Albion’s capital stood open.

  Its gates were wide.

  Its streets empty.

  Its walls silent.

  Eryndor’s vanguard marched beneath towering canopies of ancient trees, banners snapping softly in a wind that carried no smoke, no ash, no cries of resistance.

  No horns sounded.

  No arrows fell.

  Stone streets welcomed iron boots.

  Too easily.

  Malrik slowed his horse as the army crossed the threshold. Silence pressed down like a held breath.

  “No scouts?” one officer whispered.

  “No defenders?” another muttered.

  The city did not answer.

  Albion’s banners were absent. No sentries stood watch. No druids sang warnings.

  It was as if the capital had already surrendered.

  Malrik dismounted with deliberate grace.

  His boots did not rush the ground.

  They claimed it.

  Behind him, soldiers stood in disciplined silence.

  Malrik raised one gloved hand.

  The army stilled as one.

  “People of Albion,” his voice carried unnaturally far—smooth, practiced, precise.

  “Hear the mercy of the Storm Kingdom.”

  No war drums.

  No horns.

  Only words.

  “You stand before Eryndor in full mobilization,” Malrik continued.

  “Resistance will only invite unnecessary bloodshed.”

  He spread his arms slightly, like a noble granting clemency.

  “Surrender your gates. Lay down your arms.

  Your homes will be spared. Your leaders preserved.

  Your way of life…” his smile thinned, “…corrected.”

  Silence answered him.

  The forest did not move.

  The city did not speak.

  Malrik’s mustache twitched.

  Once.

  The Rats Crawling Out

  Footsteps broke the stillness.

  From Albion’s side, a small group emerged—unarmed, nervous, dressed too finely for soldiers.

  Councilors.

  The corrupt faction.

  They approached quickly, eyes darting, hands wringing.

  “My lord,” one said, bowing far too deeply, “this is all a misunderstanding. Albion intended to cooperate.”

  Another added hurriedly,

  “We were delayed. Interfered with. The Divine Merchant—Yava—he disrupted everything.”

  Malrik listened.

  He did not interrupt.

  His mustache twitched again.

  “Ah,” he said mildly.

  “So the problem was not loyalty…”

  A pause.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “…but inconvenience.”

  The councilors nodded eagerly.

  “Yes! Exactly! If not for him, the city would already—”

  Malrik raised one finger.

  They froze.

  “Rest,” he said pleasantly.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  He gestured toward the rear of the formation.

  “My tent is prepared.”

  Relief flooded their faces.

  “Thank you, my lord—thank you—”

  They turned.

  The silver threads unraveled.

  Not wildly.

  Not violently.

  Precisely.

  Thin strands shot forward faster than sight.

  Five flashes.

  Five soft impacts.

  The councilors collapsed where they stood—no screams, no struggle, only clean lines of red tracing the stone beneath them.

  Malrik did not look back.

  He flicked his wrist.

  The mustache retracted, immaculate once more.

  “Dispose of them,” he said calmly.

  “Quietly.”

  An officer swallowed and nodded.

  Malrik turned his gaze back to the silent city.

  “So,” he murmured, voice stripped of civility,

  “this is Albion’s answer.”

  His mustache began to vibrate.

  The air tightened.

  The Provocation

  Movement.

  From the mist between the trees, something fast and low burst into view.

  A rider.

  A massive forest wolf leapt onto a fallen root, claws biting into bark. Its rider leaned forward casually.

  A boy.

  Malrik’s eyes narrowed.

  The rider burst from the fog astride a massive wolf.

  Kael grinned from the saddle.

  “Good boy,” he muttered, patting the beast’s neck.

  The boy cupped his hands and called out cheerfully—

  “Oh my… is that Lord Malrik Veynar I’m seeing?”

  His voice carried far.

  Mocking.

  “The noble sir Malrik,” the boy continued, head tilted,

  “who has failed once… and now twice.”

  Murmurs rippled through Eryndor’s front ranks.

  “Such a disgrace to a noble family’s lineage,” the boy added lightly.

  “If I were you, I’d cut off my mustache and present it to His Majesty as a token of apology.”

  A pause.

  “But who am I to judge?”

  Silence.

  Then—

  Malrik smiled.

  His mustache moved.

  Silver threads spilled downward, lengthening unnaturally, weaving into something ancient and deliberate.

  A family heirloom.

  A blade disguised as lineage.

  “So,” Malrik said softly,

  “the children speak.”

  His mustache straightened fully, vibrating with restrained violence.

  “Advance.”

  Horns sounded.

  Eryndor surged forward.

  The wolf turned and fled.

  Malrik followed.

  The Chase

  Kael did not look back.

  The wolf tore through the streets like a living shadow, paws striking stone, breath steaming in the mist. Behind him, horns blared—ragged now, no longer ceremonial.

  “After him!” Malrik shouted.

  “Do not let that brat escape!”

  Too many followed.

  Good.

  The streets widened.

  Too wide.

  The capital’s heart loomed ahead—the central plaza, ringed by ancient trees whose roots coiled beneath the stone like veins.

  Kael vaulted the wolf over a fallen cart and whispered—

  “Now.”

  Engage!

  Eryn’s voice echoed through carved stone channels.

  Calm.

  “Engage. Phase One.”

  The ground shifted.

  Stone rippled like water.

  Walls rose from the earth—smooth, root-laced barriers unfolding exactly where blueprints had once been drawn centuries ago.

  Streets folded inward.

  Alleys sealed.

  Plazas split.

  A scream rose from the Eryndor ranks.

  “What—?!”

  “Walls—walls are moving!”

  “Formation—formation is broken!”

  Units collided.

  Banners vanished behind sudden stone.

  Within seconds, the pursuing force was no longer an army—

  It was pieces.

  Malrik and his elite surged forward—

  and stopped.

  The ground beneath them dropped half a meter, locking into place like a closing jaw. Walls curved up and around them, taller, thicker.

  A containment district.

  Malrik surveyed it once.

  And smiled.

  “So,” he said softly,

  “they think to cage me.”

  Roots and Stone

  Albion Militia POV

  I thought cities were supposed to stay still.

  I was wrong.

  I was a carpenter three weeks ago. Now I carried a spear and prayed my hands wouldn’t shake.

  When the horn blew, we didn’t charge.

  We waited.

  Then the ground moved.

  Not like an earthquake.

  Like a decision.

  A wall rose where an alley had been. Stone slid into place with a sound like a deep breath finally released.

  An Eryndor soldier burst from the fog, eyes wide.

  “I surrender!” he shouted, dropping his spear.

  We bound him and pulled him into a hidden passage.

  Then another group came.

  They didn’t surrender.

  I stabbed.

  I didn’t look at his face.

  Fog thickened.

  Arrows fell—not volleys. Singles. Clean.

  Some enemies ran. Some dropped their weapons.

  Some did not.

  When it ended, the street was quieter.

  Not peaceful.

  But controlled.

  I realized then—

  Albion hadn’t abandoned us.

  Albion had become the battlefield.

  The Trap Closes

  From within the containment district, Malrik felt it.

  Too few horns.

  Too many echoes.

  “Report,” he snapped.

  “My lord… the army is fragmented,” an officer said.

  “Streets are sealing. Units are vanishing.”

  Malrik studied walls that had not existed moments ago.

  Too precise.

  Architecture.

  “So,” he said quietly, almost admiringly,

  “they didn’t flee.”

  The ground shifted again.

  Another exit closed.

  Malrik laughed once.

  “A maze,” he murmured.

  “A very expensive one.”

  His mustache vibrated violently.

  “Good.”

  He cracked his knuckles.

  “Then let them send their champions.”

  Far above Albion, storm clouds thickened.

  And somewhere beyond them—

  something far more dangerous had begun to move.

  End of Chapter 13