The morning mist clung to Korvath's rebuilt plaza like a veil that refused to lift. The air was sharp with iron and ash, carrying the scent of oil, armor, and restless ambition. Lia Shinsei stood among the gathered officers at the grand war hall, feeling the weight of history pressing upon every marble column.
Korvath had risen from ruins only months ago. Now it hosted a council that could decide the fate of the entire continent. Soldiers, adventurers, and envoys lined the chamber, their murmurs a low tide beneath the echoing hall.
At the long stone table sat the leaders of two nations that had once eyed each other down the length of drawn blades.
Iroko Ryusei, calm yet commanding, bore the mantle of Ostoria's fragile leadership. His armor was lacquered blue and silver, his posture unbending.
Kouki Nozomi, Guildmaster of the Adventurer's Guild, stood at his side—his tone always balanced, his eyes bright with thought.
General Varric Drayen, the battle-scarred face of Dargath's disciplined army, leaned forward with a soldier's impatience.
Beside him sat Commander Rick Kaiser, lean and sharp-minded, the tactician whose reputation for efficiency was nearly legend.
Lia, together with Yoshiya, Omina, Seikaku, Kenji, and Mireina, watched from the tiered benches reserved for observers. From where she sat, the table itself looked like a battlefield—divided by invisible lines of pride and history.
Kouki rose first, unrolling a vast parchment across the table. Metal markers clinked as he fixed them in place, each symbol representing the armies now under their uneasy alliance.
"This," he began, "is Ostoria reborn—divided, scarred, but still breathing."
The map showed six lost cities, glowing faintly in the morning light that spilled through the stained glass. Each was a wound yet to be healed.
"The time has come," Kouki continued, "to choose where the first liberation will begin."
A hush fell. Lia noted how Dargath's officers, dressed in crimson plate, barely met the eyes of the blue-clad Ostorian commanders. Old wars don't fade easily—they linger like smoke in the lungs.
Varric Drayen broke the silence. "Giggleburg," he said simply, his voice gravel over steel. "It's open ground—perfect terrain for heavy infantry and siege units. My army can take it in weeks."
He leaned forward, tapping a gauntleted finger on the map. "We strike north through the plains. My southern battalions will push from below the city walls. Two fronts, one decisive victory. Fast, clean, efficient."
"Fast," Kouki murmured, "but not without risk."
Rick Kaiser adjusted his gloves before answering. "Bustleburg is the smarter choice. Closer to Korvath. Easier to resupply. Our lines remain intact." He moved one of the steel markers with surgical precision. "Giggleburg's fortifications are ancient and deep. It'll bleed us dry before we breach the first gate."
"Caution breeds stagnation," Varric shot back.
"And arrogance breeds graves," Rick replied evenly.
A low tension rippled through the room. Lia watched as tempers sharpened—not yet raised, but drawn like hidden knives.
Between the two generals sat Kouki, hands folded, face unreadable. The Guildmaster's voice remained calm, but each word cut with quiet intent. "Both cities offer what we need—Bustleburg ensures stability; Giggleburg ensures progress. Yet only one can come first."
Lia's eyes swept the room, reading more than words. She saw the flickers of unease among the younger officers, the fatigue buried beneath pride. This alliance was built not on trust, but necessity.
She turned slightly, catching Omina's gaze. The White Mage sat straight-backed, her eyes fixed on the map, golden hair glinting under the torchlight. Yoshiya beside her was silent, hands clasped, studying every movement with that patient calculation she had come to recognize.
Lia exhaled quietly. A Blue Mage is meant to bridge gaps, she reminded herself. But what bridge can stand between vengeance and survival?
The argument at the table deepened. Maps were redrawn, markers shifted, voices collided. Kouki's steady mediation was the only thread holding order.
Finally, the Guildmaster straightened, palms raised. "Enough," he said. "Giggleburg gives us reach. Bustleburg gives us rest. But neither matters if unity fractures before the march even begins."
He let the silence stretch, then turned to Iroko Ryusei. "Leader of Ostoria. The decision is yours."
All eyes followed. Iroko rose slowly, his expression unreadable. The torchlight caught on the faint scar along his jaw—the mark of a leader who had seen too much loss to gamble carelessly.
"Bustleburg is safer," he said, his tone even. "But safety has never won a war."
He stepped closer to the table, fingers tracing the line between Korvath and Giggleburg. "Every generation faces a choice—to protect what little remains or reclaim what was taken. We choose the latter."
His gaze lifted, meeting each commander in turn. "Giggleburg decides who leads this continent's future. That is where we strike."
Kouki bowed his head slightly. "Then it is decided."
A murmur swept through the hall—approval from some, discontent from others. Lia felt the decision settle over them like the weight of an oath.
Orders were drafted, signatures etched in ink still warm. The campaign's direction was sealed: Ostoria's army would march west from Korvath to Giggleburg's east gate. Dargath's legions would strike from the south.
As the council dissolved, the once-crowded hall emptied into a corridor of echoing footsteps and clinking armor. Lia lingered behind.
The great map lay abandoned beneath flickering candlelight. Shadows danced across its surface like ghosts of battles yet to come.
She touched the edge of the parchment, whispering under her breath, "Uneasy allies… yet for the first time, the direction is one."
Outside, the mist had finally lifted. Dawn spread over Korvath, pale and uncertain, as if even the sun hesitated to witness the beginning of another war.
The war for Ostoria's heart had begun.