Dawn broke over the land, but the Divine Realm had yet to awaken.
Within the deep halls of the human capital, King Erlant draped himself in a robe woven with golden war patterns. His hand rested solemnly upon the hilt of the royal sword, his gaze calm and resolute.
He brought no army.
Only his two most trusted confidants followed him — the human Archmage Garios and the High Priest Hiram.
Their destination: the Wraithcliff of the Ashlands, heart of the non-human domain, where an entire border village had been slaughtered.
Hiram leaned in, whispering, "Your Majesty… Are you sure we won't bring the Royal Guard?"
Erlant watched the rising sun. His voice was like unmoved stone:
"If I bring an army, it's war.
I come in trust."
The three mounted Feathered Beasts, soaring beyond the edge of the Capital, cutting across the desolate highlands toward the ash-shrouded sacred realm of the non-humans.
Wraithcliff.
Within the blood-red walls, the non-human throne hall stood in solemn silence. Fire basins flickered, illuminating ancient battle-carvings etched into stone pillars.
The Marksman Velox, knelt in audience before his King — Tural Thorne.
"The human king approaches. He brings only a mage and a priest."
Tural's eyes narrowed.
With a slight motion, the sacred hall doors creaked open.
"Let them enter."
As the three human dignitaries stepped into the twilight-lit hall, all leaders of the non-human tribes were already assembled.
Beneath the throne stood Hebrion, the grim-faced warrior.
Mikala, the faceless Shadowstalker, watched in silence from behind a bone-white mask.
King Erlant bowed slightly to Tural, his voice calm but sincere:
"King Tural, we come not to accuse — but to seek the truth."
Tural nodded in return.
"Peace upon the Divine Realm is not easily won. If truth is tainted, it is also our duty to cleanse it."
Garios stepped forward and placed a half-burned rune scroll upon the stone table.
"This was recovered from the village remains. Its inscription… bears resemblance to noble-forged enchantments."
A tense silence filled the chamber.
Hebrion's voice cut through the quiet.
"Are you accusing us?"
Hiram responded steadily,
"We merely hope to analyze it with your wisdom."
Velox examined the rune scroll. His expression betrayed nothing, but his voice lowered:
"This isn't from our armory… it resembles Ancient Necro-Script."
"Necro-Script?" Garios frowned.
Tural's tone grew grim.
"Such runes are forbidden — remnants of rituals exiled from our history three centuries ago."
Erlant's gaze lingered on Tural for several seconds. Then he spoke slowly:
"Then you believe… another force may be behind this?"
"I will not presume to judge," said Tural, voice careful — too careful.
And that carefulness only deepened suspicion.
A subtle tension crept into the room. The words exchanged bore no weapons — yet each sentence was a blade.
Still silent until now, Mikala finally spoke.
"Perhaps… there are corners of this land where old wills still linger."
"What do you mean?" Hiram asked.
She looked directly at King Erlant.
"Peace did not erase the scars of hatred."
Erlant stared back for a long time, then finally said,
"We do not wish to doubt. But neither can we ignore."
He turned toward Tural.
"If we are to step out of this fog together, I ask for joint investigation rights."
Tural didn't answer right away. He merely smiled faintly.
"Trust… is rare in humankind."
Erlant gave a slow, respectful bow.
"And that is why it must be protected."
Suddenly, the flames flickered, wind roaring through unseen cracks.
A chilling shadow stirred, slithering from deep within the stone hall.
This was no battlefield.
Yet every courtesy was a shield.
And every phrase — a strike.
Elsewhere, in a hidden chamber...
Mikala sent a silent whisper through the runes to the forbidden sanctum below.
"The king suspects."
"Clean it. No traces."
At the same time, King Erlant leaned toward Hiram and whispered:
"Have the Shadowwatch track every unit they dispatch. Miss nothing."
The sun finally broke through Wraithcliff's ash-laced skies.
But it failed to cast light on the shadows beneath.
Wraithcliff · Final Steps Outside the Hall
King Erlant stood atop the stairway, cloak fluttering like a weary banner.
He did not look back.
Behind him, Hiram and Garios followed with heavy silence.
"They won't admit it," Hiram muttered.
"They were too calm," Garios said coldly. "Too clean."
Erlant spoke at last:
"When one tells too many lies… silence becomes their sharpest blade."
No more words were spoken.
Only the sound of boots against stone.
And a cloak sweeping away like a crescent of mourning.
Ironhall · Non-Human Throne Chamber
Tural slammed his hand onto the side of his stone throne.
A cloud of ash scattered into the firelight.
"He's probing us."
Velox kneeled, voice low.
"But he made no direct accusation. He left room for peace."
Hebrion growled.
"Peace? That's the mask they wear for war."
Mikala twirled her dagger in the shadows.
"He came too fast. And left too clean. If not prepared… how could he walk away empty-handed?"
Tural's eyes gleamed like blades.
"He's waiting.
Waiting for us to slip."
"But we did not touch that village," Hebrion hissed.
"And yet," Tural said coldly,
"this is no longer about who struck—but who is believed."
He sat again, fingers tapping the throne's edge like an ancient war rhythm.
"From this moment, seal all external contact.
No unit leaves the borders. Not one."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the three warriors answered.
Tural's gaze turned to the thunder beyond the gate. His voice dropped like a spell:
"The truth will rise.
But before that…
We must survive."