-Triarchy. Disputed Land-
Cyrus sat alone in his tent, reading through the reports laid before him. Piece by piece they gave shape to the greater truth of the campaign. With a perfected map of the Disputed Lands spread across his table, he shifted carved markers into place.
The war was unfolding just as High Command had planned. The fall of Lys had drawn the eyes of its neighbors, and already Volantis was stirring. Scouts whispered of thirty thousand Volantene soldiers and two hundred ships sailing to meet him. The First Daughter of Valyria, it seemed, still clung tightly to her pride.
As Warmaster, Cyrus could command whatever resources he required. Even with the restrictions of bureaucracy, he had forged a strong host. Against Volantis and the Triarchy's new coalition, no army could yet match the steel of Achaemedia.
Yet brute strength alone would not suffice. A single, decisive battle must end it. With twelve dragons and thirty-eight thousand men under his command, he could shatter armies twice his size. So he set his pieces on the map where the enemy would march tomorrow. An open field, empty but for the promise of slaughter.
Automaton scouts confirmed it: the fifty-thousand strong host would meet him there by dawn. But Volantis had not come blind. They dragged with them a hundred great Scorpions, engines built to pierce dragonhide. A worthy preparation—but not enough. Since the conquest of Lorensia, Achaemedia's engineers had clad each beast in steel and enchantment, forging armors that could turn aside bolts and fire alike.
The dragons he had brought wore this marvel of war.
Cyrus shifted their icons behind his drawn battle lines. His gaze slid to the left, to where wooden markers for his fleet pressed against Tyrosh.
Most of his ships now encircled the city, though not for siege in the old fashion. Tyrosh's walls and harbors would bleed too much time, and Cyrus would need every sword when they turned their strength against Myr. Instead, the city would know fire and iron from afar. A ceaseless rain of bombardment until its gates opened in despair.
If that failed, he still carried a darker weapon. Magic—long dormant in this corner of the world, but never in the hands of Achaemedia.
A headache, lingering from too much wine that morning, pulled him from his thoughts. With a weary sigh he pushed from the table and stepped outside.
The camp was alive with morning. Soldiers prepared their meal, the air rich with the scent of baked bread and charred meat. He watched the Auxilia tend the fires, stirring pots and turning spits. Each legion was girded not only with blades but with the lifeblood of logistics, woven into the very body of Achaemedia's armies.
Cooking devices hissed and crackled around him, their smoke carrying the scent of bread and roasted meat. Rows upon rows of tents stretched in every direction, neatly ordered and disciplined, like the squares of a game board.
"Custodian," Cyrus called. The Custodes standing vigil by his vast tent stepped forward at once.
"Caesar Despotes," the man said, bowing his head with reverence.
"Come with me," Cyrus ordered, striding away. The Custodes followed without question.
As he walked through the camp, Cyrus took in the sight of his men at ease. Some shared wineskins, others laughed and shouted around bonfires, while most straightened to salute when he passed. At the camp's edge, a looming wall of blackened metal rose ten feet high, encircling the host like a shell.
The Achaemedian camp was itself a marvel. The land beneath it had been flattened by automata and sorcery, tamed into even ground upon which fortifications could rise. Afterward, the machines of war had raised towers and walls of metal, modular and swift to assemble, their artillery bristling at each sector. Every host of Achaemedia was to be self-sufficient—this was the decree of the Imperial Stratagos. Armies must march into foreign lands with no thought for resupply, bearing with them the means to feed, clothe, and arm themselves for years of war.
Cyrus's gaze settled on one such wonder: a portable forge sprawling across a quarter of the camp, its smoke billowing as sparks flew from metal towers. From its furnaces came weapons, tools, and simple automata, enough to sustain the host entire.
"Prince Cyrus," the forge master greeted, bowing with soot still on his face.
"Forge master," Cyrus returned. "I want to see your progress on the flame projectiles."
"I have made the changes you asked for in your paper, my prince," the man replied with a faint, proud smile.
"Splendid." Cyrus's face lit briefly before his expression darkened once more. "But we need more—specifically the experimental compound."
The forge master's eyes flickered with unease. "My prince… that substance is not yet fully tested. Its use is forbidden unless in the gravest of need."
Cyrus raised a hand, silencing him. His eyes gleamed, cold and calculating.
"This is the time to test it. We are outnumbered. I want them to taste fear."
"As you will it, my Prince." The forge master bowed.
Cyrus nodded and left him behind, making his way toward the rear of the camp. The air grew quieter there. The noise of laughter, song, and hammers faded until only the wind brushed the empty stretch of land. A few modular forges stood idle, their fires dim.
This place was for dragons.
Since the fall of Lorensia, Achaemedia had claimed the art of sky-conquest. Two thousand years of study and integration had woven every fragment of draconic lore into the Empire's veins. What Valyria once nurtured as titanic beasts of ruin, Achaemedia reshaped through patience and calculation. Their dragons were bred with purpose—some stunted small to serve as swift raiders, others raised into leviathans fit for war.
Cyrus drew nearer and found four of them sleeping, scaled in colors of iron, bronze, and deep green. Medium-sized, lean and sharp, bred to strike and harry. He had ordered them loosed upon farms and villages nearby—not to raze, but to gnaw at the enemy's heart. A city half-burnt was a scar; a harvest lost was despair. Such strikes were meant not for destruction, but for morale.
Then a roar split the sky.
Cyrus raised his head as a shadow fell across the camp. A great dragon wheeled and descended, its wings beating thunder into the earth. When it landed, the ground shook, and another roar bellowed from its throat.
The Prince smiled. He moved forward as the rider slid from the saddle.
"Took you long enough," Cyrus said, half-amused.
"My Prince," the knight answered, his voice steady as he dismounted.
"How went the operation?" Cyrus asked, eyes drawn briefly to the beast's smoking maw.
"We burned fields on the road to the Volantene host. Their men scattered, their granaries are ash." The knight pulled free his helm, revealing pale hair like silvered frost and eyes the color of amethyst.
"Splendid work, Averys," Cyrus said warmly, drawing him into a quick embrace. "Welcome home."
"Aye." Averys returned the hug, his smirk carrying a warrior's ease. "And tomorrow? What grand design have you conjured this time?"
Cyrus's smile thinned into calculation as they walked toward the campfires. "The Volantenes and Triarchy have brought sixty thousand men. Nearly double our strength. So—" he exhaled through his nose, amused at his own audacity, "—I will have to experiment."
"Experiment, Warmaster?" the Lorensian drawled, raising a pale brow.
"Phalanx, cannon, and dragonfire," Cyrus replied bluntly. "Used as one."
Averys gave him a sharp look. "Truly?"
"Indeed," Cyrus confirmed. "The council meets in a few minutes. I trust you've received the summons?"
"I have," Averys said. "Though last time you invented a 'new way of war,' we turned half a province into cinders."
Cyrus's gaze was steady, almost cold. "This will not demand such ruin. Only enough to shatter them before Myr's gates."
The dragon rider shivered despite himself, lips quirking. "Aye. Let us hope it is so."
They reached the Caesar's pavilion, where a Custodes approached, fist to chest. "Caesar Despotes—the commanders await."
"Excellent." Cyrus dismissed him with a nod, then swept into the tent. A handful of armored officers rose, saluting with hands upon breastplates.
"My Prince," they intoned.
"Commanders," Cyrus returned, taking his place behind the great oaken table. His eyes scanned them, cold fire weighing each soul. "Hear me. First: we are outnumbered nearly two to one. Dragons or no, it is perilous. Second: the foe has scorpions by the hundred. Enough to kill any wyrm we dare to loose. Thus—"
He placed carved tokens upon the map: cannons, dragons, infantry.
"—we will strike differently. Our cannons begin—concentrated bombardment upon their ranks, merciless and unrelenting. While their eyes fix upon the thunder, every battle-dragon here will descend, weaving a ring of fire about their host. Hem them in, crush their spirit. With flames above and iron below, they will have no recourse but to advance. And advance…" He slid his infantry tokens forward, aligning them. "…into us."
When the commanders bent over the map, murmurs stirred among them.
"But, my Prince," spoke a captain on Cyrus's right, his voice measured but uneasy. "Even with our cannons, superior though they are, I do not see how we can drive the enemy into a reckless charge."
"I am aware," Cyrus answered, his tone calm, almost cold. "That is why I have ordered the forgemasters to prepare the armament of the Eternal Fire on a grand scale."
At those words the tent fell into silence. Faces paled; even Averys stiffened, his smirk fading.
"My Prince—that fire is unstable," another commander protested, his voice carrying both fear and awe.
"I know," Cyrus admitted, his golden eyes glinting in the lamplight. "But there is no better time to test its limits. With it, we can force them forward. When they advance, we strike their second line with mortars and arrows. Heavy cavalry will guard our flanks. And at the center…" He placed a final piece on the board. "…a phalanx, to grind them down in blood."
The weight of his words hung heavy over the table. The implications stretched beyond victory—it was a plan meant to break the Triarchy and bleed Volantis itself.
"Very well, my Prince," Averys spoke at last, though his voice was low, wary. "But what if the Eternal Fire slips beyond our control?"
"I have seen to that," Cyrus replied. "Our men will stand far from the bombardment's reach. Even if the fire rages wild, it cannot touch us." He gave his friend a look, one that spoke of certainty beyond reason.
Averys met that gaze and held it. For a moment the Lorensian searched his friend's eyes, and what he found there drew from him a long, reluctant sigh.
"As you command… Caesar Despotes," he said, naming him with solemn gravity.
Cyrus inclined his head, the faintest smile upon his lips. His eyes, sharp and calculating, turned back to the rest. No man dared object further; only a hushed dread lingered.
"None of you were with me in the Icthian Forest," the Prince began, his voice low yet burning with memory. "You did not see how I burned their tribes, nor how the ground itself turned to ash. I lost men, aye, but not many." His gaze swept across them, searing. "Fifty thousand barbarians died that day, and of my host, only a few hundred fell."
Pride rang in his voice, echoing through the tent like a vow. "This army before us will suffer the same fate."
A bold one and no hesitation.
"We are yours to command, Warmaster." One of them stated before bowing his head, followed by the rest.
"Splendid. Now, I need your insight about several things." Cyrus smiled welcomingly before taking another paper. When he opened it, the paper revealed a detailed form of army logistics.
"I need several insights to command the army."
____________________________________________________________________________
-A day later-
Everything was in motion. Across the plain, Cyrus' host stretched in iron discipline, an ocean of steel divided into ordered rows. At the vanguard, heavy spearmen stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked and points bristling outward. Behind them, archers and cannon crews prepared in grim silence, while further back waited the heavy infantry, each bearing the gleam of Beskat Steel forged for slaughter.
On both wings, the cavalry pawed the ground, armored destriers snorting clouds of mist. A perfect grindstone, designed to shred any fool who pressed too close.
At the center, astride a black-armored stallion, Cyrus sat. His armor—blackened steel traced with runes of protection—was less ostentatious than the massive Royal Plate reserved for direct battle, but still bore the unmistakable hand of mastercraft. His presence drew eyes without effort.
A roar cut the air. From the clouds descended Artaxes, the dragon, its shadow sweeping the ranks in a tidal wave. Soldiers tightened grips on spears, yet their discipline held. Averys landed with practiced grace, helm tucked beneath his arm, amethyst eyes alive with fire.
"They have arrived. A few miles, no more," Averys reported.
The words rippled through the command circle. Cyrus' gaze hardened; his voice was steady steel.
"Take your knights. Burn their flanks and rear—but keep distance. Do not be reckless."
"As you command, Warmaster." Averys bowed, then turned with a shout: "Fly, Artaxes!"
The dragon's roar shook the plain, wings beating the air into a storm as it ascended toward destiny.
Cyrus inhaled deeply, his eyes fixed on the horizon. From the haze, dark silhouettes emerged—armored men advancing, banners snapping in the wind.
It was time.
This ground had been chosen with intent. A river divided the plain, deceptively shallow where Achaemedian engineers had labored in secret. To the enemy it seemed obstacle and shelter, but Cyrus knew it for what it was: a killing ground. When they huddled at the banks, volleys would tear them apart. When they broke forward in desperation, spears would welcome them.
He raised his gauntleted hand. "First phase!"
The order traveled like lightning through the enchanted helms of his commanders. Then came the answering cry, thundering across the host:
"Fire!"
The world erupted.
Cannons belched flame and thunder. Arrows screamed through the sky. Fireballs arced overhead like falling stars, then came crashing down upon the coalition host with the fury of doom.
The first chorus of death had begun.
Fire burst in every direction, a storm of flame and smoke that carried with it screams of agony. Men burned where they stood, their armor glowing red before collapsing into ash. The volleys did not cease; again and again the sky rained destruction, and the earth itself seemed to catch fire.
Eternal Fire did not die—it clung to all it touched, feeding on flesh and steel alike. Tens of thousands became fuel for its hunger, their gear and banners swallowed in the same inferno.
Cries of despair rose from the coalition lines as captains barked orders to restore order. Yet even as they struggled to rally, another doom descended.
"Second phase!" Cyrus's voice carried like iron.
Dragons swept down from the heavens, their wings blotting out the sun. Their flames came in every hue—crimson, gold, emerald, and black—washing over the coalition's flanks. Whole companies vanished beneath the torrents of dragonfire, screaming only once before silence claimed them.
Still the Achaemedians pressed the assault: cannon fire thundered, arrows fell in sheets, dragons wheeled above, breathing ruin. The enemy, broken and bleeding, did as Cyrus had known they would—they staggered toward the river.
Beneath his helm, the Warmaster's lips curled. He raised a single gauntleted hand."Phase three."
Auxilia surged forward at the signal, shields locked, spears leveled. Their march was slow, deliberate, unstoppable.
Men of the coalition threw themselves into the river, believing water would save them from the flames that devoured their armor and flesh. Yet the Eternal Fire clung even there, smoldering upon skin, burning beneath the surface.
Panic spread. Cohesion shattered. Cries for aid went unanswered. Cyrus watched as the coalition disintegrated, scattered companies driven back into the killing field by dragonflame.
At last, with nowhere left to flee, they turned to meet the Achaemedians. But what awaited them was a wall of spears.
The Auxilia advanced step by step, their long spears thrusting in relentless rhythm, their shields grinding men into the mud. The riverbank became a charnel ground, the cries of the dying drowned by the hiss of burning flesh and the drum of advancing boots.
Cyrus sat astride his black-armored mount, silent. His gaze swept over the field, where beneath the steady march of his army lay the broken bodies of the coalition.