Chapter 18

  Thivan Sothar stood on the high balcony overlooking the monumental banquet hall of Drymon. Below him, a controlled chaos reigned that would normally have filled his heart with pride. His sister, Livia, moved with the precision of a general among the endless rows of polished cedar tables. She directed hundreds of servants who brought in heavy silver platters, crystal chalices, and decorations made of rare silk. Nothing was left to chance. The lords of the Great Houses, the proud clans of Caleon, expected perfection: food that melted on the tongue, wines that seemed to have aged in the cellars of the gods, and an atmosphere that left no doubt as to who the rightful heir of the East was.

  But the festive harmony was abruptly interrupted. An ether crystal began to vibrate inside his pouch.

  The sound was a high, piercing hum that bored directly into Thivan’s ear canal. These crystals were relics from a time when the realm had stood on the brink of collapse—extremely precious, unstable, and reserved only for situations where a standard astral transmission was too slow or too insecure. A crystal meant war, or the immediate death of an ally.

  A cold shiver ran down Thivan’s spine. He felt the suppressed energy within him react. His right hand, permanently scarred by the failed coupling years ago, began to crackle. Small, blue sparks jumped back and forth between his fingers—a sign of his rising stress levels. He reached into the pouch, closed his hand around the cold stone, and activated the link with a targeted mental pulse.

  The image of Lord Thorsten Barwan flickered into the air before him. The face of his father’s old friend was distorted. Thorsten, a man who usually stood like a rock in the surf, looked haggard. Sweat poured down his forehead, and in the background, the metallic roar of golems on a forced march could be heard.

  "King Sothar," Barwan forced out. "I am on my way to Drymon. We will arrive in two days, in time for the coronation. But there is a problem, my Lord. A massive problem."

  Thivan’s stomach tightened painfully. He clenched his jaw. Not now, he thought. Not when I am only two steps away from the throne. His first thought was of Vin. Had she returned to punish him for his obsession? Had she gathered a mercenary army to burn Drymon to the ground?

  "Speak, Lord Barwan," Thivan commanded, his voice barely under control.

  "I reinforced my border troops because my scouts reported irregularities," Barwan reported breathlessly. "A destructive force is moving through the forest. It leaves a trail of death such as I have never seen. We found four Earth-Veska corpses, Thivan. Four! In a single clearing!"

  Thivan’s eyes widened. The world around him seemed to stand still for a moment. Four Earth-Veska? These creatures were the natural forces of the forest. A single one could tie down a squad of golems for hours. That someone had slaughtered four of them as if they were pesky weeds was beyond all military logic.

  No, no, no, no, no! pounded in his head. A panic impulse rose within him—the dark side of the power he kept so laboriously under wraps. He felt the magical echo of the botched coupling throbbing in his brain, a painful tearing behind his eyelids.

  At that moment, Nym, his chief healer and closest confidante, rushed onto the balcony. Her face was ashen, her breathing shallow.

  "My Lord!" she cried, ignoring the ongoing conversation with Barwan. "Our scouts and those of House Barwan are sending storm-birds with urgent reports. On the northern border, right at Barwan’s hunting grounds... an army is forming. Half-giants, Dragonfolk, barbarians—a melting pot of scum. They speak of a force already on the advance!"

  Thivan looked frantically back and forth. On one side, the flickering, sweat-drenched Barwan; on the other, the horrified Nym. Behind him, the banquet hall, a symbol of the peace and unity he had promised his people. Everything he had built—every alliance, every hard-won compromise—threatened to shatter in this moment. Ruin wasn't knocking at the door; it was kicking it in with its boot.

  He closed his eyes.

  For a moment, he no longer heard the festive bustle below in the hall. He heard only the heavy pounding of his own heart. In that darkness behind his lids, he played it all out. He saw his failure as a young prince, the pain of the machine that had nearly torn his mind apart. He saw Vin’s face as she fled with all that gold. He saw his father’s dreams fluttering like withered leaves in the wind.

  But then, he saw something else. He saw the vision of a united Caleon. He saw the strength embedded in the walls of Drymon. He felt the raw, untamed energy in his hand, which was not just a curse, but a weapon. He realized that the boy who was afraid of his own shadow had to die in this moment so that the King could survive.

  A deep breath. A second one. The panic gave way to an icy, crystalline clarity. The vibrations within him did not stop, but they aligned. They became a focus.

  Thivan opened his eyes. Nym involuntarily flinched back when she met his gaze. It was no longer the look of a doubting young man. His eyes shimmered with an unnatural, electric blue that seemed directly connected to the energy of the realm. He was reborn in this moment—forged in the fire of impending destruction.

  "If anyone dares to touch the heart of the East," he said, and his voice was as firm and cutting as the metal of his golems, "they shall experience the power of its strike."

  He turned back to the crystal where Lord Barwan was still waiting, stunned.

  "Thorsten, listen to me carefully," Thivan commanded. "Abort your golems' forced march. Let only an honorary guard come to Drymon. Send the rest of your troops—everything that wears metal and carries a core inside—back to the northern border immediately. Occupy the bottlenecks. I want every rocky gorge to become a death trap. If this army thinks they can simply march into my land, then we will choke them in the mud of their own ambitions."

  Barwan nodded, visibly impressed by the sudden transformation of his King. "Yes, my Lord. It shall be done."

  Thivan now activated further crystals in his pouch, a risky discharge of mana that left his arm almost numb. The faces of the "Gray Lords" appeared one after another in the air—the leaders of the border houses, the hard men and women who had kept the wilderness at bay for generations.

  "Lords of Caleon!" Thivan’s voice echoed across the balcony. "This is not a drill. The North is burning. An army of scum is forming at our borders. I order immediate general mobilization. Coordinate your troop movements across the entire Black Wood. I want seamless scout chains. If a blade of grass bends in the North, I want to know about it. Use the old signal fires. We will show that a united Caleon is not just made of feasts, but of steel and blood."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He cut the connections and turned to Nym. She stood rigid, ready for her instructions.

  "Nym, go to the alchemist workshops. I want all supplies of healing potions and mana regeneration moved to the northern depots. Mobilize all available healers for the border troops. And one more thing..." He paused briefly, his voice growing quieter but no less intense. "Open the armories of the 'Iron Guard.' The prototype golem cores we’ve kept under lock and key... we are going to need them."

  Nym’s eyes widened. "My Lord, they are unstable! If the pilots are not absolutely synchronized—"

  "Then they shall burn for their realm," Thivan interrupted her relentlessly. "Go now."

  As Nym hurried away, Thivan remained alone on the balcony. He looked down into the banquet hall. Livia looked up at him; she had noticed the change. He gave her a brief signal to proceed. The feast would take place. The coronation would take place. But it would not be a feast of joy, but a vow of war.

  Thivan raised his right hand. The blue lightning danced more violently now, almost hungrily. He felt the weight of the crown he did not yet wear already pressing upon his brow. He was ready. If Vin or whoever led this army thought Drymon was a ripe fruit to be simply plucked, they would find that this fruit possessed a core of pure, lethal lightning.

  His father’s dream would not die. Not today. And not at the hands of barbarians. Thivan Sothar had awakened, and with him, the entire power of the East.

  -

  We had overcome the first wall of Drymon with a mixture of fine-mechanical Elven magic and pure necrotic sabotage. With a concentration that brought beads of sweat to her brow, Vin had caused a microscopic vine to germinate in a crevice of the wall. Maira had used this vine as a carrier for a disorienting rot that clouded the guards' consciousness and short-circuited the highly sensitive rune traps for a tiny, decisive moment. It had been a surgical strike into the perfect Sothar defense.

  But no sooner had we entered the first inner ring than chaos broke out.

  All across the battlements, signal horns began to blare—a harsh, metallic sound that had nothing to do with our discovery. Soldiers converged in formations, officers bellowed orders about a "threat from the north," and the golems in the courtyards began to power up with a bone-jarring grinding of their gears. In this collective madness, it was only a matter of seconds before we would be discovered in one of the narrow side alleys and surrounded by an overwhelming force of shining steel.

  The situation was precarious. We stood with our backs against a whitewashed wall, the spear tips of the Sothar Guard only centimeters from our throats. I felt Arik already beginning to rotate his ash, and Maira curling her fingers, ready to turn the entire alley into a grave of acid. But a massacre here, in the middle of the capital, would forever destroy any chance of a diplomatic solution.

  In this moment of dire need, as the world around us tipped into a state of war, I felt a massive jolt within me. It was not the cold rage I was used to. It was a radiant, almost blinding authority.

  "Luken Lesko, Paladin of the Holy Order of the Eagle, of the Inquisition of Phobos, here at the behest of the High Elves!" I shouted, and my voice echoed off the walls as if it came from a giant bronze bell. "This group is under my protection!"

  The silence that followed was so thick you could hear the distant crackle of the magical torches. The soldiers froze in place. Even Vin and Maira stared at me with open mouths. I was surprised by the force of my own words, but then I noticed the change in myself.

  Gravor had decided to put on a mask he usually despised. My armor, which was actually marked by battle scars and mud, began to glow in an otherworldly, radiant gold. Light flooded from the joints of my harness, and a shimmer formed around my head as if I had channeled the power of the midday sun directly into my mind. It was the perfect illusion of a holy warrior, a manifestation of divine power that appeared so pure that no one could doubt its origin.

  A soldier in the second row whispered something into the ear of the captain directly in front of me. I saw the officer's eyes grow wide and the anger drain from his face. He lowered his spear and went to one knee with a metallic clang. One by one, his men followed him, until the entire alley was lined with kneeling warriors.

  "We apologize with deep regret to the Paladin of the Order of the Eagle for our inappropriate behavior," the captain spoke with a brittle voice that resonated with an awe I hadn't experienced in years. "We beg the Inquisition for mercy for our transgression. We did not know that emissaries of the Holy Institution had crossed the borders of Caleon."

  I was stunned. The Inquisition was funded by the High Elves and regarded as their extended arm in the human realms. Normally, that was a reason for deep mistrust or even hatred. But here, in the face of crisis, the Order of the Eagle seemed to act like a lifeline. I squared my shoulders and nodded respectfully, while Gravor practically purred with delight in my mind.

  "I grant you the mercy of the gods," I said with the gravitas of a man who decided over life and death.

  Gravor, of course, couldn't help but add one more touch. He let my aura pulse so strongly for a heartbeat that the captain shuddered, and tears of religious fervor welled in his eyes. When the light finally faded and I looked like a normal, if impressive, warrior again, the man rose trembling.

  "Take me to your King... or whatever Sothar's status is right now," I commanded, back to my ordinary voice.

  The captain nodded eagerly and signaled to his men. Wordlessly, they formed an escort around us, spears now pointed outward to protect us from the curious and frantic crowd filling the main street.

  As we walked along the broad grand boulevard heading directly for the innermost palace ring, a bizarre image presented itself. The city was decorated as if for a divine wedding—banners in the colors of the Sothar hung everywhere, flower baskets lined the paths, and the air smelled of festive spices. But beneath this decoration, the hard steel of war had mingled. Soldiers of the Gray Golem Units marched past us in lockstep, their giant machines thundering dully on the pavement.

  "In two days," the captain explained as he guided us through the crowd, "King Thivan will be crowned ruler of the United East. All the houses are here. But since this morning, a Red Alert has been in effect. An emergency call from Lord Barwan himself. An army in the north... they say the barbarians and orcs have crossed the borders."

  A huge weight fell from my heart. Reyn had already been discovered. That meant Caleon was warned, even without our help. Our warning had become redundant, which at least took the pressure off us to act as the bearers of catastrophic news. We were no longer messengers; we were witnesses.

  Vin walked directly beside me. She was noticeably quiet. Her eyes were not searching the defenses but the familiar silhouettes of the buildings. The closer we got to the palace, the more nervous she became. She constantly fidgeted with her cloak, and I saw her magic twitching in small, unconscious vines at her fingertips. The meeting with Thivan was imminent—the man she had fled from. With half his gold.

  Arik, on the other hand, seemed completely out of place in this environment, yet strangely fascinated. He observed the golems with the analytical coldness of a warrior looking for weaknesses. The ash was calm, but I knew he was ready at any moment to turn the magnificent street into a dust storm should the escort change their minds. He visibly enjoyed the fact that we were being officially escorted rather than hunted.

  Maira was the only one of us who did not let the splendor blind her. She moved through the streets with a hard, almost disgusted gaze. To her, Drymon was a city of the living dead—people who dressed in gold while doom was already rattling at the gates. She kept her staff tightly gripped, and I saw her occasionally place a hand on her belt where her elixirs hung. She didn't trust the peace in this city for a single second.

  The escort led us past magnificent fountains where crystal-clear mountain water splashed, and under massive triumphal arches. The citizens of Drymon stared after us—a group consisting of a glowing Paladin, a dark woman, a gray warrior, and a beautiful but visibly shaken Elf.

  "We are almost at the inner gate," the captain said, pointing to the massive silver portals that formed the entrance to the royal palace district. "The Lord Chancellor will receive you there. He will decide whether you may step directly before the King."

  I nodded. The coronation, the alarm from the north, Thivan, Reyn... everything was converging here in Drymon. The path to the palace felt like a walk to the scaffold, yet at the same time, I felt a strange determination. We had made it this far.

  "Ready?" I asked softly in Vin's direction.

  She looked at me, her eyes full of uncertainty, but she straightened her back. "Not really. But I think I have no choice anymore."

  We marched on, while the white walls of the palace loomed above us like a mountain range of polished ice. A mountain range whose foundations were about to be shaken.