The war horns had not sounded in a generation, yet the training grounds of Kylles still echoed with steel.
"Again!" a captain barked.
Blades clashed. Sparks leapt into the morning air. Dust rose beneath stamping feet.
At the center of the ring, McTera moved.
She did not move like the others.
Where the men lunged, she waited. Where they strained, she watched. And when the moment came, she struck—not with force, but with certainty.
Her opponent charged, shouting as his sword cut through the air.
McTera stepped aside.
A twist of her wrist. A sharp turn of her body.
The man's blade slid past her shoulder. Before he could recover, the flat of her sword tapped his chest.
The ring fell silent.
The captain lowered his arm. "Dead," he said.
A few of the soldiers laughed under their breath.
"Again?" the man asked, breathing hard.
McTera shook her head. "Save your strength. You'll need it when it matters."
He frowned but stepped back.
At the edge of the ring, two older warriors watched.
"She fights like she's trying to prove something," one muttered.
The other scoffed. "She's trying to wear shoes meant for men who buried kingdoms."
McTera heard them.
She said nothing.
Instead, she bent to pick up her water flask. The leather was worn, the strap repaired more than once. Like everything she owned, it had been earned.
As she drank, a horn sounded from the direction of the palace.
Not a war horn.
A summons.
The training ground stilled.
"Council," the captain said. "All generals and commanders."
Murmurs spread quickly.
"Now?"
"At this hour?"
McTera wiped her mouth and fastened her flask. Her fingers tightened for a moment, then loosened.
"Move!" the captain ordered.
—
The palace of Kylles stood like a memory carved in stone—tall, unmoving, and older than any man who walked beneath its arches.
Inside, the air buzzed.
Servants hurried past with lowered eyes. Guards lined the halls, their spears upright, their faces unreadable. Nobles gathered in clusters, whispering behind jeweled hands.
"Something is wrong."
"The king—he didn't sleep."
"They say he woke shouting—"
"Quiet!"
McTera stepped into the great hall.
The voices dimmed.
Not completely—but enough.
She walked past rows of armored men, their shoulders broad, their beards streaked with gray. Some turned to look at her. Others did not bother to hide their stares.
"The girl comes to play at war," someone murmured.
"She should be in the fields, not here."
McTera kept walking.
At the far end of the hall, the throne stood beneath a canopy of carved gold. The king sat upon it, but he did not look like a man who ruled.
He looked like a man who had seen something he could not escape.
His hands gripped the arms of the throne. His eyes moved—not over the crowd, but through it, as if searching for something that was no longer there.
A servant stepped forward. "All present, Your Majesty."
The king rose slowly.
The hall fell silent.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, "I saw it," he whispered.
The words barely carried, yet every ear caught them.
"I saw Kylles burn."
A ripple passed through the room.
The king's voice grew stronger. "Our walls—broken. Our people—running. The sky…" He stopped, swallowing hard. "The sky was black with smoke."
No one moved.
No one spoke.
McTera's gaze did not leave him.
"The Elepeo," he said at last.
The name landed like a blade.
A general stepped forward. "Your Majesty, dreams are shadows—"
"Not mine," the king snapped.
The general fell silent.
The king descended from the throne, one step at a time.
"You all know what this day is," he said. "One thousand years since Kylles knew war."
A murmur rose again—quieter this time.
"A thousand years," the king continued, "and not one king's dream has failed."
His eyes swept across the hall.
"Not one."
The weight of it settled over them.
Boots shifted. Armor creaked. A man coughed, then quickly stopped.
McTera felt it too—not fear, not yet—but something heavier. Like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon.
The king stopped at the center of the hall.
"Our forefathers stood when the world tried to break them," he said. "They wore the burden of this land and did not falter."
His gaze hardened.
"Now it comes to us."
No one answered.
The generals stood like statues.
McTera stepped forward.
The movement was small—but it broke the stillness.
Several heads turned.
One of the older commanders frowned. "Hold your place."
McTera did not stop.
She walked until she stood where the king could see her clearly.
For a heartbeat, the hall held its breath.
"My king," she said.
Her voice was steady.
The king studied her. "You have something to say?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Then say it."
McTera lifted her chin.
"Dreams can warn," she said. "But they can also be shaped—misread… or used."
A murmur stirred—sharper this time.
"Careful," someone muttered.
The king's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly."
McTera met his gaze.
"We should not wait," she said. "Not for priests. Not for signs. If the Elepeo are coming, then we prepare now—on our terms."
A general stepped forward sharply. "You presume too much."
Another added, "The priest will guide us. That is our way."
"Our way," McTera replied, "is what the enemy will expect."
The hall erupted into low voices.
"She challenges tradition—"
"She challenges the king—"
"She forgets her place—"
"Enough!" the king thundered.
Silence returned.
He looked at McTera for a long moment.
Then he turned away.
"The priest will be summoned," he said.
The words fell like a door closing.
"It will take fifteen days," a court elder added.
"Then we wait," the king said.
McTera's jaw tightened.
Fifteen days.
She stepped back, but her eyes did not lower.
Around her, the whispers returned—quieter, sharper.
"She thinks herself a warlord."
"She thinks she can wear their shoes."
McTera turned and walked from the hall.
Behind her, the king's voice rose again, speaking of tradition, of dreams, of the path they would follow.
Ahead of her, the corridor stretched long and empty.
Her footsteps echoed against stone.
Outside, the wind moved through the palace gates, low and restless—like something waking.
McTera paused at the threshold.
For a moment, she closed her eyes.
Then she stepped forward.
Whatever was coming, she would not wait for it to arrive.