Anonymous: "He who dominates the night time, dominates the war...He who rules the night controls proceedings."
While V'Zaleth, the trickster god, lingered in contemplation, trying to decipher his next mischievous move due to the information that A'Nui, the god of retribution had given him, Emperor Cailan Gravis pressed forward with grim determination.
The battlefield behind him was a graveyard of steel and blood, a silent testament to the cost of war. From an army that once thundered with 400,000 men, only 299,979 soldiers remained. The rest—100,021 warriors—lay dead, their lives consumed in the inferno of battle against Prince Balek and his 10,000 valiant soldiers. The fight had ended in Cailan's favor, but at a cost that would haunt the songs of history.
Among the remnants of the enemy, a handful of broken yet proud warriors had been taken alive—Adolph Li, the kings Reagent, known for his cold calculation and unique fighting style; Manuel Stunner, the hand of the king, a man who could speak so well, he could even convince a butterfly into becoming a bee, and a few other royal soldiers now marched in chains. Their defeat was not just a loss of arms but of spirit, their heads bowed beneath the shadow of an Emperor who refused to bend.
The march was relentless, boots crunching over frozen earth as the setting sun bled crimson across the horizon. The once-proud banners of the Nazare Blade Empire now fluttered like torn rags in the bitter wind. And then—movement ahead.
A small company awaited them: Agatha, draped in her sorceress garb that clung to her like the night itself, stood at the forefront, flanked by twelve enigmatic figures cloaked in gray. With the death of Arkham and Winston Carlos, they dropped from 15 to 13 (Agatha included).
These were no ordinary stragglers; these were the ones who had departed with the trickster god from the New Oradonian Order's hidden citadel, a fortress ruled by the great Archmage Amber Nois and the deadly Scarlet Raven, Uriel Commes. That they stood here now—offering themselves—was no accident.
Agatha moved with serpentine grace as she stepped forward. Her eyes, dark as pools of ink, shimmered with something dangerous—a hunger veiled by charm. Raising her slender hands slowly, she sank to her knees in a gesture that was as much seduction as surrender. Her voice, like silk whispering against steel, cut through the icy wind.
"Great warrior," she purred, tilting her head so her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders. "My companions and I seek no war with you. We have no home, no banner, no empire that claims us. We are… wanderers. Let us serve you. Let us become… yours." She paused, her lips curving into a coy smile. "We willingly choose to be your slaves."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the ranks like wind stirring tall grass. One grizzled soldier to the Emperor's right barked, his tone sharp with disdain:
"We don't need slaves!"
Agatha's gaze slid to him like a blade gliding across flesh, her smile deepening into something wicked. "Are you certain of that?" Her voice dripped with mockery, yet there was sweetness beneath. She let her eyes roam the crowd, lingering where she pleased, then leaned forward just enough for the moonlight to kiss her curves. "What about your… needs?"
A few soldiers chuckled nervously; others whistled low, the sound mingling with the sigh of the wind. Her companions exchanged uncertain glances—this was not the plan they agreed upon, yet Agatha's confidence was a storm that swept all hesitations away.
The Emperor said nothing at first. His eyes, cold and gray as steel, locked on Agatha with an intensity that made even his generals glance at him in unease. Beneath his battle-worn armor, Cailan Gravis felt something stir—something primal. His blood thrummed in his veins like war drums. He was a man forged in conquest, hardened by death, yet in this moment, a different hunger roared within him.
With a motion so subtle yet commanding it stole the breath from those who watched, he extended his gauntleted hand.
"Come."
The word was a command, not an invitation.
For the first time, Agatha faltered—a flicker of surprise darting across her eyes—but the mask returned swiftly. With the elegance of a predator, she rose and moved toward him, each step deliberate, every sway of her hips calculated to ignite desire and breed curiosity.
She stopped by his horse, head bowed, waiting. The Emperor leaned down, his massive frame casting her in shadow. Then, without warning, his arm coiled around her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle before him. Her breath caught—not from fear, but from the raw, dominating strength that spoke louder than any words.
Seated against his iron chest, Agatha felt the heat of his body through layers of steel and leather. Cailan's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Generals," he commanded, his gaze never leaving hers, "accept them into our ranks. And watch them. Every. Single. One."
"Yes, my Emperor!" The generals saluted in unison, though unease curled at the edges of their voices. None dared question him.
The army marched on.
The night descended like a black shroud, and the air grew colder—an unnatural chill that gnawed at the bones. Frost crawled over the edges of the armor; clouds of breath rose like ghostly phantoms in the gloom. But the Emperor was warm—dangerously warm—and Agatha felt it seeping into her like fire. She smiled faintly, resting against him as the wind howled, her mind already spinning webs of shadow and silk.
Lola and her comrades had long departed the colosseum, slipping into the labyrinth of rocky terrain and sparse woodland as the deafening echoes of steel and death faded behind them. The battle between the First Prince and the Emperor had raged like a storm, drawing all eyes to the arena. But Lola knew the truth: their survival depended not on valor in open combat but on cunning.
They had no luxury of brute force. Their numbers—barely three thousand strong—were a whisper against the Emperor's colossal army of nearly three hundred thousand. One against a hundred. The mathematics of slaughter. To face them head-on was suicide; to strike when the giants slept was salvation.
The evening wind whistled through the trees as dusk spilled across the land. The sky bruised itself into shades of iron grey and deep purple, clouds rolling like restless spirits. Shadows lengthened and merged, and with every passing moment, night grew closer, a silent ally cloaked in darkness. Lola crouched on a jagged outcrop overlooking the plains where the Emperor's army stretched like a living serpent across the earth. She could see the glint of steel catching the last shreds of sunlight, the endless forest of banners fluttering in the dying wind.
"They'll stop soon," whispered Conrad Stan, the seasoned veteran beside her. His voice was a gravel scrape, his eyes fixed on the enemy. "Men that many can't march forever. They'll eat, they'll drink… and then…"
"Then," Lola finished, her tone sharpened by resolve, "we bleed them dry in their sleep."
Far below, Emperor Cailan Gravis surveyed the horizon astride his massive black warhorse. His golden brown armor, and cloak of rare animal pelts dulled by dust and blood, still caught fragments of twilight. Behind him, his legions moved like a disciplined tide, their chants low and rhythmic, a hum of confidence borne from victory. They had crushed the First Prince. They had shattered his pride, burned his banners, and broken his bones. Now, nothing stood between them and dominion, well except for the other regions and the Emperor, Groa Aratat, himself.
The foreign Emperor's mind pulsed with ambition. His plan was simple: march from region to region, leaving only ashes in his wake, until the empire was whole and absolute under his iron will. But even tyrants must pause. Men were not gods, and hunger gnawed at bellies louder than the drums of war.
"Make camp," he commanded, his voice ringing across the ranks like a bell of finality. "We rest here. At dawn, we move again."
Obediently, the host began to halt. The sound of armor clinking and stakes being driven into earth filled the cooling air. Fires bloomed like orange flowers, licking the night as the first stars blinked awake overhead. Laughter rose in patches, weary but defiant, and the rich smell of roasting meat spiraled into the heavens.
But what the Emperor did not know—what none of his countless soldiers suspected—was that the night would not cradle them gently. It would break them. It would scream.
From the ridge, Lola's eyes burned with grim certainty as she watched the camp settle like a beast curling to sleep. Her hand brushed the hilt of her blade. Around her, shadows shifted as her warriors melted into position, silent as ghosts, deadly as sin.
"Tonight," she murmured, her voice a vow against the wind, "the empire learns fear."