The court was steeped in a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint whispers of the ministers.
They exchanged furtive glances, their expressions marred with worry and dread as they deliberated the impossible.
Both the Demon King and the shadowy rebels posed insurmountable threats, and no clear path lay before them.
“Your Majesty,” one of the ministers finally ventured, his voice tentative, tinged with a fragile thread of hope.
“Perhaps we could seek aid from a neighboring kingdom?”
The room held its breath, clinging to the suggestion like a lifeline.
King Serom’s lips pressed into a grim line, and he leaned forward slightly, his exhaustion visible in the heavy set of his shoulders.
“If only it were that simple,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a ruler burdened by impossible decisions.
“Even if they agreed to help—which is far from guaranteed—it would take time. Precious time we do not have. The Demon King will not wait.”
His words struck the room like a blow, the fragile hope shattering into pieces.
The ministers fell silent, their faces pale, their gazes dropping to the floor as the gravity of their situation pressed down on them.
The air grew heavy with despair, the unspoken truth settling over them like a dark shroud: they were cornered, their plans crumbling, and the kingdom teetering on the edge of ruin.
Suddenly, a sharp voice pierced the stillness, startling everyone.
"Then what if we take the fight to him first?”
All eyes snapped to Marquis Ebran, their shock and confusion evident.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the room, questions and disbelief surfacing in equal measure.
“What do you mean, Marquis Ebran?” King Serom asked, his tone sharp as he regarded his chief advisor with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
Ebran stepped forward, his every movement deliberate, his expression resolute.
With a flourish, he unfurled a large, weathered map across the grand table in the center of the hall.
The parchment spread out like a battlefield before them, its inked lines tracing the borders of their kingdom and beyond.
His hands pressed firmly against the map, his fingers brushing over the marked territories as though commanding their attention.
His voice was steady but carried an intensity that drew everyone in.
“This is Cria Territory,” Marquis Ebran declared, his voice cutting through the room's tension like a blade.
He tapped the area on the map with practiced precision, the sound sharp against the heavy silence.
His finger then trailed to the two territories flanking Cria.
“Velyria and Braemir are positioned close enough to support Cria directly,” he continued, his tone calm yet commanding.
“What if we mobilize the armies from all three territories and launch a preemptive strike against the Demon King’s forces?”
The room erupted into murmurs and gasps, the council members exchanging uneasy glances.
The flicker of hope in some eyes clashed with the pale worry etched into others.
The audacity of the suggestion rippled through the hall, its implications sparking a mix of fear and cautious optimism.
“It’s reckless!” an older minister exclaimed, his voice trembling with the weight of his years and the urgency of his objection.
His wrinkled hands clutched the edges of the map as if he sought to physically restrain the boldness of the proposal.
“A preemptive strike could spell disaster if we act without enough information. We risk not only our soldiers but the entire defensive strategy of the kingdom!”
The air in the chamber grew heavier, the older man’s words sinking into the hearts of the assembled council like stones into water.
Fear and doubt swirled among them, threatening to drown the fragile hope Ebran had ignited.
But Ebran stood firm, his posture unwavering as he faced the room.
His sharp gaze moved across the council, meeting their apprehensive stares head-on.
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“But if we scout ahead,” Ebran countered, his voice calm but with an edge of steel, “if we send out reconnaissance to observe their numbers and positions, we can act on real intelligence. We won’t march blindly into the jaws of death.”
His hand hovered over the map, fingers pausing above Cria as though willing the territory itself to bolster his argument.
“I won’t lie to you,” he admitted, the candor in his tone cutting through the tension.
“This plan will not guarantee a decisive victory. But it could buy us something more precious—time.”
He turned to the king, then to the ministers, his voice rising slightly, resonating with conviction.
“Time for the royal knights to rally and reach Cria. Time to prepare our people for what lies ahead. Time to force the Demon King to face us on ground of our choosing, rather than his.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of his words sinking in.
Faces flickered between doubt and reluctant agreement, the enormity of the decision pressing down on them all.
King Serom’s gaze lingered on the map, his expression unreadable, the weight of his kingdom’s fate bearing heavily on his shoulders.
The grand hall fell silent as his gaze swept over the gathered ministers.
The weight of the kingdom’s survival bore heavily on his shoulders, and now, he sought the consensus of his council.
“What do you all think?” he asked, his voice steady but lined with weariness.
A heavy pause followed, the ministers exchanging uncertain glances.
Whispers filled the room, punctuated by nervous coughs.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of them stepped forward, his voice trembling.
“It sounds like a good plan, your majesty... we agree.”
King Serom’s eyes shifted to Marquis Ebran, who nodded gravely and turned toward Duke Driesell.
“And what of you, Duke Driesell?” Ebran asked, his tone firm.
The duke’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the room like ice.
“what if they all die before the royal knights can reach them?”
Marquis Ebran didn’t flinch.
His response was calm but resolute, his tone carrying the weight of unshakable conviction.
“Then we will go with your plan, Duke Driesell. But if we don’t act now, we’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Driesell stared at Ebran, the tension between the two palpable.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, his rigid stance softening ever so slightly.
"Hmm... fine. I also agree.”
Ebran nodded, turning back to the king.
“Your Majesty, what do you say?”
King Serom stood from his throne, his presence commanding as he addressed the room.
"Very well. I agree with this plan. Inform the commander of the royal knights to prepare his forces. Send word to the lords of Sima, Creta, and Cria. We move forward.”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” the ministers said in unison, bowing deeply before dispersing to fulfill their duties.
---
[Cria Territory]
The air in Cria’s war room was suffocating, thick with the weight of looming battle.
Flickering torchlight danced across the stone walls, casting jagged shadows over the weary faces of the men gathered around the central table.
Count Valor stood at its heart, his broad shoulders hunched with tension as he stared at the purple sphere before him.
The device, glowing faintly with arcane energy, seemed to pulse in rhythm with the dread that hung in the room.
“So,” Valor said, his usually steady voice edged with urgency, “what word from His Majesty?”
The sphere crackled, and the face of an old mage materialized within its depths.
The mage’s features were worn, his eyes heavy with both knowledge and burden as he began to speak.
“Count Valor,” the mage’s voice carried the weight of the king’s command, each word a blow to the fragile calm in the room.
“His Majesty has ordered you to dispatch scouts immediately to assess the Demon King’s forces. Reinforcements from Velyria and Braemir territories will arrive to support you. Together, you are to prepare for a coordinated strike.”
Valor’s fists tightened at his sides, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the message.
The words pressed heavily on him, as if the responsibility of the entire kingdom had been thrust onto his shoulders alone.
“And?” Count Valor pressed, his jaw tight, his voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the room.
The mage hesitated for a moment, his gaze faltering as he drew a deep breath.
When he spoke again, his tone was heavy, every word weighted with the gravity of the king’s command.
“And… if the scouts believe we have even the faintest chance at victory, we are to strike,” he said, his voice steady despite the unease flickering in his eyes.
“If not, you are to hold the line and defend Cria with all your might. Buy us time—time for the royal knights and reinforcements to arrive. The lords of Velyria and Braemir have sworn to stand by this decision.”
The war room stirred with murmurs, the low hum of anxious voices spreading like ripples in water.
Soldiers and advisors exchanged uneasy glances, their faces etched with worry and dread.
The prospect of confronting the Demon King’s forces without the full strength of the kingdom sent chills through even the most seasoned warriors.
This wasn’t just another battle—it was a test.
A test of loyalty, of courage, and of their willingness to sacrifice everything for the kingdom’s survival.
At the head of the table, Count Valor stood motionless, his broad frame cast in shadow by the flickering torchlight.
His gaze remained fixed on the map splayed across the table, his expression unreadable.
But his hand betrayed him—gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arm taut with strain.
He felt the weight of his territory pressing down on him, the heartbeat of Cria thundering in his chest.
Every face, every voice, every life in his land depended on the decisions he would make in the coming hours.
Their fate rested in his hands—a burden that felt heavier than the steel he wielded.
At last, he spoke, his voice cutting through the room like the crack of a whip.
“Then we shall carry out His Majesty’s will,” Count Valor declared, his voice ringing with conviction.
His sharp gaze swept over the room, meeting the eyes of every soldier and advisor before him.
“We will scout the Demon King’s army with every resource we have. If there’s even the faintest hope, we will fight. We will not falter.”
His words, steady and powerful, seemed to crack the heavy silence that had enveloped the war room.
Like sparks catching on dry kindling, his resolve ignited something in those gathered around him.
Shoulders squared, backs straightened, and eyes—once clouded with doubt—gleamed with newfound determination.
This was not a moment of choice; it was a call to arms.
They would fight, not just for the honor of their kingdom but for the families waiting in their homes, for the children who slept unaware of the encroaching darkness.
Cria had given them everything, and they would give their all in return.
From the edge of the room, a young soldier stepped forward.
His armor seemed too large for his slender frame, and his hand trembled slightly as he gripped the hilt of his sword.
Yet his eyes burned with a fierce light, his voice breaking the tension with a mix of fear and resolve.
“Count, we won’t let you down,” the boy said, stepping forward.
His voice cracked with the weight of his inexperience, but the unyielding resolve in his eyes betrayed no fear.
Count Valor’s stern expression softened, just for a moment.
He saw in the boy a reflection of his younger self—a spark of courage and determination that refused to dim, even in the shadow of the Demon King.
For a moment, the grim atmosphere of the war room lifted, and Valor allowed himself a small nod of acknowledgment.
“What is your name, soldier?” Valor asked, his deep voice carrying both authority and warmth.
“It’s Shaun, my lord,” the young man replied, his tone polite but laced with pride.
He stood straighter, trying to appear taller under the Count’s scrutinizing gaze.
Valor stepped closer, his sharp eyes narrowing.
“Why do you wish to fight, Shaun, knowing what lies ahead? Why stand against the Demon King himself?”
Shaun hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides.
Then, taking a deep breath, he met the Count’s gaze head-on.
“Because, my lord, this territory is my home. Here, my mother and I have been able to live a peaceful life. I want to protect that peace—not just for us, but for everyone who calls Cria their home.”
A faint smile tugged at Valor’s lips.
There was a sincerity in Shaun’s words, a raw and unpolished courage that was rare in even the most seasoned warriors.
But his next question came sharper, testing the boy’s resolve.
“And your father?”
Shaun’s expression flickered, but he held his composure.
“He was a soldier, my lord. He died in a war years ago.”
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the boy’s words settling over those gathered.
Valor felt his chest tighten, a pang of grief and admiration mixing within him.
“Shaun,” the Count said finally, his voice firm but laced with an unexpected gentleness, “I promise you this—we will win this battle. For Cria, for your mother, and for every family in this land. You have my word as the ruler of this territory.”
Shaun’s eyes widened, and he straightened further, his young face lighting up with pride and determination.
“Yes, my lord. I will not fail you!”
Valor turned to the rest of his soldiers, his voice rising like a clarion call.
“Everyone, prepare yourselves! Gather your weapons, your courage, and your resolve. Remember, we are Cria!”
He paused, letting the words sink in, his gaze sweeping over each and every one of them.
“And we do not fall. Not to the Demon King. Not to anyone.”
A roar erupted from the gathered soldiers, their voices uniting in a battle cry that shook the very walls of the room.
The men sprang into action, readying themselves for the fight to come, while Valor watched them with a steadfast gaze, his heart filled with both pride and the heavy burden of leadership.