u/luniz6178

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The Argent Storm had witnessed many strange inventions since the founding of the Artificers’ Guild, but few had drawn as much attention as the polished steel helmet resting upon the wooden table.

Bands of brass crossed its surface, holding blue, white, and amber crystals in a precise pattern around the brow. A final crystal, pale as moonlight, sat above the wearer’s eyes.

Captain Douglass studied it cautiously.

“And this will steer a ship?”

Archmage Elion nodded. “Only while the helmsman is aboard. The helmet connects his thoughts to a matching network of crystals embedded throughout the vessel. When he wills the ship to turn, accelerate, or slow, the hull responds.”

The Argent Storm leaders followed the artificers down to the harbor, where a small experimental vessel waited at the dock.

It had no mast.

No sails.

No crow’s nest.

A trained helmsman stepped aboard and fastened the helmet over his head. The crystals along its rim began to glow, answered by faint lines of light running beneath the ship’s deck.

The vessel moved away from the dock without wind, oars, or visible effort.

The helmsman remained standing near the stern, his hands free at his sides. He turned his head toward the harbor entrance, and the ship smoothly changed direction. With another focused glance, it slowed, reversed, and passed between two anchored vessels with barely a yard to spare.

“The connection only functions while he remains within the ship’s crystal network,” Elion explained. “Distance breaks the bond. It cannot be controlled from shore or from another vessel.”

Captain Douglass watched the mastless craft glide across the water.

Without sails or rigging, the deck remained open and uncluttered. There were no ropes to snap, no canvas to tear, and no mast to break during a storm. The ship could move against the wind and pass beneath bridges that would stop traditional sailing vessels.

“Its lower profile would also make it harder to spot,” one commander said. “Useful for scouts and raiders.”

“But that advantage cuts both ways,” Elion warned. “Without a mast or crow’s nest, the crew cannot see as far. Reefs, storms, coastlines, and enemy ships may be noticed too late.”

“And if the helmet fails?” Douglass asked.

“The ship loses its guidance. Prolonged use also exhausts the helmsman. Confusion, nosebleeds, and unconsciousness remain possible.”

The vessel returned to the dock. The helmsman removed the helmet, pale and sweating, but still steady on his feet.

Douglass considered the invention in silence.

“Install the crystal systems in our new ships,” he finally ordered. “Harbor trials first. Then coastal voyages.”

The artificers bowed.

The age of sail had not ended.

But Lathadura had taken its first step beyond it.

The guards of the hidden fortress rarely disturbed Nerezar while he sat upon his throne. Those who did usually arrived carrying news of war, betrayal, or death.

This time, however, the armored captain hesitated.

“My lord,” he said, lowering his head, “you have a visitor.”

Nerezar’s empty white eyes narrowed behind his helmet.

“Who?”

“She would not give us a title. Only a name. Lilitu.”

Nerezar leaned back upon the black stone throne. No messenger had announced her arrival. No scout had seen her approach the mountain. Somehow, she had entered his fortress without invitation and without resistance.

“Bring her before me.”

The throne room doors opened moments later.

Lilitu entered alone.

She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never learned to seek permission. Long black hair fell across her shoulders and down the back of her dark metal armor. Her skin was a deep red, and her face possessed a striking beauty that seemed almost at odds with the danger surrounding her. Most captivating were her gorgeous yellow eyes, bright and watchful as they passed over the throne room without the slightest concern for the armed guards lining the walls.

She stopped before the throne but did not bow.

“Nerezar,” she said. “The First Betrayer, finally freed from his cage.”

Nerezar’s claws tightened around the arms of his throne.

“You know who I am.”

“The entire underworld knows who you are.”

Nerezar stared at her.

“The underworld?”

Lilitu laughed softly.

“Your prison truly did cut you off from the divine realms.”

She stepped closer.

“Much has changed while you were held beneath this mountain. You may have been the first immortal to betray the gods, but you were not the last. Your rebellion inspired others. Some rejected divine law. Some abandoned their duties. Others attempted rebellions of their own.”

“And you claim to be one of them?”

“I do.”

Nerezar rose slowly.

“I have heard many creatures make grand claims. Few survive when asked to prove them.”

Lilitu’s smile widened.

Before Nerezar could speak again, the guards lining the chamber suddenly collapsed.

Their weapons clattered against the stone.

One screamed as though invisible hooks had torn through his body. Another clawed at his helmet, begging for something only he could see to stop. A third fell to his knees, trembling uncontrollably.

Lilitu watched them with calm amusement.

Then she raised one finger.

The torment ended.

The guards remained on the floor, gasping for breath.

Nerezar looked from them to Lilitu.

“I believe you.”

“How generous.”

“What did the gods do to earn your hatred?”

For the first time, something colder entered her expression.

“They arranged my marriage to another immortal. They decided my purpose, my place, and the being to whom I would belong.”

“And you refused.”

“I wanted independence. They called it disobedience.”

Lilitu walked toward one of the towering windows overlooking the fortress interior.

“I fled the divine realm rather than surrender myself. Eventually, I found the underworld. A refuge for those the gods condemned, abandoned, or could not control.”

“A kingdom of demons?”

“Not a kingdom. That would imply unity.”

She glanced back at him.

“The underworld contains gods stripped of their temples, cosmic beings driven from the heavens, spirits born from forgotten fears, and creatures that existed before mortals had words to name them. Some seek revenge. Some seek freedom. Others simply wish to rule without interference."

“But not every exile came to the underworld. Some gods and cosmic beings possessed enough power to carve out celestial realms of their own, separate from both the heavens and the darkness below. They built hidden kingdoms beyond the reach of the old divine order. Realms shaped by their desires, laws, and beliefs. Some offer sanctuary to other outcasts. Others demand worship from mortals and rule no differently than the gods they once opposed."

“The divine realms are no longer one united dominion. They have fractured into countless territories, each governed by beings who believe their vision of creation is the rightful one.”

“And they know I am free.”

“Some have known since the moment your prison broke.”

Nerezar descended the steps of his throne.

“Why warn me?”

“Because you still believe this war has only two sides.”

Lilitu’s voice became serious.

“The gods have their followers. You have yours. But between you stand countless immortal powers with ambitions of their own.”

She approached him until only a few paces separated them.

“Some of these beings are already here on Rutland. Some are trapped beneath mountains or buried beneath ruined cities. Some hide among mortals. Others have been quietly building their strength for centuries.”

Nerezar remained silent.

“You are not alone anymore,” Lilitu continued. “But do not mistake shared defiance for friendship.”

A thin smile returned to her face.

“Those who oppose the gods may still oppose you. They may agree that the divine order must fall while disagreeing entirely on what should replace it.”

Nerezar studied her.

“And what do you want to replace it?”

Lilitu smiled, then turned toward the doors. The throne room doors opened without being touched.

“I did not flee one master so that I could kneel before another.”

She paused at the threshold.

“Be cautious, First Betrayer. You awakened believing you were returning to your old war.”

Her yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness.

“But the battlefield has become far more crowded.”

Then Lilitu stepped beyond the doors and vanished, leaving Nerezar alone with her warning and the uneasy realization that his rebellion had inspired forces he could neither command nor predict.

The Black Mantles reached Ogunda at midday.

After weeks of hurried travel, sleepless nights, and constant fear of pursuit, the sight of the desert kingdom should have brought relief. Instead, it left many of them uneasy.

Stone walls rose from the sand around a sprawling city of markets, shaded courtyards, and tall towers draped in bright cloth. Merchant caravans crowded the roads. Traders called out beside carts filled with spices, spider silk, plants, and fruit carried from local lands.

Among them walked the dead.

Skeletons in loose desert robes moved calmly through the streets, carrying baskets, guiding animals, and tending market stalls. Some wore jewelry around their necks or painted markings across their skulls. Others carried small chalkboards tied to their belts.

The Black Mantles slowed when several skeleton guards approached.

Hands moved instinctively toward weapons.

The guards stopped several paces away. One raised both empty hands. Another pointed toward the lowered weapons, shook his skull, and pressed a hand against his chest.

“He wants us to stand down,” Elder Lyra said.

A third skeleton produced a board and wrote across it with chalk.

WELCOME TO OGUDA. PEACEFUL TRAVELERS ARE SAFE HERE.

Elder Bram stared at the message.

“I never expected to be reassured by a corpse.”

The skeleton tilted his head, erased part of the message, and added:

RUDE.

Several exhausted Mantles laughed despite themselves.

Cedric stepped forward and explained that they needed to speak with the local leaders. The skeleton guards exchanged gestures, then motioned for the group to follow.

They had barely entered the main market when someone called out behind them.

“Wait!”

The Black Mantles turned.

A woman pushed through the crowd, waving one arm above her head. At her side moved a large black panther, its dark coat standing out against the pale stone and golden sand.

Several Mantles reached for their weapons.

The panther growled.

The woman immediately stepped between them.

“Don’t,” she warned. “He’s with me.”

Cedric studied her.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Nirelle.” She looked over their dark robes and silver insignia. “You’re Black Mantles, aren’t you?”

Lyra narrowed her eyes.

“How do you know that?”

“Because you dress like Dacian.”

The name passed through the group in startled whispers.

Cedric stepped closer.

“You know Dacian?”

“Yes. We were traveling together.”

“Where is he?”

Nirelle’s expression fell.

“We were returning to Lathadura when our ship was attacked. After that, a storm scattered what remained of us. I washed ashore near Ogunda and found Raukhet a few days later.”

The panther lowered his head at the sound of his name.

“But Dacian?” Lyra asked.

Nirelle looked toward the distant sea.

“We never found him.”

The Black Mantles exchanged uneasy glances.

At last, Cedric nodded toward Nirelle and Raukhet.

“You should come with us.”

Nirelle hesitated.

“We don’t want to become a burden.”

“You traveled with one of our own,” Lyra said. “That makes you our responsibility now.”

Raukhet watched them carefully before stepping closer to Nirelle’s side.

Cedric turned back toward the waiting skeleton guards.

“We still need to find the local leadership,” he said.

The guards motioned toward the center of the city.

Together, the Black Mantles, Nirelle, and Raukhet followed them deeper into Ogunda, searching for those who ruled the desert kingdom and hoping they had finally found a place willing to hear their story.

Three days after his return to the outside world, Lord Nerezar stood upon the highest balcony of his fortress, overlooking the dark cavern. Far below, miners continued extracting the kingdom's greatest treasure, deep colored crystals infused with ancient magical energy that had rested within the mountains since before recorded history.

"The Southern Alliance," Nerezar said quietly. "They have endured much, yet remain united."

Kaelen nodded. "Our messengers say Queen Helena of Sturgia is one of its strongest voices. But they have not forgotten the war."

"No," Nerezar replied. "Nor should they."

The previous rulers of Lathadura had marched against Sturgia in a brief but bitter conflict. Though little land had changed hands, the distrust likely remained.

Kaelen looked toward the distant horizon. "Then why seek them now?"

"Because we have mistaken alliances for unity," Nerezar answered. "They bring peace to some kingdoms while leaving others beyond their reach. Rutland has never truly stood together."

He rested his hands upon the stone railing.

"My greatest wish is not merely to join the Southern Alliance." His white, lifeless eyes swept across the lands beyond Lathadura's borders. "It is to unite every kingdom in Rutland beneath a single purpose. Humans, elves, dwarves, creatures. Every people standing together as one."

Kaelen was silent before asking, "So that one day they may stand against the Divine Realm?"

Nerezar gave a slow nod.

"Yes, because they will never willingly surrender their dominion over mortals. They have shaped this world from afar for ages, deciding its fate without ever asking if the inhabitants desired their guidance. I believe Rutland deserves to choose its own future."

"But most kingdoms still worship them," Kaelen said.

"I know."

There was no bitterness in Nerezar's voice, only quiet resolve.

"They are not my enemies. They simply see the gods differently than I do. Many still believe divine rule is a blessing. They cannot yet imagine a world where mortals determine their own destiny."

He turned from the balcony and summoned one of his most trusted Dragon Riders.

"Fly to Arathril, where the leaders of the Southern Alliance gather. You will go not as a conqueror, but as my diplomat."

The rider knelt.

"You will tell Queen Helena and the Alliance that Lathadura no longer follows the path of its former rulers. I seek not dominion over them, but partnership. I have been briefed on the Alliance's strength, its resilience, and its vision for the future. I believe that together, we can accomplish great things."

At Nerezar's command, servants brought forward baskets of Lathadura's prized magical crystals. They filled three sturdy leather sacks with a brilliant assortment of crimson, sapphire, emerald, amber, violet, and ivory gemstones, each carrying its own unique magical affinity. Few gifts in all of Rutland were more valuable.

"A gift," Nerezar said. "Not payment. Not tribute. A symbol of trust."

As the dragon rider soared into the sky, the crystals glowed within the dark cavern. It was a gesture of peace. Nerezar hoped, the first step toward a future where old tensions could be set aside, allowing the kingdoms of Rutland to one day stand together and determine their own fate.

u/Agreeable-Blood-6804 Lord Nerezar sends a dragon rider to meet and request a formal acceptance into the Southern Alliance.

The day had finally come.

For thousands of years, Nerezar had known the world beyond his prison only through visions, dreams, and the minds of those who heard his whispers. He had felt the wind through the memories of others and seen the sun through borrowed eyes.

But he had not stood beneath the open sky himself.

Not until now.

Deep within the southern mountains of Lathadura, the enough crystals were pulled from the walls surrounding the ancient prison. The miners of his newly formed Legion of the Dragon Lord watched as veins of scarlet light spread across the tunnels.

The mountain trembled.

Dust fell from the ceiling, and a deep crack echoed through the earth. A rush of air swept through the tunnels as the invisible boundaries of the prison finally broke.

Nerezar stood silently at the entrance.

Beyond him waited the green hills of southern Lathadura.

He stepped forward.

For the first time in an age, his armored foot touched living grass.

A cool breeze moved across the hillside, passing over his dark red scales and beneath his great wings. He could smell damp soil, distant pine trees, and smoke from settlements beyond the mountains.

Above him stretched an endless blue sky.

A smile appeared beneath the shadow of his helmet.

He had imagined emerging with armies marching behind him and thunder splitting the heavens.

Instead, there was only grass, wind, and sunlight.

It was better than anything he had imagined.

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“I had forgotten,” he said, “how large the sky was.”

Behind him, the soldiers and attendants remained silent, unwilling to interrupt the First Betrayer’s first moments of freedom.

Nerezar walked farther from the mountain. Each step seemed to restore something that had been taken from him. He knelt and dragged one clawed hand through the grass.

Rutland.

He was walking upon Rutland once again.

His thoughts turned toward the future.

The prison was broken, but the rebellion was only beginning. Lathadura had been secured. Missionaries and diplomats had begun spreading his message, but belief alone would not be enough when the gods answered his return.

They would need armies.

They would need allies.

They would need—

“My lord.”

Nerezar turned.

An attendant stood several paces away, breathing heavily as though he had hurried from the fortress.

The young man bowed.

“I apologize for disturbing you.”

“What is it?”

The attendant struggled to conceal his excitement.

“He is here.”

Nerezar’s white eyes widened.

“Here?”

The attendant nodded.

A distant roar rolled across the hills.

It was deeper than thunder and powerful enough to shake stones loose from the mountainside.

The soldiers looked skyward.

A massive shape passed over the sun.

The dragon descended from the clouds with wings large enough to shadow the hillside. Each beat sent powerful gusts sweeping over the grass. Soldiers lowered themselves as dust and broken branches filled the air.

The creature landed before the mountain with tremendous force.

He was enormous, far larger than the dragons commonly seen in the service of kings. His scales were deep ruby-red, broken by jagged patterns of black.

Old scars crossed his body. Some had been left by mortal weapons. Others had been left by powers far greater.

The dragon lowered his head.

Nerezar walked forward and placed a hand against his snout.

“Livyatan.”

The dragon’s golden eyes narrowed with recognition.

“My old friend.”

His voice rumbled through the earth.

Nerezar laughed openly.

“How long has it been?”

“Long enough for mountains to change their names.”

“And yet you remain.”

“So do you.”

They regarded one another like soldiers reunited after a battle neither had expected to survive.

“It is good to see you,” Nerezar said. “When the gods sealed the mountain, I did not know which of you had remained.”

“Few did.”

Livyatan glanced toward the tunnel.

“I felt the prison weakening months ago. At first, I believed it was another deception. Then your voice returned to the world.”

“I called for you.”

“I heard.”

“Yet you made me wait.”

Livyatan gave a low growl that might have been laughter.

“I have survived this long by making everyone wait.”

“And where have you hidden all these centuries?”

“Beneath ruined cities and within forgotten valleys. Sometimes in lands mortals feared to enter. Sometimes close enough to hear their temple bells.”

“You kept a low profile.”

“I watched empires rise and fall,” Livyatan said. “I watched kings declare themselves eternal, only to become names carved into broken stone. I waited because I knew the time would come when we might continue what we began.”

Nerezar looked across the hills.

“That time has come.”

“Then tell me what you require.”

Nerezar faced him.

“Dragons.”

Livyatan’s expression darkened.

“Seek them out,” Nerezar continued. “Find those who remember us and those who still question the gods. The rebellion will need the strength of dragons again.”

Livyatan remained silent before lowering his head.

“Most of the old ones are gone.”

Nerezar’s smile faded.

“How many remain?”

“I do not know. Most who fought beside us were hunted after your defeat. Some were killed by servants of the gods. Others died as the power of dragonkind diminished.”

“And the dragons living now?”

“Young. Small compared to what we once were. Most know nothing of the rebellion. To them, it is a forgotten myth.”

“Many already serve mortal kingdoms,” Livyatan continued. “Some guard royal families. Some try to carry Balrogs into battle. Others have become symbols beneath the banners of kings.”

“Will they listen?”

“Some may.”

“And the others?”

“They may consider us enemies.”

Nerezar nodded. He had expected the world to change, but hearing how far dragonkind had fallen carried a pain he had not anticipated.

“I will not ask you to force them,” he said. “Tell them what happened. Tell them why we fought.”

“And if they refuse?”

“Then they refuse.”

Livyatan studied him.

“You have changed.”

“I have had a great deal of time to think.”

“That is rarely a blessing.”

“No. But it taught me that an army forced into obedience will abandon you when fear weakens.”

Livyatan raised his head.

“I will search for them.”

“Bring whoever is willing.”

“It may take time.”

“We have already waited thousands of years.”

Livyatan spread his enormous wings.

“Then a few more months should not trouble you.”

“Try not to make me wait another age.”

Before taking flight, the dragon looked back.

“It is good to see you beneath the sun again, old friend.”

Nerezar stood upon the grass, his wings moving gently in the wind.

“And it is good to know I did not survive alone.”

Livyatan launched himself from the hillside. The force of his wings bent the grass and sent dust swirling around the soldiers. He climbed above the mountains, circled once over the Hidden Fortress, and disappeared beyond the horizon.

Nerezar watched until the dragon was gone.

The dragons of old were dead.

The survivors were scattered.

The younger generations served kingdoms that might soon oppose him.

But Livyatan lived.

And if one of his old generals had survived, perhaps others had as well.

Nerezar turned toward his newly assembled faction.

Behind them stood the mountain that had imprisoned him.

Before them stretched all of Rutland.

“Send word to Kaelen,” Nerezar commanded. “The fortress will no longer be our prison.”

His white eyes fixed upon the horizon.

“It will be the birthplace of our continued rebellion.”

Part 4

Weeks had passed since the League of Free Banners had fallen.

Kaelen stood at the entrance to the throne room, watching another procession of Lathadura's highest leaders cross the obsidian floor.

Only a month ago many of them had been strangers.

Now they greeted him with respectful bows.

"Master Steward."

The title still felt strange.

Nerezar himself had bestowed it upon him, charging Kaelen with restoring the ancient fortress to its former glory. Every day more chambers were reopened. Guest quarters were prepared. Kitchens once silent for ages burned with new fires. Libraries were dusted. Great halls echoed with life once more.

Yet the work was endless.

Kaelen smiled to himself.

"I could certainly use a staff."

His thoughts were interrupted as another delegation entered the throne room. Officers of the Crimson Vanguard stood beside engineers from Argent Storm. Governors, guildmasters, magistrates, generals, scholars, and councilors quietly found their places beneath the towering pillars. Even a small band of Black Mantles were in attendance.

The room buzzed with hushed conversation.

Then...

Silence.

Without warning, every voice stopped.

Nerezar had entered.

The ancient dragon lord walked slowly toward the obsidian throne, his black armor reflecting the red glow that flowed through the fortress. His great scarlet wings remained folded behind him, while his white eyes calmly surveyed the gathering.

No one moved.

Some lowered their heads in reverence.

Others watched with open admiration.

A few simply stood frozen, unable to decide whether they were witnessing a savior... or something far older.

Nerezar did not sit.

Instead, he stood before the throne.

"My friends."

His voice carried effortlessly throughout the chamber.

"You know me as Nerezar."

"But long before your kingdoms existed..."

"...I was known by another title."

"The First Betrayer."

He allowed the words to settle.

"The gods gave me that name."

"I never did."

"They called me traitor because I questioned them."

He slowly looked across the assembled leaders.

"I asked why mortals must suffer while the gods watched from beyond the stars."

"Why children perish from disease."

"Why entire peoples are erased by famine, flood, plague, and war."

"Why justice is left to chance."

"Why innocence is rewarded with tragedy."

His voice never rose.

It became quieter.

"Tell me..."

"If one possesses the power to prevent suffering..."

"...and chooses not to..."

"...what should that being be called?"

No one answered.

"The gods possess the power to grant every mortal peace."

"To end hunger."

"To end disease."

"To end needless death."

"They choose not to."

"They call it balance."

"I call it indifference."

Nerezar slowly turned toward the towering windows overlooking the cavern.

"The ancient dragons understood this truth."

"So did many of the first beings who crossed into Rutland through the Dark Portals."

"They saw what I saw."

"To the gods..."

"...our lives are no more significant than insects crawling beneath their feet."

Several leaders nodded.

Others clenched their fists.

"They imprisoned me because I refused to accept such a world."

He spread his crimson wings.

"My rebellion did not fail."

"It was delayed."

The room remained utterly silent.

"My prison weakens."

"Soon I shall walk the lands of Rutland once more."

"But this is not a war against kingdoms."

His white eyes swept across the assembly.

"It is a war for every mortal soul."

"You will not march across Rutland as conquerors."

"You will go as teachers."

"As diplomats."

"As missionaries."

"You will tell every kingdom the truth."

"That mortals deserve a voice in the ordering of creation."

"That suffering is not sacred."

"That the gods are not beyond question."

He raised one hand.

"Our first task is simple."

"Continue mining the magical crystals."

"When enough have been removed..."

"...my prison will finally break."

"Only then can we begin the greater work."

He paused, letting his gaze rest on each leader in turn.

"Do not wage needless war."

"Every kingdom we destroy is one less people who may one day stand beside us."

"The struggle ahead is not against Rutland."

His voice deepened.

"It is against the Divine Realms."

And for the first time since entering the fortress, Kaelen looked around the throne room and realized no one questioned Nerezar's vision.

They believed they were not beginning a conquest.

They believed they were beginning a liberation.

Prelude

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The Council Chamber of the Black Mantles had never been so quiet.

Normally the room echoed with debates over trade routes, border disputes, and diplomatic petitions. Today, every edge of the meeting table was occupied, yet no one spoke above a whisper.

Maps covered the great stone table.

Sculpted map markers littered every confirmed attack.

There were far too many.

Elder Cedric finally broke the silence.

"Read the latest reports."

A courier stepped forward, his hands trembling.

"Three more Black Mantle members were found dead in Vardholm before dawn."

Another member closed his eyes.

"The Crimson Vanguard?"

The courier nodded.

"Witnesses claim their own officers carried out the executions."

Murmurs spread through the chamber.

Elder Lyra shook her head.

"This makes no sense."

"The Crimson Vanguard has helped protect the League for years."

"They're our fellow soldiers."

"They were," another Elder corrected quietly.

The courier continued.

"Argent Storm has seized the southern mines."

"They've arrested every person who refused their authority."

"Communications from the western foundries have ceased."

Another silence settled over the chamber.

Elder Orin leaned over a map.

"This isn't civil unrest."

"It isn't isolated mutiny."

His finger traced a line connecting cities across Lathadura.

"It's coordinated."

Elder Bram frowned.

"A coup."

No one argued.

Elder Soren finally spoke.

"What of the Order of the Bronze Scales?"

"If anyone can stop this..."

The courier looked down.

"They were the first to be attacked."

"Without warning."

"Their outposts were struck simultaneously."

"We've received scattered reports of survivors, but no one knows how many remain."

The room grew colder.

"If they've fallen..." Bram muttered.

"...then who is left?"

No answer came.

Another messenger hurried into the chamber carrying fresh dispatches.

"More arrests."

"League magistrates."

"Regional governors."

"Anyone refusing to swear loyalty."

Cedric stared at the growing sea of markers.

"We cannot defend the Black Mantle capital."

"We don't have the numbers."

"The Crimson Vanguard alone outmatches us."

He looked toward the southern mountains.

"And with Argent Storm controlling the mines..."

"...they control our industry as well."

Silence returned.

Finally Lyra asked the question none of them wished to hear.

"Do we abandon Lathadura?"

No one answered immediately.

"We cannot return to the Tridentine Alliance," Cedric finally said.

"We severed those ties ourselves."

"Their kingdoms would see us as refugees... if they welcomed us at all."

"What about the True North?"

"They currently have problems with Lord Falcon."

The council debated for nearly an hour before one name continued to surface.

"Ogunda."

A location that had remained neutral through decades of wars and political rivalries.

Hopefully far enough away to avoid immediate pursuit.

Stable enough to shelter those who survived.

Cedric slowly nodded.

"We cannot save Lathadura today."

The words tasted like ash.

"But if the Black Mantles perish here..."

"...there may be no one left to reclaim it."

One by one, the Elders confirmed the choice.

The decision had been made.

Before sunrise, the Black Mantles would abandon the only home they had ever known.

Behind them, Lathadura would descend into civil war.

Ahead lay Ogunda.

And the uncertain hope that one day... they would return.

Prelude

Part 1

Part 2

"My name..." the ancient being said, his voice echoing through the endless throne room, "...is Nerezar."

Kaelen swallowed hard.

"You're the one who's been calling me."

"I am."

"For months?"

"For much longer than months."

Kaelen frowned.

"I don't understand. I was halfway across the world. I had never been near these mountains."

Nerezar stepped toward one of the towering windows overlooking the crimson-lit cavern.

"The gods imprisoned me beneath this mountain before the first kingdoms of man were ever founded. They believed they had silenced me."

His clawed hand rested against the cold stone.

"They were mistaken."

"The crimson crystals your people have uncovered are not ordinary minerals. They were born from my essence, slowly seeping into the mountain during my imprisonment. For thousands of years they remained hidden beneath the earth."

Kaelen thought of the Argent Storm and the endless carts of crimson crystal being hauled from the mines.

"They're mining... you?"

A faint smile crossed Nerezar's face.

"They are unknowingly dismantling the prison built to contain me."

"And the whispers?"

"The crystals carry fragments of my will."

He turned back toward Kaelen.

"Those who spend enough time near them sometimes hear my voice."

"Not everyone?"

"No."

"The proud hear me first. The fearful. Those who crave certainty. Those convinced only greater power can protect what they love."

Nerezar's great red wings shifted behind him.

"Many leaders within Lathadura have already begun listening. Others remain beyond my reach."

Kaelen's heart quickened.

"Then why me?"

"I have never touched those crystals."

The throne room fell silent.

At last, Nerezar answered.

"Because my prison weakens with every crystal removed."

"For centuries my voice could not travel beyond these mountains."

"But now..."

"It reaches farther as your people continue to mine."

His glowing eyes locked onto Kaelen's.

"I searched countless minds across the world."

"Most never heard me."

"Some resisted."

"Then I found yours."

Images flooded Kaelen's thoughts. The cult of Nephren-Ka, being chased from the desert, the longing to find meaning, and the loneliness of returning to a home that no longer felt like his own.

"You never found your true purpose," Nerezar said quietly.

"You stood between the life you had abandoned... and the one you had yet to find."

"I did not command your steps."

"I simply offered you a destination."

Kaelen lowered his gaze, unable to deny the truth in those words.

Nerezar's voice became firm, carrying the authority of an ancient king.

"The gods believed my rebellion ended when they cast me into this prison."

He slowly spread his wings, filling the throne room with dark shadows.

"They were wrong."

His white eyes burned brighter.

"It merely waited."

He extended one clawed hand toward Kaelen.

"It is time to continue what they failed to destroy."

"We have centuries to make up for."

A faint smile crossed the ancient dragon lord's face.

"And many of your leaders are already prepared to act."

Part 1

The fortress doors closed behind Kaelen with a thunderous groan that echoed through the halls.

Silence followed.

Not the silence of an abandoned ruin, but the kind that felt alive.

The air was unnaturally cold, carrying neither dust nor decay. Every surface of the dark stone walls looked untouched by time, as though the fortress had been waiting, not crumbling for countless ages. Somewhere deep within its halls, Kaelen could feel a presence. It watched without eyes and breathed without lungs.

He raised his lantern and began to explore.

The entrance hall opened into a network of corridors that branched in every direction. Each passage was illuminated by glowing braziers that burst to life as he approached, only to dim again once he had passed.

The first chamber he entered was a barracks.

Hundreds of perfectly arranged bunks stood in neat rows, each accompanied by weapon racks still holding polished spears, swords, shields, and suits of armor that had somehow escaped the rust of centuries. It looked as though an entire army had simply vanished.

Beyond the barracks lay an enormous training hall. Practice dummies stood frozen where soldiers had once struck them, while balconies overlooked dueling circles carved directly into the stone floor.

Farther still he discovered an alchemist's laboratory.

Shelves overflowed with sealed crystal vials, strange metallic instruments, and books written in languages he could not recognize. Empty glass vessels sat atop long stone tables beneath intricate brass mechanisms whose purpose he could only guess.

Another corridor led him into an immense library.

Towering shelves stretched so high they disappeared into darkness above, connected by winding staircases and narrow bridges suspended in midair. Tens of thousands of books filled the shelves, their leather bindings untouched by mold or age. The scent of old parchment lingered in the air, as though someone had been reading there only moments before.

He wandered into a grand dining hall where a table long enough to seat several hundred guests dominated the chamber. Silver goblets, white plates, and crystal decanters remained perfectly arranged, awaiting a feast that had never begun.

There were kitchens larger than village markets, elegant guest quarters, chapels dedicated to forgotten dragons, vaults sealed behind iron doors, gardens illuminated by crystals instead of sunlight, and courtyards beneath impossible skies where no ceiling could be seen.

Hours passed.

Kaelen eventually realized something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The fortress was impossible.

From outside, it had appeared large enough to house perhaps a few hundred soldiers.

Yet he had already explored enough rooms to fill an entire city.

Every staircase revealed another level.

Every hallway opened into yet another wing.

No matter how far he walked, the fortress never seemed to end.

He stopped in the middle of a corridor, slowly turning in place.

"This... isn't possible."

The only explanation he could imagine was ancient sorcery beyond anything the scholars of Rutland had ever documented. Somehow the fortress contained a world within itself, as though its builders had folded an endless realm into the shell of a single mountain keep.

As that thought settled in his mind, the familiar voice returned.

Not from the walls.

Not from the corridors.

From within his mind.

"You have wandered my halls long enough."

Kaelen froze.

"Come."

The command was calm, yet impossible to refuse.

Without another word, Kaelen continued.

The voice guided him through winding passages, across sweeping bridges suspended over bottomless darkness, and up countless staircases that spiraled toward the fortress's highest reaches.

At last, immense metal doors stood before him.

They opened on their own.

Beyond them stretched a throne room unlike anything he had ever imagined.

Massive pillars lined either side of the chamber, disappearing into a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Fire burned within colossal braziers, bathing polished black stone in an eerie red glow. At the far end of the hall, upon a throne carved entirely from flawless obsidian, sat the fortress's lone occupant.

He looked almost human.

Almost.

His skin was covered in crimson scales that caught the firelight like polished gemstones. Great red wings rested folded behind him, nearly reaching the floor. Ancient black shoulder armor rested atop his body, its surface etched with symbols too old for memory. A crimson helmet concealed his face, while two soulless white lights burned from within the visor where eyes should have been.

He sat perfectly still.

As though he had been waiting for Kaelen's arrival for centuries.

Kaelen swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak.

"...Who are you?"

The figure slowly lifted his head and stood.

The white glow of his eyes fixed upon Kaelen.

When he answered, his voice carried the weight of forgotten ages.

"My name... is Nerezar."

Kaelen had finally returned home to Lathadura, yet home no longer felt like home.

Not long after arriving, he learned that his younger brother, Dacian, had already left the kingdom in search of him. The news struck him harder than he expected. He had hoped to explain everything, to tell Dacian about the strange dreams that had haunted him since leaving the southern ports of Tered Arafate. But he had arrived too late. Dacian was already somewhere beyond Lathadura's borders, searching for a brother who had unknowingly returned.

Yet the dreams refused to end.

Every night an unseen presence whispered from deep beneath the southern mountains, growing stronger with each passing sunset. At first Kaelen dismissed the visions as exhaustion, but eventually he could no longer ignore the relentless calling. It pulled him toward the mines where the Argent Storm had uncovered mysterious crimson crystals buried beneath southern Lathadura.

He gathered a pickaxe, shovel, lantern, and enough supplies to disappear beneath the earth.

The Argent Storm's tunnels stretched for miles through the mountain, branching endlessly between veins of iron, silver, granite, and the newly discovered crystals. Kaelen avoided the miners, sleeping in abandoned passages and working only when the echoes of distant hammers concealed his own. For nearly a week he carved deeper into untouched stone, guided only by instinct and the voice that seemed to know exactly where he should dig.

Then his pick struck rock that rang hollow.

One final swing shattered the wall.

A rush of cold, ancient air poured from an immense cavern untouched for ages.

Kaelen stepped through the opening, his lantern revealing a sight beyond imagination.

Standing at the heart of the mountain was a colossal fortress of polished black stone.

Its immense walls climbed into darkness beyond the lantern's reach. Four towering spires curved inward like the talons of an ancient dragon, encircling a solitary central tower that vanished into the cavern ceiling. Crimson light spilled from impossibly tall windows, reflecting across obsidian walls that appeared untouched by time. Rivers of molten stone cascaded from hidden fissures beneath the fortress, flowing like fiery waterfalls through channels carved with runes so old they had nearly become part of the mountain itself.

The fortress did not appear built.

It looked as though the mountain had grown around it.

No guards stood watch.

No sounds echoed from within.

Yet Kaelen could feel an ancient presence watching him.

The whisper that had haunted his dreams for months became unmistakably clear.

"Welcome home."

Drawn forward by a force he no longer wished to resist, Kaelen crossed an ancient stone bridge spanning a river of molten rock. As he reached the towering doors, they groaned open of their own accord.

Taking one final breath, Kaelen stepped into the darkness beyond.

To the leaders of the Tridentine Alliance, and to the Peoples and Kingdoms of the World,

The League of Free Banners announces that it shall withdraw from the Tridentine Alliance.

When this alliance was forged, it was entered into in good faith with the sincere hope that cooperation, mutual defense, and shared interests would contribute to peace and stability for our peoples. We acknowledge the trust and respect that have existed between our lands throughout this partnership.

Yet the League of Free Banners was founded with a singular purpose: to safeguard the freedom, security, and prosperity of the peoples of Lathadura. In recent years, events beyond our continent have increasingly demanded our attention and our strength. After much deliberation, we have concluded that our foremost duty lies closer to home.

This decision is not born of hostility. It is a strategic decision made in accordance with the principles upon which the League was founded. We seek no quarrel with the Tridentine Alliance and intend to maintain relations founded upon mutual respect, diplomacy, and cooperation.

Existing agreements regarding tax-free trade and commerce shall remain in force, and the League of Free Banners remains committed to honoring those agreements. We believe peaceful commerce between our peoples benefits all nations and should continue independent of military obligations.

The League seeks no new wars, no territorial ambitions, and no rivalries with distant kingdoms. Our attention shall be devoted to preserving peace and stability within our borders and defending the lands and peoples entrusted to our care.

Though our kingdoms shall no longer stand beneath a common military pact, we remain committed to maintaining open diplomacy, honorable trade, and respectful relations with all nations willing to do the same.

May wisdom guide every ruler, and may peace prevail wherever it can be preserved.

Signed,

The League of Free Banners

Through the Black Mantles, entrusted voice of the League

Long before kingdoms, dwarves, or even mankind walked the lands of Rutland, there existed only the ancient world, beasts and the dragons.

In those forgotten ages, a supernatural being crossed into Rutland through one of the portals that connected countless worlds.

He was no mortal.

He was one of the Eternal Servants, an immortal herald entrusted to carry out the will of the gods. Wise beyond measure, handsome beyond imagination, and gifted with a voice that could calm wars or ignite them, he had served faithfully for ages beyond counting.

Until he found Rutland.

There he discovered creatures unlike any he had ever known.

The dragons.

They were living forces of creation itself. Mountains bowed to their strength, storms answered their wings, and rivers changed course beneath their passing. As he watched them, admiration slowly gave way to ambition.

A single thought consumed him.

If the dragons followed him instead of the gods, no power in creation could oppose them.

He did not seek to destroy the gods.

He believed he could rule better than they ever had.

Upon the continent now known as Uractar, he built a magnificent fortress that overlooked the world. As centuries passed, more travelers and beings emerged through the mysterious portals scattered across Rutland. Some came seeking knowledge. Others sought purpose. Many hungered for power.

The Eternal Servant welcomed them all.

With unmatched charisma, he spoke of freedom from divine rule. He promised a future where no distant gods dictated the fate of mortal worlds. His words were so convincing that many pledged themselves to his cause.

Even the dragons listened.

Not because he commanded them, but because he understood their pride and their longing to be unconstrained. One by one, mighty dragons joined his rebellion, believing together they could forge a new age.

For a time, it seemed they might succeed.

Then the gods intervened.

The cosmos trembled as divine judgment descended upon Rutland. The rebellion was shattered in a war so devastating that nearly all memory of it was erased from history.

The dragons themselves were punished.

The gods stripped away the vast majority of their ancient power, ensuring they would never again possess the world-shaping might that had nearly overturned creation.

Then the gods turned their judgment upon the rebellion's leader.

They refused to grant him the dignity of death.

Instead, they transformed him into a living reminder of his own corruption.

His radiant form withered away. His flawless skin hardened into crimson scales. Great crimson wings erupted from his back, not as symbols of majesty, but as cruel mockeries of the dragons he had sought to command. A long, barbed tail trailed behind him wherever he walked. His face twisted into something so horribly disfigured and unnatural that almost nothing remained of the immortal servant he had once been. The sight of it inspired horror even among his own followers. Ashamed of what he had become, he forged a great helmet and swore that no soul would ever look upon his true face again. From that day forward, he was never seen without it. Behind its visor stared only empty, soulless white eyes, as though the gods had stripped away every trace of the divine being he had once been.

The gods declared that his outward form would forever reflect the pride that had consumed his soul.

His followers were scattered across Rutland, their names fading into myth.

His fortress suffered an even stranger fate.

Rather than destroy it, the gods summoned the mountains of Uractar to rise around it. Stone engulfed its towering walls until the entire citadel vanished beneath the earth. Every entrance was sealed beneath leagues of rock, creating a prison from which there could be no escape.

Within those buried halls, the First Betrayer remains.

Immortal.

Unaging.

Unable to escape the prison built around his own ambition.

The silence has been his only companion for countless ages.

Yet his greatest weapon was never his strength.

It was always his voice.

Though imprisoned beneath the mountains, the First Betrayer is never truly isolated. Every war fought upon Rutland, every act of betrayal, each argument amongst leaders, every broken oath echoes through the stone to his prison. The suffering of the world nourishes his hope. He speaks to some in their sleep, calling them.

For the First Betrayer has not abandoned his dream.

He no longer seeks to escape alone.

He waits for someone willing to finish the rebellion he began.

The Council Hall of the League of Free Banners had grown busier with each passing week.

Reports arrived daily as scouts, merchants, and diplomats returned with fresh maps of Uractar. One by one, territories across the continent were being claimed by neighboring kingdoms. Borders that had once been wild frontiers were now marked with banners, forts, and patrols.

One parchment in particular sparked debate.

A region known as Avarada, lying just south of the Lathaduran border, remained unclaimed on the League's official map. Yet several council members insisted that was impossible.

"I've heard Sturgia has already taken it," one delegate argued.

Another shook his head. "Our latest charts show no banner flying there."

"The merchant caravans reported seeing patrols."

"They never said whose."

Voices filled the chamber until someone finally raised a hand for silence.

"If our maps disagree with reality, then we must learn the truth ourselves."

No one objected.

Rather than dispatch a large force that might be mistaken for an invasion, the council authorized a small reconnaissance patrol from the Crimson Vanguard. Five veteran infantry and five skilled archers were chosen for the mission, each sworn to observe before acting.

Their orders were simple.

Travel south into Avarada.

If no kingdom had truly claimed the land, they were to raise the banner of The Black Mantles and formally secure the territory for The League and Lathadura.

If, however, the land belonged to Sturgia as some believed, no claim would be made. Instead, the patrol would survey the southern frontier, identify defensible terrain, and establish temporary watch posts overlooking the border. Every hill, river crossing, and narrow pass would be carefully recorded before returning home.

At dawn the following morning, the ten soldiers departed south.

No drums accompanied them.

No cheering crowds lined the roads.

Only the quiet understanding that in uncertain times, sometimes ten disciplined soldiers could determine the fate of an entire frontier.

OOC: Mods, not sure if Sturgia made an official claim to Avarada or if its a mapping error. The Black Mantles would like to claim it if its still available.

Part 1

Months had passed since the Argent Storm uncovered the mysterious crystalline stones deep within the southern mountains of Lathadura. What had first appeared to be nothing more than strange glowing minerals had become the focus of the greatest magical research the League of Free Banners had ever undertaken.

The council chamber overlooking the Argent Storm fortress had grown quieter in recent weeks.

Not because the work had slowed.

Because every report brought stranger discoveries than the last.

Captain Douglass stood beside a broad stone table where the newly discovered crystals rested. Across from him, Archmage Elion adjusted a collection of brass rings holding several fragmented crystals suspended in precise positions around a steel gauntlet.

"It worked again," the archmage said with a weary smile. "The arrangement was identical."

The gauntlet shimmered briefly.

A nearby apprentice placed it upon his hand and effortlessly lifted an anvil that normally required three dwarves to move.

The glow faded moments later, but the room erupted into quiet excitement.

"It is not the stones alone," another scholar explained. "Any fool can hold one. Their true power comes from their relationship to one another."

He rotated a red crystal several degrees.

The enchantment immediately vanished.

Returning it to its original position restored the magic.

"We believe orientation is as important as color."

Captain Douglass folded his arms.

"So these are not gems."

"No," Elion replied. "They are components of something far older. Every successful arrangement unlocks another fragment of forgotten magic."

Months of experimentation had revealed remarkable possibilities.

Smiths discovered that properly arranged stones could strengthen steel beyond ordinary craftsmanship. Armorers produced shields that absorbed tremendous blows without splintering. Alchemists found certain combinations allowed potions to heal wounds more quickly or preserve themselves for months without spoiling.

Each success required painstaking precision.

One crystal turned the wrong direction, or placed even a finger's width out of position, caused the entire effect to fail.

Many combinations accomplished nothing at all.

Others ended with harmless bursts of light...or spectacular explosions.

Despite countless failures, excitement spread through every workshop of the Argent Storm.

The craftsmen and scholars had unknowingly founded an entirely new discipline.

They called themselves the **Artificers' Guild**.

Unlike traditional wizards, whose magic flowed through study and spellcasting alone, artificers blended arcane knowledge with craftsmanship. They viewed every sword, shield, tool, and device as an opportunity to weave magic into the physical world.

Their earliest creations were humble by comparison to the legends of old.

A lantern that never needed oil.

A crossbow whose bolts flew straighter than any archer could manage.

A suit of armor that felt lighter to its wearer.

A hammer that struck with impossible force.

Boots that softened long marches across rocky trails.

None of these inventions could decide a war on their own.

Yet together they hinted at a future unlike anything the kingdoms of Rutland had ever imagined.

As the council admired the latest creations, Archmage Elion's smile slowly faded.

"There is one matter that troubles me."

The room fell silent.

"The red stones."

He gently covered the deep red crystal resting upon the table.

"They behave differently."

No one argued.

Several scholars who had spent weeks studying the red stones had begun suffering restless dreams. Smiths reported hearing distant voices while working late into the night. Even a handful of respected nobles overseeing the research confessed to visions they could not explain.

The Guild had celebrated the birth of a new age.

Yet beneath that excitement lingered a growing fear that the red stones were quietly studying them in return.

Chapter 8

By the time Dacian, Nirelle, and Raukhet reached the southern port of Tered Arafate, they had expected answers.

What they found instead was disappointment.

The harbor bustled with life. Human merchants bargained with skeletal traders while cheerful skeleton fishermen unloaded their catch beside living sailors. One skeleton harbor clerk, wearing spectacles and a blue vest, patiently organized shipping records while another rang a bell announcing arriving vessels.

After several days of searching, an elderly man finally recognized Dacian's description.

"A scar above the eye?" the old man asked. "Aye, I knew him."

Dacian leaned forward.

"Where did he go?"

The old man frowned.

"He went home. Back to Uractar."

Relief washed over Dacian, but the old man looked uneasy.

"He'd changed. Said something was calling him home. Talked of dreams, black mountains beneath dark red skies. Said old things were waking in Uractar. I thought he'd gone mad."

Despite the unsettling words, the trail had finally led home.

Within two days, the three companions secured passage aboard a merchant vessel.

Three days into the voyage, the cry from above shattered the calm.

"Pirates!"

A swift raider burst from the mist.

Panic swept the crew.

Dacian drew his sword to protect the merchants, but beside him Nirelle simply smiled and reached for her bow.

The first pirate swung across on a rope.

His boots never touched the deck.

Nirelle's arrow struck the rope itself, snapping it clean and sending the man screaming into the sea.

Before anyone could react, she had another arrow nocked.

A crossbowman appeared atop the enemy mast.

She loosed.

The pirate's hat vanished, pinned to the mast behind him, and the startled man fell backward over the railing.

Three grappling hooks flew through the air.

Three arrows answered.

The ropes dropped harmlessly into the water.

The sailors stared in disbelief.

"Can she miss?" one whispered.

Another pirate climbed the rigging, knife between his teeth.

Nirelle drew without even looking.

The arrow sliced through the sail above him. Canvas collapsed around the pirate like a net, leaving him dangling helplessly while the crew erupted in laughter.

Meanwhile, Dacian held the few attackers who managed to board, keeping them away from the terrified merchants.

Then came Raukhet.

The massive black panther burst from below deck with a roar that froze men where they stood. One pirate dropped his sword. Two more leapt overboard without hesitation.

Seeing his attack unravel, the pirate captain ordered retreat.

The raider turned hard into the wind, disappearing into the gathering mist as cheers thundered across the merchant ship.

The captain approached Nirelle in amazement.

"I've sailed twenty years," he said. "And I've never seen shooting like that."

Nirelle lowered her bow, a grin spreading across her face.

"Neither have I."

The following days were peaceful.

The crew repaired the minor damage left by the pirates while spirits remained high. Sailors laughed over exaggerated stories of Nirelle's impossible shots, each retelling making her arrows fly farther and straighter than before. Even Dacian found himself smiling more than he had in weeks.

Uractar was only a day away.

Then the sea changed.

The western horizon darkened with startling speed. A wall of black clouds swallowed the setting sun while a cold wind swept across the water.

The captain's smile vanished.

"All hands!" he shouted. "Storm approaching!"

The crew rushed to shorten sail, but the heavens answered first.

Lightning ripped across the sky.

Thunder rolled like the anger of ancient gods.

Within minutes, calm seas became towering mountains of water.

The ship climbed one massive wave only to plunge into another, its timbers groaning under the strain. Rain lashed the deck with such force that men could barely keep their footing.

Dacian threw himself alongside the sailors, hauling ropes and helping secure loose cargo. Nirelle grabbed crewmen who slipped across the flooded deck, pulling them back before the sea claimed them. Raukhet dug his claws into the timbers, roaring defiantly into the storm.

Then came the sound every sailor feared.

A deafening crack.

The main mast split down its length before crashing across the deck, crushing railings and smashing through the hull.

Water poured into the ship.

"We're taking on too much!" someone screamed.

Before anyone could react, an enormous wave slammed into the crippled vessel broadside.

The ship rolled violently.

The hull struck unseen rocks hidden beneath the raging sea.

Wood exploded into splinters.

The ship broke apart.

Dacian reached for Nirelle through the chaos.

For a single heartbeat, their hands nearly met.

Then another wave crashed between them.

He caught one last glimpse of Raukhet's golden eyes before the sea swallowed everything.

Silence.

No one knew what became of Dacian, Nirelle, or Raukhet.

Whether they drowned, drifted upon scattered wreckage, or washed ashore in some unknown location remained a mystery.

While the sea guarded their fate, events in Rutland continued without them.

And the world would not wait for heroes who had vanished beneath the waves.

My growing special units company in the Wolfpack 104th Battalion. With Plo Koon being on the Jedi Council, he has a special units company within his Battalion. Headed by another Jedi Knight and his commander, they have a mixture of various clone troop types and their support staff for whatever the Galactic Republic needs. This company uses a dark grey and white vehicle livery instead of the battalions standard livery.

The southern mountains of Lathadura had long been known for their iron, silver, and granite. For generations, miners of the Argent Storm had carved tunnels deep into the rugged peaks, supplying the kingdom with the resources needed to build and trade. Yet on this expedition, they uncovered something entirely unexpected.

The discovery came shortly after dawn.

A team of miners following a narrow vein of silver broke through a stone wall into a hidden cavern unlike anything they had ever seen. The chamber glittered with hundreds of crystalline formations jutting from the floor and ceiling. Some shone with a warm golden light, while others glimmered with shades of blue, violet, and deep crimson.

The miners quickly noticed strange phenomena surrounding the crystals. Lantern flames burned brighter near certain shards. Loose pebbles seemed to drift slightly above the ground around others. One miner swore he heard distant whispers whenever he approached a cluster of dark crimson crystals embedded in the cavern wall.

Word of the discovery spread rapidly through the camp.

Captain Douglass of the Argent Storm ordered the cavern sealed and placed under guard until scholars could examine the find. Over the next several days, the miners and soldiers carefully extracted dozens of the strange crystals for transport.

No one could say what the shards truly were.

Some believed they were gifts from ancient dragons. Others thought that they were fragments of fallen stars buried beneath the mountains since the world's creation. A few of the older miners blessed themselves whenever they passed the crates, convinced no natural stone should glow without fire.

With answers beyond their knowledge, the Argent Storm prepared a heavily guarded caravan bound for the capital. There, the archmages of the League of Free Banners would study the mysterious shards and determine what powers, if any, slept within them.

On the continent of Therican lies storm-shrouded areas, black cliffs, ancient forests, and crumbling ruins swallowed by time. Yet no legend upon the continent inspires more fear than the Procession of Ash.

People say that on moonless nights, when the sea fog rolls inland and the forests grow silent, the dead begin their march.

The Procession is said to be made of warriors from the First Kingdom of Rutland, an empire consumed by fire and civil war thousands of years before. Their spirits rise from forgotten ruins buried deep within the volcanic mountains. The dead march in towering plate armor the color of old iron, engraved with sharp layered patterns like the scales of some ancient beast. Black cloaks trail behind them without stirring in the wind. Their helms are cruel and skeletal, crowned with crescent horns and narrow slits that glow with an eerie green light where eyes should be. Some carry chipped blades blackened by age, while others hold long axes or lanterns burning with pale emerald flame.

Before they appear, the signs are always the same.

The birds cease their cries.

The wind dies.

Then come the drums.

Slow. Hollow. Ancient.

Travelers unfortunate enough to hear them are warned to leave the road immediately and kneel with their heads lowered. To look directly upon the marchers is considered a grave insult. Those who mock the old customs are said to vanish before dawn, leaving behind only scorched footprints and the scent of ash upon the air.

Some believe the dead warriors endlessly patrol what they once failed to protect. Others claim they guard the tomb of their final king, whose spirit still waits beneath the mountain for the return of an ancient enemy from across the sea.

Even now, the people of Therican avoid the old stone roads at night.

For sometimes, far off in the darkness, the drums can still be heard.

The news from the south, carried by exhausted sailors and confirmed by every passing caravan that reached Lathadura.

Malus had acted.

His orc armies had crossed the borders of Drellendar and Irtara, leaving burning villages and shattered watchtowers in their wake. What many had dismissed as the boasts of a madman had become a grim reality.

Within the council chambers of Lathadura, the banners of the League of Free Banners hung motionless as representatives from it's members gathered to decide their course.

The mood was uneasy.

"Forces are already committed in Arathril," one commander reminded the council. "To open another front now would stretch us thin."

Others voiced different fears.

"We all remember the Myyga affair," said Lady Serene of the Argent Storm. "Many kingdoms rushed to its defense. If we march on Rentaria, what prevents outsiders from believing us the aggressors and coming to Malus' aid?"

The room fell silent.

No one wished to appear as conquerors. The League had always been a defensive power, concerned first with the peace of Uractar.

At last, Elder Darius of the Black Mantles rose.

"Then we shall not invade. We shall prepare."

The council agreed.

Orders were sent throughout Lathadura. Garrisons along the Rentarian frontier were strengthened, patrols doubled, and supply depots expanded. Veterans returning from distant duties were quietly redirected.

Yet the League had no intention of revealing its hand.

Archmage Corven and some of his fellow mages were entrusted with a different task.

The mages cast the ancient enchantments across the frontier. Phantom soldiers marched where none existed, empty camps bustled with illusory sentries and campfires, and distant horns and marching feet echoed from spells alone.

Meanwhile, real companies vanished behind shimmering veils, hidden from prying eyes. To any watcher, the border seemed crowded with countless warriors, but only the League knew which banners marked flesh and blood and which were merely moonlit phantoms.

Let Malus count the tents.

And let uncertainty become another weapon in the League's defense.

Chapter 7

The moment Nirelle, Dacian, and Raukhet slipped through Dragon's Guard, their search for Dacian's brother began in earnest.

The stories they heard within Tered Arafate were not what Dacian expected.

Nephren-Ka's influence was weakening.

A new power had risen across the region: the Desert Rebellion.

Merchants, travelers, and caravan guards all spoke of the same thing. The rebels had seized control of much of Tered Arafate and were steadily pushing the cults of Nephren-Ka toward the borders. Villages that had once paid tribute to necromancers and death-priests now flew the banners of the rebellion instead.

"It sounds like they're winning," Nirelle remarked as they listened to a group of traders around a campfire.

"Perhaps," Dacian replied. "Or perhaps the cult is simply retreating."

Either way, the news gave them a direction.

Many of the surviving human cultists had fled south rather than face the advancing rebels. Some hid in isolated settlements, while others sought passage on ships along the southern coast, hoping to find distant lands where they could continue their worship undisturbed.

If Dacian's brother still followed Nephren-Ka, there was a good chance he had gone the same way.

The three turned south.

To Dacian's surprise, travel through the region proved far easier than expected. A vast network of desert roads stretched across the land, connecting settlements, wells, and caravan stations. Though the terrain was harsh, the roads themselves were remarkably well maintained.

What surprised him even more were the guides.

At nearly every major intersection stood friendly skeletons wearing faded Desert Rebellion scarves and carrying wooden signs. Some pointed travelers toward nearby towns while others directed caravans toward wells, trading posts, and coastal settlements.

The first time Nirelle saw one wave cheerfully at passing merchants, she nearly reached for her bow.

"You're telling me nobody finds this strange?" she asked.

A nearby trader laughed.

"Only visitors."

The skeleton cheerfully rotated its sign and pointed southward as another caravan approached.

Even Dacian found himself staring.

Back home, an undead creature would have caused panic. Here, travelers greeted them with casual nods and thanks before continuing on their way.

"The Black Mantles would have many questions," Dacian admitted.

Nirelle smirked. "I think Raukhet has even more."

The massive panther watched one particularly enthusiastic skeleton from the side of the road with deep suspicion before continuing onward.

Day by day, the desert roads carried them farther south toward the coast.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, Dacian hoped, his brother was running out of places left to hide.

OOC: Thanks to u/JJKP_ for approving the story within his kingdom