[Conrad city–Kingdom Capital]
Conrad City is a sprawling metropolis set in a vast, fertile plain that stretches as far as the eye can see, framed by rivers that glisten under the sun.
The city is surrounded by formidable stone walls with watchtowers at regular intervals, each adorned with pennants that wave proudly in the breeze.
Inside, cobblestone streets wind through busy marketplaces filled with merchants peddling exotic wares and street performers captivating passersby.
The architecture blends grand stone buildings with elegant timber-framed houses, showcasing intricate carvings and archways.
At the heart of Conrad City rises the majestic castle, a vision of opulence and power.
Constructed from smooth, pale stone that seems to glow under the sunlight, the castle features towering spires capped with gilded tips that shimmer like fire in the dusk.
The central tower, known as the King’s Beacon, looms high above, offering a breathtaking view of the city and surrounding lands.
The castle gates are monumental, made of dark iron reinforced with golden filigree that depicts heroic tales of yore.
Inside, the halls are vast, with marble floors that echo each step, and walls adorned with tapestries recounting the kingdom's storied past.
A courtyard lush with vibrant gardens and splashing fountains adds a touch of tranquil beauty to this fortress of majesty and might.
The grand hall of Conrad City’s castle was cloaked in a heavy silence, pierced only by the muffled crackle of the torches lining the stone walls.
Tension pulsed through the air like a living thing, coiling tighter with each breath.
King Serom sat upon his gilded throne, a figure of authority marked by age and the weight of a crown that seemed heavier than ever.
His hair and beard, once a deep chestnut, had long since faded to white, framing a face lined with worry and the burdens of a kingdom on the brink.
The royal cloak of deep blue and gold draped around his shoulders barely moved, as if even it felt the gravity of the situation.
Before him stood a gathering of nobles, advisors, and generals—each clad in ceremonial garb that now felt almost mocking in the face of the looming threat.
Murmurs rippled across the room like a restless tide, hushed voices laced with doubt and fear.
The news of Feria’s fall had spread faster than wildfire, and the specter of defeat was etched in every anxious glance and furrowed brow.
King Serom's voice broke through the room, brittle yet commanding.
"So, what do you all suggest we do?"
A beat of silence followed, and then an older man cleared his throat, stepping forward.
It was Duke Driesell.
The man stood tall, his uniform of deep blue adorned with the sigil of a storm, signifying the legacy of the Driesell lineage—warriors bound to thunder and steel.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
His eyes, usually calm and calculating, blazed with barely contained fury, and grief shadowed their depths.
It wasn’t just the loss of Feria that tormented him; it was the sight of his son, Steven, returning broken in spirit and body, haunted by the cries of the fallen.
"Your Majesty!" Duke Driesell’s voice thundered, startling those who stood nearby.
"We must not delay any longer. We cannot afford more hesitation! Give me the command, and I will personally lead my men to sweep the Demon King and his forces from our lands."
His declaration sent a ripple of surprise through the room.
Whispers erupted, a cacophony of worry and skepticism.
But Duke Driesell’s eyes never wavered from the king, his fists clenched at his sides as he held his breath.
Rage warred with a deeper emotion inside him—a father’s guilt.
The image of Steven lying on his bed, eyes blank and distant as he replayed the battle in his mind, gnawed at Duke Driesell’s heart.
His son’s voice, usually so full of confidence, now whispered words of blame.
Those words had shattered the duke more than any sword could.
King Serom met his gaze, the old king’s eyes softening as they recognized the raw desperation in one of his most trusted vassals.
He knew what it meant for Duke Driesell to volunteer so fiercely.
The duke’s desire for vengeance wasn’t just for Feria, or even the kingdom—it was for his son’s honor and peace of mind.
But before the king could respond, another voice cut through the hall, deep and laced with caution.
"Duke Driesell, while your courage is unquestionable, we can’t act recklessly."
It was Marquis Ebran who stepped forward, the king’s chief advisor and a man whose sharp intellect was matched only by the severity etched into his features.
His voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of authority as he addressed the gathered court.
"The Demon King is indeed fearsome," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"But do not forget the rebels lurking within the Empire’s borders. They are shadows, hidden and unpredictable, ready to strike when the opportunity arises. The Demon King’s movements are known to us; his next target is clear. The rebels, however, are a threat we cannot see nor anticipate. We need you here, Duke Driesell, to prepare for the unknown as much as the known."
His words hung in the air, deliberate and calculating.
Yet, they were met with a fierce rebuttal.
“So you suggest we sit here, planning endlessly, while that monster continues his rampage?” Duke Driesell’s voice rose, trembling with restrained anger.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as if he were physically holding back his fury.
"Every moment we hesitate, more innocents are slaughtered, more families are destroyed!"
Marquis Ebran’s calm façade cracked ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing.
His response came sharp and cutting, like a blade aimed at the heart.
"Lives will be lost either way, Duke Driesell!" he snapped, his voice rising for the first time.
The harsh truth of his words sliced through the room like a whip.
"But we must decide—will they die for nothing, in a futile rush to battle? Or will they be sacrificed for a real chance at victory?"
The tension between the two men thickened, a storm brewing in the confines of the grand hall.
Gasps echoed among the nobles, their fear and uncertainty fueling the charged atmosphere.
The weight of every argument bore down on the room, suffocating and oppressive.
"Enough!"
The king’s voice thundered through the chamber, cutting through the rising storm like a beacon of authority.
His hand slammed down on the armrest of his throne, the sound reverberating across the walls.
At his command, both men fell silent.
Marquis Ebran’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Duke Driesell’s fiery glare turned reluctantly toward the king.
The hall grew still, save for the faint rustle of cloaks as the assembled nobles waited, breaths held, for their ruler’s next decree.
The king’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the arm of his throne, his gaze shifting between the faces before him.
The cries of his people echoed in his mind, mingling with the cold, brutal news that Feria had been wiped from the world—a city that once thrived now a graveyard of echoes and ash.
The memories of fallen friends and towns lost over the years returned, ghosts reminding him of the cost of hesitation and the price of rashness.
King Serom drew a deep breath, his decision hanging in the balance.
"Marquis Ebran, you are well aware that the Demon King has declared his next target is none other than Cria Territory!" the king bellowed, his voice reverberating through the grand hall like a tolling bell.
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and all eyes turned to Duke Driesell, whose expression hardened, a mix of anger and hatred flickering across his face.
Once again, the Demon King had delivered his proclamation through cruelty—a grim echo of Feria's destruction.
This time, Steven, Duke Driesell's son, had been spared, not out of mercy but as a messenger of doom.
He had been sent back, battered and broken, to deliver the chilling news: Cria was next.
The king’s hand tightened on the armrest of his gilded throne, his knuckles whitening as the memory of Feria’s fall resurfaced.
Cria was no ordinary territory; it was a linchpin in the kingdom's defenses, a bulwark against the tide of intruders.
If it fell, the heart of the kingdom would lie exposed, vulnerable to annihilation.
"He is mocking us," the king said, his voice a low growl laced with frustration.
A collective gasp rippled through the chamber, the tension palpable as nobles exchanged panicked whispers.
The murmur of dread grew, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath and the rustling of heavy robes.
Faces paled, the weight of the Demon King’s impending assault sinking in.
Marquis Ebran rose from his seat, his face a mixture of determination and desperation.
"Your Majesty, I am fully aware of the gravity of this threat," he said, his voice steady but strained, like a man grappling with an impossible burden.
The king’s gaze bore into him, unyielding as steel.
"If you know, Marquis," he said sharply, "then do you have any better idea than Duke Driesell?"
The room fell silent.
The king’s question hung in the air, a challenge and a plea rolled into one.
His tone was resolute, but his eyes betrayed the weight of his decision.
If no alternative was presented, Duke Driesell would be sent to defend Cria.
Duke Driesell stood rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
He was ready to go at any moment.
Marquis Ebran hesitated, his mind racing for a solution that wouldn’t condemn more lives to ruin.
But the silence stretched, a cruel testament to the hopelessness of their situation.