They had not expected the collapse to feel so ordinary.
Varkul’s battered column — the skeletal remains of what had once promised to be conquest — slipped across the plain with the flat, tired gait of armies that had been eaten for breakfast. Men walked with missing sleeves and quiet curses; some leaned on one another like old trees. Where banners fluttered, the fabric was dust-etched and the ink blurred. Rhazek’s vanguard — the other half of the engine that had been intended to grind the mountain town — met them three marches from the border and, with a blunt, brutal council among the officers, the two forces decided to tether themselves together: a walking scaffold of thirty-odd thousand men whose hearts had been struck with panic and whose pockets were thinner than the rumor of supply.
In the capital, the magical screens that stitched the Federation’s governance into a single nervous system screamed to life. Fellgrade’s last reports had smudged into reports of retreat; Fellgrade’s gate had held, and the beasts and discipline of Kael’s hand had bled Varkul’s appetite into confusion. The tactical picture recalibrated like a machine whose teeth had been reset. Aethelred sat with the hollow of the screen’s glow painting his face. He read the blips with the cold competence he had practiced until his nerves were taut as wire.
“Rhazek and Varkul consolidate,” Kael said, voice flat. He had come back from the gate with sand in the folds of his armor and the smell of iron in his hair. He did not look triumphant. He looked like a man who had made a difficult calculation and lived through the bill. “Their combined force numbers twenty-three thousand five hundred. Many are wounded. Morale is frayed.”
Lirian’s fingers drummed a dry rhythm against her desk. “They will try to unite their column and strike while we are repairing our ranks,” she said. “If they gather strength and rout the mountain town, Fellgrade becomes isolated. We cannot allow that.”
Aethelred’s eyes burned with an old, quietly dangerous light. He had seen the enemy break and then fold their ego into a dangerous attempt at recovery. The news made his mouth hard. “We will not sit and wait for their reckoning. We will take the momentum,” he said. “We will strike where they have bled and fold the wound tight. I will lead the forward thrust.”
That pronouncement caused a murmur in the council chamber. It was not only the king’s habit to speak of leading — it was that the king’s power had already been spent in the giving: his magic had been lent to a thousand men at Fellgrade, a measure that had won them time but had thinned the reservoir he kept like a private ocean. If he rode forward again, the kingdom’s sympathy might be stretched to the brink. Still, Aethelred’s calculation was simple and cold: a war could be won by seizing initiative, and the Empire’s generals had already lost the advantage of surprise.
While the capital re-strategized, the two disgraced generals — Varkul and Rhazek — argued in a command tent that smelled of boiled meat and regret. Varkul’s mouth curled with the small stubborn dignity of a man who had not yet learned humility. “We were betrayed by beasts,” he said. “We were set for a quick meal and the city chose to use dogs instead of men. It is a trick, not a failure.”
“Varkul,” Rhazek cut, tone like gravel. “We were beaten because we underestimated Kael. He baited us and struck like a wolf. We cannot play the pride game. We must either retreat to gather supplies or burn the passes and force a line.” Rhazek’s plan was blunt and bluntness at least had the dignity of violence.
The generals’ muttered arguments reached the Great Demon Lord’s ears by pigeon and report. In his throne-room the ruler’s lip seethed. He had expected a campaign that would tear the Federation to shreds, the old treaties ripped like old cloth. Instead he watched two of his best commanders limp back —calling the blood a bruise but knowing the tally burned worse. He set to motion a new order: accountability and defense. The Great Demon Lord would not hurl small generals from towers; he would rework his strategies and fortify the Empire’s heart. The shock at the loss fueled rage that never turned into foolishness. He would make the next move a careful reshaping of the entire front.
At Mistfall, the mountain town that had once been a glint on an itinerant tax-collector’s ledger, the horizon cracked open in a different way. Miners kept their lamps even at dawn; the town had gold in its bones and secrets in its veins. It was smaller than city-slicker maps implied — a cluster of stone houses carved into the slope, with mine entrances yawning like patient mouths. Aethelred had chosen Mistfall for reasons that mixed strategy and economy: its veins meant sustained war; its passes meant control. He came not for glory but for leverage.
The night they were first seen approaching the eastern road, the Extremist scouting column felt the ground shift beneath them. At first it seemed like a mirage: the dust rolled and the horses hid their legs and men felt a tremor like a distant drummer. Then they saw the figure at the hill’s crown — a single silhouette thrown by the moon. It was the king himself.
Aethelred moved like a machine of practiced ritual. He raised his hands and the small fires in the valley took new breath; it was a performance of command. He did not shout or make long speeches. He made the ground speak — a distraction: stone grumbled and small landslides rattled the trail — and as the enemy looked to the noise, the Federation’s royal mages struck. Granted by Aethelred’s own lent power, the mages carved bright and cruel spells into the open air. Rocks tore up. Gusts dressed in heat struck the lines. Aethelred’s darkened weave — a risky, deliberate taste of the void — leaped like a predator into the extremist camp, not to burn their bodies but to unroot their plans: supplies collapsed into pockets of nothing, tents snagged and fell like birds with broken wings.
Simultaneously, a unit no larger than a handful — ten men, edged together like a needle — slipped through the darkness and into the extremist encampment. These were veterans: men who knew the smell of a commander’s breath and the particular cadence of an officer’s order. Their ambush was surgical. They moved through the camp like cold water, cutting command ropes, removing officers silently, and setting small, precise traps that would disable the enemy’s wagons. In the sharp silence that followed, several of Varkul’s and Rhazek’s close captains lay dead by the light of flaring torches. Confusion spread like black oil.
When the generals learned of the collapse — the tremor and the bite at the camp and the sudden, furious power unleashed in the field — their fight fled their mouths. Orders frayed and then snapped. Men began to pull back; wounded were abandoned against the bitter scrawl of field doctors’ hands, even as the wounded screamed about betrayal. Varkul and Rhazek found themselves leaderless at their center, and the only honest decision left was to run. They ran for the border with the taste of bile in their mouths — the shame of retreat mixed with the plausibility of survival.
By dawn official trumpets across the Federation announced two decisive words that shattered old conventions: victory, and invasion. The screens showed battered standards of the Empire being driven back. Aethelred’s declaration was blunt and seismic: the Federation would not simply answer aggression with defense; it would press forward — the Empire itself would be subjugated and folded into the Federation’s order. He vowed to lead the campaign; he sent Kael as his right hand.
The announcement ricocheted beyond politics into people's kitchens and temple pews. Merchants in distant towns closed their ledgers and whispered. The kings of neighboring realms blinked and recalculated treaties. The flint and tinder of old assumptions caught a new spark: to invade the Empire was an idea most in Velgrith had never dared voice. It was the kind of proclamation that could make allies and enemies in equal, dangerous measure.
The Great Demon Lord’s fury was a quiet, terrible thing. He had lost two significant skirmishes, and his generals had shown the danger of underestimation. He blamed the 7th and the 8th for their failure; they would carry the responsibility in blood and honor. Yet the Empire did not slump into impotence; it retooled and tightened a fist around defense. If the Federation would march to the Empire’s hearth, the Empire would gird its walls, dig its pits, and let attrition be the metronome of war.
Across Velgrith, common people watched the edicts and the shifting banners with the astonished silence of those who had been told an impossible story. Some rejoiced — the memory of long demon raids was old enough for revenge to taste sweet. Others trembled — the idea of an Empire’s backlash was not a hypothetical but a calendar wound.
And in the middle of a desert far from crowns and sieges, a different kind of hush had fallen. Blade and his companions — Shira and Kaira — had reached the ancient temple that hunched in the sands like a sleeping thing. The temple’s stones bore runes eaten by wind; its doors were a dint in the sand where years had made a dent like a palm in the earth. The Iron Strand and the merchants clustered like curious sparrows, drawn by the promise of relics. Cinder the little dragon snoozed on Shira’s lap, warm as a coal.
Blade stood at the threshold and felt, as always, the tug between what he could and could not name. The war’s distant drumbeat touched him like a memory—news would come and go, and men would carve fate with sword-points and contracts. He did not yet move toward politics or invasion. In the temple’s shadow he felt something like a pause: the world turning, yes, but also the tiny, sharp hinge of a choice that would clatter across many lives in the days to come.
The campaign had turned. Mistfall had stood; Fellgrade had not fallen. The Empire seethed; the Federation sang plans of invasion. The gods might whisper and the kings might fret, but the first honest fact was this: the war that people feared as rumor had become a thing that could be counted in banners and bodies. The next chapters would be written in mountain blood and iron smoke, and the world of Velgrith would not be the same when the ink dried.
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✦ To be continued...