The first light of dawn crept through the narrow slit in the stone wall of Kaelor Vryn's chamber, casting a pale glow upon the rugged desk before him. Quills, ink pots, and rolled parchments lay scattered across its surface like the aftermath of a scholar's storm. Kaelor hunched over the desk, his broad shoulders tense, a deep frown etched into his face. His right hand—what remained of it—rested uselessly beside him. With his left, he struggled to guide the quill, ink blotting the page in places he hadn't intended.
The letters were jagged, crooked. Nothing about them looked royal. Or even legible.
"Gods, what even is this?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the mess of ink.
The chamber door creaked open. Halvar stepped in, tall and stoic, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. His eyes fell upon Kaelor, who was glaring down at the parchment as if it had personally offended him.
"You're up early," Halvar said. Then, approaching the desk, he cocked his head. "What are you writing?"
Kaelor didn't look up. Instead, he held up the parchment like it was cursed. "If you can tell me, then by all means, please do. Because I have no idea what the hell I just wrote."
A brief silence passed before Halvar huffed a small laugh. "Let me help." He pulled up a stool and sat beside his old friend.
Kaelor handed him the ruined parchment. "I'm trying to draft a letter to La Porta. Thank them for the soldiers they've sent. But more importantly, instruct them to begin evacuating the southern villages and bring the people to the northern highlands."
"Preparing for a siege?" Halvar asked, already beginning to write with practiced, crisp strokes.
"We're not stopping the Ragnarok Brothers if they march through Xerose," Kaelor replied, his voice dropping. "But we can make La Porta a stronghold. We hold that, we hold the spine of the western frontier."
Halvar nodded in agreement. "Smart."
"There's more," Kaelor added. "I want a royal decree drafted for an excavation and search operation."
Halvar paused his writing. "Where?"
"Campnou."
The name hung in the air.
"You still believe something's hidden there?" Halvar asked quietly.
Kaelor's eyes were sharp now. "Not believe. Know. There's something—something that might give us an edge. I've had a feeling since we first passed through. I just didn't have the proof."
Halvar picked up the royal seal and pressed it to the parchment. "Then I'll write the decree. You'll have it in the king's hands by midday."
Kaelor gave a tired smile. "See? Who needs a right hand when I've got you?"
Halvar grunted. "You better remember that when I'm old and useless."
"You're already halfway there."
They both chuckled—an echo of lighter times, quickly drowned by the weight of what awaited them.
Outside, bells rang faintly across the citadel, signaling the start of the high council meeting.
"It's time," Halvar said, standing.
Kaelor looked once more at the incomplete letter on his desk. Then he turned away.
"Yes," he muttered. "Time to face the storms
The faint morning light filtered into the King's chamber as Darion Vale stood tall before the mirror, tightening the grip of Kuroketsu, the ancient black sword, into the clasp at his waist. The blade, silent and unnerving, pulsed faintly with its dormant power, as though acknowledging its rightful master. He gave a final tug at the belt and turned, his cloak brushing against the polished stone floor.
"Ring the council bell," he ordered a nearby attendant. "Summon them all."
Before heading to the chamber, Darion made a quiet detour. He stepped into a small, sun-dappled room where Ryven, the child from the temple, lay swaddled under Nerith Caen's watchful eye. The young medic looked up from her seat and smiled faintly, bowing her head. Ryven, peacefully asleep, stirred slightly as the King bent to place a protective hand on his chest, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Darion lingered—perhaps seeking an answer in the infant's calm breath—before straightening up and nodding to Nerith. Then, he stepped back into the hallway.
Outside, the King's Hand awaited him. "Your Majesty," he said, "the council is assembled. They await you in the high chamber."
Darion gave a short nod. "Has my son returned?"
The Hand hesitated. "He hasn't been seen in the palace since yesterday, sire. He did not come to greet you after the battle."
Darion's face darkened, but he said nothing. The weight of the realm pressed heavier than the absence of his blood. "Very well," he muttered. "Let's proceed."
Inside the royal chamber, the council members stood as the King entered—Commander Halvar, his loyal protector; General Kaelor Vryn, seated awkwardly near a stack of scrolls; the Dean of the Royal Academy, a solemn man with sharp features; and the Master of Finances, already shuffling parchments. The King took his seat at the central table, resting his hand over the pommel of Kuroketsu as silence fell.
"The High Council meeting begins," the Hand declared.
Halvar spoke first, his tone grim. "We are outnumbered. They hold seven thousand strong. At most, if we pull every soldier from La Porta and the capital—which would leave us defenseless—we reach two thousand. It's suicide."
Darion turned to the Dean. "And the Royal Academy?"
The Dean answered without hesitation. "I can offer four hundred from the final-year students, your Majesty. Technically, they require a year of field duty under one of your generals. But many are eager to fight, even without it."
"So, 2,400 in total," murmured the Hand. "Still less than half their strength."
Kaelor leaned forward. "Then we cannot win by traditional means. But I have... an idea."
Darion arched an eyebrow. "Speak."
"Do you remember the inn at Campnou, boss?" Kaelor asked.
Darion nodded once. "Vaguely."
"They're running a slave smuggling ring there. Warrior slaves, from the Westrosin Isles."
The King's Hand tensed. "We don't have time to chase criminals during war."
"I'm not suggesting arrest," Kaelor said plainly. "I'm suggesting we buy."
The chamber erupted in disbelief.
"Are you mad?" the Hand snapped. "We abolished slavery! Your King's father fought to make it so!"
Kaelor didn't flinch. "And I'm not asking to restore it. I'm asking to end it—strategically. We purchase them, yes. But we offer them freedom... after the war. If not us, then someone worse will buy them. Maybe even the Ragnarok brothers themselves."
The Hand slammed his palm against the table, rising in fury. "This is madness!"
Darion didn't move, but when he finally spoke, the chamber stilled.
"Sit down."
The Hand sat, the weight of the King's voice heavy on his shoulders.
Darion turned to Kaelor. "Do as you see fit. This... is a necessary evil. Draft the royal decree."
Kaelor nodded. Halvar slid the parchment forward, and the King signed his name with a cold finality.
Darion stood. "Kaelor will ride for Campnou and handle the negotiations. Halvar, you and I will visit the Royal Academy. It's time we meet our so-called future."
He stepped back from the table.
"This meeting is adjourned
So it began—the path to salvation carved not by honor alone, but by necessity.
Kaelor stood in the courtyard, dressed in a heavy traveling cloak, his left sleeve folded and tied neatly. Despite the weight of winter's breath in the air, there was a fire in his gaze—faint, but determined. He had selected four men from his trusted command, battle-worn and silent as they saddled their horses. They did not speak much; they understood what this mission was. Not a march of pride, but of compromise. Kaelor tightened the straps on his horse, then glanced once toward the tall silhouette of the palace behind him.
"This time," he muttered under his breath with a wry smirk, "we will return with more men. Not like usual."
His voice carried just enough for his companions to hear. One of them chuckled dryly. Another only nodded.
Meanwhile, within the inner sanctums of the palace, King Darion Vale was preparing to depart as well—but his path led not into the shadows, but toward the shining beacon of the realm's hope: the Royal Academy.
He stood tall as he fastened the black and crimson kuroketzu belt around his waist, the ceremonial sash of his bloodline. The polished silver of his armor reflected the soft morning light. A knock sounded at the chamber door.
Outside, his Hand joined him.
"Your Majesty," the Hand said, walking alongside him.. Are we ready?"
The Royal Academy stood not far from the palace, yet in presence, it was the only structure that rivaled the king's own domain. Spanning a massive swath of land, it was a city within a city—its towers rising high, its courtyards wide, and its stone halls lined with history and hope. It was here that the best minds and strongest warriors of the empire were forged.
As the king's party arrived, the banners were already raised. Horns were sounded. Students and instructors lined the pathways, bowing with respect. The Dean of the Academy, an aged yet firm man named Belvar, walked alongside the king with pride.
"Our finest students are assembled, Your Majesty," Belvar said. "They've been waiting for this day."
Darion looked upon the open grounds where hundreds of students stood in rows. Young faces, some determined, others unsure—but all watching the King of the West stride into their world.
And thus, on two diverging roads—Kaelor to Campnou, Darion to the Academy—the kingdom's desperate gamble had begun.