Pairs of knights clad in black and violet heavy steel armor, broad-bladed swords in hand and crimson cloaks streaming behind them, formed a vigilant line outside the palace walls. Today marked the third anniversary of His Majesty Shagrul's coronation—and the grand day of his queen's investiture. These elite warriors of the royal "Savage Lion Order," bound directly to the crown, naturally stood on high alert, determined that no one should disturb their sovereign's exalted mood.
Yet, perhaps the more one fears trouble, the more it seeks them out. A horse, lathered in sweat, galloped toward the palace gates, its rider—a soldier in light leather armor—slumped helplessly across the saddle. Behind him, some thirty light-armored warriors of the capital's "Jaguar Regiment" pursued on foot, faces flushed with exertion. Though the steed had clearly been driven hard across a great distance and was flagging, its pursuers, all men of remarkable skill, were swiftly gaining despite their lack of mounts.
The palace gates loomed near when three flickering shadows flashed across the air, followed by a shriek of steel so sharp it seemed to rend the earth itself. A blinding arc of swordlight slashed down, and the magnificent warhorse—bred from the hardy stock of the empire's northern deserts—was hewn into a hundred fragments in an instant. Flesh and blood rained down in a crimson storm within a dozen paces.
The pursuing soldiers halted at once, recognizing the imperial knights who had struck. They snapped to attention, saluting in the formal Vanterian style. The armored knight who had felled the beast gave a cold snort and, without hesitation, swung his sword toward the fallen, struggling soldier sprawled in the dust.
Seeing the blade descend, the soldier cried out in desperation, "My lord! My lord, the war report—Fort Ironblood has fallen! General Sharin… he has betrayed us!"
The sword froze a hair's breadth from his skull. Gasps rippled through the ranks of light-armored warriors, and the heavy knights nearby advanced swiftly. From within the palace, a towering knight clad in gold armor—one of the Savage Lion captains—emerged at the commotion, his voice a resonant command: "Silence! What is the meaning of this?"
The knight who had struck stepped forward, sword raised in salute. "War report, my lord—Fort Ironblood has fallen. General Sharin has turned traitor. It appears the Smarte Empire has declared war upon us."
The ill tidings sped through guarded channels into the palace itself. The soldier, moments ago nearly executed as a trespasser, was promptly commended for merit and sent to the military quarters to rest. Even before formal orders were issued, the mobilization commands of the Savage Lion, Jaguar, and Swift Wolf legions had already been dispatched. The vigilance of the imperial capital multiplied a hundredfold within the hour.
Inside the grand hall, the Vanterian Minister of State—a gaunt man with a triangular face, sallow beard, and a thin frame—smiled amiably as he raised his goblet to a young and beautiful lady before him. Though she appeared no more than sixteen—young enough to be his granddaughter—his intimate manner, arm encircling her slender waist, would have deceived any onlooker into believing them a fated pair.
Her father, an imperial count, beamed as he mingled among the nobles, glancing often toward his daughter ensnared in the minister's embrace, his face alight with self-satisfaction.
A court herald in crimson livery approached noiselessly, moving like a cat, and whispered into the minister's ear. At once, the springtime warmth of his expression froze into the chill of winter. He muttered darkly, "Where is the Chancellor? The Minister of War? The Minister of Security? Find them—at once! Heavens, where is His Majesty?"
Meanwhile, in the throne room, the true heroine of the day—the daughter of Duke Glomey, newly crowned as empress and de facto first lady of the realm—sat alone upon her jeweled seat, surrounded by silken-clad attendants. Yet the emperor himself, the exalted Shagrul, was nowhere to be found.
The Minister of State pinched the young lady's hip in parting and hurried toward a cluster of equally frail old men. They huddled together, voices low and urgent. Soon, a tall, broad-shouldered veteran with over thirty medals gleaming upon his chest joined their council. After the span of a single drink, he strode briskly from the hall, flanked by a dozen Savage Lion knights who escorted him toward the gates.
The remaining ministers, eyes cold and calculating, intimidated the palace steward—a dapper man in gold and crimson uniform with hair curled into gleaming waves—until, at last, he led them reluctantly toward the inner sanctum. None appeared to notice the Chancellor discreetly press a glittering object into the steward's palm, which vanished with a casual stroke across his waistcoat. And if anyone had noticed—they would swear they had not.
After a long walk down a corridor adorned with voluptuous portraits, they stopped before an oak door guarded by six palace sentinels. The imposing steward gestured sternly, signaling the guards to heed the ministers, then silently stepped back behind them.
The Chancellor stepped forward. "Stand aside. Is His Majesty within?" he demanded in a low voice.
The lead guard, his breast marked with seven golden larks—the emblem of noble lineage—replied stiffly, "Forgive me, my lord. His Majesty is in council and must not be disturbed."
The Chancellor's gaze hardened, fixing on the emblem before him, while the guard's hand tightened on his sword.
A chill glint flashed in the Chancellor's narrow eyes. But before he could speak, the Minister of War barked, "Move aside, you wretch! Or I'll have you reassigned to the northern frontier to tend horses. You have one cup of tea's time to reconsider. Otherwise, every officer of your house will be sent to the border—and as for your kin among the civil ranks…" He cast a sidelong glance.
The Chancellor added dryly, "The Shator province requires many volunteers for its administration. I imagine your family will be eager to serve."
The Minister of State cut in smoothly, "Fear not His Majesty's displeasure. I give you my word he will not hold you accountable—we bear urgent matters of state."
The six guards exchanged uncertain looks before stepping aside. The steward gave a slight shrug, then quickly masked it with a polished gesture—drawing out a gold handkerchief to dab his lips, as though nothing untoward had occurred.
Of the four ministers, the Minister of War—though softened by years of indulgence—still retained the strength of a soldier. Seeing no help from the guards, he drew a deep breath and struck the massive oak door with a single blow. With a splintering crack, the latch broke, and the four men pushed their way inside.
There sat Emperor Shagrul—the supreme ruler of the Vanterian Empire—bare to the waist, cradling in his arms a golden-haired beauty. His hands roamed freely across her naked back; her gown hung barely upon her hips, the pale curves of her body exposed shamelessly before the five intruders. Startled mid-embrace, the emperor's blue eyes flickered with momentary confusion.
The Chancellor bowed low. "Forgive us, Your Majesty. We bring urgent news of state. Your study's soundproofing prevented us from announcing ourselves."
Recovering swiftly, Shagrul inclined his head. The steward closed the door and pressed himself against it like a seal.
The Minister of State, ever efficient, stooped to retrieve the torn silk cloak from the floor and offered it to the emperor, who tossed it carelessly to the woman. She wrapped it about herself with unruffled grace, arranged her hair, and began fanning herself with a small sandalwood fan, resuming her poise like a true noble lady.
The four ministers exchanged knowing glances—this exquisite woman was none other than the wife of Duke Glin, lord of the southern marches.
When Shagrul had composed himself, he asked, "Well then, what is it? I was discussing taxation policy for the southern territories with Lady Glin, and you interrupt us thus—an offense to imperial governance itself. Surely my esteemed ministers have reason."
The Minister of State silently admired him. Only thirty, yet already a true sovereign… if only his eyes would cease straying toward Lady Glin.
The Minister of War stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the Smarte Empire has declared war."
Shagrul raised a brow. "Oh? Only half a year ago they were our allies. Remarkable. There are no eternal friends indeed. Damn that Filin—does he covet our southern plains? Those lands are our granary."
After a moment's thought, a smile spread across his face. "Let them come. Their sorcerers may be the strongest on the continent, but the Vanterian Empire commands the mightiest knights, the largest legions. Fort Ironblood will crush their ambitions. Do those fools not know it is impregnable?"
The Minister of War drew a sharp breath, glancing uneasily at his ruler's calm. Shagrul caught the look. "Come now, dear Sidoc—what troubles you?"
The Minister hesitated, but the Chancellor stepped forward with a reluctant sigh. "Your Majesty… Fort Ironblood has fallen. General Sharin has betrayed the Empire."
A roar of fury shook the chamber, so loud the guards outside flinched. When silence returned, Shagrul's voice was icy. "The fortress fallen? Then the enemy can march into our heartlands. Is that what you mean?"
The Minister of Security stammered, "Y-Your Majesty, we… we have no further reports. Our agents—"
A pair of white gloves flew from the emperor's desk, striking him in the chest. "Agents? Those spies of yours? Each year I grant you vast funds—and countless beauties from the realm. I even tolerate your… 'training methods'—but you bring me no word that Smarte was mobilizing? You do not even know where their armies stand?"
The man collapsed to his knees, trembling.
The Minister of State intervened smoothly. "Your Majesty, perhaps Lord Shaks cannot be blamed. The Shator province has been rife with rebellion, and many of his best agents are deployed there. The southern frontier's intelligence must have thinned. Yet within seven days we shall know all. Loyal subjects will bring us the truth."
Shagrul's face darkened, then eased. "Very well. Shaks, rebuild your network. I want every movement of their armies reported. You boasted that your spies could tell the color of any minister's undergarments—if you cannot uncover our enemy's position, do not return."
The humbled minister fled, and the others bowed in silence.
"Prepare for war, gentlemen," Shagrul commanded. "You have told me often that we command the greatest legions beneath heaven. Now prove it."
The Minister of State smiled obsequiously. "They shall not overcome us, Your Majesty—I have faith."
Shagrul turned to Lady Glin as she coughed delicately. "Your Majesty," she murmured, "pray dispatch your armies swiftly. After Ironblood, it is my husband's lands that lie next."
The emperor's eyes flickered, then softened as she whispered urgently into his ear. He smiled, pinched her cheek, and turned. "Instruct Duke Glin and the three lords of his border to coordinate with our garrisons. Let their private armies strike hard before our forces arrive."
The Minister of War bowed faintly, thinking, If Glin's lands fall, perhaps His Majesty gains the lady entire… though she may not prefer a throne to her husband's title.
After a pause, Shagrul asked, "Anything further? Then prepare for battle. Whom can I trust, if not you?"
The Minister of War bowed. "Your Majesty, I require your formal authorization to mobilize the imperial army."
"Ah, of course," said Shagrul. "But until the situation is clear, take only what forces you deem necessary. You have my word as sovereign—does that not suffice?"
The Minister smiled tightly. "Naturally, Your Majesty. I shall act at once."
Shagrul nodded absently, eyes once more on Lady Glin. "Remember, the Vanterian Empire has never lost a war. Inform our allies to shift their border troops slightly—no aid required, only the appearance of readiness."
The ministers bowed and departed.
As the door closed, Shagrul drew Lady Glin into his arms and whispered, smiling, "Fear not, my dear. I shall protect your family's lands. Your husband must be far away by now—so we have ample time…"
She laughed softly. "My lord, your empress still awaits in the hall."
"Empress?" he murmured against her lips. "I do not love her. She is but a tool… As for gods—our Empire kneels to none."