The Queen's military camp stretched between hills of dry grass and ancient dust, like an open wound upon the world's skin. The wind, warm and persistent, stirred the brown banners raised at regular intervals, each proudly displaying the silhouette of a white horse reared on its hind legs.
The tents stood in austere precision, made of thick canvas and dyed the same colour as the uniforms seen everywhere: brown, like the earth, like sweat, like dried blood. There was no superfluous ornament among Ventora's soldiers – only brass buckles, boots polished by use, and gazes hardened by the weight of discipline. Soldiers moved in silence, some sharpening bayonets, others loading musket balls into wooden crates stamped with the royal seal.
The white smoke from a cook's fire rose lazily, carrying the salty scent of boiled meat and hard bread. A young drummer, perhaps no more than twelve winters old, dragged himself among the men and women with an empty stare, his drum hanging at his side as if even music had surrendered to exhaustion.
The guard commander, a grey-eyed veteran with a hoarse voice, walked with his hands behind his back, inspecting every detail – from the placement of the powder barrels to how the horses were tethered. He was not a man for idle words. In Ventora, silence spoke louder than a thousand oaths, and discipline was the only god all feared equally.
Queen Valeria's army was, for now, more promise than tide. They numbered no more than four thousand souls, and yet, there was a discipline in them that made hills tremble.
In that camp, serving as the vanguard of the army, were Gaspar Salinaterra's three thousand men – veterans with skin weathered by the winds of the southern plains and eyes like steel blades steeped in bitter wine. They were the forward guard and followed their commander with the devotion of a loyal hound.
Valeria was also accompanied by her elite, the Cavalry of the Winds, astride swift, relentless horses, and it was said that where Valeria's Winds passed, not even dust remained to tell the tale.
But Valeria expected more. To the south, a column of smoke rose – a sign that Colonel Matthias von Kessel approached with his Iron Ghosts. They wore dark armour without heraldry, and instead of drums, they used the dry sound of their own footsteps to announce their arrival.
By the next dawn, Isabella Mareluz would bring with her the bulk of the royal army – nineteen thousand men, if the heralds' numbers were to be trusted.
Queen Valeria Ventoforte's tent stood at the heart of the camp like a solemn altar among mortals. It was larger than the others, yes, but it bore no golden banners or silk brocades. The brown canvas, reinforced with hardened leather, was stretched stiff, as if even the fabric feared yielding before the cold will of the woman who slept beneath it.
Inside, the air was dry and icy, despite the summer still burning the fields outside. No candles burned. Light came from a single opening at the top of the tent, filtering in grey beams that seemed to avoid touching the ground. There was severity in every corner – a simple table of darkened oak, maps spread out with iron weights, and a portable throne with a high back, more akin to an instrument of judgment than of rest.
In that tent, there was no music. No mirrors. Not even a scent – only the faint smell of aged leather and damp wool, as if time there were forever trapped in autumn.
Lucia Ventoforte, the Queen's heir, burst in unannounced, like a gust of agitated wind. Her eyes burned with a restlessness she could not disguise, and her voice, though restrained, trembled like a tense string.
– Mother, we must speak – she laid her gloves upon the table where the maps were spread. – Why are we advancing like this? Why? We are in a precarious position here. Leonespada is but a few leagues away, and we crossed the Torrens Aurignus with a force that leaves you dangerously exposed.
Valeria did not raise her eyes at once. Her fingers traced a line drawn in black ink upon the paper. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost maternal, yet every word seemed chosen with the precision of a blade grazing a throat.
– Tell me, Lucia… what do you know of the Desert Crisis?
Lucia hesitated. The words felt distant, like memories from another age.
– Enough, I suppose. I know what is in the chronicles, nothing more – her voice was low but firm. – That Solterra was weakened after the great drought they suffered. That a coalition of the armies of Marellia, Ventora, and Calentia swept over them like a storm.
Valeria did not answer immediately. She stared into the void, as if she could still see Solterra's red banners burning in her memory. When she spoke, it was not with anger, but with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred winters.
– Do you know what I did in that war, Lucia?
– No, My Queen – the formality slipped from her lips like a shield. – None of your vassals dare speak of it. And in the chronicles… well, the chronicles speak of generals, of treaties and victories. Not of deeds. Not of names. Least of all yours.
Valeria laughed, but it was a joyless sound, dry as sand between teeth.
– Of course not. They wrote only what was convenient. They erased me with ink. The quills of scribes are deadlier than cannons when moved by fear. The men who serve me today, Lucia, do not do so out of love. They do it because they have seen me. Because they know what I am capable of when mercy is burned away. Solterra was decimated, yes… But not by Calentia's soldiers or Marellia's ships. It was by the decisions I made when no one else would decide.
She lifted her eyes, and her gaze was that of one who had not slept peacefully in many years.
– It was not a war, Lucia – Valeria's voice was grave, buried in memories even time had not dared to erase. – It was slaughter. And like all slaughters, it began with blindness and pride.
Lucia remained silent, her eyes fixed on her mother. There was something in Valeria's tone that rendered questions unnecessary.
– Solterra did not know. They did not understand. While their priests shrieked prophecies of fire and death and their scarlet-robed generals boasted behind their walls, they did not see what was coming. They thought they faced only Marellia, that Ventora and Calentia, their obedient vassals, would come to their aid. They believed I would fight for them.
She paused. Her fingers traced the map, lingering over a winding line: the Fluvius Calivolus, snaking between hills and salt flats. The old river marked the ancient border between Solterra and Ventora.
– When I crossed the Calivolus, it was not with banners raised or drums sounding. It was at dawn, unannounced, without glory. The first Solterran fort I encountered, Calvolsangre, held only starving soldiers, forgotten by their high command. I offered them bread, water… and a choice.
She looked at Lucia as if judging her, measuring her ability to hear an ugly truth.
– They chose to brand me a traitor. They did not believe my promise to end the Empire's tyranny, nor did they care for my reasons.
She straightened herself. The next words came with bitterness, but without remorse.
– I burned everything – she said at last. – From the Fluvius Calivolus to Setaguarda. I burned the forts, the fields, the granaries, the stone sanctuaries. Everything. My soldiers, who began to call me queen, learned obedience not through loyalty, but through the terror of being left behind. And those who resisted… did not do so for long.
Her voice held no pride. No lament. It was merely factual, like the reading of a forgotten chronicle.
– By the time I laid siege to Setaguarda, nothing remained between me and the throat of the Empire. The wind carried the stench of the dead, and the vultures did not wait for the walls to fall. It was then that word came. The war was over. The Marellians proclaimed victory. Calentia demanded treaties and spoils. The heralds sang of war's end, as if the embers were not still glowing in the ruins.
A long silence followed. The silence of one who has heard many victory chants and knows that blood hides beneath every note.
– But I did not feel like a victor, Lucia. I never did – her fingers closed over the map, right atop the symbol of Arenosa, Solterra's distant capital. – I wanted to march here. To the tyrant's throne. I wanted to tear the Empire out by the root. Leave no seeds. But they would not let me. They ordered me to stop. And I obeyed… at least, that time.
Lucia held her silence for a moment, staring at the woman before her as if seeing a spectre risen from the desert – not a queen, but a shadow forged from ash and command. At last, she spoke, her voice measured but firm:
– And what does any of that have to do with now, with what we're doing here? The war in Solterra is in the past. What you did or didn't do, what does it matter to this border, to this new war?
– It matters in every way – Valeria murmured. – Because this time, Lucia, we will do what we dared not do in Solterra. We will not hesitate. We will show no mercy. We will not let the enemy breathe long enough to rise again.
She turned to her with eyes as cold as steel in morning dew.
– Aurelia will be this generation's desert. We will invade through the Leonespada border, and when Ventora's banners are seen on the hills, it will be too late for them to surrender with honour.
The young princess swallowed dryly, but Valeria continued, impassive.
– We will free those people from the tyranny of King Alaric IV. Or at least, that is what the chroniclers will write. But if they refuse to bend the knee… then let them burn.
Her hand pointed south on the map, to Aurelia's fertile valleys.
– The Campi Dorati… they say they are golden with abundance, with wheat that dances in the sun. Very well. When I pass through it, I will have them know they are golden with fire. The fire of vengeance. The flame of will. The wrath of Valeria Ventoforte.
The silence that followed was thick as ash after a blaze.
– This time, Lucia, we do not stop at Setaguarda. This time, we march to the end.