"Go… tell Gavin Ward to escape—"
Princess Angelina grabbed Ya'er's wrist, panic rising in her voice. She never finished the sentence.
"BOOM!"
A thunderous blast bloomed in the sky. Fire rolled out like a red flower opening in the dark. Smoke belched across the clouds, and a charred figure tumbled from the air, falling end over end toward Rose City's streets.
Angelina and Ya'er stood frozen, their eyes wide, as the blackened body slammed into the ground with a low thud.
"Your Highness… do we still need to warn that bully king to run?" Ya'er asked, dazed.
Angelina's fingers loosened. Her grip slipped from Ya'er's hand. "No… no need," she whispered, staring at the smoking sky. A top sky mage had been swatted from the heavens—like that.
On the shattered pavement below, Leander lay in a broken heap. His skin was burned black, his once-grand beard, eyebrows, and hair all gone. From a proud archmage, he had turned into a charred, egg-smooth head that barely looked human.
"Agh—" He coughed, blood wet on his lips. "What… what was that…?"
He had thought the rocket was just a large "bullet"—a mortal toy pushed by a little power. He had caught it with contempt. But the round had detonated on contact, ripping through his first shield, shredding his robes, and driving shrapnel deep into his flesh. Only a reflexive second ward, raised in the instant of death, kept his heart beating.
His vision pulsed. Pain rolled through him like waves.
"This country… cannot be allowed to exist," he choked. "Mortals… with such weapons… are a danger to every magician on this continent…"
He felt the jagged metal lodged in his ribs and thigh. He tried to call his magic—and felt his power stutter and die. The injuries had disrupted his flow. He could not cast anything more than flickers.
But there was one thing left.
In the inner fold of his robes rested a scroll, written by a true Star Saint. A forbidden curse, sealed and deadly. It needed only a whisper of power to awaken. Once triggered, it would annihilate everything within a thousand meters—no grass left, no bones, no ashes fit to bury.
His breaths came sharp and fast. I must be captured, he planned. They will not kill me at once. I am worth a fortune to any throne. When they bring me to Gavin Ward… I will open the scroll and erase him and every leader standing near him. For the sake of all mages—this kingdom must die.
A crooked smile tugged at his burned lips. Let my life buy this world a future without mortal "miracles." He flattened his body, forced stillness, and closed his eyes.
"Here they come," he thought. "Play dead… go quietly… wait for the moment…"
Boots pounded on the stone. Hundreds of soldiers flooded the street, black uniforms gleaming under the searchlights, 98K rifles tight to their shoulders. Safety off. Fingers ready.
"Whsssh! Whsssh! Whsssh!"
The sound of several rockets ripping the air screamed across the square.
Leander's eyes snapped open. They wouldn't—
"How dare they?!" He struggled to lift his arms. I am an archmage! I could ransom a million gold coins from the Tongsley Empire! Why would they not take me alive?!
He clawed for the scroll, but his blood-slick hands slipped. Pain burst through him as he tried to force his magic to move. "Move! Move!" he rasped. "Forbidden scroll—now!"
The rockets fell.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
Flame geysers erupted. Stone shattered. A cluster of explosions hammered the square into a chain of craters, shrapnel hissing through smoke and dust. The shockwaves rolled down the street, rattling windows and slapping banners flat against walls.
When the smoke finally thinned, there was nothing left at the blast center. No body. No staff. No scroll. Only ragged, overlapping pits where the pavement used to be.
A pair of polished black boots stepped through the haze. A gloved hand adjusted the brim of a black military cap.
Gavin Ward waved away the smoke with a lazy flick of his wrist. "You were good," he murmured to the empty craters. "But not good enough to survive a dozen rockets." His voice held no triumph—only a cool satisfaction. A threat to his people had been removed.
A soft, urgent cough turned him around.
"Your Majesty!"
Angelina and Ya'er were running toward him, hair tangled, faces smudged with ash. Their fine features looked oddly fragile in the torchlight. They skidded to a stop a few paces away, breathless.
"You… are you hurt?" Angelina asked, cheeks warming even as she spoke. The words arrived smaller than she meant, half a question, half a confession of fear she didn't fully understand.
Gavin's smile was easy. "I'm the king. What could happen?"
He took a step closer—too close, Ya'er decided.
"You villainous king who only knows how to bully people—what are you trying to do to Her Highness?" Ya'er snapped, planting herself between them like a shield.
Gavin blinked, honestly puzzled. "Villainous king? I haven't done anything to you."
"We are noble elves!" Ya'er puffed up, tiny fists clenched. "You forced us to farm!"
Gavin turned his eyes to Angelina. "Where's the hat I gave you?"
Angelina's face went pink. She looked away. Her lips parted, but no words came.
"It's already lost!" Ya'er said hotly.
(It wasn't. It waited safely in the carriage, wrapped like a treasure.)
Gavin sighed—then, in one smooth motion, gently pulled Ya'er aside like a feisty kitten. He stepped up to Angelina, looking down at her delicate, beautiful face. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her heart stumbled.
Is he… is he going to…? Her mind stuttered into panic. What do I do? Run? Scream?
A soft weight touched her head.
Angelina flinched, then cracked one golden eye open. Gavin's face—too handsome for a human, she thought wildly—was close enough to see the curve of his smile.
"I'll give you another one," he said. "Don't lose it next time."
The black military cap, clearly too large, settled over her hair like a dark crown. He stepped back. He did not kiss her. He did nothing more than place the cap and turn away.
Angelina let out a breath she didn't know she had trapped. Then she pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart would not calm. Why had she felt a tiny flame of disappointment?
Ya'er, meanwhile, was still fuming like a teakettle. "He said 'spank'—how vulgar! He is not a gentleman—he is not even like a noble! What kind of rogue king—hmph!" The last "hmph" came out quieter than she intended.
Captain Rotis approached, saluting. "Your Majesty, that elf maid was disrespectful. Do you want her punished?"
Gavin waved it off with a small smile. "No. They're cute. And sometimes it helps for a king to be approachable."
He had seen it from the wall—the moment when Angelina and Ya'er raised their green shields, not just for themselves but for the crowd around them. They could have saved only their own skins. They did not. That mattered to him.
"Understood!" Rotis nodded, as if Gavin had passed a hidden test.
Gavin was already moving, boots crunching over broken rock. "Come. The wounded first."
They reached the street with the most injured. Seven or eight citizens lay on stretchers, some burned, some cut by flying debris. Military doctors moved briskly among them, salving wounds and bandaging arms.
"His Majesty!"
"Your Majesty has come!"
Faces lit up. Some tried to rise, to kneel, to bow—anything to show respect. Gavin stopped them with raised hands.
"In the Ross Kingdom," he said softly, "save the kneeling for the gods and the dead. A bow is enough for me."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!"
"Your Majesty, long life!"
A man wrapped in bandages tried to sit up, trembling. Gavin pressed him gently back. "This was my failing," he said, voice low. "The enemy slipped through. I should have stopped him sooner."
"Your Majesty, please—no!" the man cried, eyes wet. "You feed us. You protect us. How can this be your fault?"
Gavin touched the bandaged hand. "Heal in peace. Your care is on the state. If any of you are scarred or disabled, the state will support you. That is my promise."
Tears shone in the crowd. They were simple people, with simple words, but their love was not simple. It was fierce.
> [Ding! Popularity +15,000]
Gavin allowed himself a private grin. Even in the ash and smoke, the kingdom grew stronger.
Off to the side, Angelina stared at him—at the approachable king who walked among the wounded, who called their pain his fault, who promised them warmth and care. Something inside her slipped, like a knot loosening.
"Oh—Your Highness!" Ya'er shook her elbow.
"W-what is it?"
"You were staring at that rogue king," Ya'er whispered, scandalized. "It's been days, and you're already—are you smitten?"
Angelina's cheeks exploded with color. "N-no! Don't talk nonsense! I… I just…"
But her mind kept replaying the small, silly acts: the hat. The smile. The way he thanked the soldiers with a nod that said I see you. The way he told the wounded You matter.
Why does my heart feel… restless?
Ya'er glanced at Gavin again—at the way he crouched to speak eye to eye with a bandaged boy, at the way he listened carefully to a mother describing her husband's burn. "I didn't expect," Ya'er murmured, voice tiny now, "that a rogue king could have such a good side…"
---
After a Few Days
Leander was gone. With the archmage erased from the earth, Gavin had time to breathe—and to plan.
The news would take time to move across the map. The Duke of the Golden Lion would not learn of the disaster for months. That gave Gavin the window he needed.
The Nord Kingdom's main force was already shattered.
The Lot Kingdom lay crippled.
The Kiswell Kingdom (long friendly to Ross) had no reason to strike him now; they were holding their border against the Orc Empire.
Gavin looked over a spread of maps. Pins marked routes, depots, granaries, and river crossings. Recruits had been drilling day and night. Veterans had been grouped into hardened cores. Weapons factories ran without pause.
His plan was simple and terrifying.
He would swallow the two weakened kingdoms. He would move fast, strike at rail and road, cut food and fuel, and then roll forward like thunder. By the time the Golden Lion stirred, the borders of Ross would have already stretched like a shadow across the north.
Gavin closed his eyes, seeing the future flag—**black field, red dragon—**flying above new cities. He heard the hum of engines, the rhythm of drills, the steady thump of the press stamping shells. He thought of the night lights of Rose City, bright as day, and of a golden-eyed elf girl hiding a smile under a too-large cap.
"Ready the orders," he said.
The aides straightened. Pens hovered.
"We expand."
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