Five years had passed since the soot-choked skies of Forgemire first welcomed their new Sovereign. In that time, the kingdom had transformed. No longer just a collection of fractured guilds mourning a dead saint, Forgemire had become the industrial lungs of the Allied Nations. The rhythmic thrum of the forges was steady, purposeful, and relentless.
Kael stood upon the Observation Spire, his frame broader, his features sharpened by the burden of leadership and the literal heat of his station. The iron signet on his finger was no longer a foreign weight; it was a part of his skin.
A soft crunch of boots on the basalt floor signaled a presence he didn't need to turn to identify. Mikaela stepped beside him. She no longer wore the regal silks of Kaldaria. She was dressed in flexible, flame-resistant leather and dark mithril weave—the uniform of the Vice Commander of Forgemire. Her silver hair was tied back in a practical braid, and the frost that drifted from her fingertips seemed to harmonize with the ambient heat of the tower rather than fight it.
"The exports to the Iron Peaks are ahead of schedule," Mikaela said, her voice softer than it had been in their youth, yet carrying an unshakable authority.
Kael looked at her, his brown eyes softening. "And the Northern patrols?"
"The ice-walls are holding. But the silence from the West is getting louder, Kael." She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his.
It was a casual gesture, one born of five years of shared blood, sweat, and the quiet moments between training sessions. The cold ambition she once carried had thawed, replaced by a fierce, protective loyalty to the man beside her.
Kael reached out, his hand momentarily covering hers on the railing. The spark between them was no longer a flicker; it was a steady, grounding heat. "The West is waiting. But I am tired of waiting for the shadows within our own borders to move first."
Kael's gaze shifted toward the horizon, specifically the dark, jagged silhouette of the land that sat like a poisoned thorn between the borders of Forgemire and Kaldaria.
Osoroshi.
For five years, the A.N.Ts—the Allied Nations of Tellus—had maintained a policy of stagnant neutrality. Under Harold's supreme command, the military focused on the "Greater Threats": the serpent in the sea and the whispers from Mystika. They refused to act against the six rogue nations, the lawless territories that rejected the Alliance's rule.
Osoroshi was the worst of them. It was a kingdom of shadows and forgotten shrines, the birthplace of Noelle Silverstone. It was a haven for black-market mana-research and a breeding ground for the kind of zealotry that had nearly ended Kael's life in the tube.
"Harold thinks that ignoring the rogue nations keeps the peace," Kael muttered, his grip tightening on the railing. "He calls it 'strategic patience.' I call it negligence. Osoroshi gave the world Noelle. How many more masterminds are they nurturing in those dark valleys while we polish our armor?"
"The A.N.Ts won't sanction an invasion," Mikaela warned, though her eyes mirrored his frustration. "If we move on Osoroshi, we do it as Forgemire alone. It would be seen as an act of aggression against the status quo."
"A status quo that protects criminals," Kael countered. "Look at the map, Mikaela. Osoroshi sits right between your home and mine. It's a canyon of chaos cutting our supply lines in half. As long as it remains 'rogue,' it is a knife held to our throats."
Kael turned to her, his Emperor State flickering briefly in his eyes—not in a burst of rage, but in a cold, calculated glow.
"I'm not looking to conquer Osoroshi for glory," Kael said. "I want to liberate it. I want to clear out the shrines, dismantle the underground labs, and bring it under the light of the Alliance—whether Harold likes it or not. If the A.N.Ts won't protect the future, then Forgemire will."
Mikaela looked at the map in her mind. She thought of the five years she had spent building this life with Kael. She thought of the coup she had once planned and how hollow that ambition felt now compared to the man standing before her.
"If you go into Osoroshi, you know they'll use every dirty trick they have," she said, her blue eyes turning to ice. "They don't fight with honor. They fight with poison and ancient curses."
Kael leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting, intimate second. "That's why I'm not going alone. I need the Vice Commander to bring the frost."
Mikaela smiled—a sharp, dangerous expression. "I'll start prepping the Vanguard. But Kael? If Harold tries to stop us at the border, what do we do?"
Kael looked back toward the dark kingdom of Osoroshi. "Then Harold can learn what it feels like to stand in the way of a Sovereign."