Shawn, Makara, and General Mong were on their way to meet the Tri-Kings, who were at the main camp some distance away from their location. Makara continued to drink from his gourd along the way.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the vast plain, the encampment became a hive of activity, the rhythmic sound of patrolling soldiers marching in perfect sync echoed across the camp, a testament to their discipline against the fading light which gave way to the glow of countless fires, their embers crackling as soldiers prepared their evening meals. Smoke rose in thin tendrils from the makeshift fire stands scattered among the tents, filling the air with the comforting scent of roasting meat and the earthy aroma of burning wood. The camp, now illuminated by the warm, flickering light of the fires, had a quiet yet palpable energy.

  At the heart of this sprawling encampment, positioned on a gentle rise, stood a larger tent, its white fabric glowing faintly in the dim light. The tent was set apart from the others, a clear sign of its significance. Guards, their faces stern and vigilant, flanked the entrance, while a flag bearing an intricate sigil fluttered above, visible even in the deepening twilight. The space around the tent was clear, the only interruption in the otherwise densely packed camp—a mark of the respect and importance afforded to its occupants.

  Inside the tent, the atmosphere was thick with tension. One corner was dominated by an armour stand, upon which rested a gleaming set of armour—helmet, breastplate, and greaves—all showing signs of use, each scratch and dent telling a story of battles fought and survived. Infront of it, a sword was mounted, its blade catching the dim light, a silent reminder of the steel resolve of the kings it served.

  In the centre of the tent, a large table was covered with a detailed map of the surrounding terrain, small sigils marking strategic locations. Around the table, 20 council members whispered urgently among themselves, their discussions carried out in hushed tones. The soft murmur of voices blended with the sounds of the night, but the urgency in their tones was unmistakable.

  Suddenly, a commanding voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. "Silence!" The word reverberated through the tent, immediately quelling all conversation. The voice belonged to King Vio, his presence as imposing as the armour that stood beside him. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the faces of those around him, demanding their full attention. Standing beside him were King Dawnes and King Hersery; their royal attire, while still regal, was subtly adorned for battle, indicating the gravity of the situation.

  Outside, the fires continued to burn, their smoke rising into the night sky as the three kings, united in purpose, stood over the map, their expressions grave. The silence that followed King Vio’s command was heavy, loaded with the understanding that the decisions made in this tent would shape the fate of their kingdoms.

  Under the cloak of night, the tension in the royal tent was almost suffocating. The flickering light from the torches cast long, wavering shadows across the faces of the kings and their council, amplifying the weight of the discussions at hand. King Dawnes was the first to break the uneasy silence, his voice measured but laced with a deep undercurrent of concern. “Ten days is not enough to prepare for what’s coming,” he said, his gaze fixed on the map before them.

  King Hersery, usually the embodiment of confidence, now seemed weighed down by an uncharacteristic vulnerability. His voice was heavy with the gravity of their predicament. “I know, but how are the preparations progressing? Are we truly ready to face what lies ahead?”

  An older council member, his face etched with lines of worry and offered wisdom to countless battles, stepped forward. The light from the torches danced across his solemn features as he addressed the kings. “My lords,” he began, his tone respectful yet urgent, “King Hersery’s forces have gathered approximately 45,000 troops, who are currently establishing camp near the Plains of Rohena. King Dawnes’ men, numbering 55,000, including retired military veterans, are on their way to Rohena as we speak. They should arrive within three days. As for King Vio’s army, we have assembled 50,000 troops, fully equipped and ready to march at King Vio’s command. Along with the small lords who answered the call has gathered roughly around 10,000 troops. In total, we have a combined force of 160,000, consisting of spear-men, infantry, cavalry, archers and others.”

  King Dawnes, his face a mask of determination, though shadowed with worry, pressed further, “What intelligence do we have from our scouts and spies in the Azurian kingdom about King Azure’s army movements?”

  Another council member, tasked with espionage, stepped forward. His face was pale, and his voice trembled slightly as he delivered the grim news. “My lords, our spies have returned with reports… but the news is dire. King Azure’s forces number currently approximate to 250,000 troops and counting, and they will be marching toward the Kingdom of Rohena soon. They vastly outnumber us.”

  The weight of this information hung heavily in the air, the silence in the tent deepening as the magnitude of their challenge became clear. Even the most seasoned warriors among them could feel the pressure of the looMong conflict.

  King Hersery, his voice edged with a desperation that betrayed the gravity of their situation, asked, “What is the status of the villages and cities we sent ravens to for aid? Are they rallying to the common cause?”

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  Another council member, who oversaw communications, stepped forward, his expression a mixture of hope and uncertainty. “My lords, we received a message two days ago. The villagers and city dwellers are gradually making their way to the areas we designated in the message. If fortune favours us, we might muster an additional 35,000 to 40,000, but at this moment, we cannot provide a definitive count.”

  The kings exchanged grave looks, the flickering torchlight casting an ominous glow on their faces. The reality of their situation was stark: despite their combined strength, they were outnumbered and outmatched.

  Under the dim, flickering light of the torches, King Vio's face was shadowed with a sense of tension. The weight of their situation was evident in his voice as he spoke, his words laced with a grim realization. “Even with the aid of villagers, city dwellers, and the small kings, we might muster up to 200,000 troops. But still... we’re outnumbered.”

  The night air outside the tent was cool, but inside, the tension made the atmosphere stifling. King Dawnes, his brows knit in thought, looked up from the map. “Should we send a raven to King Atlann of Atlantis? Perhaps he might lend us aid against King Azure.”

  King Hersery, whose usually confident demeanour was now tinged with concern, shook his head slowly. “King Atlann is a proud ruler. If we send a mere raven or a messenger, he may perceive it as a sight of disrespect and refuse us outright. To seek his aid, one of us—or better yet, all three of us—must go in person. Only then might he take our request seriously. But leaving our position now... it could shatter the morale of our troops. We cannot afford that.”

  Their conversation, thick with uncertainty, was suddenly interrupted by a voice from outside the tent. It cut through the night air like a knife, strong and clear. “My kings, I come bearing news.”

  All eyes turned toward the entrance as the voice echoed within the canvas walls. King Vio, recognising the voice of his trusted general, straightened his posture and called out, his tone firm and commanding, “Enter.”

  The flap of the tent was pushed aside, and General Mong stepped into the dimly lit space. The firelight glinted off his battle-worn armour, casting shadows across his stern features. With a practised motion, he clutched his hand to his chest near his heart and nodded in salute to the king, his expression one of urgent determination.

  The kings watched him intently, the room falling into a heavy silence once more, broken only by the crackling of the torches and the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for the inevitable battle.

  General Mong stood tall before the three kings, his presence commanding the room’s attention. His voice, steady and resonant, filled the tent with an air of both authority and gravity. "My king, Your Majesties, esteemed council members," he began, "we have received a messenger bearing a royal scroll from the High Council of the Azurian Kingdom." His words hung heavily in the air, and a ripple of unease passed through the room. The kings exchanged wary glances, their expressions darkening at the thought of what such a message could entail. They all knew that any communication from their enemy could be a harbinger of deceit, manipulation, or some unexpected twist in the already tense stand-off.

  King Vio, his brow furrowed in contemplation, nodded slowly, still unsure of what this unexpected message might contain. "Very well. Bring in the messenger," he commanded. His voice was calm, but there was a steely edge to it. Turning to the council members gathered around the large, map-laden table, he added with authority, "Leave us." The council members exchanged glances, their faces marked with a mixture of concern and curiosity. One by one, they filed out of the tent, the sound of their footsteps fading into the night, leaving behind an atmosphere thick with anticipation.

  The flap of the tent was pushed open again, and in stumbled Makara, clearly inebriated, clutching the scroll tightly in one hand. His movements were unsteady, and the smell of sake wafted into the room, causing some of the guards to wrinkle their noses. Behind him, Shawn followed closely, trying his best to maintain a respectful manner despite Makara's drunken antics.

  King Hersery raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of disbelief and disdain as he took in the sight of Makara. “This is the Azurian Kingdom's messenger you mentioned?” he muttered.

  King Dawnes, unable to suppress a smirk, chuckled softly. “It seems the Azurian Kingdom has resorted to sending drunks,” he remarked, his voice light but tinged with sarcasm.

  King Vio, however, remained focused. His gaze never left General Mong. “General, take the boy out and find him some food,” he commanded, gesturing towards Shawn. The king's voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed a hint of frustration and impatience.

  General Mong bowed slightly, acknowledging the order. "As you command, Your Majesty." As he turned to leave, King Vio gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible nod—a signal that only someone well-versed in royal nuance would recognise. General Mong, ever astute, caught the signal immediately. He knew better than to show any reaction that might tip off the messenger. Instead, he smoothly guided Shawn out of the tent, his expression remaining neutral and composed.

  As they stepped into the cool night air, the tension inside the tent seemed to dissipate slightly. General Mong’s voice was low as he spoke to Shawn, a hint of warmth in his tone. “Come, boy. Let’s find you something to eat,” he said, leading the boy away from the tent. Shawn’s stomach growled audibly at the mention of food, reminding him just how hungry he was after the long, arduous day. He followed the general, grateful for the promise of a meal, even as his mind remained on the tense situation unfolding inside the tent.

  The camp was alive with the sounds of preparations for battle—armour being polished, weapons sharpened, and quiet conversations held in hushed tones. The glow of camp fires flickered across the faces of the weary soldiers, casting long shadows in the night. Shawn couldn’t help but steal a glance back at the tent, wondering what Makara would say to the kings.

  Inside the tent, the three kings shifted their full attention to Makara, who, despite his obvious inebriation, managed to maintain a semblance of composure. His eyes were slightly unfocused, but there was a mischievous glint in them—a hint that he might not be as drunk as he appeared.

  "The scroll, messenger," King Hersery demanded, his voice sharp and his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Sword Master.

  Sword Master