Within the hour, the throne room was filled once more. Nobles and foreign-born spouses gathered, the tension rising like a storm. King Caedros stood tall, calm, and resolute.
"We are on the eve of a difficult war," he said. "Among us are many who were not born here—spouses from other kingdoms. If any of you wish to return to your homeland, you are free to do so. There is no dishonour in choosing safety."
A noblewoman stepped forward, fire in her voice. "Do you mean to cast us out, Your Majesty? This kingdom is our home now. Must we abandon it like cowards?"
The king chuckled softly. "You misunderstand me. I merely offer freedom of choice, not exile."
Before he could continue, several women spoke up. "Yes, we wish to return." Their husbands stood beside them.
The king nodded solemnly. "And that is your right. None shall stop you."
Some nobles began murmuring disapproval, but Caedros raised a hand. "Let no man or woman here mock the decisions of another. This war is not just of swords and flame, but of heart and will."
By the next day, those who wished to leave had gone. Whether they reached safety was never known.
That night, beneath the vast stretch of stars, King Caedros stood on the palace balcony, his gaze lost in the endless dark. Beside him, the queen stood in quiet grace, her silken robe catching the breeze.
"What are you thinking?" she asked gently. He said nothing, his silence heavy with unspoken burdens.
She touched his shoulder, her voice softer now. "Tell me."
Caedros turned to her, his expression shadowed. "I'm afraid. If this war comes... we can't win it."
Her brows furrowed—not with anger, but defiance. "I've seen you face storms without flinching. Where is that man now—the one I gave my heart to?" She meant it to stir him, not shame him.
He looked away, his voice breaking. "Can't I be myself in front of my wife?"
The queen fell silent, struck by the rawness in his tone. In that fragile moment, she saw not a king, but a man drowning beneath the weight of a nation.
Suddenly, two children burst into the room—the king's daughter and son. The little girl ran straight to her father, wrapping her arms around him. "You haven't played with us in days. Why?" she asked, her voice small but firm.
A breathless female servant rushed in behind them, bowing low. "I'm so sorry, Your Majesty. I couldn't hold them back."
The children clung tighter to their father's sides. "We're not leaving," the boy said defiantly. "We're staying with you."
King Caedros looked down at them, his eyes softening. He stroked their hair, then glanced at the servant. "Let them stay," he said gently. "For as long as they want."
The following morning, the people of Oranyth gathered before the palace. Their king did not emerge in robes of gold, but in armour of iron, a sword at his side. Beside him stood the queen—not draped in silks or jewelled finery, but clad in fitted war attire, her gaze as resolute as his.
He stepped onto the dais and bowed deeply. "I have served Oranyth with all I had. I do not know why the Kingdom of Solmaris brands us as sinners. Perhaps I failed as a king... and for that, I am sorry."
He raised his gaze to meet the crowd. "But I will not let others define who we are. We are not heretics. We are farmers, builders, soldiers, mothers, and fathers—we are human. I will fight to my last breath to defend our land and our dignity."
A hush fell over the crowd. Then, as one, every man and woman dropped to their knees, their voices rising together:
"Our king, you must not bow to us. You treated all your people with fairness. You never let rank divide us. You are the one we follow."
Tears streamed down their faces, hidden and washed away by the rain that had begun to fall from the suddenly darkened sky. King Caedros looked up. The once-sunny sky now wept with them. He raised his hand, catching a few raindrops in his palm.
"I have never been a devout man... but if the gods hear me now—why? What sin have we committed? Do these people deserve this slaughter?" His voice broke as he looked upon his people, standing beside him, drenched but resolute. The rain hid their tears, but not their pain.
He turned back toward the palace, his voice resolute one last time: "Rise, Oranyth. We will struggle until our final breath. If we must fall, then let us fall with pride."
And so, beneath the mourning sky, the people rose. Together.
The following days were tense and heavy with silence and unspoken dread. Then, one morning, a soldier burst into the war chamber, panting and wide-eyed.
"My King! The Threadwatchers... they're gone! The entire clan!" he stammered, falling to his knees. "There's nothing left—only a massive crater where their stronghold once stood, their homeland also gone."
Gasps and murmurs erupted through the room. King Caedros stood frozen. His face, once carved in calm resolve, twisted with disbelief. "The Threadwatchers were the strongest clan in Oranyth... How could this happen?"
Before the first soldier could answer, another, bloodied and weary, stepped forward. "My King... the six elemental sword wielders of Solmaris are advancing—alongside a vast army. They're heading straight for us."
Silence gripped the room once again. The weight of impending doom was palpable.
King Caedros narrowed his eyes. "Ready the army. We have no choice but to face them."
To counter the six elemental sword wielders, Caedros summoned his last hope: the Oranyth Vanguard, five warriors bound not by divine blessing, but by pain, sacrifice, and will.
General Varek Stormthane, the oldest among them, once fought alongside the Light God's chosen in foreign lands until he turned his back on the gods after witnessing holy cruelty. His silver hair was streaked with ash, and his eyes—one blind, one burning with sharp intelligence—held a depth few could endure.
Lady Serel of Emberward, wielding twin flame-forged scimitars, was once the pride of Solmaris's gladiator arenas until she fled the city after refusing to execute children marked as heretics. She fought not for her country, but for justice denied.
Thorn Greavesoul, a one-armed spear master, once led a rebellion in the north against corrupt noble mages. He lost his arm to divine lightning but gained a new one, crafted from enchanted roots by Oranyth's last nature-seer.
Alon Veyne, the silent blade, wore no armour and carried no visible weapon. His magic was subtle, his movements fluid, his strength whispered through myths of kings assassinated without a drop of blood. He was said to commune with the dead.
And lastly, Eriya Windflare, a rogue elemental born without allegiance to any god. Noble families once hunted her for her elemental affinity, but Caedros gave her sanctuary. Her loyalty was not owed—it was earned.
They were not flawless, nor united in belief. But in that moment, they stood beside their king—not because of divine command, but because of what he represented: choice, defiance, and the right to be human.
When the battle began, both armies clashed with earth-shattering force. For a moment, it seemed the two kingdoms were evenly matched.
Among the chaos, General Varek faced his former comrade, the Light-Blessed, in the heart of the battlefield. His voice trembled with frustration and sorrow. "Is this really necessary? Can't you see? This war, the god's will—it's all a lie. Orchestrated by something we don't understand!"
The woman didn't answer. Her reply came in the form of relentless, blinding attacks, forcing him back.
He parried and shouted over the clashing steel, "If the gods truly cared, why did they order the deaths of innocents? Where is the mercy they preached?"
She faltered—just for a second—before replying coldly, "They are sinners. Sinners must be punished. The god's will is absolute. There is no room for doubt."
He scoffed. "Do you no longer think, only obey?"