Smoke rolled low across the plains, thick and choking, veiling the sun in a dull gray haze. The cries of men and horses mingled with the clash of steel, the bitter scent of ash and blood staining the wind.
Once, banners of blue and gold of the city of Elysoria had flown proudly over the southern hills of Asteria, now they lay crushed into the blood-soaked earth, their colors drowned in ash and mud.
General Valtor rode through the haze, his armor streaked with soot, his jaw set hard against despair. Around him, Asterian soldiers staggered, wounded, their eyes hollow. The ground itself seemed to moan beneath the weight of the dying.
"Hold the line!" Valtor shouted, voice raw. "Form up by the ridge, defend the river crossing!"
But the words fell thin. Men obeyed out of habit, not hope.
A captain stumbled toward him, blood seeping through his torn mail. "General, the Varcians, they've broken through the eastern flank! Boyar's cavalry are, "
A thunder of hooves cut him short. Over the smoke, dark shapes emerged, Varcia's cavalry sweeping like a storm. Their crimson banners snapped in the wind, their advance ruthless, silent save for the drumming of warhorses.
"Fall back!" Valtor roared. "To the ridge! Fall back!"
The river ran red as men stumbled into it, armor dragging them down. The air quaked with the deep, cold horns of Varcia, steady, merciless.
Valtor drew his sword, the blade trembling in his grip. "We fight for Asteria!"
A young soldier beside him, barely more than a boy, swallowed hard. "General… are we the last?"
Valtor's eyes burned. "We are what remains."
A crash split the sky. The Emberwatch Tower, proud sentinel of Asteria's southern hills, crumbled beneath a storm of fire, its stone crown wreathed in smoke as the battlefield swallowed its light.
The boy stared, his breath catching. "That was the first signal post in Asteria," he whispered. "Now it's gone."
Valtor turned his horse sharply, his face ash-gray. "Southern Asteria has fallen."
The words tore through the air like a curse.
"Sound the retreat!" he ordered. "Save who you can! We ride for the capital!"
The trumpets wailed, broken and thin. Men turned from the field, not in cowardice, but in ruin. The Varcians pressed forward, disciplined, relentless. Among them rode General Boyar, a towering figure clad in blackened steel that drank the sunlight. His banner bore the serpent coiled around a blade, the sigil of King Bani's elite. Beneath him thundered Barou, his massive Auroch war bull, its horns tipped with iron and flanks scarred from a dozen campaigns. Smoke curled around them as they advanced, man and beast moving as one dark force, the ground trembling beneath their charge.
Valtor looked once more at the burning city, the ruins of what he'd sworn to defend. His voice was low, almost to himself. "Asteria bleeds today."
A sudden arrow struck the dirt beside his horse. Another followed, closer. The next found his shoulder.
He gritted his teeth and snapped the shaft in two. "Hang tight," he commanded, gripping the captain's arm and hoisting him into the saddle. Then, with a fierce shove to the horse's flank, he sent man and beast surging toward the rear lines.
As he turned toward the smoke-shrouded hills, the Varcian horns blared once more, echoing across the plain, a call of victory.
And far beyond, where the horizon shimmered with fire, the first messenger broke away, galloping toward the royal capital with the weight of a kingdom's fall behind him.
The horn of Varcia sounds across the field, the messenger rides for Asteria. The war has begun in full.
The great doors of Asteria's hall groaned open, the silhouette of an armed man tensed the aura of the court room. Every voice fell silent as General Valtor entered, fatally injured, but walking with the measured steadiness of a man who refused to yield even to ruin. His armor was scarred and darkened by battle, his mantle torn and streaked with soot, yet his bearing remained unbroken, his back straight, his head high, and his eyes clear with the weight of what he carried home.
The hall fell silent.
King Thorne rose from the Draemir Throne, his face paling beneath the weight of what that sight already confessed. "Valtor," he breathed, voice low, trembling between anger and dread. "By the gods, what has become of you?"
Valtor bowed stiffly, though the motion sent blood sliding down his arm. "Your Majesty," he rasped, his voice raw from smoke and battle. "Elysoria stands no more."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Lord Alaric's voice broke through the stunned quiet, tight with both dread and concern. "No more? Gods, Valtor, speak plainly. What became of the city? Did it fall… were any saved?"
Valtor's eyes lifted, dark, unbroken, though rimmed with exhaustion. "We fought, the walls crumbled. The River Gate was lost before dawn. Varcia's ironsteed broke through our defence… and the Emberwatch Tower… stands no more," he said, bowing his head in honor to humbly acknowledge defeat.
A murmur spread, shock, disbelief, the faint sound of armor shifting as guards exchanged uncertain glances.
Thorne's hand tightened on the armrest, his voice low but sharp as a drawn blade. "And the others? What of Kelmoor? Dareth? Elnor?"
General Valtor's jaw tightened. He bowed his head slightly, his voice rough with the strain of battle and loss. "Kelmoor's gates were breached before dawn. General Arden fell defending the bridge; he was slain after he yielded. Dareth's men laid down their arms at noon… yet, they were slaughtered where they stood."
A murmur rippled through the court, horrified and low.
Valtor drew a breath, his eyes shadowed. "Elnor begged for mercy before its walls were even struck. King Bani's riders answered with fire."
King Thorne's face turned to stone.
Silence filled the hall, heavy, endless, and cold as mourning steel.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Queen Venice stepped forward, her composure a mask of marble. "Then our people?" she asked softly.
Valtor met her gaze. "Massacred, not a single soul survived," he replied, slightly bowing his head.
Alaric's eyes burned, his voice rough with fury and grief. "Massacred? How far must Asteria fall, Your Majesty?"
Valtor turned his head slowly, meeting the noble's fury with a measured calm. "I bring no ruin, Lord Alaric, only the truth of what was already lost before I drew my sword."
The words hit like iron.
King Thorne descended the dais, his steps echoing through the hall. His voice was low, edged with restrained fury. "Then the serpent has already coiled around our throat, hasn't it, General?"
Valtor straightened, though blood still seeped beneath his armor. "His banners were seen beyond the Nagi plains. Boyar leads them. They ride for the capital."
A murmur rippled through the court, one lady paled, others bowed their heads in uneasy silence.
King Thorne's jaw tightened, but no words followed. He stood motionless, the hall heavy with his silence, only the faint grind of his teeth betrayed the storm building behind his composed gaze.
Valtor drew a slow breath, his voice low but steady. "We still breathe, Your Majesty. But the wind has turned against us. If Asteria is to endure, she must learn to stand as more than stone and crown, she must bleed, as her soldiers have."
Silence fell like a shroud. The nobles stared, none daring to speak.
Thorne's jaw worked, his breath unsteady. "You've done enough, General," he said at last, voice low. "Rest now. I'll decide how Asteria answers this insult."
Valtor gave a faint, weary nod. "Asteria will endure," he murmured, then his knees gave way, and he pitched forward, his body stiffening like a felled tree, crashing onto the marble floor with a heavy thud. For a heartbeat, the hall stood frozen in stunned silence, then chaos broke. Guards surged forward, Queen Venice gasped, and the sound of his fall seemed to linger, heavy as thunder.
His blood spread dark across the king's reflection.
King Thorne stood motionless above the fallen general, his expression carved in stone. His gaze lingered on Valtor's still form, the flicker of fear buried deep behind his eyes.
The air in Asteria's great hall had grown colder since dawn. The windows were unlatched to let in the scent of rain, but the storm had passed and left only stillness, an uneasy quiet that no one dared disturb. King Thorne sat upon the Draemir Throne, a parchment half-crumpled in his grip. His crown seemed heavier now, the gold dulled by sleepless nights and the whisper of loss.
At the foot of the dais stood three envoys, their composure taut beneath the strain of humiliation. Behind them, attendants wheeled in three massive coffers mounted on an iron-bound cart, its gilded edges dulled by dust, its weight bowing the cart's frame. The eldest envoy, Lord Merin of the Treasury, stood nearest to it, his eyes lowered. Even from afar, the sheer bulk of the coffer spoke of the fortune it carried, gold enough to ransom a kingdom, or surrender one.
Lord Alaric stood near the throne, his voice taut with suspicion. "They've returned too soon," he murmured to himself. "The journey to Varcia takes longer when there's hope to bring home."
King Thorne's gaze never left the envoys. "Speak," he said at last, his tone stripped of grandeur. "Did Bani take the gold?"
The men exchanged glances. Lord Merin then stepped forward, bowing low. "He examined it, Your Majesty," he began softly. "The vaults were opened before his court. Every chest was weighed. The gold of Asteria was displayed before his council."
"And his reply?" Alaric pressed.
Merin hesitated, his throat working. "He… returned it, my lord."
The words fell like stones into the silence.
"Returned?" Thorne's voice was scarcely more than a whisper, yet it carried across the hall like the edge of a blade.
Merin bowed deeper. "Doubled, Your Majesty. His stewards brought forth twice the weight in Varcian gold. They loaded it into our wagons themselves." More attendants wheeled in more coffers in carts.
A stunned murmur spread among the courtiers. Queen Venice, pale and rigid, rose from her place beside the throne. "Then he mocks us," she said, her voice trembling with fury she could barely contain.
Merin nodded once, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "His words were few, my queen. He said… 'Asteria's peace is not for sale.'"
Thorne's knuckles whitened on the armrest. The sound of metal creaked under his grip. For a long moment, no one moved, no one breathed.
General Valtor, pale and bandaged, stood near the hall's pillars, his strength not yet restored but his mind clear. "Then he means to crush us," he said quietly. "Gold was our plea for mercy, he sends it back as a declaration of war."
Lord Alaric's temper broke. "We should have burned it all rather than let his dogs touch it! He toys with our surrender, with our pride, "
Thorne's voice cut through him, calm and hollow. "Enough."
The king rose slowly, his robe whispering against the marble. His gaze lingered on the pale horizon, where the dawn light seemed dimmer than it once was, its silence heavy with the weight of unseen losses.
"He's answered us well," King Thorne said at last, his tone flat, eyes distant. "He's shown the worth of our peace, weighed it, and found it wanting."
A silence fell over the hall so complete it seemed even the torches dared not flicker.
Then, a
s if to himself, Thorne murmured, "If gold cannot buy peace… then what will?"
His words lingered in the air long after the echoes faded, heavy, final, and without reply.