How to Buy a Hundred Living Thunderbolts Without Starting a War (Yet)
Days earlier, Charles left for hunting—his decision to escape rising tensions at home and regroup led to unforeseen chaos. Frustrated at being sidelined, Rob sought to assert control. He kicked open the West Hill estate's strategy chamber doors like they owed him money.
"We got 'em!"
Borris barely looked up. "If this is another false lead, I'm throwing you off the balcony."
Rob slapped a storm-charred scroll onto the map table. "One hundred. Stormhowl Sovereign Stallions. Real. Alive. Breathing lightning and farting wind."
Wendy shrugged. "Unless they can teleport and quote scripture, not interested."
"Teleportation, yes. Scripture, no," Rob smirked.
Geo blinked. "That breed is extinct. Or reserved for the Imperial Legions."
"Wrong and wrong. I tracked a hidden breeder east of Ravenspike Gorge. Off-map. Surrounded by mana-charged ravines and bad decisions."
Charles, polishing his gauntlets, raised an eyebrow, seeing an opportunity to reinforce House Ziglar's strength amid regional instability. Eager to secure any asset that could shift the balance of power for his house, he said, "Take Anton, Alvin, and whoever else you trust. Full purse. If they truly exist—buy them all."
Ravenspike Sanctuary - Domain of Storm and Madness
Ravenspike wasn't so much a sanctuary as it was a place maps politely avoided.
Above the thorned cliffs, the sky crackled. Winds howled, demanding payment for invisible debts. Qi-infused storms boiled through canyons, threatening to vaporize your skeleton on a whim. Deadly beauty mingled with danger—perfect for those who savor dramatic landscapes and air sharp with ozone.
At its heart stood a fortress-temple: Aurumwood gates etched with beast-taming seals, scorched by time and tempests.
Behind those gates?
Thunder incarnate.
A hundred Stormhowl Sovereign Stallions.
Their obsidian coats shimmered, silver qi-veins running beneath. Sapphire lightning pulsed in their eyes; their muscles seemed carved from dusk-stone. Each hoof struck with such force that craters appeared in the rock.
They weren't just mounts. They were declarations of war wrapped in elegance and thunder.
Even Wendy gasped. "Okay. I want four."
Haldrik Thornhoof, Retired Warlord and Professional Grump
The wind howled across the jagged hills, a warning for lesser men to turn back. Rob stood tall—his coat billowed like a proper dramatic bastard. Driven by a desire to prove himself and fulfill Charles's ambitions, he waited, flanked by Anton and Alvin. Both carried the kind of reinforced spatial pouches that made customs inspectors cry blood.
Before them stood him.
Haldrik Thornhoof.
Retired warlord. Professional grump. Living myth.
He looked like a boulder, carved into a man's shape, then given both a bad attitude and a glorious beard—by accident, perhaps. His right eye glowed with the everlasting mark of a beast tamer's pact, while his left eyebrow twitched at the very sound of the word "negotiate."
He eyed the trio like they'd just farted in a temple.
"So," he growled, his voice a whiskey storm dragging chains, "House Ziglar wants my entire herd. Again. Looking to intimidate, or just win a contest with the Imperials?"
Rob grinned like a wolf that had eaten the tax collector.
"Our lord doesn't stroll—he storms. He descends. He doesn't ride; he dominates the wind. He needs a herd to match."
Haldrik spat into a firepit, the saliva briefly catching flame.
"I don't breed pampered dressage ponies. These aren't your stable-fed donkey cousins. These are Stormhowl Sovereigns, forged in thunder and born to break necks."
"And that," Rob said, "is precisely why we're here. We're ordering more."
Haldrik squinted. "More?"
Anton stepped forward with the first scroll.
"Order includes the following, to be transported via sealed spatial pouches to avoid kingdom checkpoint seizures or, you know, attention. House Ziglar seeks to prevent rivals from discovering their new assets."
Haldrik rolled his eyes. "Of course it does."
Full Military-Class Mount Order for West Hill Manor, House Ziglar
100 Thunderhoof Stallions—standard battle-grade, lightning-fast gallop
200 Stormhowl Sovereign Stallions—top-notch mounts that like storms
100 Embermane Dreadchargers are dread cavalry units with a fire attribute.
100 Warborn Adamant Steeds—earth-element tanks and siege pullers
50 Solar Gryphons are bright flying mounts for top mages and commanders.
20 Moonveil Dracohawks – nightflight recon wyverns for shadow strike
20 Emberwing Rocs – long-range aerial scouts & heavy sky haulers
10 Pegasus-variant Stormhowl Sovereigns – ultra-rare winged warstallions
Haldrik blinked. "You want that… all at once?"
Rob snapped. Anton and Alvin dropped six obsidian vault-chests on the soil. Each landed like the sound of a noble's head hitting the executioner's block.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
When they opened, the moonlight caught 1,389,000 gold coins in clean, gleaming stacks. No enchantments. No kingdom seals. No blood curses. Just legacy-grade coinage harvested from dungeon cores, auction house triumphs, and the nightmares of underpriced artifact dealers.
Haldrik sucked on a lightning berry, coughed up a few sparks, and finally nodded.
"…You pay like tyrants. I like that."
He stepped forward, yanked a beast-hide scroll off a nearby wyvern's perch, and smacked it onto the flank of a glaring stallion.
Contract of Thunder and Iron
Stamped on the side of a stallion, because "tables are for cowards."
This accord binds Ravenspike Sanctuary and House Ziglar in blood, coin, and storm.
All future Stormhowl Sovereigns bred shall first be offered to House Ziglar at a rate of 3,500 gold coins per head, regardless of kingdom war, rebellion tax, or beast market inflation.
Buyer: Charlemagne Ziglar, Lord of West Hill Manor, Rider of the Tempest, Breaker of Banquets, Sleeper Through Assassination Attempts
Witnessed by: Anton (Professional Chest Carrier), Alvin (Spiritual Mule Handler)
Counter-Signed by: Bolt, the Stallion That Just Glared at Us and Probably Knows Necromancy
Haldrik sealed it with beastblood and thunder-ink, both of which contained qi. The scroll hissed like a happy predator.
He said, "It's done. The mounts will be delivered in ten days."
Rob bowed. "Make sure they're energetic. The Lord likes them tough."
Haldrik grunted. "If he makes it through riding those, I'll personally bring him the next batch while singing Ziglar's family anthem in falsetto."
Back at West Hill Manor, SIGMA pinged:
Incoming Shipment Confirmed
Delivery Status: discreetly on its way through underground beast channels
Expected arrival: 9 days, 12 hours, and 33 minutes
Preparations: Increase the stable's perimeter, strengthen the feeding barriers, and tell the stablehands not to die.
Charles read the whole order and said, "Diana is going to kill me when she sees the feed budget."
Arrival at West Hill Estate
Their return shook the earth.
One hundred stallions rode in like thunder, given form. Trees bent. Birds exploded. Even the clouds above parted like fearful subjects.
Borris stood on the estate balcony, sipping spirit-infused tea.
He stared. Blinked. Lowered the cup.
"Did we conquer a continent and no one told me?"
Rob tossed him a platinum riding whip. "Our new cavalry, my brother. I named one 'Tax Evasion.'"
Geo whispered, reverently, "That one just sneezed and a boulder disintegrated."
Wendy nodded. "We live in interesting times."
And just like that, House Ziglar acquired the beginnings of a cavalry that could shatter nations and seduce heavens.
From that day on, whenever thunder cracked over Velmora, nobles didn't ask if a storm was coming.
They asked:
"Is Ziglar on the move?"
And prayed the answer was no.
Meanwhile…three days ago
Location: Duranth Mercenary Bunkhouses, Slaughterer's Square.
Borris cracked his knuckles and strode into a dive bar; bloodstains, older than the empire, marked the floor. The House Ziglar symbol shone on his armor. He looked every inch the warlord who drinks tea with ground bones.
A dozen soldiers for hire looked up. Two people backed out right away. The rest stayed.
"Are you looking for a job?" Borris's voice sounded like gravel in a forge. Determined to safeguard House Ziglar's future, he assessed the crowd for trustworthy fighters.
A big man with a scar over one eye grunted, "It depends. Who's paying?"
Borris threw a velvet bag on the table. Along with a polished Ziglar token, gold spilled out.
"I need fifty killers, fifty loyalists, and no questions asked. Training begins tonight. Tomorrow is uniform day. You will be protecting a young noble whose life is crucial for House Ziglar to retain its grip on power."
One wiry woman leaned forward. "You're recruiting guards or starting a coup?"
"Yes," Borris said.
By sundown, he had over five hundred warriors—some ex-legion, some disgraced knights, a few blood oath mercs who liked the idea of fighting for a house that was already rumored to be rewriting the empire.
They rode back to West Hill the next day, banners snapping in the wind, every rider mounted on a thunderhoof stallion or better.
Back at the West Hill Estate…
Rob returned covered in soot and horse hair—triumphant. Borris arrived flanked by a phalanx of armored recruits. Many had already begun comparing blade sizes and debating whose boss had the better jawline—Charles or the dragon.
Charles, of course, missed the whole thing.
When he finally emerged days later from breakthrough hunting, dressed like the God of Storms at a fashion gala, Rob merely handed him the reins to the new stallion with a wink.
"You like big entrances," Rob said. "Now you've got the biggest."
Borris nodded. "And five hundred soldiers who'll kill for you. Or die trying."
Charles took the reins. The Stormhowl Sovereign Stallion reared with a snarl of thunder.
"I suppose we should throw a ball next," he murmured.
Wendy, arms crossed, smiled faintly. "You already did. The whole damn kingdom just hasn't heard it yet."
Masquerade of Shadows and Flame
People in Velmora's upper class had always talked about the Celestia Grand Pavilion in hushed tones, as if it were a temple rather than a ballroom. And tonight, it was dressed to catch the eye of the gods.
The Pavilion sat on top of the Vermillion Promenade like a crown on a king's head. In the twilight, its obsidian-blackstone towers were covered in living runes that pulsed with a heartbeat of gold.
Moonjade lanterns hung above the grand balconies in patterns that looked like the night sky. This wasn't by chance; Victor Sorelle had hired a whole guild of astronomer-magi to accomplish it.
Lady Micah Sorelle stood in the middle of the storm she had planned, arms crossed and emerald eyes scanning every inch of the Elysian Grand Hall like a general before a battle.
"Please move that centerpiece three inches to the left," she said. "If I can see its unevenness from here, Lord Damaris will smell it from the foyer."
"Yes, Lady Micah," Marlon stammered, sweat practically dripping down his temple.
Chef Bobby, on the other hand, was having a full-blown existential crisis near the strange buffet line. One of the soufflés fell apart. Again.
"It's mocking me," he whispered. "It's sentient. I swear on my buttered soul—"
"Fix it," Micah said without even turning. "And if it tries to collapse again, collapse it first."
Danica was nearby, practicing how to say the names of foreign nobles with an incantation scroll. If she mispronounced the title of a Zulanese duke, it could start a war. Or, even worse, a bad review.
The Elysian Grand Hall was lit up by crystal domes that looked like stars. Each table had linens that changed color slightly in response to each guest's magical aura.
The chandeliers hung in the air without any support. They were made of sunstone and mirrored prisms that changed their glow in response to the music.
Music which, at present, was being piped in by invisible orchestras tuned to the astral resonance of the guests' emotional frequencies.
If someone was heartbroken, the violins mourned. If someone was scheming? The cellos sharpened. If someone had had too much Feyblush Nectar?
Well. That's what the bass section was for.
Micah walked through the hall like she owned it—which, to be fair, she practically did for the night. Her gown was a fusion of imperial court elegance and battlefield pragmatism: deep sapphire silk woven with defensive enchantments, shadow-thread embroidery along the hem in the shape of blossoming knives.
"Lady Micah," whispered one of the assistants, "the guest tokens are set on all five hundred seats."
She nodded. "Remind me of the phrasing again."
"The blackwood-inlaid medallions give VIP access to the Tre Sorelle Velmora Grand Opening for the bearer and a guest." When you get within a kilometer of them, they glow gold.
"Excellent. And what about the wine?
"The crystal wine samplers have either Twilight Elixir or Feyblush Nectar in them—"
"—both of which are noble-grade.Make people feel a little happy, make their taste buds work better, and lower the chance that someone will punch another noble in the face by a lot. Acceptable."
Danica blinked. "That's... strangely specific."
"I know my audience," Micah said with a smile that held just enough venom to pass inspection.
The waitstaff were dressed in flowing black uniforms woven with illusion-threads. If you looked directly at them, the Sorelle sigil shimmered on their chest like moonlight on water. If you didn't, they became a blur—servants without identity, perfection without ego.
"Tonight," Micah said, mostly to herself, "we don't just serve food. We serve vision."
Marlon sidled up beside her, still adjusting his cravat for the fifth time. "The nobles of Velmora will be talking about this for a decade."
"They'll be franchising within a week," Micah replied. "Talking is free. Buying is a commitment."
Chef Bobby ran past them with a tray, cursing at a levitating soufflé that tried to escape.
Micah didn't flinch.
"Is it wrong," she murmured, "that I feel nothing anymore unless something's on fire?"
Danica exhaled. "You've been working with Charles too long."
Micah's expression twitched, ever so slightly.
"Speak of the devil," she whispered.
The mana in the air shifted.
The lighting grew warmer.
Somewhere, an enchanted wine glass began to tremble.
The storm was approaching. But for now, this was her domain.
Let them arrive. Let them marvel. Let them underestimate her.
She would make them all dine on their assumptions.
With gold-plated forks.