“Repeat that last report to me again.” General Grey-Tusk ordered his demonic cohort.

The boar-kin were in a spartan-esque tent, with a simple wooden chair and a table supporting a grand map of the territory. The demon was a tiny thing, shorter than a five-year-old pup. Red-skinned, horned, and with two stubby wings, the demon spoke in its slippery snake like tone.

"Yes, master, a tornado devastated the third army."

The general waited patiently for the pesky little creature to elaborate. He did not. It was an unfortunate side effect of using demons as messengers. They were very literal beings, only acting when ordered. To a general, this would make them ideal soldiers. Of course, as messengers, it made them difficult to handle.

“Could you elaborate further?”

“Of course, master, scouts detected a tornado. Disaster befell the war camp with glorious screams of fear and terror. They request orders now they have retreated to a safe distance.” The little demon explained after some prompting.

"Send back an order to retreat and regroup with the second army. We are cancelling the Aresla invasion."

The demon gave a sloppy Lankosian salute, fist to his chest, and vanished in a gout of fire. As the smoke settled, a robed figure entered, gliding in. Despite the demonic appearance concealed under the hood, the terrible demon smiled warmly.

“You are giving up on the siege of Aresla?” He inquired.

“No, just postponing it. If the enemy will start throwing tornadoes at us. We should speed up operations before they become commonplace.”

“I doubt they can send such disasters with any repetition; Ventus is surely not that powerful.”

“You believe this is Ventus doing, the spirit lord of the wind. I had heard he was strictly neutral after he left the Empire.”

“It is mere speculation, but a likely culprit considering his power. But without proof it was his doing, the federation cannot intervene.” The demon explained.

“I hadn't expected them to, besides Aresla is no major loss. The city would make a strategic staging ground. But with how far we have advanced, it is not a necessity. Monitor the city and we will move on.”

The General gave his command to the demon, and the monstrous entity saluted. Turning his gaze back to the map, he assessed the territory. The map depicted the eastern plains, several figurines of castles and cities dotted the landscape. Four castles and two cities, two of the castles sported a red flag while the rest had blue.

“The territory so claimed is only half, but we are making good time. The eye in the sky gives us a distinct advantage, wouldn’t you say?” He spoke to the empty tent, expecting a reply.

“Glad to be of service, General.” A voice whispered.

“Continue your operations. As we move into the plains, the enemy will start deploying cavalry. Keep the infantry updated. We cannot let them flank us.”

“Yes, General.” The voice answered before the sound of a footstep receded.

Nodding, he played with the city figurine for a moment. Inspecting the impressively detailed carving, it felt like he held the enemy's capitol in his palm. The campaign had a few issues, but mostly it had gone to plan. They would soon possess the plains, and they would strike a blow against the empire.

“Send him in.” He ordered, casting his commanding voice out of the tent's entrance.

His adjutant entered shortly after, saluted and remained at attention. Despite his youth, the boy was capable. Not that boar-kin really had many expressions to begin with.

“Sit.” He commanded.

The young officer did so, seating himself carefully opposite his commander. Hiding his nervousness, he always kept the mask of professionalism. Being the adjutant of such a veteran and revered general, it was hard not to be intimidated. Even more so, his superior tended towards the more casual in private.

The General produced a bottle of wine and two glasses, gingerly pouring a decently sized alcoholic beverage. He pushed the second glass to his even more nervous subordinate. Hesitating as if he would lose a hand, the adjutant carefully raised the glass.

“What do you think of the war so far?” The General abruptly ask, while the adjutant was in mid-sip.

Gulping the rest of the wine, he took a deep, calming breath. His thoughts rattled around as the wine suddenly kicked in. It was far stronger than expected. He hoped after finishing a few, he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

“It is going far easier than expected. We expected far greater resistance from the men. We have almost claimed most of the eastern plains.” He spoke frankly.

“Correct, minus the tornado and abandoning the siege to Aresla. The campaign is going remarkably well.”

The sudden confusion made the adjutant blink rapidly. Looking over his memories like spinning back a reel of parchment. He came upon the specific memory and took a double take.

“Tornado, General.” He inquired hesitantly.

“Yes, someone threw a tornado at our army. Luckily, there were only minor casualties. We suspect it should deter us and damage supplies.” The boar man said casually, as if he was talking about the weather. Here, he kind of was.

“By the ancestors, what if the empire deploys such a weapon again?”

"Unlikely, also there is no guarantee it was the Empire. Only Ventus could have displayed that power, and he is no longer their patron spirit. Regardless, we must continue with the campaign. We must secure the plains."

Acknowledging the necessity of this war, the two nodded. His success in the campaign he commanded, his men's steadfast loyalty, and the casualties they suffered will all have been for nothing. The General thought on the future of this war, what it would mean for the future of his nation and the continent at large.

The federation would expand and, given the instability of the empire, their side would have a clear advantage. To any military beast, they would consider pressing that advantage. But the General knew better than to overextend his reach. Claiming the plains was one thing, but conquering the empire was another.

“The plains will be a useful bit of territory; I know the higher ups will turn it into a buffer state. The Empire is falling to ruin, but everyone knows, it is the wounded animal the strikes the hardest.”

Settling in their chairs, they drank their wine and exchanged pleasantries. It was a quaint moment just before a war that would see many die. Taking the plains was one thing, but to strike the enemy before they can resist was entirely another.

“I dislike this plan, although I see the merit. We must deal with the Empire, even if it risks their wrath. We cannot let this chance go, but can our nation deal with the consequences?” He spoke more to himself than to his companion.

Before his adjutant could reply, another appeared, a soldier draped in the armour of Lankos.

“General, the army is ready to march.”

With that, the pleasantries ended, and the war will continue.

On the other side of the conflict, the brave soldiers of Tarkon made ready their defences. Provisions and troops supplied their fortress. Archers maned the walls, infantry was in excess. The remaining peasants escaped death by fleeing to the walls as refugees.

Given hope, their king would triumph, and the heroic trinity would smite the enemies of man. In truth, frustration gripped the king. The situation was not as he planned. He was making the best of it and if Pyrus willed it, he would come out if it with a kingdom intact.

Dwelling in the war room, the king was alone. Instead of seated, he was standing. A pensive expression on his ashen face. Upon the table was a map of the region. What it depicted was a sorry sight for any defensive campaign. Losing territory was nearly the entire region once claimed by his father. The king recalled the age before his reign, when his father ruled not as efficiently as a king should.

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His majesty King Rodrik of Tarkon was not a very intelligent man. Andre remembered how his beast of a father would prefer the company of whores over his own ministers. One night, the king even invited some ladies of the night to an actual council meeting. Andre was a young man, and it took every ounce of willpower not to chuckle at the poor minister.

While the short, pudgy nobleman gave an accounting of the taxes. His father was fondling a high-priced whore, right on the throne. To add insult to injury, the queen had to sit there, prim and proper, through the entire ordeal. One could superficially consider this an insult to her honor. In truth, Andre’s mother had checked out of their marriage years ago. His antics didn’t faze her anymore, and he was less a husband and a more co-ruler, a poor excuse of one.

His mother practically ran the nation, with constant interferences from petty nobles and her husband's foolish whims. Amazingly, his mother kept the nation intact while he was drunk in charge. Despite her efforts, the kingdom's economy fell into a depression. The debt held by their neighbouring nation of Helgos was far too large to pay back.

The peasants starved, and economic and civil instability engulfed the land. His father's solution was, of course, a foolish gambit that solved the problem and created new ones. He declared war on the plainsmen. Beast-kin tribes that had yet to join the United Realms of Lankos.

It was a bloody campaign, emaciated soldiers fought Centaurs that ruled these lands. It was only a success when the emperor finally intervened, sending troops following a consolidation of his power. The imperial capital had a succession crisis. Andre forgot what it was all about. A few rumours claimed the prince was not worthy because of his lacking skill with spirit magic. Some claimed he wasn’t even the emperor's son and that the empress had been unfaithful.

Finally, they pacified and claimed the plains. They built new farmlands on the blood and guts of beasts. They dealt with the economic situation after the influx of excess grain. By eradicating hunger, the queen paid off most of the debts. The king, however, died during the campaign, not in noble battle nor leading the charge into a hopeless melee. The mighty king of Tarkon, fell off his horse and broke his neck. He had attempted to make love to one of his whores while riding.

Practice, Andre suspected, as he always assumed his father would try to screw whores while killing beast-kin. They were two of his favourite things to do and why not try both at the same time? Andre chuckled; the memories of his father always brought a grin. He didn’t hate him; he was what he was. If he would ever consider despising his father, it would have been during the early years of his infidelity.

The parade of women hurt his mother. It took many years for her to cut out her love for the philandering king. Ending the possibilities of the marriage being anything more than political. Andre loved his mother for that. She did what had to be done for the sake of the kingdom. To not let petty things like emotion impede ruling.

In that moment, he knew he had to be as strong as his mother. The plains were never theirs to begin with, no matter how many minor barons whined about their lost land. Defending such a wide territory was foolish to begin with. His people were not men of the steppes, they were hardy warriors that marched cleanly and fought brutally.

“With all that martial prowess, we can barely defend our lands. Forcing us to retreat behind study walls. My father would turn in his grave at the cowardice.” He muttered to himself, leaning over the map.

There he waited, staring at the map as if he could discern answers within the depictions of rivers and mountains. Casting his gaze back and forth between a grouping of flags. He noted the army had expected each ambush attempt. The cavalry he had ordered to harass the army were counter attacked before they even arrived. Archers strategically placed by the enemy cut them down when camped.

It was as if the enemy knew exactly where all their forces were. He suspected traitors feeding information to the other side. But after executing several proven traitors, he noted all of them combined could not have achieved this. They were simple traitors for coin, selling information to unknown brokers. He had several suspected spies under observation, but even those were minor in the grand scheme of this war.

A faint whisper reached his ear before he can delve deeper into his thoughts. The torches, strategically set in equal intervals on the walls, suddenly ignite in flame. Startled for only a moment, the king, without hesitation, draws his sword. Pulling the blade cleanly from its sheath.

The weapon rose into a guard position. Reflecting off the odd black blade, the flames glistened. Obsidian, not tempered steel, formed the weapon. The king seemed to wield darkness itself, concentrated to a point and ready to strike.

“No need for hostility. I just want to chat.” The voice said calmly.

“Who are you?”

“You know me. How could you not?” The voice answered.

“I know an intruder when I hear one. Invisibility spell perhaps, some wizard assassin sent by Ikarus?”

“I take offence to that, little Andre.”

The moniker caused the king’s eyes to widen; visions flashed across his adult mind, pulling him back to his childhood. The faint memories of a voice he had nearly forgotten. The time he played with the fire that wouldn’t burn him. Many children would shriek and flee from its cruel, biting touch. But not him, for he was immune to the pain, free of the searing desires it held within.

“Lord Pyrus.” He said simply, his sword dipping low.

“You remember me? How nice.” The voice replied insipidly.

“You are hard to forget. I always wondered why the mighty Pyrus, Lord of the Sacred Flame and Master of Fire, would visit a young prince.”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t. You are a prince of a great kingdom.”

“Flattery, rather odd from someone more than mortal. Even if I am of royal blood, I'm hardly worthy of a spirit lord's attention.” He said, half mocking, half humble.

“You sell yourself short, King of Tarkon. I have always favoured your kingdom, as your kingdom has favoured me.”

“I will admit I had a hand in a few matters of the temples. But I had nothing to do with the promotion of your worship.” The king bowed slightly, noticing one flame burned brighter.

“It is to be expected that mortals praise beings beyond them. The foolish fishmongers of Sylvan have seen fit to raise up my sister, to the halls of the gods.” The flame nearly spat, clear disdain upon every note.

"Is this something you desire? If I could offer aid, I would happily promote such worship."

The fire cackled madly, with every bout of laughter, the fire spat tiny red sparks. Once done, the fire elemental, born of the sacred flame, calmed to burning embers.

“Perhaps I shall take you up on that offer. But for now, I merely have a suggestion.”

Andre narrowed his eyes, eminently curious about what such a being could suggest.

“One of my flock. He had met his end at the hands of these filthy beasts. He died valiantly, in defence of his patron. I suggest using that to motivate the men when the beasts are at your doorstep.” The flame suggested, and the king nodded.

“But first, a gift. A small token of my appreciation for all your efforts.”

Confused, Andre tilted his head in puzzlement. Realisation soon dawned on him. His chest slowly radiated heat. In a moment it was as comforting as the embrace of a woman, the next it burned like liquid fire. Screaming at the top of his lungs, the king tore at his chest, ripping away his tunic. Just as the guards flooded in, called by the howl of their liege. The king knew the true extent of the pain.

Left upon his chest was a brand seared into flesh. Depicting a glyph, any spirit magi worth his salt would recognise. A fist engulfed in flames, the symbol of Pyrus. To some, it is the symbolic representation of his spiritual lordship over the element. To others, it is the divine representation of a wrathful fire god.

“Sire, what has happened?!” one guard bellowed, the rest drew swords.

“I'm fine.” The king replied, wheezing in pain.

He covered the brand quickly, not letting even his own guards see it. He wonders why he did that, but didn’t linger on it. Soon after, he played the whole thing off as burning his tongue on hot tea. Conveniently, there was a steaming beverage nearby.

“Sire, are you sure you are, okay?” One of the royal knights asked, just as the rest left the room.

The king had ordered privacy, but one knight remained, despite the order. Willing and able to accept punishment for defiance, the knight remained. Standing so still he might as well be a statue, the knight waited for a reply. Minutes passed before the king realized he needed to respond.

"I am fine, Sir Kellig. No need to worry." The king waved off the concern.

“Permission to worry, sire?” The knight requested, keeping a stone face.

“You may do so.”

The knight nodded before thrusting his chin towards his monarch's chest. Unlike the others, he had spotted the faint trace of smoke and blistering flesh. Andre noted his loyal man's interest and so untied his tunic, revealing his chest.

“What is it, sire?”

“A blessing, or perhaps a curse, from our glorious patron.” The king replied sarcastically.

“Lord Pyrus did this to you?” He questioned, horrified that their patron spirit and pseudo deity would do such a thing.

“It’s fine. I'm sure it’s all part of his grand plan for the Empire. Besides, we have a war to fight, and a little scared flesh will not slow me down.”

Putting the matter to the side, the king focused on the map. Tying up his tunic, he marvelled at the breadth of his domain. His grandeur, tinged with regret as it was slowly being steamrolled by foreign forces. He held no love for the beasts of Lankos. But to believe they were only animals was a foolish notion. No matter the sentiment in the Empire, they were warriors. Now they were acting like soldiers, marching, leading and putting whole territories to the sword.

“The enemy has grown far more organised than the Empire could imagine.” Sir Kellig added, comforted by his king's permission to be casual.

“It is easy to imagine. They may not be human, but civilised is not inherently a human trait. They may be barbaric to us. But in war they show their metal and so must we.”

The orders that followed were to convene the military council. It only took half an hour for them to arrive. Every figure that now surrounded the table was an upper echelon of the Tarkonian military. Seasoned generals, knights, and war priests.

“I do not plan to march on the army. They are too many and we do not have the numbers to contend with them. They have also displayed exceptional communication between cohorts and expected every strategic strike we make.” The king explained.

"This battle can only be one if we stand our ground. They will break on the walls of this sacred place. The pillar of Tarkon, the fortress that has never fallen. We will show the beasts of Lankos the folly of stepping even one foot further into the fatherland."

A round of cheers followed, salutes, and expressions of approval littered the council meeting. The king felt satisfied. Not a single objection. They knew the threat they faced, the new tactics brought to bear. They were lions, standing proud upon their mountain top. The beasts below, once chaffed at the bonds of their own ineptitude.

The kingdom, grown lax from victory and glory. The beasts saw fit to pounce on the sleeping lion. Bringing new beasts to the fight and clawing away the lions' paws. Now he only can stand his ground and let them come. Let the waves crash against the shore. No further will it reach.