Night descended slowly, draping the vast plains in a shroud of darkness as Emperor Cailan Gravis's army—299,979 strong—settled to make camp after receiving his permission. The once-thundering march of boots and hooves had faded to murmurs and the occasional clank of metal as men unstrapped armor and gathered near fires.
The air turned sharper with each breath, biting through layers of wool and steel like icy teeth. Clouds of vapor curled from the soldiers' mouths as they spoke in low tones. Even their thick coats were no match for the creeping chill; it wormed its way into bones and joints, forcing many to huddle close to their horses, stealing warmth from the beasts' steaming flanks. The occasional snort and stomp of a restless stallion cut through the silence.
The emperor himself remained untouched by such discomfort. A roaring fire blazed at the heart of his tented pavilion, casting golden halos over his proud profile. Agatha knelt close, draped in silks, her every motion deliberate—refilling his goblet, adjusting the cushions behind him, attending to whims with flawless devotion. Soldiers passing by exchanged glances, their envy barely masked behind mocking whistles and muttered jests. Comfort was a luxury reserved for one man alone.
On the edge of the sprawling camp, General Vance Hermit's forces kept their post—a vanguard of fifty thousand, stretched like a shield at the frontier. If an attack came under cover of night, they would be the first to bleed. The general preferred it that way; to him, the edge was where real soldiers belonged.
But there, near the border fires, shadows moved uneasily—not all of them belonging to men in Cailan's service. Beyond the ring of torchlight, Lola crouched low in the frost-stiff grass, her breath slow, controlled. Around her, her comrades melted into the darkness like hunters circling prey. Their numbers were small—barely three thousand—but the odds only made her grin. They would wait. Wait until the men grew complacent, until fires burned low and eyelids grew heavy. Then the earth would drink deep.
At that moment, one of Vance's men approached, shoulders stiff with unease. He bent close to the general, speaking in a voice that carried the weight of superstition.
"General… the cold grows worse. The men—" his eyes flicked toward the soldiers curled near the fires—"they fear the curse of killing the First Prince is beginning to take shape.... heh materialize..."
Vance stared at him as though the man had just announced the sky was falling. Then he barked a laugh, rich and booming.
"Vincent," he said, clapping the man's armored shoulder with a resounding thud, "I've told you before—your men have imaginations fat enough to feed an army. A curse? Pfft." He spat the word like a bitter seed. "Next you'll be telling me the ghost of Balek himself will come galloping out of the mist."
He grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. "Materializing curse, you say? Ha! I've seen worse omens in a latrine pit." The general's laughter rolled across the camp like distant thunder.
Vincent Kim—commander of ten thousand men under Vance's command—stood rigid as the mocking spread to the ears of others nearby. The sting of embarrassment flushed his face, but it did not shake his belief. Deep in his gut, something cold and heavy told him this was no ordinary night. The stillness of the plains. The way the clouds crawled like bruises across the moon. The silence beyond the fires, too deep, too patient—like a predator holding its breath.
And out there, beyond the edge of torchlight, Lola's eyes glimmered with a wolfish hunger. She could hear their laughter. She could smell their arrogance.
Soon, that laughter would turn to screams.
""There are some women who came with that Agatha," Andrey Yuell said, his voice dripping with hunger and arrogance as he leaned against a spear, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the emperor's pavilion. "Can't we have them for the night?"
The remark drew a few chuckles from nearby soldiers, but most kept their eyes on the fire, pretending not to hear. They knew better than to echo such boldness. Andrey didn't. He never did.
Andrey Yuell was the sort of man who could grin while standing on a cliff edge, wind howling, stones crumbling beneath his boots—and still ask for wine. Sky falling? Earth cracking open? He would demand his pleasures all the same. Reckless. Insatiable. It was a dangerous mix, and oddly, that was what General Vance Hermit liked about him. Men like Andrey were blunt weapons—good for breaking enemies, not so good at surviving their own impulses.
General Vance, seated on a low camp stool with his gauntlets off and his long black hair tied back, slowly turned his head. Firelight licked across the scars on his jaw as his eyes settled on Andrey. A smile curled at the edges of his mouth, but it was the kind of smile that carried a hint of a blade.
"Andrey," Vance said, his tone almost pleasant, "if you're so eager to die, be my guest. The emperor won't mind adding your name to the list of corpses."
The laughter of a few men faltered. Andrey's grin, cocky and feral, wavered for half a heartbeat before returning with stubborn defiance. But Vance wasn't finished. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping low—cold enough to frost steel.
"Here's the truth you seem to forget: every woman who came with Agatha belongs to the emperor. On paper, they're slaves. In reality?" Vance gave a dry, humorless laugh. "They're his property. Touch one, and you won't just die—you'll die in a way that will make the gods turn their eyes away."
And then, as though flipping a coin, Vance straightened, his voice brightening, almost jovial.
"Besides, why waste thought on scraps when the feast is ahead? We have an empire to conquer. And when that's done, Andrey…" He gestured with one hand toward the dark horizon, as though it were a promised land. "You'll drown in women of every shape and size. So be patient. Glory first. Pleasure after."
Andrey snorted, lips curling in open frustration. His hunger wasn't tamed, only leashed. He spat on the ground, a sharp glob hissing in the frost, and turned to leave. Boots crunched over hard earth, his broad back illuminated by firelight before it melted into the gloom.
But before he could fully step away, an iron grip landed on his shoulder—heavy, unyielding.
"Andrey," Vance said, voice calm now, almost gentle, and yet carrying the weight of an unspoken threat, "don't do anything stupid."
A grunt was Andrey's only reply. Then he stalked off, shoulders rigid, muttering curses under his breath as he disappeared between the tents. The shadows swallowed him whole.
Vincent Kim remained where he stood, silent, stiff as a spear planted in frozen ground. He had watched the exchange without daring to breathe too loudly. Unlike Andrey, Vincent didn't have the swagger for insolence—at least not here, under the general's shadow. Yet in the clash of steel, on the blood-slick fields, he was a monster, a storm wrapped in iron. Here, though? Here he felt small, as if the firelight had burned his confidence away.
Unsure whether to leave or wait for dismissal, Vincent shifted on his boots, discomfort gnawing at him. The general's laughter earlier still echoed in his ears, mocking his warning about the curse. He wanted to speak again, to insist that something was wrong, that the night itself felt… watching. But his throat locked tight.
And somewhere beyond the edge of torchlight, something was watching.
In the brittle silence beyond the last ring of fire, a shadow moved—a figure crouched low among the frost-bitten grass. Her breath was steady, her pulse a quiet drum. Lola narrowed her eyes, watching Andrey's hulking frame pass close to where she hid. His curses carried on the wind, sharp and careless. She almost smiled.
The camp was restless. Undisciplined. Cracks in the iron. Perfect.
She touched the arm of the man crouched beside her, signaling without a word. His fingers tightened around the hilt of a curved blade. They would wait a little longer. Let arrogance ripen. Let hunger and cold make men slow, careless. Then, when the fires burned low and laughter faded to snores, the wolves would fall upon the herd.
And no curse would compare to the wrath she was about to unleash.