The great hall of Issielios' royal keep smelled faintly of smoke and sweat, the air heavy with oil lamps and the low murmur of assembled men. Tapestries of phoenixes and dragons hung from the rafters, their brilliant threads dimmed by the grim purpose of the gathering. Outside, horns still called intermittently, reminding all within that the beast tide pressed ever closer.
The King's throne was raised at the far end, Lord Azrael standing at his right, the Latian phoenix banner unfurled beside him. Below, the five great clans of Issielios had gathered in full regalia. Banners of different colors and emblems marked their presence: the storm-wolf sigil of Clan Varros, the serpent coil of Clan Yensha, the mountain hammer of Clan Droven, the moon-lily crest of Clan Leshonte, and the rising phoenix of Clan Latian. Together, they represented the full weight of the kingdom's arms — and its last line of defense.
Zed sat behind his father, eyes sharp, listening more than speaking. He had been told to observe, not to interfere. Yet the longer he listened, the more the words rang hollow. The hall was filled with debate, but the tone was cautious, conservative — the language of men who had long survived by compromise.
"—resources must be rationed," barked Lord Droven, his beard bristling like iron spikes. "We cannot burn through our supplies in the first wave. If the tide lasts months, we will be hollowed out before the beasts are."
"And if you hoard grain while villages burn," countered Lord Varros, his sharp-featured face pale with anger, "what good are reserves when no mouths remain to eat them?"
Murmurs rippled. The old argument. Always circling the same point.
Zed's fists clenched against his knees. He remembered too well the blood and heat of the Crimson Lion, the crushing weight of the Undine's torrents, the impossible shadow of that earth-and-water beast. He had seen what these men had not: the reality of the wilds when no walls stood between flesh and claw.
At last the King's voice rumbled, calm but cold. "Then we must hear more than tired bickering. If there are new strategies to propose, speak them. If not, do not waste this council's time."
A silence followed, heavy, until Zed rose. His father's brow furrowed, but he did not stop him. All eyes shifted — some annoyed, others curious, a few outright disdainful.
Zed bowed, his voice steady. "Your Majesty. My lords. Forgive the boldness of youth. But if I may—"
King Colen inclined his head. "Speak, young Latian."
Zed drew a breath. This time, he would not repeat what had already been agreed. Instead, he spoke what battle itself had carved into his bones.
"Survival against the tide is not only about grain. It is about steel, stone, and will. If we wish to hold, then six principles must guide us."
He raised a hand, each point sharp as a blade.
"First. Secure our positions. Fortify every stronghold, every pass, every wall. Build barricades, dig trenches, line paths with caltrops and pits. Let the beasts bleed before they ever touch our blades."
Lord Droven gave a grunt, grudgingly approving.
"Second. Use the land itself. Force the beasts into choke points — narrow valleys, gates, bridges. Do not meet their numbers head-on. Split them, funnel them. Make the forest, the cliffs, the rivers fight with us. And if possible — strike from above. Arrows, stones, and fire rain harder when gravity is our ally."
Lord Yensha, thin and sharp-eyed, flicked his fan closed. "A tactician's thought, not merely a warrior's."
"Third. Coordinate our strikes. Too often, armies fight as scattered packs, each lord seeking glory. That will doom us. Prioritize targets. Cull the leaders of each beast horde, break their packs. Strike with unity — not as clans divided, but as one blade."
Lord Varros nodded grimly. "The boy speaks sense."
"Fourth. Communication. Signals, horns, messenger beasts — we must share every shift of the tide instantly. If a flank buckles, all must know. If the enemy swarms too thick, we must pull back in order, not chaos."
Fuine's eyes narrowed from where she stood behind her father, Clan Leshonte's banner swaying faintly. She noted not only his words, but the steel in his delivery.
"Fifth. Conserve resources. Do not waste arrows on stragglers. Do not unleash great techniques on weaklings. Hold reserves for when they matter most — for when the Lords emerge, and when something worse follows them."
A hush fell for a moment, the weight of unspoken memory settling. The Beast King's shadow had reached even here.
"Sixth. Always have an escape. No fortress is worth dying to the last man if it leaves no one to defend the next. Live today, to fight tomorrow. Every stronghold must have its fallback route, its rally point. Without this, a breach is the same as a massacre."
Zed's voice fell quiet. "These six principles are not theory. They are survival. I have seen them in the wilds, where no banner flew to shield me. If we do not act with them, we will drown in this tide."
The hall was silent.
Then came the storm.
"Child's fantasy!" barked Lord Droven. "Pits and caltrops? We fight beasts, not brigands!"
"And yet beasts stumble in mud, trip in snares, and bleed from spikes like any living thing," Zed shot back, eyes unflinching.
Lord Yensha's fan snapped open again. "But retreat, boy? You speak of running as if it were honorable."
Zed's jaw tightened. "Honor means nothing if all are dead. Better to fall back and live, than to stand proud and leave ashes."
Some scoffed. Others muttered assent. His words had struck nerves.
Then, to everyone's surprise, the King leaned forward, his gaze heavy as an anvil. "You speak boldly, young Latian. And not without merit. These principles are not the ramblings of an untested boy. They are… practical."
Lord Varros folded his arms. "Hmph. The boy sees what some of us forget. He's right — beasts can be herded like cattle if you break their leaders. He's right that wasting strength early is folly."
Even Lord Droven, though scowling, did not interrupt again.
Azrael Latian, standing silent at the King's side, allowed the faintest flicker of pride to show in his eyes. His son had spoken not with arrogance, but with conviction carved by blood.
Fuine, watching from the shadows of her father's retinue, tilted her head. This Zed Latian was not the pampered heir she had expected. His voice carried not the theory of books, but the grit of experience. She wondered — what had he endured to speak so?
At length, the King raised his hand. "Enough. The council has heard. Clan Latian's young master speaks sense. His principles will be incorporated into our strategy. Let it be written."
A scribe hurried to ink the words onto parchment.
The King's gaze fell directly on Zed. "You have seen the wild, haven't you? More than most in this room."
Zed bowed, silent. He would not — could not — speak of the battles he had fought alone.
"Then," said the King slowly, "perhaps your youth is not a weakness, but a strength. Fresh eyes see what old ones grow blind to. You will serve as field vanguard under your father's banner. Show me if your words hold when the beasts come."
The hall murmured, some in approval, some in doubt.
But in that moment, a shift had occurred. Zed was no longer simply the son of Azrael Latian. He was a voice, sharp and unyielding, in the council of clans.
That night, as torches burned low and men filed from the chamber, Fuine paused at the threshold. She glanced back, her eyes catching Zed's for the briefest moment. No words were exchanged — yet something passed between them. A seed planted, too faint to name, yet destined to grow.
And above them all, the banners of Issielios hung heavy, the weight of a kingdom's fate stitched into their cloth.