The garrison of Lys Main Harbor finally spotted the massive fleet approaching in the dead of night. A shrill horn blast tore through the silence, echoing across the entire main island in an instant. But the alarm came too late.
As the fleet emerged like ghosts from the misty waters near the harbor, the defenders' morale completely crumbled. Though some men instinctively tried to resist, sounding their horns, most had already thrown down their weapons and fled in panic.
Seeing this, Lo Quen ordered his soldiers to disembark. Leading from the front, he stepped onto the main island himself. His elite troops followed swiftly, crushing the scattered resistance in the port district and securing the docks.
Then, like a flood bursting through a dam, the army poured along the winding streets toward the heart of the city—toward the white palace that stood upon the hill.
The heavy thud of marching boots, the clang of armor, the shouts of soldiers, and the short, sharp screams of the dying shattered Lys's peaceful night. Countless Lysenes awoke in terror. Peering through cracks in their shutters, they saw only waves of heavily armed, fierce-faced strangers flooding the streets. They pulled back at once, bolting their doors and trembling in the dark.
Within the Magister's Council chamber, First Magister Lysono Haen struggled to keep his weary mind clear as he read the latest reports on the movements of the mercenary Companies by dim candlelight. Each new dispatch deepened his anxiety. He prayed those sellswords—loyal only to gold dragons—would reach the Disputed Lands faster, much faster.
To protect the wealthy estates inland from plunder, he had deployed Drako's hastily assembled force of twenty-five thousand slave soldiers around the outpost towers and along the main roads leading into the heartlands.
Just then, faint commotion drifted from the city below. At first it was a distant murmur, then the clang of steel, and soon clear, rising cries of battle.
Lysono shot to his feet, his face draining of color.
A slave guard stumbled into the council chamber, nearly falling as he gasped out his words, voice trembling with fear.
"Lord! It's terrible! The Easterners... the Easterners' army... they've broken through!"
Lysono's vision swam; stars flashed before his eyes as his knees nearly buckled.
The Easterners?! Weren't they still in the Disputed Lands? Weren't they facing off at the Outpost Tower? How could they possibly be in Lys?!
A wave of disbelief and dread crashed over him. But cold reality drowned it all. The sounds of fighting were drawing closer—to the Magister's Palace itself.
No matter how the enemy had come or how many there were, the empty, unguarded city of Lys was defenseless.
"How... how many of them?" Lysono's voice was dry and trembling.
"So... so many! They're everywhere... they're almost at the palace gates!" the soldier sobbed.
Lysono took a deep breath, forcing down the panic and dizziness clawing at his chest. It's over. Lys is finished.
The slave armies were far away in the Disputed Lands—too far to help.
He drew the ornate sword from his waist, its blade gleaming coldly in the candlelight.
"Follow me!" he barked to the handful of loyal guards still beside him, his voice filled with grim resolve.
He had served as Lys's First Magister for many years. Facing the enemy, the worst that awaited him was death. At least he knew every hidden passage, every secret door in this city.
"Through the garden passage! Break out! As long as we live, there's still hope for Lys!"
The palace gardens were a wreck. Lysono and his guards cut down two isolated enemy soldiers and slipped into a narrow, shadowy alley.
Hope was close—just beyond this alley lay the relative safety of the old city.
But as he reached the mouth of the alley, he froze. In the glow of nearby flames stood a figure that made his heart sink.
Drako, a member of the Magister's Council, was there—his throat pressed against the cold edge of a soldier's blade. Terror was etched plainly across his face.
The moment Drako's gaze met Lysono's in the darkness, he seized the chance like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline and shrieked, "It's him! Catch him! That's Magister Lysono Haen! Don't let him escape!"
Lysono's heart sank into an abyss. Fury and betrayal surged through him, threatening to consume him whole. Without hesitation, he spun around and fled desperately into the depths of the alley.
But the heavy footsteps behind him clung like a curse. Two elite soldiers were close on his trail. Old and frail, Lysono could never outrun these wolf-like warriors. Exhaustion overtook him quickly; he was thrown violently to the ground. Cold earth filled his mouth and nose, while his sword slipped from his grasp, screeching across the stone pavement.
As the first sickly pale light of dawn pierced the eastern horizon, the battle cries of Lys finally faded. Only scattered sobs and the triumphant shouts of the victors remained. The acrid stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air above the city.
Lo Quen sat in the grand, empty main hall of the Magister's Council Palace, occupying the ornate, high-backed chair once used by Lysono, its seat draped in fine silk. His gaze swept over the three prisoners forced to kneel in the center of the hall—First Magister Lysono, Moredo with anger and humiliation carved into his face, and Drako, trembling like a leaf.
The defenses of Lys were more fragile than he had imagined, weaker even than the fortresses of Tyrosh. This was no illusion. Since the dissolution of the Triarchy, the three Free Cities had completely abandoned militarization. Warfare depended entirely on mercenaries, and city order was maintained by slave soldiers without honor or courage. When true elite warriors charged with killing intent, those slave soldiers could not even muster proper resistance. A single fierce glare was enough to make them collapse to the ground.
Lo Quen regarded the three men coldly, his voice echoing through the hall. "Where is Tregar Ormollen?"
Drako, seizing at hope like a man grasping for air, hurriedly blurted out, "Your Grace, Tregar must have fled amidst the chaos!"
Jaelena glanced at Lo Quen and shook her head slightly. "With the city defenses in disarray and the port fallen, he likely escaped by boat."
Lo Quen nodded. A stray dog like him was of little concern for now. He turned back to Lysono, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "Lord Lysono, it's been a while. I recall seeing the envoy you sent to my coronation."
Lysono lifted his head, his gaze unwavering. "Easterner, I have nothing to say now that I've fallen into your hands… but I never imagined my own Magister's Council would harbor such a traitor!"
His furious gaze locked on Drako.
Drako flinched under that glare but shrieked in return, "Lysono, this is all your fault! You conscripted so many slaves, ruining countless businesses! My family's cotton fields and perfume workshops lost their laborers—thousands upon thousands of golden dragons lost every season! Who will repay me? Whoever holds the title of Magister doesn't matter to me, but I won't lose a single golden dragon!"
Lysono looked at the petty man before him—someone who placed personal profit above the survival of the entire city-state. His chest heaved with rage and sorrow. The Magisters of Lys had fallen this far.
"Enough."
Lo Quen's icy voice sliced through the room, cutting off the ugly squabble. "End this pointless argument. Now, escort the three Magisters on their way."
Drako collapsed instantly, wailing like a slaughtered pig. "Your Grace, mercy! I swear my loyalty! I'll give you all my wealth! Spare me, I beg you!"
Lo Quen's expression didn't change. "Because you betrayed your own comrades, I should trust your loyalty? Tomorrow, would you not sell my head to the next highest bidder for the same price?"
Drako froze. The light in his eyes went out, leaving only the dull emptiness of despair.
Lo Quen raised his hand slightly. The soldier beside him stepped forward, face expressionless, and swung his blade.
A cold gleam flashed. Three once-noble heads rolled onto the smooth obsidian floor, their faces frozen in shock, fury, and hopelessness. Blood spread quickly across the polished stone.
Lo Quen looked down at the severed heads and spoke in a low, cold voice. "Preserve them with salt and lime. Send them to the Disputed Lands. Let those mercenaries still on their way see clearly what has become of the masters who hired them."
...
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