A tall, broad-shouldered man pushed aside the flap of the command tent. His unkempt hair hung like a mane around his face, tribal markings etched across his dark skin. A thick fur coat draped his shoulders, and a worn brown leather skirt hung over his legs. A curved khopesh glinted on his back, the metal dulled from use, not neglect.
"Chief," he rumbled, voice deep as thunder. "You have a visitor."
Inside the tent, hunched over a worn map inked with troop paths and mountain routes, sat a white-haired man. His beard spilled thickly down his chest, and though seated, his presence dominated the room. The air around him felt heavy, not from heat, but power.
Cain, the first son of Count Tigris—once a noble, now something entirely different—lifted his eyes.
"Who?" he asked, voice like distant stormclouds.
The barbarian guard immediately dropped to one knee, unable to meet that piercing gaze.
"He says he is the second son of Duke Ohad of Mormont."
He stepped out of the tent, the sunlight hitting his bare chest, scarred and broad. Dust and wind kissed his skin, and before him, arranged in proud formation, stood a mounted force—twenty riders in elite armor. Sharp, polished, disciplined.
And at their center, astride a sleek black steed, was Kohath Mormont.
Cain's eyes met his with a narrowed gaze. The weight of nobility hadn't been lost on Kohath, even out here. His armor gleamed, his bearing regal—but Cain saw beyond it.
He looked down—not at Kohath, but at the horses.
And a scoff escaped his lips.
Destriers? No. Not even close.
When Cain had lived among the nobles, he'd once believed their "warhorses" to be the pinnacle of power. But after years in the wilderness, among the true horse-lords of the steppe, he knew better.
These weren't Destriers.
The real ones—the pure-blooded monsters bred to shatter formations and trample armies—lived out here.
Tens of thousands of them.
And they were loyal only to the tribes.
Cain crossed his arms, silent for a moment.
If this were a land of peace, just trading these beasts… would make his territory richer than a dukedom. Millions of gold, year after year.
He looked back up at Kohath. "You came far, nobleman," Cain said, voice flat and unreadable. "Speak, then. What is it you want from the Wilds?"
Kohath raised an eyebrow, his gaze cutting through the dusty twilight like a blade. "You sound like a man who has lost his dreams. Have you given up on becoming a nobleman like your father—and the one before him?"
Cain scoffed, folding his thick arms over his bare chest. The tribal tattoos across his shoulders twitched with the motion. "What is this?" he growled, voice like gravel grinding in his throat. "Are you not allied with the Ashbournes? Those bastards took my father's lands, rule over his cities, harvest his fields as if they planted the seed."
His lip curled. "Don't speak to me of dreams."
Kohath didn't flinch. His eyes, the color of crimson tainted steel, remained fixed on Cain. "Don't you seek revenge?"
Cain's arms remained crossed. "No."
That single word fell like a boulder between them. But it was not the reply of a man at peace—it was the defiance of one barely holding the dam shut.
Kohath's voice dropped low. "Then perhaps you will… once you know the truth."
Cain said nothing, but his silence was an invitation.
"My father, Duke Ohad, is dead. Slain in a coward's plot between Duke Asher and my elder brother. They poisoned him not on the battlefield, but in his own chambers. My blood kin, rotting like a dog beneath his own banner." Kohath's face darkened, his voice stripped of every pretense. "The alliance is broken. And all I want now… is Asher's head."
Cain's expression hardened, though no answer came. The wild wind stirred the flaps of nearby tents. Somewhere, a Destrier snorted.
So Kohath pressed further.
"Duke Asher has marched his forces into the Dukedom of Nubis. Not to support Prince Aaron, but to oppose him. He calls Aaron a fool and an upstart, and he mocks his vision for a united empire. Ten thousand Grand Aegis soldiers march under his command, far from the Great Dividing Wall."
Kohath's voice was filled with glee. "And that wall now lies exposed."
Cain's jaw tightened slightly. He said nothing, but the shift in his weight betrayed him.
"If we strike now," Kohath said, leaning slightly forward in the saddle, "we can seize the Wall. From there, we press to Tiberias. I've already hired five thousand mercenaries from the surrounding territories. They wait at the border for our signal."
He straightened, letting the weight of his words settle. "But the true hammer must be your people. The wild riders. The ones who still remember the meaning of conquest."
Cain exhaled, slow and heavy, like a beast contemplating whether to rise or stay sleeping. "So the Grand Aegis has left the Wall…"
"Gone," Kohath nodded. "And what's left? Scattered garrisons. Aging men. Soft boys given swords too heavy for their hands."
He lowered his voice. "Join me in this war, and His Highness will not just restore your title—he'll return every field, every stone, and every drop of blood the Ashbournes took from your father. With interest."
Cain turned away, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where smoke from the tribal cookfires curled into the setting sky. Below, on the plains, hundreds of Destriers thundered across the grasslands, their black manes like rivers of ink beneath the dying sun.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I left my father to rot before that wall," he said finally, voice hollow. "The land that bore him was tilled by his enemies while worms ate his flesh scorched by the rays of the sun."
Then he turned back to Kohath.
"You want my riders? Then know this."
His voice was steady now, like distant thunder promising rain.
"I won't stop at the Wall or Tiberias. I'll burn every city with Ashbourne blood in its walls. I'll salt their fields, topple their statues, and drive their name into the dust."
Kohath gave a grim smile, slow and knowing.
"Then we ride at dawn… Lord Cain."