Three days had passed.
The western shores remained under watch. Hawks circled high above, their wings stretched wide on cold currents. They were no ordinary birds, but Qorjin-ke bound hawks, soul-linked to elite scouts hidden along the ridgelines and coastal breaks. Sharp eyes watched the water. None approached. None dared.
At the edge of the Kaldoran Isthmus, where the land narrowed to a blade's width, Altan stood atop a wind-cut stone, cloak trailing behind him. Frost clung to the rock. Behind him stood Daalo, surrounded by surveyors, engineers, and blacksmith scribes. Their breath hung in the air, mixing with the faint hiss of sea spray curling against the lower cliffs.
Altan pointed to the coast below.
"We build here. A fortress. A port. This will be the new home of the Northern Warden. I've already sent the summons. He will watch this gate."
Daalo nodded. "With what labor?"
Altan looked westward.
"The captured Dazhum. Put them to work. Hire craftsmen to oversee. Assign guards. Spare none who resist."
Thus was born Khaldoran Gate.
A fortress of basalt and coldsteel, carved directly into the cliffs. Its outer wall curved with the coastline, flanked by tiered bastions fitted for siege weapons and shielded kill-zones. The northern wall stretched into the sea, reinforced with spike-fortified seawalls and net anchors for harbor defense. At its heart stood the command spire—sharp-angled, built into the rock, rising like a black flame above the water.
The ground was broken by hammer and pick. Chains clinked as Dazhum prisoners hauled stone beneath the eyes of armed sentries. Their armor had been stripped, replaced with rough frost-thread tunics. Winter worked against them, but Altan offered no shelter. Every wall they raised was a penance.
Overhead, the Qorjin-ke hawks continued to circle. Scouts moved in tandem with the rising walls, mapping threats, charting ridgelines, and setting mirrored beacons to signal the cliffs in case of incoming sails.
At the ruined inlet, Daalo oversaw the expansion of a new naval port. Docks were extended. Dry-slips hollowed. A channel dredged to allow deeper warships to berth. The cliffs above would hold warforges, storage keeps, and a naval command tower linked to the main fortress by a tunnel beneath the stone. Firelight danced from forge braziers where smiths tested steel under the chill wind, preparing keel-spines for new vessels.
There, Altan unveiled a second project.
He turned to Daalo as the engineers stepped away.
"Can your apprentice be trusted with a commission of his own?"
Daalo didn't hesitate. "He can. Loyal, precise, and hungry to prove his craft."
Altan nodded.
"Then send him to Bastion Vrael—the western coast. He'll coordinate with the steward there for funding, and the Warden of the West for protection. We'll begin three projects."
He pointed west on the unfurled coastal map.
"First, a new naval port. Name it Vrael Gate. It will be more than a dock—a port city and a naval bastion side by side. Economic and military. Divide the city into thirteen sectors, one for each of the Gale tribes. It will be a hub for western trade and coastal unity."
His finger slid along the paper to the newly charted landmasses formed by the Vrael Canal's excavated fill.
"Second—one of the new islands. Fortify it. Crown it with towers and ring walls. That will be Crescent Spire. Our sentinel against the sea."
He paused.
"And the third—the largest island. Reserve it for something greater. An arena, a grand field, a space not for war—but for triumph. We'll call it the Seaborne Crown. Games will be held there. Contests of strength and grace. Coliseums for combat. Let it rise as a symbol to all the fractured shores: we endure, and we rise above."
The Accord
That night, the war council of the Eastern alliance convened within the newly carved war chamber of Gravemarch Bastion. Built further inland from the Caldera, the bastion's walls still bled stone dust, its halls lit by crimson flame and sky-iron sconces. The table was broad, circular, carved with the crest of the Accord.
Seated around it:
• Altan, Commander of the Gale Host
• Prime Minister Qiu, voice of the Free Cities League
• Queen Mother Velarath, matriarch of the Virak'tai
• Ghoran Skarnulf, Warlord of the Stormwulf Clans
• Stormwake, the silent hand of the Qorjin-ke
Altan stood first.
"The legions of Dazhum reel, but they are not shattered. They will raise new conscripts, reinforce the straits, and prepare for counterattack. If we hold this ground, we bleed. If we advance, we decide the future."
He motioned for Stormwake, who unrolled fresh maps—marked with fortresses now flying Gale banners, new shipyards, and blackstone ports rising from the cliffs.
"I propose an expeditionary force. Not conscripts. Volunteers. One banner, under the Accord. They will not fight for salary. They fight for reward—land, titles, position. If we move west, they carve their place into history."
Qiu frowned. "And when Dazhum falls?"
"Then we keep going," Altan said. "There are other tyrants. Other empires."
Queen Mother Velarath spoke then. Her voice was cold but resonant.
"If your gaze ends with Dazhum, our blades stop here. But if you intend to march farther—if you mean to break the chains of the Highborn as well…" Her silver eyes narrowed. "Then the Virak'tai will commit."
Altan did not hesitate.
"The High Elves are part of the old chain. If they join Dazhum again, we break them."
Velarath gave a single, silent nod.
"I will commit the Queen's Legion," she said. "And others may follow."
Ghoran Skarnulf leaned forward, his beard bristling.
"Stormwulf sends one full legion. Volunteers only. If this path leads to land, my sons will walk it. And more will follow."
Prime Minister Qiu added,
"Free Cities can supply equipment, coin, and sea crews. There are captains looking for purpose—and younger sons with nothing to inherit."
Stormwake passed new writs across the table. Each bore the emblem of the Accord, and beneath it, the new clause:
Land shall be granted to those who conquer in the name of the Eastern Realms.
Altan turned to the war table and placed a final marker along the coast west of Dazhum territory.
"We make no more walls. No more waiting. We turn this tide with our own hands."
They called it then—not a defense, not a league—but a rising.
The Accord of Eastern Realms
Forged not for survival but conquest.
There was silence after. A long, weighty stillness. The kind that came after oaths and before consequences.
Altan looked around the table. His voice was quiet but clear.
"Is there anything else you wish to say?"
It was Lord Qiu who spoke first, fingers steepled before him.
"We've discussed this before the meeting. And we agreed to tell you now."
He leaned forward slightly. "We want to join the Stormguard. All of us. We've seen the rise in strength, in loyalty, in discipline. We want to become part of it."
Altan didn't answer immediately. His expression remained unreadable.
"That is a difficult request," he said at last. "Not for me. But for all of you. The Chasm will bind you. The Crucible will mold you. And not all who enter survive."
Ghoran Skarnulf grunted. "I have decided. And so have my sons. One legion of Stormwulf elite will enter the Crucible."
The Queen Mother inclined her head, eyes like steel beneath her veil.
"My daughter and her guard will follow. The Queen's Legion will send its finest."
Lord Qiu gave a tight nod. "The Free Cities will join as well. Not our lords, but their sons and daughters. One legion's worth—chosen elites."
Stormwake stepped forward last, silent as ever until the moment demanded sound.
"Let me join too. And my tribe."
Altan's eyes shifted. "You as well?"
"Yes," Stormwake said simply.
Altan gave a slow nod. "Then you will undergo a different training. But the Chasm still waits. The forge is the same. You'll be shaped for what you are—but tested no less."
He looked at them all now, one by one.
"Let me make this clear. The Crucible is pain. The Chasm is discipline. Once you enter, there's no retreat. You will be bound, not just to the storm—but to me. I will command you. And you will answer."
No one spoke.
"If you've truly decided," Altan said, "then come to Bastion Vrael. In one week. Bring your chosen."
He stepped back from the war table.
"And we'll begin."
As the others left the chamber, Altan remained by the war table. The candlelight caught the edge of the coastlines etched into the map—ridges, ports, fortresses. His gaze stayed fixed westward.
Stormwake stepped beside him, silent as ever.
Altan spoke without turning.
"Send this to Gale Citadel. Let the thirteen tribes know: the Accord marches. Volunteers are being called. The road west is open to those willing to claim it."
Stormwake gave a nod.
"If the Gale still remember who they are," Altan said softly, "they will come."
Stormwake vanished into the corridor.
And the wind beyond the bastion stirred—carrying the scent of stone, sea, and war yet to come.
Altan stood alone at the war table, the candle's flame dancing over steel markers and shadowed coastlines.
The bastion was quiet now. No more voices. No more doubt.
Everything was moving. Every piece in its place.
And for the first time since the first blade was drawn at Misty Grove, Altan allowed himself the smallest breath of certainty.
The storm had begun.
And it was his.