In A Woman-Dominated World
The capital of Lyonesse lay engulfed in shadows.
Beyond its walls, the roar of battle echoed through the night.
The Paladins of Aethelred were closing in, poised to shatter the city's defenses.
By first light, Lyonesse would fall.
Ravenhold, the heart of the kingdom, could mount no meaningful counterattack.
Conscripts dragged onto the ramparts stood little chance against Aethelred's seasoned warriors.
The front collapsed like a wall of sand. Among the invaders were elite battle-mages, chosen for their lethal skill.
The gates gave way without much struggle.
That night, the people of Ravenhold became lambs before the slaughter, helpless before the enemy's advance.
The Duke's manor—home of Grand Duke Alaric—now stood broken and abandoned.
Maids and servants had fled or lay dead.
The Duke herself had taken the last of the Lyonesse forces to escort the royal family to safety.
Her loyalty to the crown was absolute… yet in doing so, she had left her own household behind.
Only her legitimate daughter, Elara, accompanied her.
Remaining in the empty manor was her twenty-year-old son, Sylas, waiting calmly for death.
The great doors of the hall hung open.
A bitter northern wind swept inside, scattering documents across the floor.
Sylas remained seated, forcing composure into his posture even as his mind raced.
His mother had taken his sister and three thousand elites south with the Crown Princess.
But what remained in the south? Only a slower ending.
A bitter smile touched his lips.
He adjusted the scarf tied neatly over his hair, then stood to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes.
If he was to die, it would be with dignity.
His mother had often told him survival mattered more than honor—but Sylas knew better.
Queen Isolde of Aethelred held a special hatred for him, all because he had advised the Lyonesse command.
His strategies, combined with Alaric's courage, had held the Paladins back time and again across three long years.
But strength and treachery combined had doomed them in the end.
He felt no bitterness. Lyonesse had always been the weaker nation.
Continuous victory would only have delayed the inevitable.
Now, defeat had come for good.
Then came the sound—firm, rhythmic, crushing.
The tread of iron-shod boots.
It was the footsteps of the Paladins, a sound that echoed with grim finality even from a distance.
These were Aethelred's finest: warriors encased in heavy plate, bearing greatswords and longbows, crossbows at their hips—armed for every horror of war.
And among them, the battle-mages, each worth a hundred soldiers.
The strict rhythm of their advance made Sylas's chest tighten.
If they were blood-mad, the city would already be drowning in chaos.
But this… this was control.
Ravenhold had either not angered them—or had been completely broken in under an hour.
This was the confidence of an army that didn't need to pillage.
Sylas fixed his eyes upon the entrance.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Soldiers poured into the courtyard—not rushing, but moving as one.
They lifted their long blades in unison, cold and machine-like, until the yard was filled despite the autumn chill.
Torches flared, flooding the space with sharp light.
Yet none entered the hall.
They simply sealed every exit.
"The Duke's manor is secure!" a captain called out.
Then, silence.
Not a cough, not a shuffle.
Sylas didn't move, drawing a slow breath.
Now he truly understood the power of Aethelred.
With soldiers like these, they could conquer the world.
What chance did any strategist—any spirit—have against such might?
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The crisp sound of iron-shod hooves approached from outside.
Then he saw her: a female general astride a chestnut warhorse, a golden mask covering her face.
She wore red scale mail that flowed with her form. Dismounting at the hall's entrance, she moved with an air of privilege—not a drop of blood stained her armor.
This was no front-line fighter.
"So the defeated can still sit so straight?" she mused, passing her reins to a guard.
She removed her helmet, shaking loose her hair.
A strikingly beautiful face emerged, looking down at Sylas with a faint, mocking smile.
Sylas's breath caught.
This was no ordinary general.
This was Isolde, Queen of Aethelred. She had taken the field herself… and come for him.
Before he could speak, a guard knelt and reported: "Your Majesty, only this one remains. No other survivors were found."
Isolde's voice was cool. "None at all?"
"There were. Not after we arrived."
Sylas's fingers tightened on the armrests.
His body went rigid before he forced himself to relax back into the chair.
Slender, handsome, with the calm of a scholar, he held himself like a birch in the wind—elegant, unyielding.
But now he faced the storm itself.
"A pity. No survivors left…" Isolde stepped closer. "So, Lord Sylas… do you resent me?"
"How dare you, Lyonesse dog!" the soldier behind her roared.
"The Queen speaks—and you remain seated?!"
The combined battle-aura of the soldiers was enough to shatter weaker wills. Even veterans would tremble.
But Sylas held firm, lips pressed thin. His body shook, yet he did not kneel.
In a trembling voice, he forced out the words: "I am a son of Lyonesse. Defeated and doomed, I await death. How could I kneel to the queen of a rival kingdom? I beg Your Majesty's pardon."
"Insolent!" A guard stepped forward, blade clearing its sheath.
"Enough." Isolde waved a dismissive hand.
"Leave us. I would speak with Lord Sylas alone." Her eyes glinted.
"Ours has been a most intriguing battle of wits."
She was, after all, a strategist like him—their game had been played across maps and movements, the world their board, soldiers their pieces.
She felt a strange closeness to this man, similar in age and mind.
The soldiers withdrew in perfect order.
The murderous pressure in the courtyard vanished.
Sylas felt as if he'd stepped out of a steam-room—drenched in cold sweat, gasping quietly.
Scrape… scrape…
Isolde dragged a chair across the floor, sitting opposite him as though it were worthless.
She adjusted her armor, crossed her legs, and fixed her gaze on the nobleman before her.
"Now then, Lord Sylas… Where has your delightful Crown Princess run off to?"