Three weeks had passed since the fall of Paradise.
The nobles of House Ashbourne, sworn vassals, commanders, and bound servants had come together—not in triumph, but in mourning. Beneath the mountain roots of Ashkelon, the hidden city built from blackstone and obsidian-veined marble, they gathered once more.
Above them, Paradise lay in smoldering ruins. Its white towers shattered, its gardens scorched, its people buried beneath ash and memory.
Now, in the torch lit depths of Ashkelon, the great war council of House Ashbourne convened.
With the reactivation of the ancient transportation channels—sealed since the Age of Fire—travel had become swift, fluid, and unimpeded. There was talk of leaving them open permanently, of bridging the scattered lands once again. But no bridge could mend what had been lost.
At the center of the obsidian hall, a round table carved from deeproot stone dominated the room. Around it sat the highest ranks of Ashbourne’s remaining power:
—Count Alec Lyon, grim-faced and broad-shouldered, his voice a fortress.
—Baroness Katarina, veiled in midnight silks, her eyes cold fire.
—Baron Claude Flameheart, silent, with sorrow smoldering behind eyes.
—Eritrea Wolf, the Keeper of the Ashbourne sanctuary and the silver forest.
—Aquila, Commander of the Mage Corps, her fingers stained with arcane ink and eyes sunken with weeks of research to save her lord.
—Lord Finn Waters, chieftain of the Sea Tribes, his skin sun-darkened and salted by wind.
—And at the head, seated in silence, Lady Sapphira—the Radiant, who had already poured her soul into the impossible task of saving their lord.
Standing before them was Nero, his back straight, voice hoarse with restrained grief.
“We have tried,” Nero began, his words low and steady, “and we have failed.”
The room stirred, but none spoke.
“The news has spread. The flames of Paradise cast long shadows, and our enemies have found humor in our despair. Duke Ohad and Count Eric have sent missives—urgent ones—but not a single reply has reached their hands. We are surrounded by silence. Worse—by mockery.”
He turned, eyes scanning the gathered.
“Over a hundred and seventy thousand souls bore witness to that battle. They saw him stand—alone, defiant. And now the bards sing songs of his greatness in every tavern, on every road. But none of them know… that he lies broken. Unable to speak. Unable to even—”
Nero’s voice cracked. He stopped.
Across the table, Eritrea Wolf’s lashes trembled. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She blinked hard and erased the tears before they could form.
“He will recover,” came the deep, immovable voice of Count Alec Lyon.
A silence fell, reverent and heavy.
“Even with Lady Sapphira,” Claude murmured, “a woman who has turned death itself away… he withers. His wounds deepen. There are moments he stops breathing for minutes at a time. We brought him back from the edge, but he never stepped away from it.”
“Enough!” Katarina’s voice lashed out like a whip. “You speak of what you do not understand. He has walked through death before—he will do so again. He is not some court-bred prince, Lord Claude. He is our heart!”
Claude said nothing, but in his heart, he remembered. He had seen Asher’s pale, shriveled body underneath a thick quilt —his eyes sunken, some bones broken.and countless burn wounds that refused to heal. The enemy that struck him had not been mortal.
No one in this room would say it aloud, but the truth was clear.
Their lord was dying.
And this time, there might be no return.
Three weeks had passed. Three weeks of prayers, rituals, and desperate magic.
Sapphira had fainted thrice from exhaustion, her light dimming each time she laid hands upon him. There had been no change. Not even a flicker of hope.
“I hear the armour for the Emberframed will soon be distributed. Soon all our land forces shall don armour made of dwarven ore,” said Finn Waters, breaking the silence. His voice was deep and clipped, like waves striking a jagged cliff. “And the production of the Titans has begun in the Bastide.”
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the stone table.
“Twelve thousand civilians, butchered like livestock. Whole families burned alive while fleeing. Villages razed. This council can grieve. But grief must yield to wrath.”
He let the words linger.
“It’s time we answer with steel.”
“It will take months for the legion and Titans to be fully prepared,” Eritrea sighed, her voice tinged with resignation.
“Then we prepare ourselves for that time.” The commander stepped forward, his eyes burning with a controlled fury. A man who usually wore a smile, now uncharacteristically solemn. It was Lambert, always one to rally others, but today, he bore the weight of a warrior’s resolve.
“We will master riding the eagle-bears,” Lambert continued, his voice rising with certainty. “We are no longer five thousand strong, but fifteen thousand heavy cavalry.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. Lambert’s vision of a cavalry that would strike fear into their enemies seemed audacious but undeniable in its power.
“You merged the 10,000 into the heavy cavalry?” Baron Claude exclaimed, eyes wide in disbelief.
Lambert nodded. “Yes, My Lord. Once we are fully trained, I believe our cavalry will be unstoppable. We will be the spear that pierces through Cyrenia.”
Claude shook his head slightly, his mind quickly calculating the costs. “The expense of maintaining such a heavy cavalry is almost three times that of heavy infantry,” he pointed out, his gaze sweeping the room, looking for any dissent.
Yet, no one spoke against it. The silence was telling.
“Do we march for Cyrenia, or do we wait to see how the battle with the United Army and House Nubis plays out?” Baroness Katarina asked, her voice cutting through the tension.
“Their forces include wyverns, thousands of air troops, and the imperial family’s immortal legion. House Nubis will fall, and when it does, we or our allies will be next,” Alec Lyon said, his tone dark and calculating as he steepled his fingers.
Eritrea’s brow furrowed. “Cyrenia is too far from us. We should focus on a closer enemy,” she said, then turned her gaze to Sapphira, who had been silent thus far.
“What do you have to say?”