Ravenna stood, stretching until her spine gave a satisfying pop. "Good. Now let me have breakfast—and summon Hughes, John, Aisha, and Aurora's guard captain after. We have an Order of Expansion to finalize."
The silver fork paused mid-air as Ravenna's eyes flickered to the translucent blue notification hovering at the edge of her vision. A grape tumbled from her grasp, rolling across the gilded breakfast tray.
[ Reputation System Log ]
+9 Points: Former Duke Edward Jola dreading your counter response.
"Huh...?" She set the fork down with a soft clink, swiping open the full detail.
[ Reputation Log – Detailed Entry ]
Reason: Subject is experiencing severe anxiety regarding planned assault on Kim Island. Torn between Prince Nolan's political pressure and terror of becoming the scapegoat should the operation fail.
Background: Once ruled Jola Dukedom before the Emperor's decree relocated him to the capital. Known for cowardice masked as pragmatism. current primary motivation, maintaining a comfortable lifestyle away from frontier hardships.
Ravenna's lips curled around a slow, dangerous smile as she took a deliberate bite of honeyed pear. "An attack on Kim Island.?"
Imperial Military Barracks – Capital City Ancorna
Edward Jola's polished boots tapped a frantic rhythm against the war room's obsidian floor. The chamber smelled of oiled leather and impending doom, the latter emanating primarily from his own sweat-dampened collar.
"General Marshal, I assure you—every document is perfectly in order!" His voice cracked as he thrust a sheaf of papers toward the room's true authority.
General Marshal Thalia Solmire didn't so much as glance up from her whetstone. The legendary ‘Iron Hydra’ of Ancorna sat draped in her signature uniform.
A double-breasted greatcoat of imperial crimson, its high collar stiffened with silver thread to resemble dragon scales. Pauldrons molded into snarling wolf heads, their jaws clamped around rank insignias.
A black sash diagonally across her torso, pinned with medals from campaigns so brutal, veterans refused to speak of them.
The General Marshal's fingers drummed against the pommel of her greatsword, the ruby-eyed wolf pauldrons glinting as she shifted in her seat. The war table between them was littered with maps and deployment orders, the ink still fresh on Prince Nolan's formal request.
"I know the law," Thalia said, her voice like gravel. "You're entitled to imperial forces to defend your honor—since you no longer have a standing army." She flicked the edge of the parchment with a calloused finger. "Normally, I'd stamp this without a second thought. But right now?" Her gaze sharpened. "The Conley Empire has its teeth in Estra. The imperial court is tearing itself apart over how to respond. Every battalion counts."
Edward straightened his cuffs, the motion too quick to be casual. "Prince Nolan is personally leading this campaign. It would reflect poorly on the Imperial Army if they refused to support their own Prince in a matter of honor." The words were rehearsed—Nolan’s script, delivered verbatim.
Thalia exhaled through her nose, the sound almost lost beneath the distant clang of smiths working in the armory. "Fine." She scrawled her signature across the orders with a flourish. "You'll get two naval battalions. Estra's landlocked—we won't need sea control if the court mobilizes."
Edward's smile was slick with relief. "Perfect. We'll be fighting on the water anyway."
Morgen Dukedom, Kingdom of Estra — A Vassal State of the Ancorna Empire, Southern Borderlands, Near the Conley Empire
The air reeked of charred flesh and crushed petals.
Eugene's sword hummed in his grip, its blade glowing faintly blue as he carved through another mercenary. The magic woven into the steel granted him speed beyond human limits—each swing a silver blur, each step impossibly light. But even his enhanced reflexes couldn't stop the tide.
Around him, the Dukedom's forces were crumbling.
The Conley Empire's assault wasn't just an invasion—it was a slaughter. Hercule Syndicate enforcers fought alongside hired blades, their tactics brutal and efficient. And then there were the mages.
A man in tattered robes stepped forward, crushing a crimson poppy in his fist. The petals disintegrated into embers, swirling around his fingers before exploding outward in a torrent of fire. Three of Morgen's soldiers screamed as the flames consumed them.
Eugene barely dodged, the heat searing his cheek. He lunged, his sword singing as it cleaved through the mage's wrist. The man shrieked, clutching his stump as blood sprayed across the trampled wildflowers.
No time to celebrate. Another mercenary came at him—this one wielding twin axes, each swing heavy enough to shatter bone. Eugene parried, his arms shuddering from the impact. He twisted, aiming for the man's ribs, but a sudden chain lashed out from the chaos, wrapping around his ankle.
He hit the dirt hard.
Above him, an armored brute grinned, yanking the chain taut. The axeman raised his weapons, ready to split Eugene's skull—
A fireball struck the brute square in the chest.
The explosion sent bodies flying. Eugene rolled aside as the axeman staggered, his face blackened. Before he could recover, a whip of molten gold snapped around his throat, burning through flesh like parchment.
Silence. Then—hooves.
A woman rode through the smoke, her uniform crisp despite the carnage. Dark blue, trimmed in silver—Ancorna's colors. Behind her, a column of soldiers advanced, their formation flawless.
She dismounted in one smooth motion, crushing a violet iris beneath her boot. The flower's essence shimmered, then erupted into a dozen razor-sharp vines that impaled three nearby mercenaries.
"Ser Eugene," she said, offering a gloved hand. "You look like you could use reinforcements."
He grabbed it, hauling himself up. "Who—?"
"Seraphina of the Azure Vales." She flicked her wrist, and the golden whip dissolved into embers. "We heard Morgen was getting stomped. Thought we'd even the odds."
The Conley forces hesitated. For the first time in hours, Eugene looked at her stunned, his hear beating faster recognising her.
Then the screaming started.
Seraphina's mages moved as one, hurling spells born from crushed petals—frost from lilies, lightning from sunflowers, poison from wilted roses. The Dukedom's survivors rallied, their renewed battle cries drowning out the enemy's panic.
Eugene tightened his grip on his sword. The blade's glow brightened, matching his pulse.
"About time," he muttered with a smirk, and charged.
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