The border city of House Nubis, famed for its towering walls and sprawling fish markets, buzzed by day with the scent of salt and river trout. Built upon the labor of generations of fishermen, its lifeblood came from the waters that coiled around it like a silver serpent.
At its heart, seated atop a rocky rise, loomed the ancient citadel—once a bulwark against barbarian invaders. It was the first stone laid in Velmyra's foundation, and still the strongest. Now, its banners had changed. The standard of House Wyvern fluttered coldly in the dusk wind.
Night had fallen. The sky was a murky slate, clouds drifting like ash over the dying light. Torches flickered in their brackets, casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Boots echoed down a broad hallway—measured, deliberate. The man they belonged to was encased in weathered armour, his cloak brushed with travel dust. Commander of the Wyvern light infantry, he had returned weeks ago from a bitter retreat beyond Velmyra's neighbouring city. A month had passed since the retreat from Castle Black, and the sting of failure had not dulled.
They should never have withdrawn. The combined forces of House Ashbourne and House Nubis had stormed back with vengeance, reclaiming the towns they had once taken. Two weeks passed, and one of the great cities had fallen.
His troops were broken. The Immortals, once a fearsome elite, were nearly annihilated. Whispers had taken hold of the ranks—the name of the White Wolf passed from lip to trembling lip.
'He killed two thousand in one strike,' they said.
And ever since, the commander had waited in gnawing anticipation… waited for their salvation to arrive.
Tonight, at last, he held a sealed scroll in his gloved hand. A rare smile tugged at his lips.
Ahead, guards straightened at the great door.
"Halt," one barked, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.
"I come bearing a letter I was ordered to deliver personally." The commander met the soldier's eyes.
After a pause, one of them knocked on the door twice.
"My Lord," he called, "the commander bears news."
"Let him in," came a voice from within—measured, sonorous.
To the commander's mild surprise, it was a woman who answered. One of Count Rimmon's chosen. She stepped aside, cool and silent, and the commander strode into the vast chamber.
There, clad in loose robes, his chest partially bare beneath fine velvet, lounged Count Rimmon. He reclined like a noble in thought, yet the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his vigilance.
The commander dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "My Lord… Lady Mildred sends this letter."
Rimmon arched an eyebrow. "My wife?"
He took the scroll with idle fingers, broke the seal, and scanned its contents. Her words were laced with concern—for his health, his spirit, his men.
Without a word, he tossed the letter into the fire. The parchment curled, blackened, and vanished in flame.
He did not watch it burn.
Tell me," Count Rimmon said, his voice low but laced with weight. "Has Prince Aaron sent a reply?"
The commander shook his head. "No word yet, my lord. But…" he paused briefly, "I've received confirmation—the Wyvern Corps will arrive before dawn."
Rimmon's gaze turned toward the hearth, where the last scraps of Mildred's letter crumbled into ash. His concern wasn't the Wyvern Corps. He had no doubt in their power—five hundred wyverns, trained and bred for war, were enough to reduce half a kingdom to ruin. His true worry was the silence. A month of it.
No reply from Prince Aaron.
His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the armrest.
"And House Intis?" he asked without looking back. "Any progress?"
The commander hesitated. "Stalemated, my lord. The forces of House Nubis have rallied. Their morale is strong… too strong. Word of victories in the south has stirred the dormant nobles. Many have raised their banners and joined the fight."
A quiet exhale escaped Rimmon's lips. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"I must admit," he said at last, "Duke Asher is… unmatchable on the battlefield. A man who wins with strategy, not just force. And more than that—he commands loyalty."
There was a long pause, then his lips curved—not in a smile, but something far colder.
"Let us see how long his strength holds once he sees five hundred wyverns flying above his camp."
He rose from his seat, his robe shifting like a dark tide as he walked toward the wide window that overlooked the city below. Torches lined the walls. The hills were black silhouettes. Somewhere beyond them, steel was being sharpened, wings stretched in moonlight.
The night would not remain quiet for long.
Far beyond the walls of Velmyra, a sea of white tents stretched across the plains like frost upon the earth. Soldiers in black armor and white cloaks moved with purpose beneath the flickering torchlight. Above them, banners bearing the white wolf's head on a jet-black field snapped in the cold wind.
Inside the largest tent, the command center, Duke Asher sat hunched over a table, his sharp eyes fixed on a detailed map of Velmyra. His brow was furrowed, jaw tight. The citadel loomed like a thorn in his plans—its elevated position and formidable walls rendered direct assault costly.
To take it by force meant blood. Thousands of lives. And though his war machines had propelled the campaign this far, here they would falter—useless against stone and silence.
He stared at the forest flanking the city's left side. From it flowed the river—a narrow artery that curled beneath the outer defenses. It was the best place to deploy Titan X. But even that would require time… and perfect timing.
He exhaled heavily, his shoulders rising, then sagging.
Then—two hands. Delicate, uncalloused, and impossibly soft. They pressed gently against his temples, kneading the tension that had settled like stone in his skull.
The pain ebbed away, almost instantly.
Sapphira stood behind him, wrapped in white and gold silk. Her form was fuller now, eight months pregnant, her presence as serene as moonlight on still water. She smiled at him, and for a moment, time unraveled.
The battlefield, the burden, the cries of the dying—all fell away.
He leaned into her, letting his head rest against the rise of her stomach. Her hand slipped into his hair, stroking it gently.
"You'll have gray hairs before you're forty if you keep this up," she murmured with a playful scold.
Asher's lips curved, faintly.
"You have a Lord Commander," she added softly. "And Ulric—he knows this land better than anyone. Let them bear some of the weight, Asher."
"I know," he whispered. "But if I fail, it's not just me who bears the cost."
Sapphira's hand paused for a beat, then resumed. "Then don't fail. But don't do it alone either."
A quiet silence passed between them. The kind born not of absence, but understanding.
Then came a voice from outside the tent—sharp, alert. "My Lord! A report from the northern watch. Large beasts in the sky—flying towards us."
Asher opened his eyes.
The moment had passed.
He rose slowly, drawing the fur-lined cloak over his shoulders as his eyes turned cold once more.
"Tell the mage to return you to Nimrim. You'll be safe there," he said without looking back.