The bells of the capital rang out in a frantic, clanging rhythm that signaled only one thing: War.
The Kingdom of Castria, a nation known for its brutal efficiency and opportunistic strikes, had done the unthinkable.
They had launched a full-scale invasion under the absolute cover of a moonless night. There had been no long-term mobilization, no supply lines to track—just a sudden, violent surge of steel across the border. It was a gamble of pure momentum, designed to outpace even the shadows of the North.
Inside the emergency council chamber, the atmosphere was chaotic. Maps were being thrown onto tables, and panicked ministers were shouting over one another.
"They've already breached the outer watchtowers!" one general screamed. "We lack the standing army to meet them in the open field! We were prepared for a siege, not a blitz!"
Duke Hektor slammed his fist onto the table. "Our garrisons are spread too thin! If we don't hold them at the Black River, the capital will be under fire by dawn!"
Draven stood at the head of the table, his face set in a grim, determined mask. He adjusted the strap of his breastplate, the metal cold against his skin.
"There is no more time for debate," he commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. "I will lead the Imperial First Legion to the frontlines myself. We will meet them at the river and hold the line until the provincial reinforcements arrive."
"That is no less than suicide, Draven!" Duke Hektor countered, his voice thick with concern. "Their numbers are triple yours. You'll be slaughtered before the sun rises."
"Then I will die protecting my people," Draven snapped, his eyes flashing. "Duke, I need you to coordinate the border guards. Do not let a single Castrian scout slip past the perimeter while I am at the front. It is the only way."
King Maltherion looked at his son, his heart heavy. He opened his mouth to forbid it, to save his last remaining heir—but he looked at the maps and realized the brutal truth. There were no other cards to play.
"Go, my son," the King whispered, his voice trembling. "May the Light—"
"There is no need to draw any swords, Your Majesty."
The voice was cool, resonant, and entirely too calm for the frantic room. The heavy oak doors creaked open as Regina stepped into the hall. She wasn't dressed for battle; she wore the same flowing obsidian robes as always, her veil shimmering like liquid night.
Draven paused, his hand halfway to the hilt of his sword. "Regina, this isn't a political game. Castria is at our gates. My army is the only thing—"
"Your army is a collection of brave men who do not need to die today," Regina interrupted, walking toward the center of the room. She looked at the frantic King, then at Draven, her violet eyes glowing with an ancient, terrifying power. "You speak of blood and steel as if they are the only languages of war."
She turned toward the north window, the direction of the invading host, and raised a single, slender hand.
"Sit down, Prince Draven. The Night has already won."