“When in Loratha, don black and red,

for a warrior’s heart beats within your head.”

– Ethaf ak’Ladir, Proverbs & Poems

“I’m telling you, the best time to strike is now!” Councilman Crove’s face was a blotchy red, his eyes glinting. “They’ve usurped our birthright, they’ve monopolized our resources. Let’s take it back. Let’s take it all back!” Crove punctuated his last exclamation with a vehement thump of his fist on the oaken podium before him.

His fellow council members stared at the old man. At first glance everything looked right. Authentic. His words were bold and defiant—as they so often had been in this chamber—his posture forward-leaning and aggressive. But most of the men and women in this room knew that this was more than a mere call for justice.

Crove was motivated by personal gain. A desire to retake control of the Isles of Dust and their resources, redeeming himself and his house from past failures. Yet, the council of Loratha knew, he was not the only one with such motives and could count on the support of a sizable fraction of the council, if rumors were to be believed.

“Colleagues, we must consider this carefully.” Councilwoman Silva, presiding over this session and wearing a chainmail-trimmed black-and-red dress, spoke up. “We’ve invested heavily in this arms race. If we go to war with Demis now—if we don’t achieve a swift victory—we risk squandering the rest of our resources. And that’s a risk we cannot afford.”

Silva noticed some of the council members murmur in agreement or nod along as she spoke. Good, she thought, but not good enough. Sure, they saw the logic in her arguments, but none had the guts to admit it publicly. Councilman Crove was one of the few who openly advocated for any position. We’re supposed to be martial, and this is how our leaders behave. Crove’s forceful call to the council for a full-scale invasion of Demis, reclaiming the Isles of Dust, had found a lot of silent supporters recently.

“If we don’t act now,” the loathsome man was glaring at her, “we’re just inviting those eagle bastards to strike first. Let’s not pretend that their oh-so-noble prince doesn’t desire Loratha’s riches for his realm. There have been reports of scouts in the north!”

The other council members exchanged wary glances. Few of them wanted to be responsible for the destruction that war would bring. On the other hand, their duty to safeguard Loratha’s people and guarantee their prosperity was undeniable—mainly the latter, for the cowards in this room. She had grown up with these people, she knew their type. Silva sniffed scornfully.

Parry and riposte, she repeated to herself. Let’s end this before it can really begin. “Councilman Crove,” she began, “do I need to remind you that it was your house that led the campaign resulting in our loss of the Isles in the first place?”

Crove’s face became even blotchier, if that was possible, and he opened his mouth. Only to be interrupted by another voice. Just about the last voice that Silva wanted to hear today.

“Now, now, Councilwoman Silva.” A lone figure emerged from the chamber’s shadowed entrance, soft leather soles shuffling quietly on the dusty stone floor. As the council members turned to observe the newcomer, their eyes widened slightly. Silva sighed inwardly.

“Councilman Crove’s proposal isn’t entirely unreasonable. Our resources are limited after all. How long can we sustain this arms race? How long before they overtake us? Discuss our invasion in their council chamber? Especially with an opponent who monopolizes such a valuable resource as dust. No, we should seize this opportunity and capitalize on our investment.”

With that, Imran Delos took a seat on the stone benches in the front row. Wearing his customary light black armor, interwoven with red bands, and a cold smile that never reached his blue eyes. Imran was fully aware of the attention he commanded. Always had been. Nonchalantly crossing his legs and resting his hands on the attached armrests, he regarded the other council members expectantly.

“Your timing is impeccable, Councilman Delos,” Silva said, voice tinged with sarcasm. “I trust you have something substantial to add to our discussion, not just fearmongering?”

“I do indeed, Councilwoman,” Imran nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you for the opportunity. I propose a preemptive strike against Demis.” He raised a manicured hand to quell the rising murmur among the council members. “Colleagues. A moment, please. Not a full-scale invasion—not by any means—just a smaller operation that will weaken their forces and cripple their ability to launch an attack on us. It’s really just defense, if you think about it. Ensuring Loratha’s safety should be something we can all agree on, after all. We will deploy a portion of our army to launch a surprise attack on Demis itself as a diversion. Meanwhile, the rest of our army will sever their lines of communication, retake the Isles of Dust, and guard our borders. We can then use the Isles’ resources to bolster our military and economy, ensuring our independence and prosperity in the future.”

Imran’s proposal was met with stunned silence. The council members had anticipated bold plans today, yet not ones that were made in earnest. That could even be realized, perhaps. Made it that much harder to say no without losing face.

After a few tense moments, Crove spoke up. “It’s a bold suggestion, Councilman Delos, and it may even succeed. But I’m worried by the potential casualties we may suffer in this diversion attack that you’re proposing. There are Elevated in Demis.”

You’ve got to be bloody kidding me, Silva thought. Do these two really think the council will buy that? But to her dismay—horror, really—the eyes of her colleagues seemed glued to Imran Delos, waiting to hear his response.

Imran nodded thoughtfully. He cast his gaze around the chamber. Aside from the council, assembled in concentric stone benches around the discussion circle, he spotted Grave, the surly representative of Loratha’s Elevated, Lord Commander Draven of the army, and Fleet Admiral Vespera. Draven, his flat gray eyes in an unblinking stare, gave a nearly imperceptible nod to Imran as their gazes met.

Imran stood and slowly paced around the room. “My fellow council members. Councilman Crove’s concern is valid and does him credit. I’ve harbored it myself on many occasions. But we must remember, we command the best-trained and most well-equipped army and navy in the region. Our weapons are superior, and our forces more numerous. Don’t fret about Elevated. I just came back from Sariz, loaded with a new shipment of the best dust-steel equipment gold can buy.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Abruptly, he turned to the other side of the circle of benches.

“I believe—no, I’m convinced—we can launch a successful attack with minimal casualties. The diversionary force will travel in small groups by land, while our fleet will transport another group of soldiers to the Isles, continuing onward to blockade Demis’ harbor. Once the Isles are secured and the damage is done, the fleet will retrieve the land force and return them safely to Loratha. This operation will not only recover the Isles of Dust and their resources for us, but it’ll also weaken Cerax’ ability to counterattack without exposing his city. Colleagues, friends, I believe we can restore—even exceed—our country’s wealth and strengthen our borders, if you just give me your support today. Let me bring glory to Loratha.”

More and more council members began to nod as Imran paced, showering them with arguments and counterarguments. His plan seemed risky, sure, but it also held potential for significant gain. And, cleverly if he may admit so himself, it appealed directly to Loratha’s core values. Blood and profit, red and black.

In hushed waves, the council members quietly weighed Imran’s proposal, while he stood firmly at the center of the discussion circle, hands clasped behind his back. Silva rose, her eyes locked onto Imran’s as if trying to impart a silent warning. He ignored it. Then she gave a curt nod, barely able to conceal the torrent of conflicting emotions beneath her stoic façade.

“Thank you for sharing your opinion, Imran. Dear colleagues, as per our constitution, we’ll now vote on Councilman Delos’ proposal,” she announced coolly. “Those in favor of launching a preemptive strike against Demis, please show your support.”

Slowly, hands started their rise from within the crowd of councilors. With controlled composure, Imran watched the unfolding verdict. This is it, he thought. If this fails, everything will fail.

Frustratingly slowly, one after another, council members raised their hands. Crove was among the first to raise his hand in support of Imran’s plan. Others were more hesitant, casting sidelong glances at Silva, who did not raise her hand and stood stiffly at the podium, gaze fixed on the distant wall.

Imran let his eyes wander across his yet undecided colleagues. There, a vote from Gordan Thelas, grown fat and rich by hiring out Lorathan mercenaries. Another hand rose. Aisha Va, a former rear admiral of dubious reputation, now in the business of insuring ships rather than captaining them. Veras Domon, Crove’s business partner and owner of most Lorathan smithies.

Mentally, Imran was tallying. They were close now. Just one more, one more vote and victory was theirs. Uneasily, he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

There.

In the back, Lord Commander Draven slowly raised his mailed fist. That was it. The majority had spoken; the decision was made. Loratha had chosen war. With Imran’s plan in place, Demis would soon be visited by a surprise attack. He smiled.

When the commotion finally died down, the council started to disperse, men and women streaming toward the wide, embossed doors. Imran rose, methodically smoothing his sleeves. Silva swung around to face him, her expression twisted with anger. “I thought better of you, brother” she spat. “You know full well what this decision could cost us.”

Imran met her gaze calmly, saying nothing. He found this to be most effective with his older sister. He was quickly proven right. Disgusted, Silva shook her head and stormed out of the chamber, heavy robes billowing behind her.

He watched her leave and, after a pause, followed suit. Outside, a harsh wind carried the acrid scent of burning coal and molten iron from the city’s many forges, but Imran barely registered it. He now carried the weight of the council’s decision in his heart, as his steps took him toward a future that he had helped shape.

Two guards, armed with spears and scimitars, emerged from the shadows, their armor clinking softly. Acknowledging them with a nod, Imran began to walk the streets of Loratha, his guards trailing behind him. Outsiders coming here often described Loratha as ‘war-like’. A fitting label for the city, he thought, as his gaze swept over towering walls, fortified gates, and sharp spikes protruding from grimy stone walls. War was what they did best, after all.

The gray sky above him was heavy with smoke, and a thin fog covered everything like a damp blanket. Yet, amidst all that bleakness, there were vibrant signs of life in Loratha.

Sprawling markets were abuzz with activity, as merchants haggled loudly over their wares and grizzled veterans kept a watchful eye on the scene. Children darted about with wooden swords. Artisans showcased their intricate jewelry in open stalls.

Yet, despite all that hustle and bustle, there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air, as if everyone sensed that something was about to happen. Something big. Soldiers saluted Imran at each corner he passed. Everywhere he looked weapons were being brandished, even more than usual in Loratha. Murals depicted sky-blue eagles being torn apart by spears.

There was no denying it, his city was ready for war.

Back at his manor, Imran savored a sip of his wine, allowing the earthy notes of the robust Limrodian red to linger on his tongue. He had done it. He had persuaded the council to declare war on Demis. He hardly could believe it himself. His plan was in motion. A shiver raced down Imran’s spine, his fingers involuntarily tightening around the stem of his wine glass.

The door to his study creaked open, and Lord Commander Draven stepped in. Draven—as always in his midnight-black heavy armor, laced with bright crimson accents along the edges—had a weathered face, marked by scars. A face more accustomed to the battlefield than the refined surroundings of a councilman’s city manor.

“Crove played his part well,” Draven declared, forgoing formal greetings.

Accustomed to the man’s directness, Imran smiled. “Indeed, he did. His ties with the merchants and bankers of Loratha were influential enough to sway their vote. Silva may grumble; her loyalties to the old ways run deep. But she knows as well as I do that times have changed. The council stands with us, and she won’t risk fracturing it.”

Draven nodded, his flat gaze never leaving Imran. The Lord Commander stepped closer, placing a heavy arm on Imran’s shoulder. “The Isles of Dust,” Draven murmured, eyes clouded as if reliving distant memories. “I lost friends there, Delos. Good friends. We’re not just taking islands; we’re reclaiming lives.”

Imran nodded in agreement. He never particularly liked this man—as far as he knew, nobody ‘liked’ Lord Commander Draven—but, for now, he needed him. He, Imran Delos, had set the course for war, and he would see it through, to the end. No matter the cost. “What of the preparations?” he asked.

“On their way,” came Draven’s prompt reply, “Ground troops already march toward the enemy since last week. In a few weeks, our fleet sails—for the Isles and Demis.”

“So, the original plan still stands?” Imran studied Draven with a guarded look.

A fleeting expression of dismissal crossed the general’s scarred face. “It never wavered. We’ll have all the support we need from the north, I made sure of that.”

Imran shook his head slightly. He had his suspicions about Draven’s contacts in that remote place, but he had respected the general’s silence on the matter. They had a common goal, after all.

“So be it,” Imran finally responded. He looked out the window, to the star-studded night sky and its glittering reflection on the water in the bay below. On the horizon, he liked to think that he could see the faint outline of the islands, just waiting to be conquered. He drained his glass, the warmth of the Limrodian red spreading through his chest.

Crimson into his body, crimson painted on bodies of soldiers like Draven, and soon, crimson spilled out of bodies, like a flood. There was no turning back now. Lycar would burn, before it could heal.