Blake stepped out of the gate, stretched lazily, rolled his shoulders to work out the kinks, then shook his head to clear it of all the useless chatter that had been buzzing around inside.
In the aftermath of that daytime raid, the entire Redcliff Fortress had been thrown into a flurry of activity. The excitement reached a fever pitch especially after the prisoners captured by Tyr were brought in—General Celt and his men were practically buzzing with adrenaline. But Blake couldn't blame them. Even though it had been just a small skirmish, this was the first probing attack the Sith Empire had launched against Wester, and far from suffering a crushing defeat, Wester had won the first round. War, after all, was as much about intangible morale as it was about strategy and strength. A good start would bolster everyone's confidence; a shaky one would leave them playing catch-up from day one. As things stood, not only had the right flank held firm—it had scored a victory. That alone was a story worth shouting from the rooftops. For weeks, the soldiers and officers stationed at the fortress had been living under the shadow of the Sith Empire's Four Scourge Generals, their nerves frayed at the mere thought of facing them in battle. Some had even let their imaginations run wild, picturing the enemy as inhuman monsters who could wipe them out in the blink of an eye. It was a morale killer, plain and simple—and though strict military discipline had kept such talk under wraps, an undercurrent of unease had lingered beneath the surface of daily life. So it was no wonder Celt was over the moon—he'd found the perfect tonic to lift his men's spirits.
*The Sith Empire is not invincible. They can be defeated!*
If that belief could take root in the hearts of the soldiers, the battles ahead would be far easier to fight.
Of course, Celt would have to walk a fine line with the propaganda. He couldn't make too much of the victory—not when they'd only captured a single squad from the Frontline Legion. Overselling it would make them look desperate. But downplaying it would make his men think their commander was either incompetent or complacent. Striking that delicate balance was the key to maximizing the morale boost in the shortest time possible. Not that it was Blake's problem to worry about, anyway.
The interrogations of the prisoners had also yielded a wealth of first-hand intelligence about the Sith Imperial Army—and what Celt had learned filled him with deep unease. According to the captives, Hedwig and Kaelan's forces were still camped deep within Oruth's borders, with no major troop movements reported. Yet the Sith Empire had dispatched two legions, each numbering around fifty thousand men, to reinforce the front. If their sole purpose was to fully occupy Oruth's territory, that would be an absurdly large force.
Which left only one plausible conclusion: the Sith Empire was changing its battle tactics.
Ever since the Sith Empire had first risen to power, all its campaigns had revolved around its four Gifted Knights. Every battle had been led by one of them, and every battle had ended in victory. The Empire had relied on this strategy largely because it had started out as a small nation with limited military resources, unable to sustain heavy casualties. Sending ordinary generals into battle might win them wars, but the cost in lives would be crippling. Under the command of a Gifted Knight, however, those casualties could be minimized to a fraction of what they would otherwise be.
That was why, despite its fearsome reputation, the Sith Empire had never managed to strike terror into the hearts of every nation on the continent. Their greatest strength was also their greatest weakness: if the four Gifted Knights could be neutralized, the Sith Empire would be reduced to a toothless tiger, harmless and defenseless.
But the current situation made it clear that the Sith Empire was well aware of this vulnerability. The prisoners testified that the soldiers of the Frontline Legion had undergone years of rigorous training back home before finally being deployed to the battlefield. Some had even served under the tutelage of the two Gifted Knights, Lindilot and Nahias, before returning to their legions for further instruction. In other words, these two fifty-thousand-strong legions were a mix of battle-hardened veterans and elite recruits who had passed the most grueling of tests. It was proof positive that the Sith Empire had been planning for this moment all along—while its Four Scourge Generals had been out expanding its borders, the Empire itself had been quietly building up its military might, and these two frontline legions were the fruits of that labor.
The discovery left Celt deeply troubled. If two frontline legions added up to a hundred thousand troops, how many more legions were there? How many soldiers in total? And who exactly were these men?
This intelligence had completely upended everything Wester thought it knew about the Sith Empire. They had assumed that even with all the territory it had conquered, the Empire would never be able to recruit and train such a massive force in so short a time. But it seemed they had been sorely mistaken—the Sith had been laying the groundwork for this expansion for years.
By the end of the interrogations, Celt was already distracted, his mind racing with all the implications. He'd thanked Blake hastily before hurrying off, clearly intent on sending this alarming news straight to the king. After all, the ramifications of this intelligence were nothing short of terrifying.
But none of that was Blake's concern anymore.
"Master, has the meeting concluded?"
Charlotte's figure materialized behind him like a ghost. As Blake's personal maid—and especially after *rekindling* their intimate relationship—the head maid had become practically his shadow, never leaving his side for long.
"It's over."
Blake rubbed his temples, trying to expel the mental fog caused by all that tedious intelligence talk, then asked, "What's everyone else up to?"
"Lady Ophelia and Lady Judy have gone out on patrol. Lady Messiah and Lady Semia are resting."
Since taking over the defense of the right flank, Blake had revised the patrol routes and protocols. During the day, the Twin Sisters led the noble alliance's cavalry on rounds; at night, it was Ophelia's turn to take charge, leading her mercenaries and Judy's Dragon Knights in a joint defense. Under the cover of darkness, the dragons soaring high above were all but invisible—a clever bit of stealth strategy. Originally, Blake hadn't planned to include Ophelia in the night patrols, but the former princess had insisted on joining. Her reasoning? She'd helped devise the defense plan, so she wanted to see it in action firsthand, to spot any flaws or weaknesses and make adjustments on the fly. With Ophelia being so adamant, Blake had relented. After all, with Judy keeping watch from the skies, there was little chance of anything going seriously wrong. Besides, Ophelia wasn't exactly alive anymore—she couldn't be killed again, so the risk was minimal at best.
"Then let's head back," Blake said, stretching once more and taking a deep breath of the cool night air.
"Boring, boring, *so* boring. Nothing but meetings day in and day out, and they never amount to anything… To make matters worse, the food's terrible. What's the point of all these meetings anyway? They drain the life out of you."
"Shall I help you unwind when we get back, Master?" Charlotte purred.
"I'll have you know, Charlotte, half the reason I'm this tired is *your* idea of 'unwinding'," Blake retorted dryly. "A little moderation wouldn't kill you. Besides, I've already got two young ladies who need my… *attention*."
"I'm sure those two lovely ladies wouldn't mind sharing," Charlotte said with a smirk.
"But *I* mind," Blake sighed.
The night wind picked up, carrying a sharp chill with it.
Ophelia brushed a strand of violet hair out of her face, her eyes fixed on the sloping terrain ahead of her. Ten orc mercenaries stood at her side—ever since the Battle of the River Valley, they'd sworn fealty to her as her personal retainers, and they'd accompanied her on this patrol to ensure her safety.
The defenses were tight—tighter than tight.
Ophelia nodded in satisfaction as she surveyed the sentry posts scattered across the landscape. Night defense required a different approach than daytime patrols; constant mobile sentries weren't just exhausting, they also gave away the defenders' positions and patterns to any watchful enemy. Thanks to Blake's tutelage, Ophelia had learned a great deal about defensive warfare in recent weeks. For the night watch, she'd opted for hidden sentries instead. Taking advantage of the right flank's rugged, treacherous terrain, she'd stationed pickets in every strategic nook and cranny, with strict orders not to sound the alarm the moment they spotted an enemy. Their job was to wait—wait until the foe had wandered deep into the trap before lighting the signal fires.
It was a small experiment of her own design. Blake and Judy hadn't exactly been convinced the strategy would work, but they hadn't bothered to object either. After all, Ophelia was still a novice on the battlefield—no matter how talented she was, she had a lot to learn, and learning the hard way was often the only way to learn at all. As long as the blood spilled wasn't their own, they had no qualms about letting her test her mettle. And the hidden sentries she'd deployed? They were all private soldiers from the noble alliance. Blake certainly didn't care if a few of them got hurt—if anything, he saw them as nothing more than training dummies for the former princess to sharpen her skills on. Nothing more, nothing less.
"How's the perimeter looking?" Ophelia asked.
"All clear, my lady," one of the orc mercenaries replied, his voice gruff but steady.
Ophelia let out a small breath of relief. "Good. After that raid this morning, the Empire must know we've tightened our security. The chances of them launching another attack tonight are slim to none. Stay vigilant, don't let your guard down, and we should be fine."
She paused, then clenched her fists tightly, her knuckles white with determination. The daytime victory had left her buzzing with a thrill she'd never felt before—it was the first time she'd truly tasted the exhilaration of battle. During her first taste of combat, the revulsion of taking a life had overwhelmed everything else. But this time… this time, she'd felt it—the heady rush of being in complete control, of watching a plan come together flawlessly. It was a feeling she found herself craving, eager to experience again.
Of course, Ophelia knew better than to let her excitement cloud her judgment. She was a soldier first and foremost, and she had a duty to uphold. With a Herculean effort, she forced her emotions back down, locking them away behind a wall of cold, hard reason. War was a brutal business, one that cost lives. As much as she savored the taste of victory, the thought of the bloodshed it required still made her stomach turn—she could never accept it as casually as Blake did.
"All right, let's move out as planned," Ophelia ordered, her voice crisp and commanding as she pushed all distractions aside. "Split up and patrol your sectors. Report *any* suspicious activity to me immediately."
The orc mercenaries roared in unison, then turned to head off to their assigned posts.
But before they could take so much as a single step, chaos erupted.
Ophelia never even saw what hit them. One moment, the orc standing right in front of her was there—the next, he crumpled to the ground without a sound, blood spraying in a crimson arc through the darkness, splattering across her face and armor. The warm, sticky wetness of it jolted her back to her senses—but by then, it was already too late. A sharp, cold rapier was pressed firmly against the soft flesh of her neck, its blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight.
"Violet hair… royal blood," a voice whispered behind her—cold, elegant, and smooth as silk, yet brimming with barely contained excitement and greed. "I never dreamed I'd bag such a prize right out of the gate."
A wave of ice cold dread washed over Ophelia. She'd never imagined an attack could happen here, of all places—deep in the heart of the right flank's defenses, a location no ordinary enemy could ever hope to breach. And according to her own plans, any intruders who *did* manage to get this far should have triggered the alarm long ago. So why were these enemies already here, standing right in front of her, with not a single warning bell rung?
"W-Who are you?" Ophelia ground out, her teeth clenched so hard she feared they might crack.
Her eyes darted wildly, and her blood ran cold at what she saw. All ten of the orc mercenaries who'd accompanied her lay dead on the ground, their bodies motionless. And surrounding them… were dozens of mounted riders. By the Light! Ophelia would have sworn on her life that this clearing had been empty just a heartbeat ago!
Had their defenses been infiltrated? Or worse—breached entirely?
Her mind raced as she tried to recall the positions of every hidden sentry she'd placed in the vicinity. It was impossible—there was no way those sentries could have missed a force this size. Where had they come from? How had they gotten here without being seen?
"Oh, right. Where are my manners?" The voice behind her was still leisurely, as if the speaker weren't standing in the middle of enemy territory, holding a princess at swordpoint. "But then again, introductions are hardly necessary, are they, beautiful? Tonight, you're all that matters to me. I think we'll save the pleasantries for later—when we're in bed, and you're lying naked beneath me. Then I'll tell you everything you want to know."
"!!!"
Ophelia's hands curled into fists, her anger flaring hot enough to burn through the cold dread that had frozen her to the bone. But she dared not make a single move. The fact that this man had managed to sneak up behind her without her detecting so much as a hint of his presence was proof enough of his terrifying strength. What was she supposed to do now? Would anyone come to save her?
The thought that flashed through her mind then made her startle: *Blake.* No, it was impossible. He should be in the fortress right now, stuck in yet another endless strategy meeting. Why on earth would she think of *him* at a time like this?
"I wouldn't move if I were you, my lovely," the voice purred, and suddenly Ophelia felt strong hands grab her wrists, twisting them sharply behind her back until she cried out in pain. "You're far too beautiful to be treated roughly. But if you force my hand… well, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to get *unpleasant*. And that would be such a shame, wouldn't it? After all…"
The voice trailed off, but Ophelia could *feel* his gaze on her—cold, predatory, and utterly shameless, sliding over her body like a slimy snake. Even through the layers of her armor, his stare made her skin crawl. She'd dealt with her fair share of lecherous men who'd lusted after her beauty over the years, but never once had she felt so violated, so disgusted, as she did in this moment. It was like having a slug slither across her skin—slimy, repulsive, and impossible to shake off.
"This is Wester's land!" Ophelia snapped, her voice trembling with rage but refusing to break. She still had a trump card to play, after all—she was no longer the helpless, defenseless girl she'd once been. "You're nothing but invaders—"
"I couldn't care less about your precious kingdom," the man interrupted, his tone dismissive. "Right now, *you're* all that matters. I'd burn this entire fortress to the ground if it meant having you. But enough of this tedious chatter—this place is far too dreary for a lady like you. Let's find somewhere more… *private*. Somewhere we can get to know each other *properly*. I promise you, my sweet—by the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging to be my most obedient little pet…"
The man reached out, his fingers brushing against the strands of violet hair that had fallen loose from her braid. Ophelia's face turned ashen, her jaw clenched so tight she could taste blood.
Then—there was a flash of red.
A searing column of crimson flame tore through the night sky, screaming downward with the force of a falling star. The air erupted in a wave of scorching heat, and the man's reflexes were lightning fast—he twisted his body violently, leaping backward just in time to avoid being incinerated. But Ophelia didn't run. She barely even had time to turn around before the searing, all-consuming inferno of dragonfire crashed down around her, swallowing her whole.
As the flames died down, a massive red dragon emerged from the smoke, its wings casting a shadow over the entire clearing. A red-haired girl sat calmly atop its neck, her eyes cold as she stared down at the band of unknown intruders.
"So these are the legendary Dragon Knights," the man said, his voice ringing out clearly despite the dragon's imposing presence. The sheer power emanating from the beast had already thrown the riders' horses into a panic, and fear flickered across the faces of most of his men. But the half-elf standing in the center remained completely unfazed. On the contrary, he tilted his head back, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at Judy, and licked his lips slowly, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
"It's a shame the other lady had to burn before I could have my fun… but I suppose every loss is an opportunity for a new gain. Tell me, beautiful red-haired maiden—how do you plan to set my heart ablaze with that fiery passion of yours?"