see who would falter. Others recorded names, former trades, and family ties before assigning provisional squads. Corrections were given quietly and accepted without resistance.
Noctis remained above it all, standing near the basin's rim, his aura spread across the square in a constant, regulating presence. It dampened fear before it could surface and restrained hunger before it could spike. Each time a new vampire emerged, his awareness brushed against them, enforcing restraint and ensuring the binding held.
The city itself rested in managed intervals, lights dimming district by district, while Noctis did not rest at all. His focus never left the square, the basin, or the people rising from it.
Then one of the next volunteers broke the pattern.
He wore travel-worn leather instead of civilian garb, and his sword bore the marks of real use rather than ornament. His stance was balanced, habitual, shaped by years of survival rather than drills. When he looked at the basin, there was no reverence in his expression—only calculation.
An adventurer.
He did not wait for instruction. He cut his palm cleanly, let his blood fall with practiced economy, then set his sword aside and stepped into the basin without hesitation. He submerged smoothly and drank deeply, holding himself still as the transformation worked through him.
Noctis watched with sharpened attention.
As the water churned and settled, he spoke quietly to the saints nearest him, his voice measured and precise.
"These people understand discipline and obedience," he said. "They do not yet understand war. You can teach command, formation, and faith. In time, I will teach you unholy execution. But training entire legions from nothing will take time we do not have."
His gaze narrowed slightly.
"Adventurers already know how mortals fight. They understand distance, timing, fear, and killing. Let them teach technique. Let you teach doctrine."
Understanding passed through the saints, not as excitement, but as recognition of necessity.
Then the basin reacted.
The adventurer surfaced with a sharp breath, gripping the stone rim as the transformation completed. His body steadied faster than most. As he rose, the air above him shimmered, and a faint crimson glyph formed—precise, unfamiliar, and unmistakably new.
Noctis felt the reaction ripple through his Blood Grid before he consciously registered it. Heat surged through his spirals as a new doctrine asserted itself, its presence deliberate and undeniable, as though the system itself had been waiting for the precise alignment of blood, oath, and will.
For the first time in years, Noctis did not speak immediately.