The news reached Duke Alexander barely six hours after the sun rose over Scofield's castle. It arrived not through any understandable means—for Max had not only seized all communications but had used devices of war that defied the Duke's reality—but by a trio of exhausted, mud-spattered riders whose faces were etched with sheer, bewildered terror. They carried the signed surrender document and Baron Scofield's personal ring, a mute testament to the speed and finality of Valum's strike.
Alexander received them in his solar, far from the grand audience hall, his posture already bowed by a year of political impotence. The Duke was utterly ignorant of the steam engine, the internal combustion principle, and the concept of mass-produced, automatic firearms. He read the one-page document, penned in his rival's hand, detailing the surrender of all mining assets to the "Sovereign State of Valum." "An act of treason!" he choked, crushing the paper in his fist, but the force behind the accusation was gone. He looked at the riders, men who had served his family for generations. "How? How did five hundred men surrender in an hour? Where was the garrison? Where was their honor? What sorcery did the bastard employ?" The captain, shivering despite the interior heat, stammered out the only consistent detail—a detail that made no sense in their world. "Your Grace, it was no siege. No armies marched. It was a terrifying sound... a mechanical shriek, a continuous tearing sound from the darkness. Men simply dissolved. They said the soldiers—the Vanguards—carried small iron boxes that spat fire faster than a hundred crossbows. The volume of noise was worse than the killing. There was no battle, only... instant, chaotic destruction. When the sun rose, the black and red banners were flying, and two huge, silent flying horrors—they looked like enormous silver fish held up by unseen magic—delivered hundreds of men and machinery. Lord Scofield simply signed and rode out." Alexander felt the foundations of his world shift into madness. He hadn't lost a vassal; he had lost his economic future to an incomprehensible force. The captured airships—which the Duke could only interpret as gigantic, magically-animated metallic leviathans—and the "fire-spitting iron boxes" confirmed his worst fears: Max was dabbling in dark, forbidden elemental magic that broke the laws of nature and man. This wasn't a military threat; it was a plague of dark sorcery.
Hours later, Duke Alexander was aboard the fastest, most magically-warded carriage he owned, racing toward the Imperial Capital. This was the final, humiliating act of his rule: he was forced to beg the Emperor to solve a regional problem created entirely by a new, unknown form of black magic. Upon arrival, he bypassed every formality, bursting into the private reception halls of Emperor Alaric, disrupting a quiet consultation with the Imperial Grand Magister. Alexander fell to his knees, his armor creaking against the marble floor. He was breathless, his appearance ravaged by travel and superstitious dread. "Majesty! Majesty, I beg you! The Western Duchy is lost! The bastard, Maximilian of Scorpia, has committed an act of abominable sorcery against the Throne!" Emperor Alaric, a figure of calm, powerful authority, already had fragmentary reports. He looked at Alexander with severe disappointment. "Rise, Alexander. Control yourself. Detail this sorcery that your entire garrison seems incapable of halting." Alexander scrambled to his feet, speaking in a frantic rush, the words tumbling out in a mixture of fear and fantastical description. "He... he did not attack with an army, Majesty! He attacked with two giant, floating beasts! They are silent, metallic, and move without wind or wing! He used one hundred shadow creatures—they call themselves Vanguards—who carry small iron boxes that fire a continuous, deafening stream of death! They took Scofield's castle in under an hour! The guards surrendered simply out of terror of the noise and the firepower! He made Scofield sign over all his mines, thereby securing the vital ore that he uses to fuel his abominable crafts!" Alexander gestured wildly, his terror palpable. "He has violated the Charter! He has established martial law under his black and red banners! This is no longer a quarrel over territory; this is a direct challenge to the sanctity of Imperial magic! His dark crafts nullify our Mythril armor and our shield-mages, not through greater magic, but through sheer, instantaneous volume of death! The threat is not his army, Majesty, but the demonic knowledge he possesses!"
Emperor Alaric did not shout. His silence was far colder than Alexander's hysteria. The description of metallic floating vessels and continuous stream of fire was genuinely unsettling, crossing the known boundaries of high-level elemental or shadow magic. He looked at the kneeling, defeated Duke—a man whose mind was clearly broken by terror—and understood one thing: the problem was beyond the scope of a regional garrison. "You speak of continuous fire, of flying horrors, and of total surrender, Alexander," Alaric stated, his voice dangerously low. "You speak of a problem that you allowed to fester for over a year. You gave this boy the legitimacy of the Charter, and he has rewarded you with total humiliation. You failed to realize that the boy, Maximilian, does not think in terms of land or honor, but raw, chaotic power." Alaric finally stood, his gaze sweeping over the scene. "No, Duke. You are wrong. This is not an internal Duchy issue. This is an existential threat. Whether it is dark magic or some new form of unholy alchemy, this cannot be tolerated. Return to your garrison, Alexander. Maintain order if you can. Your role is now over. I will assemble the Imperial War Council and, more importantly, the Grand Magisterium. This insult will not be answered by men of your caliber, but by the highest authorities of the realm, for we face a sorcerer-king who commands power we do not yet understand."