Arrayed before the Sovereign's chambers stood the unified armies of three high houses, Drakovar, Veymont, and Calvasset. All gathered in a grim alliance. The courtyard was thick with soldiers, a wall of steel and silence.
Drakovar soldiers stood to the left, clad in brown leather and darkened armor, their crimson gauntlet banners snapping in the dawn wind. Swords were already unsheathed in their hands, steel glinting as the morning light kissed their blades.
To the right, Veymont's female sdiers stood in tight formation, blue-dyed cloaks rippling behind them. Their silver stag banners gleamed faintly in the pale light, while polished rifles rested on their shoulders, each barrel reflecting the smoke-dimmed dawn.
Between them, Calvasset's men formed a sea of green, their obsidian serpent banner writhing in the smoky breeze as though alive. Rifles were clutched tight to their chests, bayonets fixed, their rifles held high, sharp steel glinting above them
The colors and weapons clashed and blended across the courtyard, a living tapestry of power and war arrayed before Lord Eryndor's doors.
Thirty thousand soldiers together, as they encircled the capital of Calensport like an iron noose.
The loyal nobles men and woman of House Valesse had already been seized.
Among the restrained valesse nobles stood Lord Dalric Dane, Lady Ovelyn Crest, and Sir Joras Krenn, nobles of House Valesse, each with cold steel pressed against their throats.
"Let us go!" Sir Joras snarled, straining against his captors.
"This is a farce!" Lady Ovelyn spat, her face twisted with fury. "False accusations! You will all suffer for this treachery!"
From the midst of Drakovar soldiers came the heavy tread of boots, and the Northern Warlord himself emerged — Lord Erry O'Kael.
Broad as an ox, his armor bore the scars of campaigns fought in frost and fire. He moved with the surety of a man who commanded doom. As he stepped before the Sovereign's chambers, his cold eyes swept over the scene, first the shackled nobles, then Eryndor himself.
In his left gauntleted fist he held a scroll, bound in the blood-seals of the Wardens, while his right hand gripped firmly the hilt of his sword.
Erry O kaels voice roared, echoing through the sovereign chambers as he spoke.
"Lord Eryndor of House Valesse, and all who serve him!. Never in the history of Asterra did we think to see this day, the day the Sovereign and his noble house turn upon his own people!"
Eryndor's in shock and confusion gasps slightly, as his voice struck back, sharp as a drawn blade.
"What madness is this, Kael? Turned upon my own people? Explain yourself!"
But Kael did not flinch.
"Since the Sovereign has brought war upon the realm, the realm now calls its houses to shield it," Kael declared. "You are summoned, not by me, not by Drakovar, not by any house, but by the will of the Wardens themselves, and by the cries of the people, to answer for your crimes against Asterra."
He snapped the scroll open, revealling the decree of arrest for lord eryndor, then tossed it to the ground.
"You will speak no more until the hour of your tribunal." Kael continues.
Eryndor's breath caught. For a moment, his eyes blazed with defiance, the fury of a Sovereign unwilling to bend. But then the fire dimmed. The color drained from his face, his shoulders sinking as if under a great weight.
When he finally bowed his head, it was slow, reluctant, and bitter.
At Kael's gesture, Drakovar soldiers advanced. Iron cuffs were clamped around Eryndor's wrists with a hiss of ward-runes. A dozen more soldiers fell into formation, surrounding him in a tight cordon.
He did not resist. He did not speak.
Thus, in the grey breaking light of dawn, while the tolling of bells rang like a funeral dirge over Calensport, the Sovereign of Asterra was led from his chambers in chains.
By noon, the bells had fallen silent. Their echoes, however, still haunted the city like the aftertaste of grief. Smoke hung over Calensport's spires.
Location: Northern watchtower.
Far to the north, the watchtower loomed on the horizon, its frame of iron and riveted plates hissing pale steam into the cold air. Beyond the northern walls, low hills stretched outward.
Beneath the tower's, sat Master Yeru in a simple room, hunched over a wide oak desk stacked with books, scrolls, and ink pots. His glasses had slipped low on his nose, and his quill scratched in steady, deliberate strokes across parchment.
Beside him stood young Ray, the runner boy, a book spread open in his hands, one finger pressed against the last passage he had read aloud.
Ray kept the book clutched tightly, his brow furrowing.
"Ray, be a kind lad and read the last line for me," Master Yeru muttered, quill scratching steadily across parchment without lifting his eyes.
"Of course, Master Yeru," Ray replied softly. He drew in a breath but before a word could leave his lips, a horn sounded in the distance. Low, long, mournful. Its cry rolled across the hills like the tolling of a giant's bell.
Yeru did not look up, his quill continuing its steady dance.
"You hear that, boy?" he said, voice flat but heavy. "That is Calensport's call. The capital summons its people to witness the fall of a king."
Ray's puzzled expression deepened.
"But sir," he said cautiously, "we do not have a king."
For a moment there was only the scratching of the quill. Then Yeru's hand paused mid-stroke.
"And why do you say that, lad?" Yeru asked without turning.
"My father always corrected me whenever I called our leader a king," Ray said. "He would shout that Asterra is no monarchy. That we have a sovereign, chosen by the nobles, not a king."
Yeru finally set the quill down, dipping it once more with a deliberate calm before answering.
"Your father was a good man," Yeru said, his tone softened with memory. "Respected, well-learned, and a brave soldier who fought for us bravely beyond Asterra's walls."
He adjusted his glasses higher on his nose and leaned back slightly, his voice lower now. "But he was mistaken about one thing."
Ray straightened, curiosity bright in his young face. Yeru's voice carried a weary wisdom as he went on.
"We live not in a democracy, lad, but in an aristocratic elective monarchy, a gilded one at that. Nobles cast the votes, and they cast them only for their own. The common folk have no voice in who rules them."
He set the quill aside and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose before gazing out through the narrow window toward the cold hills beyond.
"And yet," he said bitterly, "it is the common folk who bleed first when nobles play their games."
Ray held his breath. The old man's words carried the weight of more than just knowledge, they carried grief.
"We have a king, Ray," Yeru said at last, voice like gravel. "Whether or not he wears the title. And with the little time I have left, I had hoped to see a king become a sovereign in truth, and when i say a sovereign, i mean a ruler of all the people, elected by the people, not just selected by nobles."
His gaze grew distant, clouded with regret.
"I had hoped Eryndor would be that man. But that hope is slipping away."
Ray stood silent, the book pressed hard against his chest. The words sank deep into him like stones in a well.
"But sir," Ray ventured at last, hesitating, "may I ask something of you?"
"Go on." Yeru urged.
Ray's lips parted, but for a moment no sound came. His eyes darted, searching for the right words.
"They say…" he began haltingly, "they say Lord Eryndor himself is responsible. That it was his House's weapon, the Heaven's Blitz that struck the towns. Some whisper it was fueled with forbidden white lumin to amplify the devastation, to send a message to the high houses and the Wardens that he is not to be challenged."
He trailed off, swallowing hard.
Yeru's gaze softened, but he did not let the boy sit in silence long.
"Ray," he said, his voice steady but heavy, "before Eryndor became Sovereign, Asterra was soaked in its own blood. Drakovar fought veymont year after year. Cities wailed beneath endless war. Solherene kept half the midlands enslaved in debt. The Wardens intervened when they could, but still thousands died."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"Eryndor was forged in those fires. He clawed his way from lowborn soldier to Sovereign through blood, sweat, and tears. Under his six-year reign, we have had no wars, none. He kept the nobles, high, mid, and low, from tearing each other apart. He won a people's award for peace. He fought raiders at the border and kept you and me from being dragged off as slaves."
Yeru's hand clenched briefly on the desk before he let go, breathing slow and heavy.
"No, lad," he said quietly, "I do not believe the man who bled for Asterra would burn it to ash. But listen to me well, do not speak these words beyond this tower. The world is angry at Eryndor now, and anger has little patience for truth."
He turned back toward the window, the hills grey and distant in the early light.
"Be smart, Ray. Live long enough to see which way the wind blows. Speak your heart, but only where walls are thick and ears are few."
Ray swallowed hard and nodded, clutching the book closer to his chest, his young face grave and thoughtful.
"Enough of my rambling," Yeru said at last, his voice trembling as he forced strength into it.
"Go now. Take the northern railroad to Calensport. If you are quick, you will catch the clockwork trains. Watch all that unfolds in the capital, and return to me with what you witness. I will cook a stew and wait for your report."
"Yes, Master yeru," Ray replied softly. He closed the book and set it gently on the desk before stepping out into the yard. The steam wagon outside the gates of the tower hissed and rattled as its trunk lids slammed shut. Three travelers were already climbing aboard. Ray joined them, clutching his satchel tight against his chest as the wagon lurched forward, headed for the railroads.
Inside the room, Master Yeru placed his quill carefully aside. For a long moment, he remained still, then bowed his head over the parchment, whispering a prayer only he could hear.
Location: Town Olsmere in the west.
Mira stirred awake, blinking against the sting in her eyes. She sits up gradually as her limbs felt stiff, aching, wrapped in bandages that scratched against her raw skin. Her lips were cracked, her hands grey with ash. The tent was thick with the smell of smoke and burnt cloth.
Women lay on cots around her, some motionless, some rising weakly to sip water, others staring blankly into the air, their faces carved with grief, as mira spoke faintly.
"The last thing I remember," Mira whispered, as heads turned to her in surprise. "I was crawling through the alleys… while the flames devoured the streets."
Her eyes darted from face to face, desperate, searching. "If I made it… then surely my child did too. Right?"
The women exchanged glances, their silence heavy. One by one, they left until only Mrs. Trinket remained. She knelt by Mira's cot, taking her hand with trembling fingers.
"Mira…" Mrs. Trinket's voice broke before she forced herself to go on. "All you carried was the body of your child. "
Her breath hitched as tears welled.
"My husband was the one who found you. He said you were nearly gone yourself, whispering a name… Terrin, I think. We laid your little one to rest, far from here, so you wouldn't have to see him like that."
Mira's eyes widened, unblinking, her breath caught in her chest. No sound escaped her lips — only a single tear slid down her cheek, then another, until they spilled freely. Mrs. Trinket pulled her close and rocked her gently, her own sobs filling the silence.
Outside miras tent, a horn blared, deep and sonorous, carrying over the tents and smoldering ruins. Murmurs rippled across the camp. Survivors stirred, clutching children close, their faces taut with fear.
Abel's voice rang out over the gathering.
"Lord Eryndor sits in chains as we speak!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but filled with triumph.
"Arrested by the three high houses themselves, led by Lord Erry O'Kael!"
As gasps answered him.
"Arrested?!" someone cried. "Was he fleeing?"
"Did war break out?" another called.
"They say Lord O'Kael laid siege to Calensport with thirty thousand soldiers," Abel said, his voice rising, "and that Eryndor was still asleep when the decree was read!"
Bitter laughter spread through the crowd. Some spat on the ground, cursing eryndors name.
"The summoning horn has sounded!" Abel declared, strapping on his belt and tugging on his worn gloves. "We march to the capital. We will see the traitor's face for ourselves. Those who can walk, follow me. Those who wish to watch justice fall, come! The western trains must be caught before nightfall!"
Around him, men and women gathered what little they had left. Some lifted children onto their backs, others stuffed stale bread into sacks. They moved with grim purpose, their silhouettes trailing toward the station where the hiss of steam wagons and the groan of iron rails awaited.
Inside the tent, Keith, Mrs. Trinket's husband entered, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"I must go to Calensport," he said quietly. "By law guarding low nobles like myself, I am bound to witness the judgment."
"Who will protect us if another attack comes?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear.
"Not all will leave," Keith replied gently. "And the armies of Veymont, Drakovar, and Calvasset are already near. They'll guard what remains."
She hugged to him for a moment, then released him with a nod.
"I still cannot believe Lord Eryndor would do such a thing."
"That is why I must see for myself," Keith said. "If he is guilty, then he must answer for Oriyn's death."
He kissed her forehead once before stepping away.
Mira's caught her breath, at the mention of Oriyn's name. Her gaze locked on the couple, her face a mask of grief and disbelief, her face lit with surprise, knowing oriyn was the brother to mrs trinket, as her thoughts raced far into memories playing the tragic memory she had of oriyns death.
Suddenly Abel's voice rang out again, sharp as the toll of a bell.
"One after another, to the square! Quickly now!"
Location: Calensport: The tribunal court.
Time: Evening.
Time seemed to vanish as the day bled into night. Evening settled like a shroud over Asterra, and Calensport.
From far and near, people began to troop into the tribunal courtyard, commoners from smoldering villages, traders with soot still on their coats, wandering beggars, grieving families clutching one another for strength. The courtyard swelled with great numbers, carrying with them their fear, their anger, and their hunger for answers.
At the gates of Calensport's tribunal square, the soldiers and guards of the high houses stood watch, while Calensport's own guards herded the crowds into ordered lines, clearing paths toward the square.
"Keep moving! Stay in line!" one guard barked, shoving a man back into place.
"Make way, make way for the Tribunal's path!" rang a third, his swords sheathed as he pushed the crowd back.
The noise of orders and shuffling feet echoed against the stone walls, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone gathered.
Within the crowd, a woman bent to steady a limping man whose face was blackened with ash. A boy carried a crying child that was not his own. Neighbors who had shared bread and laughter days before now walked shoulder to shoulder in silence, their eyes hollow, their faces drawn.
When at last they reached the tribunal Square, it was already packed with thousands, more than five thousand souls filling every tier and corner, the press of bodies turning the square into a living sea of people.
Within the Tribunal court, the dais held the judges seat that stood tall, and noble seats that surrounded the dais. its great marble steps rising like the seat of judgment itself. Banners of the three high houses sat behind the high seats. The air was charged with tension so thick it felt like the whole city was holding its breath.
All eyes turned toward the massive iron doors where the Sovereign of Asterra would soon be brought forth.
A sudden quiet fell, not by command, but as if the entire square had agreed to silence. Only the wind moved, whispering through the banners.
At the edge of the tribunal court, a bell rang once. Its heavy toll rolled across the square like a final summons.
As, Eryndor of House Valesse was about to face his judgment.