The Kingdom of Auronis rose not in defiance of nature, but in dominion over it. Built upon a vast stone plateau, its foundations were carved directly from the bedrock, as if the land itself had been subdued and reshaped into obedience. From afar, the city appeared immovable—its silhouette rigid, angular, stripped of excess ornamentation.
Encircling the capital stood the Outer Bastion, a colossal curtain wall of dark limestone, its surface polished smooth by centuries of wind and iron. The wall bore no banners. No sigils of pride adorned it. Its message was simple: Implacability.
Entry into the kingdom was permitted only through the Triune Gates, threemassive stone portals aligned with the cardinal roads. Each gate was sealed by iron-bound leaf-doors, reinforced with vertical adamantine ribs and suspended on pivoted stone hinges rather than chains. When closed, they formed a seamless wall, indistinguishable from the fortifications themselves.
As they stood face to face with Auronis, the battalion was proud in heart to have such an immaculate fortress as their homeland. Recognizing the supreme commander and his battalion from atop the guard towers, the watchers wasted no time unsealing the iron bonds, immediately opening one of the Triune Gates to grant their warlord access.
Beyond the gates stretched the Processional Way, a broad avenue of pale stone slabs, worn flat by generations of boots, hooves, and marching feet. No market stalls encroached upon it. No dwellings leaned over its edges. This road existed for one purpose only: the movement of authority. But that day, something stood out for the battalion. For they had fought all these years of war, hanging through the scorching days and cold nights without a tangible act
of recognition.
To their surprise, the streets of Auronis were alive with colour and motion. Women and children lined the avenues, their hands brimming with blossoms—pale roses, white lilies, and cheerful daisies. As the Night Dreads advanced, petals rained down like soft confetti, drifting along the battalion's boots and armour. Men stepped forward to applaud, their hands raised high, echoing a rhythm that celebrated survival as much as victory.
Helios rode at the front, atop Bucephalus' midnight coat. Apporion circled overhead, silent and watchful, its shadow gliding over the scattering petals. Flowers brushed against Helios' armour, yet he acknowledged none of it, his eyes fixed ahead, as though the gratitude of these citizens were distant echoes rather than reality.
Still, the fragrance of roses and lilies mingled with the faint iron scent of their march, a subtle reminder that even in peace, the weight of a warrior's path remained. The Night Dreads were no longer destroyers in this moment—they were protectors, their decade of bloodshed met with cheers and smiles.
Helios allowed himself a brief exhale, the smallest crack in his steel resolve. Not pride, not triumph—only the quiet acknowledgment that the sons of men they had fought for were alive, and grateful. For now, that was enough.
***
Auronis, royal palace chambers.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall, velvet-draped windows, gilding the chamber in honeyed warmth and casting long, lazy shadows across its corners. A grand canopy bed of silk and satin dominated the space, while stacks of leather-bound books, open and scattered, claimed every surface, a testament to endless
curiosity. A polished mahogany desk bore inkpots and parchment, and a silver harp rested in the corner, silent beneath the gentle hum of the afternoon. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and aged paper, a quiet elegance that seemed to linger with every breath.
Seen only from the back, a woman brushed her hair—a cascade of firebrick red, rich and deep, catching the sunlight in glimmers of copper and ruby. Each movement was graceful, deliberate, a dance of strands that seemed almost alive, flowing like molten silk over her shoulders and down her back.
A knock shattered the quiet. The maid entered, practically trembling with excitement. "My lady!" she exclaimed, eyes wide and voice almost quivering "Supreme Commander Helios has arrived; he's already passed through the proper gates!"
The woman paused mid-stroke, then slowly turned toward the maid. Her face was revealed: eyes green and luminous, sparkling like emeralds kissed by light, each adorned with three delicate beauty spots that accentuated their rare allure. A pair of spectacles perched lightly on the bridge of her nose, lending an air of quiet intelligence to her serene poise. Her lips curved with elegant grace, completing a gentle, effortless beauty that was at once commanding.
She was Victoria Ave Strassfey, princess of Auronis.
***
Throne room.
The battalion settled patiently into the secondary halls, while the supreme commander strode toward the throne room. The king awaited him, ready to receive his report without delay. In the annals of Auronis' military tradition, a report was delivered immediately upon summons; the sooner it was given, the sharper and more precise it would be. Even brief rest or comfort upon arrival could taint its clarity—a risk no warrior of the Night Dreads could afford.
Helios now stood before Glomoros, the glorious door leading to the throne room. Its surface bore the carved history of past kings, each figure and inscription sacred, untouchable. To lay a hand upon it was forbidden, even for a figure as illustrious as the supreme commander. Only those directly commanded by the king could open or close it.
Guarding the Glomoros were the privileged few: the Abaddons. Known as the king's royal guards and feared as the Faces of Death, they were loyal beyond measure, willing to strike down even a newborn if commanded. In their eyes, the king was a god among men—an idea Helios secretly shared, at least within the deepest chambers of his own heart.
With strict and admirable poise, fist to heart, the supreme commander expressed his fervent greetings to the Abaddons. A gesture he considered basic, yet essential for their kind. Though Helios felt no deep admiration for them—deprived, as they were, of the most precious gift granted to man by the heavens, free
will—he respected them as warriors, the closest among mortals to the divine realm he held within himself. A gesture to which the Faces of Death responded with solemn honour, for they, too, recognised his supremacy.
The colossal doors of Glomoros slowly swung open, and another Abaddon's voice thundered across the hall, announcing the presence of the awaited one:
"Helios Strassfey, blessed by the sun, supreme commander of the Night Dreads, Conqueror of the depths, the plains, and the heights!"
Inside the throne room, the air hung heavy with anticipation. Upon the mythic throne of Auronis sat a man regarded by many as a god-king—not for any claim to the supernatural, but for the sheer reach of his political power and the weight of his influence upon the world.
His divinity was born of distance. Rarely present before his people, he ruled from afar, unseen yet omnipresent in consequence. Though the Auronites revered his deeds and acknowledged his authority, many had never once laid eyes upon him. In time, this absence gave rise to reverence of a different kind. He became less a man and more a legend—a god, a force of nature, an unseen guardian who acted from the shadows, watching over his people like a silent angel of sovereignty.
King Victor Vis Strassfey the First—such was his name. Anexemplary embodiment of true kingship, he was a ruler tempered by both wisdom and strength. He radiated a calm authority, the kind that commanded respect not through fear, but through theinescapable weight of justice. One did not tremble before him; one stood straighter.
At his right stood Benedict Fanthome, the King's Hand and closest advisor. His expression was unreadable, his posture immaculate, every measured gesture betraying a mind perpetually at work within the intricate machinery of courtly power.
Helios
advanced upon the Crimson Processional, the sacred carpet that led directly to the throne. Lining its length stood the ministers of the realm, their layered robes whispering softly as they turned their attention toward the supreme commander's approach. Mortimer Roberts watched with meticulous calculation; Philip Torvald surveyed the chamber with sharp, probing eyes; Quisling Mayer maintained his habitual caution, every movement deliberate; and Mecidis Bort, tall and imposing, filled the space with a quiet authority that needed no declaration.
Each acknowledged Helios with restrained deference. All were keenly aware that the man before them carried a reputation forged not in chambers of debate, but uponthe blood-soaked fields of war.
As Helios advanced at a measured pace, upon reaching the centre of the hall, he stopped and bowed—first to the man who was, by law and crown, his king, and by blood, his uncle.
"Your Majesty, King Victor Vis Strassfey the First," Helios said evenly, "I bring you greetings, and the full account of our campaigns." He then inclined toward the man at the king's side.
"My lord Hand, Benedict Fanthome. Your vigilance preserves both crown and realm. I greet you."
Finally, his gaze swept across the assembled ministers. He bowed once more—precise, restrained, and befitting a commander who had led legions.
"Ministers Mortimer Roberts, Philips Torvald, Quisling Mayer, and Mecidis Bort, I greet you in recognition of your service to the kingdom and the crown."
The chamber absorbed the ceremonial acknowledgment; the weight of titles and hierarchy etched into every measured gesture. Helios straightened, fist resting at his side, and delivered his report—his cadence deliberates, precise, and unwavering.
"Your Majesty, the campaigns have concluded with decisive clarity. Of the five armies that shaped this war, the Night Dreads remain unbroken, having forced thirteen kingdoms to capitulate beneath our banner." He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle.
"Hoffens' army, though formidable in raw strength, has suffered irreparable losses. Their fall is inevitable—capitulation or eradication awaits them. The Dovaka army, having been abandoned by its allies in fear of our advance, has crippled itself in both morale and numbers. Rumours now suggest they seek a peace treaty, hoping for mercy and safe harbour, fully aware that the Night Dreads will emerge victorious from this war."
Helios' gaze swept the throne room, briefly passing over the assembled ministers before he continued.
"Engelia and Mythcraft have united in an attempt to rebalance the scales. Their forces are reinforced, their resolve sharpened—yet even together, they now stand before the inevitable. They are not yet conquered, but the outcome no longer lies in doubt. Our banners shall rise again. And when they do, their submission will serve as both warning and testament—to discipline, to order, and toconsequence."
King Victor's eyes met his nephew's, steady and penetrating. Silence followed, dense with unspoken understanding. Then the king spoke, his voice calm, tempered by decades of rule.
"Youhave proven the might of your command, Helios. But remember this: no warrior truly thrives without knowing the peace for which he fights.Even the sharpest blade loses purpose if it never rests in safety—if it neverwitnesses what it was meant to protect. The world you conquer is not merely land or crowns, but the lives that will one day honour your victories—or curse them." Helios inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"I understand, Your Majesty. The strength of the Night Dreads is absolute, yetvictory is hollow if it does not preserve what remains. These campaigns are not conquest alone, but preparation—for stability."
A subtle nod from the king marked his assent. Helios straightened, fists at his side, the unspoken bond between uncle and nephew—sovereign and servant—hanging briefly in the air.
The report concluded. Silence reclaimed the throne room, heavy with strategy, bloodshed, and consequence. Even in triumph, both men understood that the war's shadow stretched far beyond the present, shaping futures yet unseen.
As the echoes faded, Helios' eyes swept once more across the assembly. Thoughoutwardly composed, he registered every subtle shift: the tightening of a jaw, the hesitation of a breath, the language spoken without words.
Mortimer Roberts lingered a moment too long on the list of conquered kingdoms, doubt flickering beneath his otherwise immaculate composure. Philipe Torvald's fingers tapped faintly against his crossed arms —impatience, perhaps anticipation. Quisling Mayer remained unreadable, lips pressed thin, his slight
tilt of the head betraying a restrained curiosity. Mecidis Bort inclined his shoulders just enough to convey respect—but also calculation, the instinct of a man who weighed advantage even in victory.
Only Benedict Fanthome betrayed nothing. Yet Helios knew better than to underestimate the king's hand. Loyalty forged in fire was never blind, and silence often concealed the sharpest intent.
Helios remained motionless, his posture flawless, while his mind catalogued everydetail. These were the architects of Auronis' future—men who would advise, obstruct, or reshape the crown's will. In this chamber, glances could fracture alliances, and whispers could move faster than steel.
Forthough the Night Dreads had carved their dominion through fire and blood, true power resided here—in the court, where perception ruled and foresight determined survival.
As Helios bowed once more, a flicker of calculation crossed his eyes—brief, unseen. A mind always two steps ahead.
King Victor's gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer. In that silence passed ashared truth between ruler and warrior: strength without perception is fragile, and power without foresight is already broken.
With the report concluded, the king dispelled the lingering tension with a brief announcement.
"It has been ten years since I last set my eyes upon my brave nephew. He departed as a boy and has returned a man—more than that, the supreme commander of my armies. I am truly pleased by the works of his hands. Tonight, a banquet shall be held in his honour. Though our final victory is not yet within reach, we shall celebrate what has already been secured. For now, go—rest in your
quarters."
The pressure in the chamber eased, allowing the ceremonial air to settle once more. Yet Helios knew the undercurrents remained, subtle and restless, waiting for the slightest misstep to rise again. In that awareness, the supreme commander found both familiarity and a quiet thrill—a battlefield of a different nature, but no less demanding than the one he had left behind.
With gratitude and reverence, Helios bowed once more before his uncle, the king.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I am truly honoured."
With those words, the summons came to an end, and each man departed along his appointed path.
***
Royal Palace Corridors.
Within the long corridors of the royal palace, the king advanced toward his private chambers, flanked by the Abaddons and his faithful Hand, Benedict Fanthome. Their footsteps echoed in solemn cadence against the stone, the air heavy with the stillness reserved for rulers and secrets alike.
Without warning, the king halted.
A violent cough seized him—sharp, relentless—his hand rising instinctively to cover his mouth. The sound tore through the silence, echoing unnaturally within the corridor. When the fit finally subsided, it did so only after visible struggle, his posture faltering for the briefest of moments.
As the king lowered his hand, crimson stained his palm. Blood followed from his nose, slow and unmistakable.
Benedict's expression tightened, his eyes darkening—not in shock, but in grim recognition. He took a single step forward, restrained, as though resisting an instinct he knew better than to obey.
The Abaddons reacted as one.
Hands moved—hesitant, restrained—reaching toward their sovereign without daring to touch him. Fingers hovered in the space between duty and devotion, caught in silent conflict. To intervene was to admit frailty. To remain still was to witness the impossible.
For beneath their unbroken watch, a god had bled.
And gods, they believed, were not meant to bleed.