Thunder Without Warning
The dawn cracked open with a low hum that wasn't thunder—but the answer to it.
From the East Wing courtyard, the earth vibrated in rippling pulses. Not from war drums or battalions. No, something far stranger. Hooves. Six of them—no, ten—slamming against stone, their cadence not of this world.
Then, without warning, they appeared—cutting through the gathering dawn and silence with their presence.
Six Thunderhoof Stallions emerged as if left behind by a divine storm. Their hides shimmered silver-blue, laced with veins of crackling energy. Each step sparked against the cobbles, trailing static blue and the ozone tang of conjured lightning. Their manes flowed like wild banners of stormlight. One reared up, releasing a bolt of lightning into the morning sky.
"By the gods," Wendy breathed, frozen in place. "Are we… riding those?"
"No," Karel said, adjusting his helmet. "They'll ride us. I've made my peace."
Andy the Berserker cracked his neck, then his knuckles. "I like them already. Might be the only thing that moves faster than I do when I'm angry."
Charles strode forward with practiced calm. He reached out, placing one hand against the snorting lead stallion's neck. Sparks leapt to meet him—gold meeting silver—and the beast didn't recoil. It bowed.
"We ride," Charles said, and every guard straightened as if lightning itself barked the command.
Servants sprinted in from all sides like a chaotic tide. They scrambled to load saddlebags, enchanted gear, spare scrolls, travel provisions, and last-minute parcels—including the tightly sealed alchemy kit labeled "Not for Exploding—Anya," which one footman carried carefully to Charles's side.
Anya herself approached, striding forward with purpose, her cloak trailing in the wind and a jade-encrusted box held securely between her gloved hands. She paused just before the obsidian carriage, standing tall; her face remained calm, but her eyes flashed with a stormy intensity.
"Emergency scrolls," she began, "recovery elixirs, and a coded talisman linked to the East Wing estate. It'll pulse if anything happens."
Charles accepted the box from Anya, brushing her fingertips for a fleeting second as he took it.
Anya sighed, equal parts exasperated and fond. "Just come back, my lord—don't make me drag you by your ears."
He gave her a sardonic smile. "You'd have to catch me first."
The Thunderhoof carriage behind them glistened in the low light. Forged from obsidian-hardened ghostwood and rimmed with arcane etchings that devoured light, it radiated secrecy and style. No crest of House Ziglar, no banners. Only subtle runes spiraling in a language older than Davona. The air around it hummed like holding breath.
Four Thunderhoof Stallions were yoked to the carriage, crackling with compressed power. Their gait was unnaturally silent, each hoof step barely a whisper, the air around them sparking with tension—faster and quieter than any noble parade.
"Can't believe Elmer pulled this off," Borris muttered under his breath, running a hand along the smooth carriage door. "Ten Thunderhooves and a cloaked obsidian relic. And they say he doesn't know how to shop."
Charles nodded. "Forty-eight thousand gold well spent. Tell the Empire I paid full price."
At that moment, a new presence made itself known.
A wiry, bearded man with windswept gray hair and a perpetual smirk leapt from the driver's perch. He wore a travel coat woven with wind-imbued threads, his scarf fluttering in a breeze that wasn't even there.
Coachman Rob. Core Realm Rank 3. Wind affinity. Beast tamer. And apparently, a stand-up philosopher.
"Morning, milord!" Rob called, saluting with two fingers and a half-eaten apple. "Thunder's fed, route's clear, weather's moody but manageable. I hope you don't mind—we're taking the 'scenic route.'"
"Define scenic," Charles said.
"Well," Rob mused, tapping his chin. "Three active magibeast territories, one haunted creek, and a forest that occasionally rearranges its trees. But the view? Gorgeous."
"Excellent. Survive and I'll promote you to Head Lunatic."
"Oh, I thought I already was."
With a slap to the reins, Rob vaulted back to his perch and gave a low whistle. The stallions twitched, electricity arcing from hoof to hoof.
Charles climbed into the carriage after making a quick scan of his entourage. Behind him, his selected companions mounted their Thunderhoof Stallions in coordinated sequence.
Kael, a Rank 10 swordsman with earth affinity, adjusted his massive claymore across his back with the calm of a man who could level a forest and still be home for tea.
Karel, a Rank 9 archer and rapier specialist with fire affinity, spun a fire-dappled arrow in his fingers with theatrical glee. "I shot down a dove this morning just to see if it would dodge. It didn't."
Wendy, poised like a coiled breeze, slipped into her saddle in one fluid motion, her Windblade Daggers glinting at her hips.
Borris, gruff and armored, checked the straps on his mount, tugging firmly as if inspecting a siege weapon. He shot a sideways glance at Charles. "Try not to flirt with danger too hard, kid," Borris growled. "We're out of bandages."
Andy, the Core 5 Berserker with metal attribute, slapped the stallion's flank and whooped. "This beast's got fight! I name him Sparky."
Donald, Core 6 swordsman and quiet tactician, merely nodded and unsheathed his blade a few inches—its glint warning enough.
And just like that, the procession rolled forward.
The gates of the East Wing creaked open—not with grandiose fanfare, but with reverent silence. The storm-colored sky above split faintly, a bolt of lightning threading across the heavens as if saluting its own kin.
Charlemagne Ziglar rode out.
No crest. No anthem. Just the hum of unseen power, the blur of silver hooves, and the promise of something awakening beneath the surface of the world.
Where other nobles flaunted banners, Charles cloaked his strength in shadows. And those who dared follow his trail would learn too late—
The storm does not warm. The storm arrived.
Arrival in Duranth – The House With No Crest
It only took an hour to reach the outskirts of Duranth—a journey that would've taken half a day by normal noble caravans.
The Thunderhoof Stallions glided over the winding roads like gods on a lightning circuit. No bumps. No jolts. No mercy for time itself.
Inside the obsidian carriage, Charles was fast asleep, sprawled like a retired emperor across the cushioned interior, his breath slow, his expression one of serene authority—if not for the occasional half-snore.
Outside, the six guards and Coachman Rob had turned the road into their personal comedy stage.
"Karel," Andy said, bouncing on his saddle, "what if your stallion sneezes in battle?"
Karel didn't pause. "Same as if you sneeze—everyone nearby dies from friendly fire."
"Accurate," Donald muttered from behind his half-mask. "Though technically only the first five meters."
Kael rolled his shoulders, unmoved. "Can we all agree not to sneeze while galloping?"
"No promises!" Wendy grinned. "Sparky loves chaos."
"Sparky is my horse," Andy growled. "You named yours Staticus."
"Did not. I renamed him. He liked mine better."
Rob cackled from the front. "Kids, kids—no fighting on lightning mounts! Save it for the magibeasts!"
As they entered the main gate of Duranth, villagers and merchants turned to stare.
There were no flags, no noble crest, no proud trumpet announcement as they entered. Their dark carriage, crackling with arcane energy, was drawn by storm-born stallions. Six deadly silent riders, each dressed in unmarked armor, flanked the carriage, eyes scanning the crowds.
"Whose house is that?" someone whispered.
"I… don't know," another murmured. "But I'd like to never meet them in a dark alley."
And inside the sleek shadow-carriage, Charles shifted in his sleep, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—as if even in dreams, he could hear the sound of a storm making its entrance.
The Pact of Lightning and Wine
The morning sun washed over Duranth's eastern gate, casting a golden sheen across cobblestones slick from midnight rain. The city was just beginning to stir, its markets yawning open and noble houses still rubbing sleep from their silk-draped eyes.
Then thunder came—not from the sky, but from hooves.
Six Thunderhoof Stallions blazed through the gate like streaks of stormlight, trailing arcs of static across the damp stone. Behind them came the obsidian carriage. No sigil. No banner. No horns.
Just quiet awe.
Bystanders stood frozen as if the gods themselves had ridden past in shadow. Mothers hushed their children. Stall vendors held their breath. Someone whispered, "Which house is that?"
And no one knew.
At the Sorelle-owned rendezvous hall—an elegantly converted warehouse near the merchant's quarter—a flurry of attendants snapped to attention as the dark carriage arrived. Above the arched doors gleamed a discreet silver plaque etched with the sigil of House Sorelle.
The doors opened just as Charles stepped out of the carriage in quiet elegance. His robes were simple but layered in silver-thread trim, and his hair—once dark as obsidian—now shimmered with silver and iridescent blue, slicked back like moonlight caught in a thunderstorm. His eyes still glowed faintly from the aftershock of last night's breakthrough bath. He moved up the marble steps with poise, as if he owned the wind and just hadn't bothered to tell the world yet.
Coachman Rob, wind-mage and occasional comedian, gave a lazy salute to the door guards and leaned against the lead stallion with a smirk. "Tell the Sorelles: Lightning brought friends."
Inside the hall, Lady Micah Sorelle stood waiting. Radiant in violet silk layered with embroidered gold clouds, she smiled with that signature blend of aristocratic poise and utter mischief. Around her, the new franchise vanguard assembled in professional formation—half warriors, half bureaucrats, all Sorelle-trained elites.
"Welcome to your first business war council, Lord Charlemagne," Micah said, sweeping her hand toward the team behind her.
Charles's eyes scanned the room with a tycoon's precision.
Danica, the bookkeeper, was already scribbling notes without blinking. She wore square spectacles enchanted to track numbers midair—currently, they showed Charles's personal net worth ticking up with interest.
Marlon, legal counsel, gave a curt nod. His robe had more clauses stitched into the hem than most trade contracts in the kingdom.
Alfie, training specialist, had arms like tree trunks and a smile like a proud dad at a bakery. He gave Wendy an approving look that made her straighten up instinctively.
Bona, marketing officer, was radiant and loud. "I made new banners for Tre Sorelle's launch. Silk from Ravenport, gold foil letters, scented with crushed starlily!"
"Sounds subtle," Charles deadpanned.
Micah snorted. "You should've seen the first draft. It sang."
Charles turned to his entourage. "Micah, meet the Iron Parade. Twins Kael and Karel—swords and sarcasm, respectively. Wendy, our future dagger in the dark. Borris—trainer, blacksmith, and miracle on legs. Andy and Donald—power and loyalty. And you already know Rob."
Rob waved from the doorway. "We don't shake hands. We just electrocute your palm with friendship."
Introductions complete, they gathered around a magically projected map hovering over the long table.
Danica stepped forward, tapping the map with her quill. "The first franchise branch will be located near Velmora's western district, three blocks from the Noble Academy and across from the Alchemists' Quarter."
Charles nodded. "Foot traffic, high-end clientele, and access to supply lines."
"Correct," Danica replied. "Also—no direct competition in a two-mile radius."
"Yet," Marlon added darkly.
Charles smirked. "Let them come. We'll bankrupt them with flavor."
Micah handed him a crystal folder. "This contains Victor's signed approvals, the land charter, and Sorelle Token identification for imperial inspectors. As long as you don't accidentally burn down the capital—"
"No promises," Charles cut in, already flipping through the documents.
Bona clapped once. "Now, logistics! Travel to Velmora normally takes three days, but with Thunderhoof speed, we'll be there by tomorrow afternoon. We'll rest at Rubai overnight—"
"—which has one tavern, no hot baths, and a feral goat problem," Alfie muttered.
"Perfect," Charles said. "My favorite conditions for dreaming up domination strategies."
The map zoomed to show Rubai, followed by Velmora's merchant gates, which pulsed gently in the illusion.
Micah's tone turned serious. "Charles, this is our moment. If this launch succeeds, Tre Sorelle becomes a name that stands shoulder to shoulder with the capital's imperial brands. This isn't just gourmet expansion—it's legacy."
Charles folded his arms, lightning still humming faintly around him. "Then let's etch it into history. We're not selling food. We're selling reverence in a bowl."
Borris rumbled his approval. "And maybe a side of magibeast ribs."
"Agreed," Kael muttered, while Karel was already sketching logo upgrades. "Add sparks to the name. Real sparks. Like literal ones."
"Gentlemen," Charles said, turning toward the door with flair. "Prepare your weapons, your ledgers, and your silver tongues. Tomorrow, we begin the conquest of Velmora."
Wendy raised a brow. "Is it a conquest if they already want to give us money?"
"It's a conquest if you look good doing it," Charles said. "Now, someone feed the thunder horses before Rob tries to braid their manes again."
Rob, mid-braid, looked up. "Too late."
Laughter erupted.
And so, the two most unlikely armies—of chefs and knights, of schemers and swordsmen—gathered under one sigilless banner, preparing to ride at storm-speed toward the heart of the kingdom's golden city.