Asher, draped in a storm-grey coat lined with obsidian fur, walked across the golden plains beside his regent, Kelvin. The wind swept over the dry grass in whispered waves as the two men strode through the Emberframed training field—a place where thunder was born by bowstring.
Before them, the Emberframed Stormbringers trained with solemn precision. Each archer was cloaked in darkened mail, lightning runes faintly glowing across their bows.
With a single unified breath, they unleashed their charged arrows—shafts crackling with barely-contained stormlight. The arrows tore through the air with a furious shriek, punching cleanly through three steel-hardened targets set three hundred meters away.
The impact left smoking holes and a lingering electric hum in the air. Their aim was surgical, their discipline flawless—superior even to the Emberframed Longbowmen.
Just a meter to the side, the Longbowmen stood in their leaner gear—sleeveless and taut, with forearms like coiled steel cables.
Their arrows did not crackle with storm, but they flew with merciless speed. While they could not unleash three arrows at once like the Stormbringers, their rate of fire was blinding. Three shots in the time a Stormbringer loosed one.
Volley after volley rained into the training field, their shafts planting a forest of sharp tips across a hundred and fifty meters of soil.
Their arms were so muscular, so exaggeratedly defined, they seemed a touch unnatural—like their bows had sculpted their bodies into tools of war.
“The Longbowmen are sharp,” Asher muttered, his voice low and contemplative. “But they won’t match the Dark Skies. Not like this.”
Kelvin adjusted the thin silver monocle resting against the corner of his eye. His expression was impassive, yet the subtle tension around his squint betrayed thoughtfulness.
“My Lord, the Dark Skies have been feared across continents for centuries. What they lack in raw numbers, they make up for in legacy. That kind of precision and cohesion… the Longbowmen haven’t yet touched that level of ancestral discipline.”
Asher’s jaw flexed, the wind teasing the strands of his snow white hair. “Discipline alone doesn’t build a dominion. Every highlord with true power built their army around a foundation—something no one else had. A method. We must do the same.”
Kelvin offered a slight nod. “It may be so.”
They continued their stroll past the ranges. In the distance, soldiers ran drills near a hill of stacked wooden dummies, while officers barked corrections.
Asher’s voice dropped lower. “What about the Arkons? The Bladebreakers are too massive for the centraks, but the eagle-bears… they should be able to carry them without strain.”
Kelvin folded his arms beneath his heavy coat, speaking with the precision of a steward who had memorized the kingdom’s lifeblood.
“We currently maintain twenty thousand Arkons. Five thousand are stationed in Ashkelon, being trained to handle the Bladebreakers. The rest remain in Paradise, temporarily safeguarding the outer reaches.”
“Hmmm…” Asher narrowed his eyes. “Recruit another ten thousand cavalrymen. We need a second cavalry force. Something lighter than the Bladebreakers but equally fierce. Five thousand isn’t enough. Not for the campaigns to come.”
Kelvin exhaled slowly, his breath turning to mist. “My Lord… the treasury bleeds from the weight of our army. Feeding, housing, and outfitting them costs us nearly a million gold annually. Between the legions, the nightmare knights, and twenty thousand naval recruits, we are stretched thin. Another ten thousand troops would add at least three hundred thousand gold to our burdens. If we continue like this—without securing fresh revenue—other departments will suffer. Civil development will crumble. The domain itself could fracture.”
Asher’s gaze dropped to the cracked earth beneath their boots. Worry flickered across his sharp features—rare, but telling.
And then, as if summoned by the heavens, a shadow rippled across the plains. Asher looked up.
A falcon spiraled through the sky—its wings wide, elegant, and silent against the wind. It circled them once, twice, then dipped with swift grace, descending toward Kelvin. With a practiced motion, the bird landed on his shoulder, talons tight.
“A message?” Kelvin murmured, brow raised.
“From whom?” Asher asked, voice edged with caution.
Kelvin unfastened the scroll attached to the falcon’s leg. The wax seal was broken in silence. He read the message quickly, the paper crinkling slightly in his tightening grip. A dark cloud passed across his face. His voice came out like gravel underfoot.
“An assassin was sent after your sister.”
___
The skies above were thick with shadows, a velvet sea of darkness pierced by countless stars—dimmed and distant under the cold gaze of two dominant moons. One gleamed silver, clear and proud. The other shimmered faintly with a bruised violet hue, as if soaked in quiet sorrow.
Across the open grasslands below, two figures rode like wraiths through the night. The first was Asher, cloaked and silent, astride his massive polarwolf, Sirius. The beast moved with effortless grace, its paws making barely a sound on the earth. Beside him thundered Nero atop Bezerk—Asher’s battle-trained warhorse, its black mane whipping wildly as they tore across the plain, leaving a swirling wake of dust in their path.
Ahead, the Mary Academy glowed dimly, its torches flickering like dying stars against the oppressive dark. The air was heavy—almost reverent—as the two riders approached.
At the gates, two guards—simple farmers—raised their weapons in hesitation. But before a word could be spoken, Asher pulled back his hood.
Snow-white hair gleamed beneath the twin moons. Recognition flashed in the farmers’ eyes, and without a sound, they stepped aside and swung the gates open.
Sirius padded through, quiet and lethal. Bezerk followed, hooves clinking softly against the stone path.
Inside the academy, silence reigned.
Moments later, Asher stood alone in the wide hallway, his breath steaming in slow clouds—a visible sign of the frost clinging to his aura.
Bodies lined the marble corridor.
Some knelt, heads slumped forward. Others lay sprawled or twisted in unnatural angles. Blood clung to the once-pristine walls, splattered in waves and streaks that told stories of sudden, brutal death. The golden glow of the torches did little to warm the scene; instead, it cast long shadows that only deepened the horror.
He exhaled slowly, frost curling from his nostrils like dragon’s breath.
With wide, determined strides, he moved down the corridor. Another hallway. More bodies. Each step a silent vow.
He entered the grand hall—its high arches and stained glass now tainted with gore. At the center, the body of the Axeman lay sprawled, his expression frozen in pain and disbelief.
“I counted fifty-six,” Nero’s voice broke the stillness behind him. “All knights.”
Their armour was unmistakable. Loyal men. Skilled. Dead.
The soft, precise click of heels echoed behind them—gentle, almost musical. Mary stepped into view, her gray hair loose over her shoulders, eyes steady despite the carnage.
Asher turned his head slightly, catching her presence without looking.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low.
“No,” she said, stepping beside him.
His gaze returned to the Axeman’s corpse.
“He got your name… within these walls?” There was something cold beneath the calmness in his voice.
“Yes.” Mary’s expression tightened.
Asher’s jaw clenched. “It’s time. We’ve let these spies eat from our table for too long. No more crumbs.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the academy, the torchlight dancing on the edges of his blade. Mary kept pace beside him, her silence louder than most screams.
“What about the Countess?” she asked, her voice softer now, but no less pointed.
Asher drew in breath to respond—but before words could leave his lips, a shadow dropped from the sky.
A falcon landed on his shoulder, talons gripping firmly, its feathers ruffling with the sudden movement.
Asher’s brows furrowed. ‘What now…?’
He unsealed the letter fastened to the bird’s leg and opened it under the moonlight. His eyes swept across the page—and froze.
A chill unlike any other crept down his spine.
His grip tightened.
His breath hitched.
Even Sirius growled, sensing the shift in his master’s soul.
Mary stepped closer, concern flickering in her eyes. “What is it?”
Asher didn’t respond immediately. The paper crumpled slightly in his hand, and his voice came out in a hollow whisper.
“…Archduke Nubis is dead.”