The war room of Darneth was no place for diplomacy.
It was dark. Strategic. Built with runes and rage.
I stood by the main table, maps hovering mid-air.
Peter worked silently, data flowing from his palm.
Michael stood at attention, blade strapped, eyes scanning everything like he was already halfway through a battle.
Aman lingered at the back, watching like a man who knew the walls of history were about to change.
Then the doors opened.
A royal messenger from Twaggel entered, flanked by guards who wanted nothing more than to “escort” him into the sun via trebuchet.
His robes were fine. His hands were trembling.
He bowed too quickly.
“Lord Anis... The Royal Council of Twaggel bids you stop this conflict at once. They request—”
Before the sentence could finish...
Michael moved.
His sword was at the man’s throat before the messenger even blinked.
“Michael,” I said calmly.
He didn’t flinch.
“He’s speaking out of turn, sir.”
“I said stop.”
Michael withdrew, though not before flicking the blade sideways—cutting a strand of the man’s hair clean off.
The messenger’s pants went dark.
He shook. Eyes wide. Lips moving, but no sound came out.
I stepped forward, calm. Smiling. Unblinking.
“Tell your King... I am not a prince. I am no one. I am exile, and I am free. He has no claim over me, nor over this war.”
I handed him a scroll.
“This was the letter I received from Count Brussel. Read it. Aloud. In front of the King. In front of the Queen. If you truly believe I’m the one at fault... then say these words in their court. Let’s see if they still call this aggression.”
The messenger nodded. Wordlessly.
And ran.
Peter’s voice crackled through the comm.
“Sir. Final batch of tanks is ready. We require your hands and your knowledge.”
I walked into the heart of the lab.
Floating tank parts hovered in mid-assembly. Magic circuits etched with glowing sigils wrapped around rotating barrel cores.
Each piece hummed like it was dreaming of destruction.
Parallel Knowledge (∞): Engaged Item Creation (∞): Interface Synced
Metal screamed into shape as I touched the core.
“Autonomous targeting system... calibrated. Internal mana reactor... stabilized. Armaments... maximum.”
Peter stood behind me, pale from overworking.
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“Do we build flashy or lethal?”
“Why not both?”
He smiled weakly. “Excellent answer.”
Back in the chamber, everyone had reconvened.
Peter activated the war table.
“Enemy report: Count Brussel’s forces.
- 1000 foot soldiers
- 200 battlefield commanders
- 100 warhorses
- 50 artillery units
- 45 licensed combat mages”
“And his state?” I asked.
Peter tapped the side of his tablet.
“Desperate. Cornered. Two days ago he attempted to flee to the southern border. He was stopped.”
Michael nodded. “By Bridget.”
I looked at him. Slowly.
“She caught him?”
“Stripped him of everything but fear. She’s currently shadowing him. Watching. Waiting.”
“Give her a bonus.”
“Do we have to respond to the declaration?” I asked.
Peter: “Per international law? Yes. One scroll. One day in advance. For honor.”
“Then do it,” I said. “Let him beg for reinforcements. Let him panic.”
Michael: “It’ll trigger their emergency gates. That alone will cost him tens of thousands in gold.”
Peter: “And we’ll intercept every shipment en route to him.”
I smiled. Slowly.
“Perfect.”
Michael’s eyes twitched.
“Sir. Twelve carriages were spotted attempting to enter Brussel’s domain.”
“Refugees?” I asked.
“No but it seems like slaves Women and children in front. Men heavily armed, wearing robes to appear civilian. They were entering the gate.”
“Orders?” he asked.
“Intercept. Kill all the guards and anyone not a woman or child. Check for traps. For illnesses. If they’re clean, bring them here.”
Michael nodded.
“Aman,” I said, “prepare shelter. Safe zones. Food. Blankets.”
“Right on it.”
The messenger of Twaggel stood in the royal court.
Before the throne.
Before the King. Before the Queen.
My brothers and sisters lined the dais.
He knelt.
And then—read the letter.
“...I will take your kingdom. And your wife.
I will tie you down. I will make you watch as I ruin her.
She will beg me to kill her. And then I will.
And then I will do the same to every woman you failed to protect.”
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that kills birds mid-song.
The Queen stood.
The King’s hand crushed the arm of his throne.
“This... thing... wrote that to my son?”
Edmarion stepped forward, sword unsheathed.
“Let me go. Let me lead the army.”
Princess Veliryn: “I want to hex his tongue until it screams apologies for generations.”
Prince Halvren: “Forget politics. That bastard dies.”
“Messenger,” the King said, voice like thunder sealed behind velvet. “Return. And tell Anis: We are coming.”
“He may be exiled. But his blood is mine.
And this insult... will not go unanswered.”
The Queen’s hand trembled.
And she whispered:
“Tell my son... Tell him the throne stands with him.”
Narrator: “And so... the final torch is lit.
A boy born cursed. A city born forgotten. A kingdom born in rage.
And now... a war born in truth.”
“One day remains.”
“Let the world know... vengeance is dressed in metal.”