In the capital of Duke Frederick, Maclonia, the atmosphere was heavy, shrouded in a chilling silence like a death shroud. It was not a silence reflecting peace, but rather the calm before the storm, a silence charged with the static electricity of tension and anticipation. The air itself seemed stagnant, thick, laden with the dust of successive defeats. Inside Maclonia's towering palace, with its spires piercing the grey clouds, and in the opulent throne room, Duke Frederick Gonis sat, or rather, sank into his massive, gold and brocade-decorated seat. His bulky body, once a symbol of strength, now seemed shrunken under the weight of worry. His eyes, which used to spark with anger and commands, stared into the void, lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts. His mind was a battlefield, struggling with the ghosts of defeats and the image of a mysterious power rising like a black sun in the North.
"Syrno!"
Frederick called out in a low, hoarse voice, barely audible, yet it echoed through the vast, empty hall, bouncing off the hanging banners and cold stone walls.
Moments later, the heavy side doors opened, and his son, Syrno, entered. He was a young man in his early twenties, tall and slender, with sharp features inherited from his father, but his eyes held a glimmer of hidden anxiety and keen intelligence, unlike his father's perpetually burning anger. Syrno bowed with deep respect, his knee touching the cold Persian rug. "Your command, My Lord Duke."
"How are things with the forces?" Frederick asked, without lifting his eyes from an unseen point in the void before him. "Have we regained some of our strength after those successive disasters?"
Syrno stood and spoke respectfully, his voice calm and measured, trying not to provoke his father's wrath. "We have succeeded in asserting full control over the northwestern regions, My Lord Duke. Our forces now control every inch of those lands, and we have suppressed any signs of rebellion. However... the situation in the North and East is worsening. Viscount Zidan... his name has become a nightmare echoing everywhere. He seized Sigret, crushed Marioth's army in Merod in a battle that lasted no more than hours, and now he has reclaimed Lionji. His influence is spreading like wildfire, and every passing day, more mercenary soldiers and desperate minor nobles join him."
Frederick closed his eyes for a moment, his skin wrinkling as if tasting ashes. Then he slowly opened them. "I know what you are thinking, Syrno. I see the question in your eyes. You wonder why, amidst this fateful war, we still send caravans laden with Sirajiyah's bounty to the Royal Capital, to our sworn enemy Alexander. You wonder why we deplete our precious resources that we need to confront this Viscount, especially since Sirajiyah has become directly on the front line with him."
Frederick looked directly at his son for the first time, his eyes bearing a deep, heavy gaze of a history Syrno did not know. "Come closer. I want to reveal a secret to you, Syrno. A secret that must be buried with us in the grave. This secret transcends me and the King, and all these trivial power struggles. East of Sirajiyah, beneath those barren hills, there is a magic stone mine. This is not just a precious mineral, my son. It is a lifeline for a power you cannot imagine. There is an ancient agreement, a blood pact, that obliges me and the King to send a fixed share of these stones to the Magical Sun Empire, regardless of any civil war, rebellion, or catastrophe. This is not a choice, my son. This is an absolute duty, and the price of our survival."
Syrno stiffened, a chill running down his spine. A magic stone? He had heard of it in grandmothers' tales and legends told by travelers in taverns, but he had always dismissed them as superstitions. And now, his father, the most pragmatic and ruthless man he knew, spoke of it as an undeniable truth.
"Listen carefully, Syrno," Frederick continued with icy calm, his voice carrying a strong, sword-edge warning. "No matter what happens, no matter what injustice you see, and no matter how great your ambition, never, for a single moment, think of rebelling against the sorcerers. Never think of defying their will or preventing their shipments. Defying the King is one thing; defying them is something else entirely. The first may cost you your life, but the second will cost us our entire existence."
As Frederick said this, his gaze shifted to the wall opposite his throne. There was a massive mural, occupying the entire wall, made of countless pieces of stained glass and polished ceramics, appearing terrifyingly realistic and sad at the same time. The painting depicted a colossal dragon, no less than 12 meters long, with a massive body covered in shimmering black obsidian-like scales, flying in a blood-red sky. Its mouth was open, spewing a torrent of white and yellow flame, instantly incinerating an entire army of knights and foot soldiers. Bodies flew like burning leaves, armor melted like wax, and banners turned to ash. It wasn't a massacre; it was annihilation. This mural, painted by one of Frederick's ancestors centuries ago, was a constant and painful reminder of the sorcerers' invincible power.
Syrno saw the mural with new eyes. He had always viewed it as a work of art symbolizing his family's power, but now he saw it for what it truly was: a tombstone, and an omen of doom. He felt a shiver run through him, a pure, primal fear of this terrifying power called "magic." He realized that the struggles of nobles and kings were but a children's game on a giants' battlefield.
Then Frederick turned back to his son, his eyes staring into him, searching the depths of his soul. "And now, having known this, can you guess why I wish to rebel against the King?"
Syrno fell silent, bewildered. He had always believed the motive was pure ambition for the throne, but the secret of the magic stone changed everything.
Frederick sighed deeply, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of generations. "In the past, my son, before you were born, there was a powerful Duke in the South, Duke Armand. He wielded immense influence and commanded an army equal to the King's. He was a friend of mine. King Alexander secretly killed him, with poison that left no trace, to make way for his favorite son to become the new Duke. The King feared Armand's power. And just a few months ago, the King summoned me to the capital. With a fake smile, he informed me that he was about to implement 'new land division policies,' policies that would strip me of half my titles and lands, and demote me from Duke to Marquis. He intended to weaken me, Syrno, to crush my influence, just as he did with the Southern Duke. He intended to politically behead me before actually beheading me."
Rage ignited in Syrno's eyes, replacing fear and confusion. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Damn Alexander and his fragile kingdom! Damn his weakness and cowardice! Damn his blind ambition that drives him to kill men better than him!" Syrno roared, his young voice echoing powerfully through the hall. He understood now. His father's rebellion was not merely greed for power; it was a desperate cry for survival, a defense of the Gonis family's honor and existence.
Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers to the East, the early morning sun cast its golden rays over vast green plains. The Human Directorate forces, led by Sevara, approached the fortified town of Majorah, controlled by the King's loyal noble, Lord Major. The scene was imposing. 5,500 soldiers advanced in organized formations as one man. The sound of thousands of feet hitting the ground in a steady rhythm, the clanking of armor, and the creak of cannon wheels. The culverin cannons, iron beasts capable of spewing death from afar, were carefully hidden under black cloths, like predators awaiting their moment to strike. There were ranks of soldiers armed with flintlock pistols, and entire battalions carrying long Springfield rifles, their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. The soldiers' faces were a mix of resolve and confidence, their eyes fixed on the looming walls of Majorah.
Inside the spacious command tent, Marg, one of the field commanders, sat before Zinan and Sevara, his face serious and his eyes scanning the maps spread on the table. "Commander, what is the plan of attack for Majorah? Will we use the cannons directly to crush their morale?"
Zinan, the young man with eyes gleaming with bloodthirsty strategic intelligence, smiled. "We will use the culverin cannons first, Marg. We will set them up out of range of their weapons and shower them with a hail of hellfire. We will turn parts of their wall to dust. We want to instill terror in their hearts before they see the first of our soldiers. If they open the gates to us afterward, that's good, and we will spare our men's blood. If they don't, we will breach the shattered walls and crush them. They won't stand against us."
Sevara sat quietly, eyes closed, as if enjoying the calm of the moment before battle. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at Zinan with a paternal smile. "Your words are good, Zinan, a solid and strong plan. But force is not always the first solution. First, we need to send a messenger. Let's ask them if they want to surrender peacefully. I don't think a noble with only 600 soldiers will consider holding out against a large army like ours, especially with our reputation preceding us. Perhaps he will surrender and make it easy for all of us. There is no need for bloodshed if it can be avoided. Every soldier we lose is an irreplaceable loss."
Zinan thought for a moment. He preferred a direct, overwhelming assault, but Sevara's opinion held deeper wisdom. Victory without a fight is the greatest victory. "Yes, My Lord Commander. That makes sense. True strength lies in not needing to use it. We will send a messenger."
Half an hour later, a lone knight rode out from Sevara's camp, mounted on a large black horse, carrying the Human Directorate's banner high—a white flag with a steel fist symbol in its center. He approached the stone walls of Majorah and stopped at a safe distance, allowing his voice to carry.
"People of Majorah! Lord Major!" the messenger shouted in a booming, well-trained voice that echoed in the quiet morning air. "We are the forces of His Excellency Zidan, Viscount of Kisor! We request permission to encamp in your city! If your lordship permits, we will guarantee your peace and safety, and no harm will come to any of your citizens or their property!"
The messenger paused for a moment to let his words sink in, then continued in a colder, sharper tone, carrying a subtle but clear threat. "And if your lordship does not permit, we will permit ourselves. Do not think your walls are capable of standing in the way of our will."
One of the commanders appeared on the wall, his voice trembling slightly with tension. "My Lord Messenger, grant us some time to deliberate. We must consult with Lord Major. Such a decision is not easy."
Inside the council hall in Majorah Palace, Lord Major, a man in his fifties, sat on his chair, his face pale. Before him stood his military commanders and advisors, all their faces expressing intense anxiety. They had heard of Zidan's power, his overwhelming victories in Merod, and the strange weapons his army possessed.
"What should we do, My Lord Noble?" asked the captain of the guard, a burly man with his hand on his sword. "Their forces outnumber ours eightfold. We can hold out for days, perhaps weeks, but the end is inevitable."
Another advisor, an old man with a long white beard, said: "My Lord Noble, rumors say they possess cannons that fire iron balls that tear through walls and bodies alike. They say they are magic weapons. If we allow them to encamp, perhaps they will allow us to remain in our positions, even if they remove us from actual power. This is better than all of us dying scattered in pieces. We cannot resist such a force."
Major was a noble who owed almost complete allegiance to King Alexander, but he was also a pragmatic man. He knew that his loyalty to the King would not send him timely reinforcements, nor would it save him from certain death. He looked out the window at the plain, where the Directorate army was beginning to spread out like a sea of steel. He decided to open the gates. For no matter your loyalty, you would not throw yourself and your people to ruin for a lost cause.
As Sevara's forces waited outside, they heard the massive sound of iron gears moving, then the colossal gate of Majorah slowly began to open from within. Lord Major himself emerged, walking on foot, accompanied by a few of his personal guards, having removed his sword and armor as a sign of complete surrender.
"We welcome the forces of His Excellency Zidan!" Lord Major said loudly, trying to keep his voice steady, but the tone of despair was clear. "We welcome you to rest and encamp in our city. Majorah opens its gates to you."
Sevara laughed aloud, a clear laugh filled with satisfaction. He turned to Zinan and said, "Zinan! Zinan! I told you not everything is solved by force! Sometimes, wisdom and fear are the strongest weapons!"
The Human Directorate forces advanced, entering the city in organized columns. The streets were clean, and people stared at them from their windows and doorways with a mix of curiosity and fear, but none showed any sign of resistance. Sevara's forces encamped in the main squares and empty barracks, ready to head to their next destination.
In the evening, Commander Sevara met with Lord Major in his palace. "My Lord Noble Major," Sevara said courteously. "We will not impose any burden on your city. We have our own provisions with us, and we will ask nothing of you. All we require is to leave a small garrison of 500 soldiers here in Majorah to secure our supply lines until we return from the next battle. In return, we will guarantee you complete security and peace."
Lord Major felt great relief as he welcomed them. He had escaped death and perhaps preserved some of his standing. This was just the beginning of the Directorate army's journey towards Sirajiyah, the strategic city that held the key to the North, a journey that would change the face of these lands forever.