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CHAPTER VI:

The Capturer of Their Hearts

Morning,

23, Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

27 Days until the Night of the Moon

Bizrya, Fioran Empire

Petals, roses, and fronds were thrown on the bricks of the crownroads as the palms that accented the great checkpoint rustled in the wind, and the sight of the Bizryan bridge, that menagerie of red brick and iron that connected the Fioran Empire to the Sultanate of Nur greeted Lord Daryusz Venzicar and his cohort. On the northern side of the bridge was traditional Fioran architecture, its edifices were constructed of red brick, steel, iron, clay, wood, and straw. Its red roofs and tall buildings were impressive, and during Gormar III’s reign, it challenged the capital, Fioranz, when it came to magnificence. It housed major banks, guilds, and financial centers, as it stood as a major gateway from the Northernmost parts and Western coasts of the Northern League. It was the last stop before the strait of Fiora poured into the dark and treacherous Sea of Divide, toward Mystalbion and all the way down to Kemodesia and the Yaporgines. The stark contrast in socio-economics was palpable, and nowhere was it more evident than in the two massive, imposing towers that stood on the Fioran side of the bridge.

The construction of the bridge took place in the year 140, by King Zenitcar, the Wise. He united the two continents, and trade flourished, causing his coffers and the prosperity of the two nations to flourish. However, the king made a grievous error, and Sultan Lajal bin-Zyla, son of the great Priestess, soon stormed across the bridge and made war with Fiora. Zenitcar battled for the rest of his reign, raising armies and taxes in a desperate effort to gain his warm-water port back. He never accomplished this, but was able to hold the line and prevent the Nur from spreading across the Northern league. His successor, King Gradicar I, handed the Sultanate several stunning and surprise defeats, and contained them back into the city. Knowing that they would return with an army he could not defeat, he then pushed for peace with the Nur. The two met in Melicrus, the capital of Arlia, and signed the first Carta Bizrya, where Gradicar ceded all of Southern Fiora, but not without payment. Lajal paid the equivalent of some 400,000 Fenrarii in war reparations in exchange. Gradicar took those funds, and with them, spent the rest of his reign building the Great Fioran Rampart, which served as a checkpoint and kept the Fioran interior secure, and still does.

In half a generation the Sultanate was enriched by their access to the fertile Fioran soil. However, they were spread thin by the Sea Peoples, who beleaguered them with raids upon raids on their eastern coasts. Many in Fiora begged the king to begin a reconquest of their country, but he was now old and obstinate. In 231, King Brüdë, a mixed-race warlord from Fiora's eastern Drü borderlands, ascended to the Fioran throne by usurping Gradicar. His barbarity galvanized the Fioran people and they pushed the Nur out. The campaign is known historiographically as "The Fioran Reconquista", wherein Fiora reclaimed all of the lands south of the Great Rampart in a bloody and merciless campaign.

After the Reconquista, in an act of spite, he began construction of the famous towers with his namesake, “King Brüdë's Gate” – that overlooked the Bizryan Bridge from the Fioran side of the city. He ordered them to be built in 232, to intimidate the Nur people, a constant reminder of their inferior status and unwelcomeness during his tyrannical rule. Yet, as a consequence, he was assailed by constant rebellions for his brutality and greed, and he was unable to finish the towers, which was a task left to his son, King Brüdëcar, the Terrible, who was, were it possible, far more cruel, far more foul. As travelers of all stripes and nations crossed the bridge, they couldn't help but feel the weight of the towering structures bearing down upon them. It was a chilling sight, one that spoke to the deep-seated divide between the two sides of the Fioran strait.

On the morning of 13 Flame Star, 1011, the Flamestar had just risen, casting a warm golden glow on that venerable port. The air was filled with the sound of marching, the clanging of armor, and the thunderous hooves of horses. People lined the streets, watching in awe as Daryusz and his twelve legions made their way through the city. The soldiers marched in perfect formation, their silver armor shining brightly in the star's daylight. The air was filled with the scent of roses, which had been strewn along the path of the soldiers as they marched.

As they reached the edge of town, the soldiers came to a halt, their feet kicking up clouds of sand. Daryusz stood at the head of the legions, his face stern and unyielding. He raised his hand, and the soldiers began the historic crossing of the Bizryan Bridge, which spanned the Fioran Strait. The bridge was still a marvel of engineering, made of sturdy stone and metal, but it creaked and groaned under the weight of the march.

The overwhelming sound of their footsteps echoed across the strait, drowning out the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and calling all who were in earshot to attention. The people of Bizrya watched on and cheered. They stood on the rooftops, they stood on the balconies, from the shore, and even from the boats that were passing under the bridge, just to catch a glimpse as the soldiers crossed the bridge. Their hearts filled with both fear and wonder. They knew that Daryusz and his legions were heading towards the Sultanate of Nur, and they could only imagine what glories laid ahead.

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The imperial armor was a sight to behold, always. It had been made from the finest steel and crafted with meticulous detail, designed to intimidate and inspire fear in the enemy. The armor of the soldiers had been adorned with fierce wolf and lion motifs, symbolizing the strength and ferocity of the Empire's armies. The armor itself was a bright, shining silver, polished to a mirror finish that had reflected the light of the Flamestar and made the soldiers shine like beacons on the battlefield.

The officers' armor, such as that that Daryusz wore, had been even more elaborate and ornate. It had been embellished with intricate designs, featuring not only wolves and lions but also dragons, eagles, and other fearsome creatures. The armor had been a darker shade of silver, almost granite, which had provided a stark contrast to the bright silver of the soldiers' armor. The officers had also worn dark red cloaks, which had billowed behind them as they had ridden into battle. The cloaks had been a symbol of their status and authority, and they had added an extra layer of intimidation to the already imposing officers.

The armor had been a clear reflection of the power and might of the Empire's armies. Besides its aesthetics, the craftsmanship reflected this as well; Its quality was second to none, and the soldiers and officers had worn it with pride. It had been a symbol of their strength and their willingness to defend the Empire at all costs. As they had marched onto the battlefield, the gleam of the armor and the billowing of the cloaks had made it clear that they were not to be trifled with

As Daryusz approached the other side of the bridge, his heart was pounding with anticipation for his chance at redemption. It was an easy post, he thought to himself. They were being sent to protect a few graveyards and tombs, a few holy sites here and there. They were going just to calm things down. Even if fighting broke out, the legions were far more powerful than any force that the Nur could muster. Daryusz was confident that this would restore his favor with the Venrex and his court.

Suddenly, a horse's whinny cut through the air. He turned his head to see a group of riders approaching in the distance. As they drew closer, he could see that they were imperial post riders, the fastest riders in the land, mounted on cavalry-grade horses. The riders' sleek, muscular frames gleamed in the southern starlight, and their eyes burned with a fierce determination.

As the riders caught up to Daryusz, they handed him a letter. His eyes scanned the parchment eagerly. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized her handwriting. He tore open the envelope, his hands shaking with excitement. The letter was written in flowing script, and its words danced across the page like music. He read each word slowly, savoring the sweet taste of Sibela's voice. His heart fluttered with emotion, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

Daryusz,

I hope this letter finds you well. It's only been a few days since you left, but it feels like an eternity. I miss you terribly, and I can't wait for you to return.

I have been feeling many things since your departure, and since we are to be married and I am to be your wife… I didn’t know who else to turn to, and I didn’t know what else to write… but the truth. Please don’t think less of me for expressing how I truly feel.

Today has been trying. My uncles paid a visit, and their disdain for me and our relationship was palpable. As I stood before them… they brought up The Hellflayer. I defended your honor as the inheritor of that title, but naturally… it sent me into a spiral. This unhappy moment forced me to turn my thoughts toward Íbolín. It felt like they could sense my emotions, that they were… preying on them, salting my wounds, picking me apart… It's as if they see me as nothing more than a pawn in their twisted games. And what’s worse… is my father could do nothing but stand by. But I won't let them win.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The truth is darling, I'm torn between my past and my future. I still carry a sense of guilt and uncertainty about my past relationship with him, even though it's long over. And yet, I know that my future is with you, Daryusz. I can't imagine my life without you. Know that despite these wounds, I am yours, I will be your wife.

When you return, maybe it's time for us to seriously plan our wedding, and dare I say… leave Fioranz behind. Forever. No more Grazzli family. No more politics. No more war. I know it won't be easy, but I can't keep living like this. The constant judgment and scrutiny are suffocating me. I want to be able to love who I want without fear or shame. I want to be able to walk hand in hand with you without worrying about the whispers and glares. At times, it feels like neither Venganzi nor the Lyban want me to be with you…

I don't want to burden you with my problems while you're on important matters, but I just needed to vent to someone who understands. I love you, Daryusz, and I can't wait for the day when we can be together without these obstacles in our way.

Stay safe, my love. I'll be here waiting for your return.

Yours always,

Síbela

Daryusz looked up from the letter and gazed out across the horizon, his mind racing with thoughts of Sibela. He could feel his heart racing, and his palms were slick with sweat. The wind whistled through the trees, and the Flamestar continued beat down on his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the moment.

Daryusz let out a hobbling, wanting sigh, as he gripped the letter tightly in his hand and pulled it toward his breastplate. His heart was swelling with renewed fervor. He called a halt to the march, his voice echoing across the ranks of his twelve legions. The sound of boots shuffling to a stop and armor clanking in unison filled the air. The soldiers waited in rapt attention, eager to hear what their leader had to say.

Daryusz, with his long dark hair twisted in sizeable braids, sporting black and gold encrusted imperial officer's armor, called for a halt to the march and prepared to give a speech. He drew his sword, Hespét, a famous weapon of antiquity, which seemed to give off a faint red glow from it’s obsidian-looking metal. It had wicked serrations and it’s handle was wrapped in an oily black strap. The pommel had a viscous red fluid that seemed to slosh and dance inside a clear gemstone. Small spikes protruded from the slack between where the wraps covered the hilt, with darkened stains, no doubt from where they dug into the hands of it’s wielder. The men watched as the light seemed to be unable to glint off of the blade.

Despite his strong appearance and impressive title, the men were not so excited. They had heard speeches before at the front.. in the Drümmargian Forest; which many were beginning to call the “Drümmargian Gorefest”. They were skeptical of Daryusz' leadership. Some whispered among themselves, wondering if he had what it took to lead them to victory. Most thought this expedition was going to be more of the same… more harrowing death. Daryusz looked them over and began to speak.

"My fellow legionnaires, I, Daryusz, The Hellflayer, alpha of the Hell Pack, address you as your equal.

It is an honor that I stand above you as your leader! Today, we march not just for victory, but for love!

And let me tell you,

Love is the most powerful weapon of all.

When you fight for love, nothing can stand in your way! Not even the enemy's arrows or swords.

Now… I know some of you might be thinking,

'What does love have to do with it?

What is love but… some kind of…

other… hand… second hand… emotion?

What does love have to do with battle?

Well, let me ask you this:

Have you ever even been in love?

Have you ever felt that…

burning passion in your heart,

that overwhelming desire to be with someone?

That's… that’s the kind of fire we need

to bring to this fight!"

As Daryusz delivered his speech, he failed to notice the expressions on the faces of the legionnaires around him. Their faces were etched with pain and loss. Some had lost brothers, fathers, and sons in the many imperial wars that followed the revolution. They stood there, silent and stoic, but their eyes betrayed their true feelings.

"Now, you were all briefed when the many of you were pulled from the front…

You know this expedition is one of peacekeeping… the spread of love!

We need to show the Nur that we…

Well… we are not just soldiers, we are lovers!

Fioran lovers, here to help them,

in the Nur people’s quest… for love.

No one loves like Fiorans…

no one fights like Fiorans…

No one DRINKS like Fiorans!

We… uh… fight for our beloved… back home,

for the affection we long to share,

and for the warm embrace that awaits us

after the campaign,

So, if, and I do mean if,

because remember,

this is a peacekeeping expedition, remember?

...If we charge into battle,

think not of victory,

but of love!

Let that love guide us to glory!"

As Daryusz finished his speech, the soldiers looked at each other in confusion and disbelief. Some even rolled their eyes or snicker behind their hands. They could not believe that their leader, who they trusted to lead them to victory, was spouting such drivel. The demoralizing effect was immediate, and many of the len started to question whether they should follow Daryusz into battle at all.

One soldier, a grizzled veteran with a deep scar running down the side of his face, looked at Daryusz with a mixture of disbelief and anger. He had buried two sons in the Drü Wood. He remembered the horrors of war and the sacrifices made by so many to defend the empire, and he couldn't believe that their leader was talking about love and freedom like it was some kind of game.

Another soldier, a young man with a bandage around his head, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wincing in pain. He thought about his brother, who had died in his arms on the battlefield, and wondered how he could fight for love and freedom when all he could feel was grief and despair.

The twelve legions under Daryusz' command were a ragtag bunch of soldiers, a hodge-podge of the wounded and recycled. These were the who had seen the most action, who had fought and bled for the empire time and time again. They were hardened, ready to fight again, in hopes of resolving any conflict quickly. However, those of their company who had seen enough victory to make it back alive had a common denominator. Competent leadership. And yet, no they were here, marching across the bridge towards the Sultanate, led by a man who seemed to have no idea what he was doing.

Venrex Venzio had thought that these soldiers had earned a reprieve, that they deserved a break from the horrors of war. He believed that the business in the Sultanate would be handled swiftly, and that it did not require the Empire's finest. And so, he had sent them on this fool's errand, led by a commander, Daryusz, who was more concerned with how he appeared in the shadow of his predecessor, who over-encumbered himself with non-warrior pursuits, such as lust and vanity, than with the realities of war.

The soldiers themselves knew better, of course. They knew that there was no such thing as a reprieve from war, that the horrors of battle followed them wherever they went. They had seen their brothers and sisters in arms fall beside them from Drü arrows, hatchets, and tomahawks. They had watched as their friends and family members were hewn down by the enemy’s guerilla tactics. And now, here they were, potentially marching towards another conflict, with a commander who seemed oblivious to their pain and sacrifice.

The legionnaires, many of whom had seen the worst the world had to offer, knew that war had nothing to do with love and freedom. There was nothing romantic or lovely about it. It was about survival, about protecting the people you loved and the land you called home. They had fought and bled for the empire, and they expected their leader to understand that. In this moment, they saw a man who was out of touch, who didn't understand their pain or their sacrifice. And as they listened to his speech, their spirits sank even lower. They were starting to think that they were being led by a fool, not the fearsome Hell Flayer who ended battles quickly so many could go home to what was left of their families.

Despite their weariness and disillusionment, however, the soldiers of the twelve legions remained mostly steadfast. They had been through too much to give up now, and they knew that they still had a duty to their empire, no matter how foolish their mission might seem. And so they marched on, their hearts heavy but their spirits unbroken, hoping that somehow, they would find a way to make it through this latest tour of duty.