A/N I Heavily edited and Rereleased an Interlude I removed in the beginning in order to give more insight into the world of Friengard, this is the updated version of it. If you have read it after 12/27/24 you can skip this.
The royal palace gardens were an oasis amid Friengard’s turmoil. Exotic flowers, their petals enhanced by faint traces of essence, decorated the winding paths in a feast of color. Meticulously groomed hedges fenced the grassy expanses where, on gentler days, noble children would play. Yet for all the floral beauty, an undercurrent of tension marred the serenity—no place in Friengard could fully escape the kingdom’s anxieties.
King Fredrich walked these paths with a rigid back and set jaw, his fire-red hair glinting in the sunlight like embers. Somewhere, behind each hedge, he imagined voices whispering of his father’s greatness, comparing the late King Fredrich I’s decisive rule to his own uncertain steps. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves, but the threat of open rebellion and the knowledge of beast tides looming in the Harrowlands weighed on him more heavily with every breath.
Behind him strode Duke Valderic Valthorn, silver-shot hair brushing the collar of a cloak embroidered with his house crest. The older noble’s boots clicked on the marble paths, each step somehow both respectful and insistent. He gave the garden one cursory glance—his mind clearly on matters far beyond trimming roses.
“My King,” Valderic began quietly, “the council demands an answer regarding the looming threat. House Castellio’s tragedy has shaken the other lords. They wonder if you have the steel to navigate us through these dark times.”
Fredrich paused by a blooming lilac, its purple petals nearly humming with residual essence. The swirl of energy reminded him of how precariously balanced the kingdom stood—resources pulled in every direction, from forging new weapons to reinforcing wards along the border. Even the palace’s renowned horticulturists used subtle magic to keep these gardens flourishing. All that power... and still it’s not enough to protect us from each other, he thought grimly.
“They want to tax the people again,” Fredrich murmured. “To siphon more essence for the war effort. But we’re already bleeding them dry. I refuse to starve the common folk to fuel a conflict we might avoid if we act with caution. Can none of you see that?”
Valderic clasped his hands behind his back. “We see it well enough, Your Majesty. But the beasts on our borders do not tire, do not pity, and do not relent. House Ashwynd keeps the north secure behind the Stormveil, but they can’t hold indefinitely. Meanwhile, we face internal dissidents—men who question your throne.” His gaze flicked up, scanning the sky as if searching for monsters there. “Your father commanded unity through sheer force of will. You must do the same.”
Fredrich exhaled shakily, refusing to let frustration show on his face. They all speak of my father’s will as though I inherited none of it. “I won’t break my people to prove a point,” he said softly, pivoting on his heel. His eyes slid over the Duke’s stern features. “Is that what you and the council truly want—another wave of forced essence quotas, more soldiers conscripted, more homes left unguarded?”
Valderic’s composure never slipped, though a twitch of tension pinched his brow. “War demands sacrifice, my King. That truth doesn’t change, no matter how gentle our intentions. If we want to keep the beasts from devouring us, we must be ready to wield stronger arms than they do. Our essence reserves are insufficient, and the people’s labor is the quickest way to bolster them.”
A flicker of anger coursed through Fredrich, manifesting as a small but visible surge of mana around his hand. He tamped it down, mindful not to reveal vulnerability. “That is enough, Duke. I’ve made my stance clear: there will be no additional essence taxes on my people. Find another solution—or I will.”
Valderic bowed, though his eyes hardened. “As you command, Your Majesty.” He retreated back down the path, leaving Fredrich to the chorus of birds and the sweet scent of lilacs. The Duke’s departing footsteps seemed to echo with unspoken judgment.
When Fredrich was alone, he noticed a faint, golden prompt hovering at the edge of his vision, visible only to him:
{Advanced Diagnostic Recovery}
- [King’s Stress: Elevated]
- Fatigue rising. Charisma checks temporarily reduced.
He closed his eyes, letting the dryness of fear settle in his throat. _Is the system itself losing faith in me, too?_ the King wondered bitterly. The garden’s tranquility offered no comfort. He felt the weight of the crown heavier than ever, pressing down on a young man trying desperately to prove his worth.
Later that evening, Fredrich found himself in a small, lantern-lit antechamber deep within the palace walls. Away from the main corridors and prying eyes, he sought a reprieve from the unyielding demands of court. The hush of night pressed in, broken only by the soft crackle of the enchanted lanterns.
Lila—an Courtesan with gentle, honey-blonde curls—had drawn the heavy drapes. The flickering light revealed her shapely curves, Fredrichs eyes roamed up and met her concerned gaze as she turned to the King. “You look tired, Your Majesty,” she said, voice hushed.
Fredrich let out a low laugh, free of mirth. “The entire realm wonders whether I’ll lead them to prosperity or ruin. Sleep doesn’t come easily.”
She moved closer, setting a wooden tray down with a steaming pot of herbal tea. “Drink,” she urged softly. “Lady Castellio once swore by this blend when anxieties plagued her. It might help... a little.”
The mention of House Castellio caught in his heart. The grim news of the duchess’s death still weighed on the kingdom like a heavy shroud. “Thank you,” he managed, accepting the cup. The first sip soothed his throat, though not the doubts roiling inside.
Lila settled beside him, a comforting presence. “They say Duke Valderic visited you in the gardens,” she ventured. “He’s pushing for harsher measures again.”
Fredrich’s mouth drew into a tense line. “He thinks I’m too soft to hold the kingdom together.” His voice dropped. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s right.”
She placed her hand atop his, warmth against warmth. “Strength takes many shapes, Fredrich. Compassion might be the greatest shape of all. If the realm doesn’t see it yet, maybe you need to show them plainly.”
He swallowed, meeting her gaze. “How? War’s on the horizon, conspirators are stirring, and the people are afraid of beasts and of each other. I can’t exactly embark on a goodwill tour without risking my life.”
Lila’s features softened. “You can still govern with an open heart. Let the lords scheme if they want—but show the common folk that their King hears them. Lead by example.” She paused, then added, “Your father earned their loyalty through battles and victories. You might earn it by listening to them. Truly listening.”
Fredrich fell silent, letting her words settle. The tea’s gentle bitterness lingered on his tongue. She was right, at least in part: If the entire kingdom expects me to fail, I’ll prove them wrong by forging my own path.
Meanwhile, in the city’s bustling center, the Black Boar Inn echoed with subdued chatter and the distant hum of instruments. Marta, the longtime proprietress, swept the tavern floor with brisk efficiency, her weary eyes scanning over patrons who nursed drinks and conversation in equal measure. The tension in the capital had seeped into the inn; laughter, once a staple of these tables, seemed in short supply.
An older man in a frayed cloak hunched by the hearth, recounting rumors to anyone who’d listen. “The King’s too young. Too merciful,” he grumbled. “Valderic Valthorn, now there’s a man who understands what must be done in hard times.”
A woman with travel-worn boots scowled at him from the next seat. “And what’s that? Sell us all into essence-harvesting just to forge more weapons? I’ve got family who need that magic for daily chores. We can’t all be fodder for the frontier.”
Marta cleared her throat, inserting herself with a firm tone. “Enough with the doom-saying. The King hasn’t thrown us to the wolves yet. Let’s not bury him before the fighting even starts.”
A hush fell over their corner of the inn, the tension thick as day-old stew. Eventually, the travelers returned to nursing their ales, each wrestling with private thoughts of Friengard’s precarious future.
Across the city, Duke Valderic stood on a high balcony overlooking the palace quarter. Lanterns dotted the streets like fireflies. Somewhere, a watch tower bell tolled softly, marking the approach of midnight. Valderic’s gaze swept from the polished spires of aristocratic estates to the huddled rooftops of poorer districts.
He tapped the rail with a leather-gloved fingertip, mind swirling with strategies. That boy is determined to shield his people, Valderic thought, but kindness can only buy so much time. The echoes of bestial howls from the Harrowlands made their way into even the city’s sturdiest strongholds. With Castellio in disarray after the duchess’s death and the Ashwynds unwilling to commit significant forces beyond Stormveil, the Duke suspected a tipping point would come soon.
From the shadows stepped a lean figure in subdued livery, bowing low. “My lord, the watchers report talk of your name in every tavern. Some see you as a savior; others as a warmonger.”
Valderic smiled thinly. “Excellent. A mix of fear and hope gives people something to rally behind—or to flee. Either way, they move, and movement is how change takes root.”
He stared into the gloom, considering the shape of the inevitable war. A whisper of the progress ticking up made him glance at the Words of the World hovering at the periphery of his senses, urging unification under his rule, awarding incremental achievements. We all chase these intangible rewards, but only a handful can truly harness them.
Turning away from the balcony, Duke Valderic’s eyes gleamed with the conviction of a man who would not be denied power. “Let the King cling to compassion,” he murmured. “When the beasts break down the gates, the realm will see whose resolve is truly forged in steel.”
King Fredrich awoke before dawn in his private chambers, the taste of bitter herbs lingering on his tongue. Though the tea had soothed his nerves enough for sleep, he felt scarcely rested. A soft chime
{Advanced Diagnostic Recovery}
[System Alert: Dawn’s Respite Ended]
blinked into the corner of his vision and vanished.
He rose, dressed, and made his way to a small, unadorned room where a single practice dummy stood. Here, unburdened by spectators, Fredrich let loose his frustrations in the form of swordplay, each swing brimming with unspent tension. The dummy’s stuffing scattered with each strike, yet a single tear glistened on Fredrich’s cheek.
He’d never have faltered like this. The thought of his father’s sure-handed leadership gnawed at him. The old King had stood tall against monstrous threats, forging alliances through both charisma and fear. And I… I’m just me. He thrust forward, skillful but uncertain. [Sword Mastery Saffron Rank Twenty Three] hovered at the edge of his HUD, reminding him how far he had to go.
When at last the sun’s rays broke over the palace walls, Fredrich lowered his blade, breath ragged. There must be another way, he told himself. I’ll find a path that spares my people needless sacrifice, and I’ll keep Friengard whole—no matter what Valderic or anyone else believes.
Just after James and Joey entered the rift.
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Figurines of knights, cavalry formations, and miniature siege engines soared in all directions, scattering across the packed dirt floor of the large command tent. King Fredrich’s arm, still raised in fury, quivered with adrenaline as he glared at the wide-eyed generals and advisors standing around the central table. Ten years had passed since the first tumultuous confrontation in the Straits, yet time had done little to temper his volatile temperament.
His hair, once a vivid fire-red, had deepened into a darker auburn over the years, though the flickers of bright color still glowed when caught by lamplight. Lines of tension etched his brow, and his once-clean-shaven jaw sported the stubble of a restless night. If there were any illusions left in the bright-eyed boy-king ascending the throne over a decade ago, they lay shattered on the dust-strewn floor alongside the figurines he’d just knocked astray.
“I DON’T CARE!” Fredrich roared, his voice rasping with disuse and rage combined. Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. The tent’s many braziers, placed to fight the chill of the approaching evening, gave his features a wild, flickering aura. The map before him—an intricately painted depiction of the Kingdom of Friengard, stretching from the Harrowlands in the east to the Stormveil frontier in the north—lay in chaos, as though battered by the same storms that plagued the realm’s borders.
A hush fell. Several junior officers shrank back, pale in the face of the King’s outburst. Ten years under Fredrich’s rule had taught them that while he could be merciful, his bursts of wrath could be as scorching as dragonflame. Threads of rumor said the King’s spirit was fraying at the edges—that all the betrayals in his court, all the pressure to keep the realm intact, had finally begun to tear at his sanity.
The only man not quailing was Bartholomew—“Uncle Bart,” as Fredrich had once called him during calmer days. His hair had turned entirely silver, yet age had only refined the steel in his spine. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a tabard of deep royal blue emblazoned with the King’s sigil, a token of loyalty that hadn’t diminished through the years. Where others saw the King’s rage and trembled, Bartholomew stepped forward with steady resolve, his gaze flicking from the map to Fredrich.
“My King,” Bartholomew said, voice level but tinged with a potent mixture of concern and determination, “we know this matter has become personal—more than military, more than political.”
At the word personal, Fredrich’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed. The painful rasp in his voice tightened. “Personal?” he repeated, biting out each syllable. “Everything they do is personal! They want my crown. They want my blood. They want the entire kingdom to see me fall.”
Bartholomew inclined his head, acknowledging the truth. “Those traitors,” he snarled, letting the word land heavily, “challenge our unity. In times like these, we cannot allow emotion alone to guide us. Rash decisions could unravel everything we’ve fought to hold together these last ten years.”
The gathered generals and advisors, dressed in varying shades of polished breastplates, brigandine vests, and arcane-infused robes, exchanged glances. Each of them bore insignia marking their respective houses or guilds. Most averted their eyes from the King, anxious to escape his direct gaze. Bartholomew alone met Fredrich’s stare without flinching.
Fredrich’s arm, still extended over the map, trembled. “Do you know what he did to me, Bartholomew?” A flicker of raw hurt crossed the King’s face. To the untrained eye, it might look like simple rage, but Bartholomew saw a decade of betrayal, sorrow, and resentment swirling together.
Before the older man could respond, Fredrich channeled a surge of mana—an ability that had grown more potent over the years, though it came with a cost. The King’s voice reverberated with unnatural force as he commanded, “LEAVE.”
A luminous wave spread outward from Fredrich’s body, akin to the shimmering heat haze above a forge. In that moment, a {King’s Command} icon briefly flickered in the air, visible to anyone with the {Mana Sense} skill. Every soldier, every advisor, every lesser noble—save Bartholomew—lurched in unison as if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. Wordlessly, they filed out of the tent, leaving behind only the murmurs of hushed shock. Bartholomew remained, transfixed by the weight of that magical order.
When the last figure disappeared through the canvas flap, Fredrich let the mana dissipate. The swirling shimmer vanished, leaving the King noticeably paler, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Exhaustion slumped his shoulders. He staggered back from the table, dropping into a heavy wooden chair. An uneasy stillness settled in the tent, broken only by the sputter of the lantern flames.
Bartholomew stood at a respectful distance. He had seen the toll that {King’s Command} took on Fredrich. In the decade since he had ascended, Fredrich’s inherited abilities had grown—divinely sanctioned by the Words of the World. Yet each use carved away a piece of his essence taking a long time to restore. More than once, Bartholomew had tried to caution him about pushing his talents too far, but the King’s fury often blinded him to caution.
At length, Fredrich exhaled, hands clenched on the armrests of the chair. His auburn hair clung to his damp brow. “You were with my father during the campaigns to reclaim the Harrowlands, right, Uncle Bart?” There was a tremor of childlike appeal in his words, as though Fredrich were once again that uncertain boy thrust upon the throne.
Bartholomew’s memory flickered to those days—battles in the bleak and twisted landscapes of the Harrowlands, monstrous roars echoing across shattered plains. “Yes,” he affirmed, stepping closer. “I fought alongside Fredrich I for many years. We faced horrors no one in Friengard had seen before. Enraged beasts, mutated by vile essence flows. Always, your father led from the front.” His gaze traveled to the battered figurines scattered about. “We fought side by side, ironically enough, with some of those who’ve now turned against us. Men like the Castellio, or the Valthorn bastard you name as an enemy. Once, we all bled for the same cause.”
Fredrich’s eyes glimmered with both anger and sorrow. “And now we fight each other,” he muttered. “He—Valderic—used Lila against me.” There was a catch in his voice, recalling the memories of betrayal. Fredrich’s jaw tightened. “I was a fool. I loved her… She was everything I thought I needed.” He slammed a fist down on the table, scattering a few stray figurines. “And she humiliated me before half the court. How do I recover from that?”
Bartholomew placed one large hand on the King’s shoulder. The gesture was an uncle’s, a father’s, a mentor’s all in one. “We all saw it,” he murmured, voice thick with a sympathy that stung. “You refused to hide your affections. Even when the council demanded a more prestigious match, you insisted your heart knew best. None of us foresaw how cunning she was—or how effectively Valderic manipulated her. But you mustn’t let this personal wound blind you to the bigger war. It was Lila’s betrayal, but it was also a power move by your enemies.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Fredrich swallowed, drawing in a shaky breath. He’d relived that moment countless times in nightmares: the smirking faces of the court, Lila’s cold gaze as she declared her true allegiance. He could almost taste the venom of that day. “I’m still King, Uncle,” he said, the words part reassurance and part plea. “By the Words of the World, the crown remains mine. Valderic might have driven me to near disgrace, but I didn’t step down. I held on. And I will keep holding on until I pass the crown to my child.”
Bartholomew’s silent approval shone in his measured nod. He’d witnessed Fredrich’s defiance in that trial by public humiliation. Despite the heartbreak and the calls for abdication, Fredrich had delivered a speech so powerful it left even skeptics in awe. It was in that moment the realm realized that, however flawed, their King possessed unbreakable resolve.
Softly, Fredrich asked, “Uncle, who would bring the most benefit to the kingdom if I… if I took another consort?” Bitterness tinged his words, as though the notion itself felt like swallowing shards of glass. He had loved once, and that had ended in betrayal. The mere thought of forging a marriage for political gain left him hollowed, but the realm needed stability and heirs born of strong alliances.
Bartholomew’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained heavy with responsibility. He opened his mouth, clearly ready to float names of noble daughters with valuable ties: ladies from House Grimthorne with a strong tradition in siege-craft, or perhaps House Ashwynd, whose ancestral wards guarded the Stormveil from monstrous incursions. But before he could utter a single suggestion, a sudden, shimmering distortion rippled through the air.
A radiant script materialized in front of them both, hovering inches above the battered map. Neither Fredrich nor Bartholomew had ever seen such an authoritative display from the Words of the World. Usually, system messages were private affairs, glimpsed by the recipient alone, or faintly perceived by those with high-level {Detection}. But this time, the letters shone for all to see, an unspoken power humming in their presence:
Congratulations, Leaders of Friengard!
Essence levels have reached sufficient levels to bring your world into the greater region of Xaltheon.
Time remaining until integration: 1824 days.
Objectives:
1. Unite Friengard
2. Create a new Kingdom
(Note) - Objectives One and Two are mutually exclusive.
3. Increase Essence flow
Rewards:
- Greater standing in the region
- (Unknown)
It lingered, a nimbus of golden light reflected in Fredrich’s widened eyes and Bartholomew’s stunned expression. The two men stared, the words refusing to vanish as though the system demanded acknowledgment.
Fredrich’s heart hammered in his chest. “1824 days… that’s five years.” The possibilities swirled in his mind—Friengard forcibly integrated into a larger realm? In the entire recorded history of the kingdom, the Words of the World had never initiated an event of such magnitude. Usually, its messages guided individuals with personal quests or bestowed classes. But to address them collectively, referencing the entire kingdom, was unheard of.
Bartholomew’s hand drifted from Fredrich’s shoulder to the table, steadying himself. He sank into a nearby chair, snatching a half-empty crystal decanter from Fredrich’s personal store. Pouring cognac into a pewter cup, he took a hearty swig. “Our timeline,” he managed at last, voice hoarse, “just got a lot shorter.”
“Xaltheon…” Fredrich whispered. The name was only half-familiar. He recalled scattered references in ancient bestiaries and traveler’s tomes—tales of realms beyond their plane, teeming with monstrous powers and advanced civilizations. If Friengard became part of such a region, the stakes would soar. The kingdom’s petty squabbles and internal betrayals would pale compared to threats from established powers, larger armies, or colossal beasts.
“Integration demands unity,” Bartholomew said quietly, setting the pewter cup down with a soft clunk. “We’ve never managed to unify Friengard, not fully. Your father tried, your grandfather tried… but each time, old feuds and new alliances tore everything apart leading us to fractious ruin. If we fail now—”
Fredrich finished the thought, a cold dread in his voice. “Then we’ll be swallowed whole by Xaltheon’s more aggressive powers. Or torn asunder by the new waves of beasts that thrive in higher-essence environments.” He paced the tent, boots grinding the scattered figurines into the ground. “It means forging alliances with houses that despise me. Subduing lords who want my throne. Or… removing them,” he added with a grim finality.
Bartholomew’s gaze flicked back to the glowing message, which slowly began to fade. “We’ll need a strategy that outmatches any we’ve used before. As much as it pains me, Valderic Valthorn’s resources might be essential. He’s already proven he has the will to do whatever’s necessary. If we can’t bend him to our side—”
“We break him,” Fredrich finished, bitterness and determination mingling in his tone. “We cannot allow the realm to be carved up by wolves just as we enter the jaws of a greater universe.”
The golden letters dissolved completely, leaving behind only a faint electric hush. Fredrich stared at the space they’d occupied. “I have five years to do the impossible,” he said, forcing a hollow laugh. “I can’t even keep my own council from stabbing me in the back, and now I must unify them all?” Rage and desperation warred within him. But I am a King by the Words of the World… My people deserve more than a meltdown. They deserve a chance.
Bartholomew stood, gripping Fredrich’s shoulder once more. “This is a final test, Fredrich,” he said, his voice steady. “Think of your father. Think of all that Friengard stands for. We’ll gather your loyal houses and see who among the traitors can be brought to heel. As for the rest…”
Fredrich’s face hardened. “There are fates worse than exile.” For a moment, the two men exchanged a silent vow: they would lead Friengard to stand tall or die trying.
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High atop a cliffside estate overlooking rolling fields, Jonathan Castellio stood watching his daughter, Judith, frolick among the swaying grass. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, mixing with the subtle tang of beast-repelling wards humming at the property’s boundaries. Compared to the swirling chaos in the King’s war camps, Castellio’s estate presented an idyllic picture of countryside life—yet even here, the tension was palpable.
Jonathan, once a golden child of House Castellio, had been estranged from his father, Duke Gabriel Castellio, for almost a decade now. The heartbreak and fury ignited by the debacle involving a stolen wyvern egg had never truly healed. He had hoped to redeem himself by harnessing that wyvern for the betterment of the family, but circumstances had spiraled out of control. The resulting schism left him disowned in all but name.
Now, he eyed his nine-year-old daughter, Judith. She had a bright, curious face and an unyielding energy. Despite the heartbreak and regret that weighed on Jonathan, his bond with his daughter infused each day with hope. If there was any redemption for his bloodline, it pulsed in the warm, bounding steps of that spirited child.
A massive form glided overhead, casting a looming shadow across the fields before landing gracefully near Judith. The creature’s sinuous neck flexed as it sniffed at her, its sleek black scales rippling with chaotic mana. Lennox, the Chaos-affinity wyvern Jonathan had tamed years ago, had grown larger and more powerful. Its eyes glowed with an otherworldly intelligence, sharpened by frequent exposure to the Beast Taming Guild’s training rituals.
Jonathan watched as Judith squealed with delight, clinging to the back of Lennox’s neck. “Easy there,” he called out. “He’s not a horse, you know.”
Judith giggled, patting the wyvern’s scales with childlike affection. “He loves it, Papa!” she insisted, though she hopped down quickly at her father’s urging. The wyvern bent its neck to gently place her on the ground with a careful grip of its jaws, a surprisingly tender motion for such a ferocious beast.
Walking toward them, Jonathan kept one eye on the wards around his estate, reflexively checking that the flickers of essence remained strong. With the Words of the World’s new announcement about integration and rising essence levels, more beasts than ever prowled the kingdom. Though Castellio lands boasted formidable guard posts and magical defenses, vigilance was paramount.
When he reached Judith, he lowered himself to her eye level. “We need to talk about your future,” he said quietly. “War is on the horizon, and the capital’s academies are mobilizing. You’re nearly of age to discover your first Talent. You remember how the system works, yes?”
Judith wrinkled her nose, torn between a child’s impatience and a budding sense of duty. “Yes, Dad. The day I turn ten, the Words of the World will reveal my initial attributes and aptitudes. Then I choose skills, I train, and I rank up. Everyone keeps telling me I have so much potential, but…” She looked aside, her bravado cracking. “It’s scary.”
Jonathan’s gaze softened. He reached out, tilting her chin gently. “It’s natural to be scared, Jude. But you have more support than most. You’ll be safe in the capital’s college, especially with Andreas looking out for you.” A flicker of warmth crossed his features at the name. Andreas had been a loyal guard captain to House Castellio, one of the few who still maintained ties with Jonathan despite his estrangement.
Judith puffed out her cheeks. “I don’t mind Andreas, but I’m not a baby. I can handle myself.”
A soft chuckle escaped Jonathan, though his eyes held a swirl of unresolved conflict. “You’ve never lived through a real war, sweet girl. Once you see it… well, you’ll be glad to have Andreas around.”
She gave a melodramatic sigh, the exasperation of a child forced to confront matters beyond her years. “Alright, Dad.”
Jonathan rose, nodding approvingly. “Good. We leave for the capital next month—just in time for your birthday. Duke Valderic is ensuring a safe route. He and… your grandfather agree that nothing must happen to you.” He hesitated at the mention of the Duke of Castellio, unsure how to explain the complicated ties to his father. The child had never met her paternal grandfather, who resided in the Castellio seat. That rift still stung Jonathan deeply, but he suppressed the pang of guilt for her sake.
“Grandfather?” Judith asked, tilting her head.
Jonathan forced a smile. “Yes. He’s concerned with preserving the family’s future lineage, no matter our… differences. He won’t let any harm come to you, no matter how complicated our relationship is.” The explanation felt hollow, but it was enough for Judith’s young mind.
Her eyes brightened at the reminder of traveling. “So Andreas will come, and Lennox, too?”
“Not Lennox,” Jonathan corrected gently. “The capital’s wards might treat him as a threat. Besides, I need him here to quell some of the unrest in our corner of the county. There are monsters stirring more frequently now. With the essence rising, wild creatures are spawning at higher levels. We can’t leave these people defenseless.”
Judith’s face fell. She glanced back at the massive wyvern, who regarded her calmly, tail swishing. “But… he’s my friend.”
Jonathan patted her back. “I know. We’ll see him again soon enough. First, we have to make sure you’re safe, and that you fulfill your potential. The college will have top-tier instructors, skill scrolls, everything you need to lay the foundation for a strong Class. You might discover you have an affinity for healing, or illusions, or maybe something rare like your mother had…” He trailed off, a faint shadow crossing his face. He rarely spoke of Judith’s mother the daughter of Duke Valderic, who had died when she was still an infant.
Judith pivoted from concern to curiosity in the blink of an eye, hugging her father around his waist. “Fine, Dad,” she said with a grin. Then she pulled away, skipping back toward the main house. “I’ll tell Lennox goodbye later!”
Jonathan watched her, an ache in his chest. If everything had gone differently, she wouldn’t have to grow up in a world on the brink of war. Behind him, Lennox nudged his shoulder with a massive snout, rumbling. Jonathan patted the beast’s scaled jaw.
“Come on, friend,” he murmured, climbing onto a saddle fitted around Lennox’s broad back. “We’ve got work to do.” Spreading its wings, the wyvern lifted into the air, carrying Jonathan above the estate’s manicured gardens. Below, servants and guards momentarily paused, shading their eyes. They had grown used to this sight—a fallen noble flying on a monstrous companion, patrolling his own sliver of land.
Far in the distance, dark clouds swirled ominously, an apt mirror to the tension brewing across Friengard. Jonathan guided Lennox toward the horizon, prepared for the next battle to protect what little peace he had secured.
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In a modest encampment far from Castellio’s regal estates in the straits in the east, the atmosphere was tense and frantic. Canvas tents clung together in clusters, scattered around a half-finished palisade. The acrid odor of burnt wood and magic lingered in the air—signs of recent beast attacks. Survivors shuffled through muddy pathways, the lumps of their worldly possessions strapped to carts or beasts of burden.
Among them, Bell clasped her fists against Andy’s chest, tears streaming down her face. Her once-bright hazel eyes were red from weeping, and her shoulders quaked with grief. Andy, broad-chested and stoic, enveloped her in a protective embrace. Around them, the faint hum of wards buzzed, each flicker of mana a reminder that the region had become more dangerous since the Words of the World announced Friengard’s pending integration.
“No,” Bell choked, pressing her face into Andy’s tunic. “We’ve waited a month. There’s been no sign of them. But I know James is still alive. I feel it. A mother just… knows.”
Andy’s own expression was hollow with worry, though he remained the pillar for Bell to lean on. “Bell, I feel it too,” he admitted gently. “But everything’s gone to chaos. Beasts at level twenty and above roam these roads. Without a Farseer or a skilled search party, we can’t just wander aimlessly. We’d be devoured—or worse.”
She pounded a weak fist against his chest in frustration. “He’s only a boy,” she sobbed, “lost and scared, maybe wounded. He needs me.”
Andy’s arms tightened around her. “I promise, we will find him. We’ll leave with the last caravan tomorrow for the capital. There, we can hire a clairvoyant or a high-level scryer. Someone who can track James, even if he’s on the other side of the kingdom.” He gazed down at her tear-streaked face. “I’m not giving up on our son.”
Bell sniffed, tears still glistening. “Alright,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. She turned to a small cloth bundle containing her and Andy’s valuables. The weight of her resolve seemed to anchor her trembling frame. “We’ll go. We’ll do whatever it takes.”
Outside, twilight draped the encampment in purple shadows. The scattered campfires wavered in the evening breeze, sending sparks dancing across the dim sky. Families huddled close, each group nursing their own stories of loss and displacement. The rumor that King Fredrich was losing control of the realm had circulated, leaving people uncertain whether traveling to the capital would offer sanctuary or place them in the crossfire of noble power struggles.
Andy helped Bell to her feet, guiding her to a tent lit by a single lantern. Inside, a half-packed trunk lay open next to a bedroll. She knelt, adding a few more precious mementos: a child’s blanket, tattered but cherished; a small wooden figurine carved by James. Each item held a memory, each memory cutting her heart with renewed anguish.
Andy stood at the entrance, arms folded protectively. He was tall enough to fill the doorway, and Bell had always found solace in his presence—like a living wall against the world’s cruelties. “The caravans gather at dawn,” he reminded her softly. “Get some rest if you can.”
Bell nodded, wiping fresh tears. “Okay...” was all she could mutter laying down on the bed listening as the wind howled outside.
Please be safe, James, Bell thought, letting exhaustion claim her. Her last waking image was that of James’s bright smile, the day he triumphantly caught his first fish in a nearby stream running to show her. Now that memory felt a world away, overshadowed by the swirling uncertainties of Friengard’s future.
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Morning came slowly, subdued by heavy clouds drifting overhead. True to Andy’s word, the caravan from surrounding cities in the straits was forming at the edge of the encampment and bustled with activity. Wagons were loaded with food and supplies, guarded by mercenaries and lesser knights wearing mismatched armor. Children cried, dogs barked, and the clang of pot lids against harnesses punctuated the chaotic exodus.
Bell stood among the gathering throng, her posture stiff with a fragile determination. Bell’s gaze swept over the crowd, half expecting to see James’s familiar figure weaving through the chaos, even though she knew he was still missing.
If he’s out there… if he truly is… maybe we’ll find him sooner rather than later, she told herself. Desperation turned in her gut, but she clung to Andy’s repeated promises. The capital might be overrun with refugees and swirling intrigues, but it boasted resources no small settlement could match—guilds specializing in search magic, informants with far-reaching networks, and healers capable of potent rescues.
Andy joined her, leading a horse laden with their meager possessions. “We should get moving,” he said, voice tight. “Storm clouds are rolling in, and I’d rather not be caught on the road without cover.”
Bell nodded silently. The caravan lurched into motion, a line of rattling carts and trudging figures winding across a ragged dirt road. Scouts wearing dented helms rode ahead, scanning the tree line for beasts. Now and then, Bell caught a glimpse of Andy’s knuckles tightening on his horse’s reins. The presence of so many fearful travelers made an irresistible target for roving monsters.
As the convoy moved on, a hush descended, the hush of people who had already lost too much. Occasionally, a muffled sob or a quiet prayer broke the silence. Each soul in that line carried heartbreak of their own—villages razed, family members missing, homes lost to either beasts or the cruel turn of politics.
Bell felt the tension coil in her chest. We’re going to the heart of it all—the capital. Will the King help us? Or has he become so mired in his own battles that we’ll find no allies there? A single tear slipped down her cheek as she thought of James, lost somewhere, hopefully clinging to life.
Far above, storm clouds thickened, a harbinger of the gathering trials that lay before them all.
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In the skies above the capital, a dark shape appeared, gradually growing larger. A hush settled over a marketplace as people tilted their heads up, gasping. Only high-level beastmasters or advanced rank knights risked flying creatures within city limits.
Jonathan Castellio, atop Lennox, circled the city’s perimeter, searching for a safe place to land. Officially, he had no right to bring a dangerous wyvern into the capital. Yet the city’s wards recognized him as a still-titled noble with a unique beast permit, albeit one strained by years of disuse. The runic barrier over the gates shimmered, deciding whether to allow Lennox entry.
A series of runic circles flared around them, scanning Lennox’s mana signature. Jonathan held his breath. If the wards rejected them, they’d be forcibly repelled by arcs of defensive lightning. Thankfully, a moment later, the barrier parted, letting them pass. Whispers of fear and awe rose from the streets below as the black wyvern swooped into a half-abandoned courtyard near an old barracks.
Jonathan dismounted, stroking Lennox’s snout to calm the beast. Soldiers, alerted by magical sensors, rushed forward, halberds raised. Some recognized him, others eyed the wyvern warily.
A captain with a braided mustache stepped forward. “Jonathan Castellio…” he read from a small scrying device. “You’re authorized to enter, but you’ll need to keep that creature in the designated stables. We can’t have it flying freely above the city.”
Jonathan nodded curtly. “That’s acceptable. I assume Duke Valderic provided clearance for me?” The question was rhetorical; Jonathan had arranged this well in advance. Still, tension thickened as a group of stablehands scrambled to guide Lennox to an area reserved for exotic mounts.
Once the wyvern was safely escorted away—hissing in mild irritation—Jonathan slung a travel-worn cloak around his shoulders. {Travel Cloak: +10 Endurance, +5 Charisma in negotiations with commoners} read the item’s hidden properties. He patted it absently, grateful for any small edge. The city’s labyrinth of politics and half-kept alliances stretched before him like an unsolvable puzzle.
I’m here for Judith. Nothing more. He repeated the mantra, heading off to prepare for his daughter’s arrival in a few weeks. Still, the memory of that shimmering system announcement loomed in the back of his mind: Unite Friengard. Create a new Kingdom. Could he truly remain on the sidelines if everything he held dear was at stake?
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High within the royal castle’s war room, King Fredrich studied the latest reports. Maps pinned to the walls displayed beast sightings, mass migrations, and suspected rebel movements. Every few minutes, a messenger or courier would arrive, depositing updates that triggered new lines on the maps, new pins, new layers of complexity.
Bartholomew entered, carrying a rolled parchment. “The capital is filling with refugees,” he announced, voice grim. “We’re nearing capacity. The wards can handle a bit more, but soon we’ll strain to feed or house them all.”
Fredrich tapped the map, eyes flicking to a cluster of symbols marking the city’s border. “We can’t turn them away,” he said, though he sounded exhausted. “They’re our people, and the Words of the World has demanded unity. If we start closing gates, we’ll sow resentment that might spark open revolt before we can rally them for war.”
Bartholomew nodded, setting the scroll on the table. “We might need to enact rationing. Also, I’ve spoken with the Mages’ Guild. They can create temporary conjured shelters, but it will cost essence. A lot of it.”
“Where do we get the essence?” Fredrich demanded, voice taut. “We can’t raise taxes again without risking rebellion.”
A beat passed in silence. Bartholomew cleared his throat. “We might broker deals with the adventurer guild for essence crystals, though that requires coin. Alternatively, we can incentivize our military to delve deeper into the Harrowlands for high-level hunts. It’s risky, but the spoils could be immense. The Harrowlands’ new climate is spawning even stronger creatures—killing them yields more essence or mana-rich cores.”
Fredrich sank into a seat, massaging his temples. The swirling illusions of the war table cast shadows across his features. “Too many fires to douse… and not enough water.”
“You’re not alone,” Bartholomew reminded him. “Even now, the old alliances are stirring. Duke Eryk remains loyal. Jonathan Castellio might be an ally if properly approached. He could bring a portion of Castellio loyalists in line, especially if his daughter’s future ties them to us.”
Fredrich’s jaw tightened. “Jonathan Castellio…” he muttered. “He’s part of the reason I lost Lila—her betrayal was linked to the Castellio sphere of influence, if not him directly. But perhaps it’s time I let personal grievances go. We have five years to unify Friengard. I can’t do that by clinging to old grudges.”
A flicker of relief showed in Bartholomew’s eyes. “A wise stance, my King. I’ll set a meeting. With Jonathan, with Eryk, with any who might join us—willingly or otherwise.”
Fredrich nodded, gaze distant. He thought of the traitors who had once tried to publicly overthrow him. Some were in hiding, others possibly forging their own armies. The system’s blunt demand—Unite Friengard—echoed in his mind, an impossible puzzle. “Yes,” he murmured. “Make preparations. We have no time to waste.”
Nothing would ever be the same. The days of isolation and petty conflicts were over. A new dawn rose, tinged with the thunder of approaching war and the promise of unimaginable growth—if only those who held power could find common ground before everything shattered.