A Few Days Ago

The office Benedict had been assigned was… adequate. Luxurious by most standards, yet utterly lacking compared to his own study back at the estate. Still, for a prisoner, it would do. The walls were sparsely decorated, save for a few shelves filled with Lysorian nonsense—tedious, self-aggrandizing drivel that was rarely worth reading. A handful of volumes had proven intriguing enough to skim, but the rest? Useless. The room itself bore no sign of hospitality and had no area to entertain guests or visitors, with only two plain chairs in front of his sturdy oak desk. At least the high-backed leather chair he’d been given was comfortable—easily the highlight of his captivity so far.

“Lord Marquess,” Dralos said, pushing the door open without so much as knocking.

Benedict bit back the urge to snarl and hurl magic at the intruder. His time in Lysoria had been a constant exercise in restraint. The lack of decorum among Lilliana’s followers grated on him to no end. Dralos and Rosa, in particular, showed him little more than disdain. The fact that the draconian hybrid even addressed him by title this time was a minor miracle.

“Another missive?” Benedict asked, his tone clipped.

Dralos, a towering figure who followed Lilliana like an obedient hound, gave a single nod and handed over a blank envelope stamped with a simple silver seal. It bore no house sigil, but Benedict knew immediately who it was from.

“Aye.”

Benedict rolled his eyes at the hybrid’s habitual lack of polish but refrained from commenting. He couldn't do much about the impropriety, not matter how much it irked him. The slave mark burned into his skin ensured his magic was useless unless explicitly permitted by Lilliana or her lapdog.

Rising from his desk, Benedict plucked the envelope from Dralos’ clawed fingers.

I really need to get myself a secretary. Anything to keep this bastard out of my office.

Sliding a finger beneath the flap, he broke the seal with a soft pop. The third letter in as many days from the young, if completely terrifying, noble girl. Each one brought a new task, and a new deadline—always a 24-hour window to accomplish whatever ridiculous demand she dreamed up.

At least I’m not working in a brothel. He resisted a shudder.

As his eyes scanned the parchment, Benedict felt his chest tighten. A mix of fear and—gods help him—anticipation. Was he actually excited?

How pathetic.

He read the letter twice, then a third and fourth time before handing it back to Dralos, who neatly folded it and returned it to his pocket.

“Do you know what it says?” Benedict asked.

“I was present when the oral missive was received.” Dralos replied evenly with a sharp nod.

Of course, Benedict wasn't surprised that Dralos wouldn’t say how House Ballenci managed to send messages across such distances so quickly. Particularily considering Lady Ballenci had left without any sort of messenger.

It was magic, no doubt—he'd figured out that much, though the exact details continued to elude him. It was... irritating, to say the least, that there was magic being kept out of his reach.

No matter. He had his own ways of communicating, specifically with his daughter, wherever she was now. He didn't dare risk communications with anyone else.

Not yet.

Shrugging on his coat, Benedict cast a long glance around the room that had, despite its faults, become a place of relative peace. He inhaled deeply, savoring the faint scent of polished oak, and then strode out the door with Dralos close behind.

“Was there anything in the original spoken missive that wasn’t recorded in the letter?”

“No, Lord Marquess.”

“No other details?”

“Her Majesty leaves the finer points to your discretion. You are a Marquess, are you not?”

Dralos’ pointed, backhanded remark drew a bitter laugh from Benedict. Some Marquess he was, enslaved and imprisoned by a girl of under twenty years.

By the time they reached the mansion’s final flight of stairs leading to the ground floor, where Lilliana’s followers often milled about, Benedict’s patience had worn thin.

The mansion’s ground-floor lobby was expansive, capable of accommodating three dozen individuals at once. In Lilliana’s absence—and to combat the grime her followers tracked in daily—Benedict had ordered over four dozen mats to cover the polished obsidian floors and banned physical training inside the mansion.

The grand staircase dominated the center of the lobby, with the rest of the space wrapping around it. Occasionally, Benedict would spot a follower or two meditating beneath the staircase, shrouded in shadows.

An odd bunch, to be sure. Yet their skills had advanced at a pace far beyond anything Benedict had witnessed among his own soldiers or guards— it was downright terrifying.

Without preamble, Benedict barked, “We’re moving out!”

The announcement jolted the gathered throng out of their meditative silence. A dozen heads snapped up, eyes narrowing in surprise and irritation.

“We’re busy,” growled one of the larger figures—a half-orc, perhaps. He... it... sat cross legged on the lobby floor, a snarl on his face.

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“Too busy to obey your queen?” Benedict said, responding with a sneer.

The room fell eerily silent as if someone had sucked the air from the space. Those who'd been in the middle of light conversations paused, their heads shifting slowly to witness the commotion. If an insect had landed in the silence, Benedict was certain he could have heard it.

“What did she say?” asked an enormous woman stepping forward from the group.

Ah, there she is, Benedict thought, motioning for Rosa to approach.

“I have not been granted permission to share the mission's entirety,” he said truthfully. “But I was instructed to summon La’Resha so she can read Lady Lilliana’s orders.”

“Where are we going?” another asked, this one… a child? Benedict blinked, startled not remembering having seen a young girl present in Lilliana's followers.

After a few seconds, he decided to just ignore the situation. Weirdness seemed to follow Lilliana like a shadow.

“We’re going to war,” he said, letting the weight of the words settle over the room. Then he paused, reconsidering. “Or… conquering?” He glanced at Dralos, who shrugged. “Yes. Conquering.” Another pause. "Or maybe fishing is better? Baiting?"

It took a few days, but Benedict managed to put something resembling an army together from Sealrite's motely remains.

Gusts of wind bit at the back of his neck as he donned a dark scarlet war cloak, fastening it over his shoulders outside the city's gates. Beside him, La’Resha mirrored the motion, her expression as unreadable as ever.

La'Resha's eyes weren't quite as ominous as Lilliana's blood-red coloring, but the woman's seemingly empty grays felt as if she didn't just look at him but rather stared into his very soul.

“When does the tournament begin?” he asked the Paragon.

She glanced at the setting sun, squinting as if gauging the time. After a moment, she clipped the front of her cloak closed and replied, “In six sunrises.”

“Just say six days,” Benedict muttered. If she heard him, she didn’t bother responding. “Will we have enough time?”

He had studied the maps extensively while Peter, Dralos, and La’Resha had assembled their small army. Based on the distance between where they were and Elyndor, he calculated they’d arrive with time to spare.

Still, he’d never actually set foot in the ducal capital, given that its Duke wanted him dead. La’Resha had apparently been there before— born there.

Or so she says, Benedict thought grimly. It was some consolation that they were warring against Lysorians and not his own people, but the prospect of being forced to kill left a rotten taste in his mouth. It had lingered ever since he’d crossed paths with Lilliana.

A god’s damned monster, that girl. If she has no qualms about massacring her own people for conquest, what might she do to the rest of the world?

“Just barely by dawn,” La’Resha finally answered. “If we fly fast and the Hydra isn't too... airheaded. Though we must wait for Her Maje-Her Grace’s signal.”

“Which we don’t know,” Benedict said.

“Which we don’t know,” she repeated in agreement, her tone flat.

Benedict sighed. It was going to be a long few days. His seal had yet to be slacked enough for him to use magic. But whenever he inquired into the issue, Dralos would only shrug. Sometimes he’d smirk.

Irritating beast.

His gaze shifted to the rows of Paragons, followers, and fanatics who had gathered just outside Sealrite’s walls around where Lilliana had left a few weeks ago. The Paragons he’d chosen to vanguard the army moved among them, organizing the group into squadrons.

A forlorn emotion tugged at his heart as he allowed himself a moment to glance back at the city beyond the army. His city. No matter what Lilliana claimed, Sealrite belonged to him. He had built it, raised it, and defended it.

It was his.

He’d managed to convince Cael not to send reinforcements, spinning a tale about reclaiming the city after slaying the Duke. But he knew the truth would reach the royal family eventually. Leaving the city behind filled him with unease given what had happened last time he'd left, but Lilliana’s orders weren’t optional.

Not if I want to stay alive, he thought bitterly, absently tracing the edges of the slave mark burned into his skin.

Still, Sealrite wasn’t defenseless. The remaining city guards from before Duke Alistar's invasion were well-trained, and Benedict had left a handful of Paragons behind, along with a few bronze-ranked warriors from the deceased Duke's army.

It should hold until I return. Hopefully.

“Have we located the Hydra?” he asked the large woman to his right, referring to the very first missive Lilliana had sent them.

Rosa grunted. “Aye. Got a report this morning—the trackers found it.”

“Is it similar to what Lil- Lady Lilliana reported in her missives?”

Rosa growled but shook her head. “To the Lady’s eyes, the report was perhaps accurate. But she is... unnaturally powerful compared to the rest of us. One of the trackers we sent out had a recording ability. The creature is-" she paused momentarily and shook her head. "I cannot even describe what I saw. It eviscerated an entire territory in the time it took our trackers to set up camp. The land wasn't just destroyed, Marquess. It was scorched to nothing as if nothing had ever existed there."

“Which territory?”

Rosa offered a shrug. “I believe the trackers said it was a barony? Or a county? I am not certain.”

“It is fortunate Her Grace does not wish for us to defeat the monster,” La’Resha said.

“Just to piss it off,” Benedict grumbled.

"I believe that was your idea, Lord Marquess,” La’Resha said dryly.

Benedict waved his hand at her comment as if brushing away an unpleasant smell. “That was the only option. How else does one go about luring a mythical creature?”

“Bait?” Rosa said, shrugging.

“Already considered. We have no idea what it would even want, much less time to find whatever the creature desires. He paused. “Though, the Lady herself might work as bait, given it has already taken her arm."

“That is nearing blasphemy, Marquess,” La’Resha said icily, narrowing her eyes.

“Bah. She is not a God.”

“Not yet,” said a gruff, familiar, and utterly annoyingly stoic voice. Dralos approached them, his fine golden armor reflected the last rays of the descending sun. “But she will be.” He added the last with his usual irritating smirk.

Benedict didn’t say anything, barely holding back a scoff. Whatever Lilliana had done to these people resulted in something that felt more like a cult than loyalty born of conquest or power.

“Wyverns?” No sooner had the words left his parted lips was the question answered.

Behind him, a horde of wyverns and cockatrice marched out of Sealrite’s opened gate, led by whatever tamers he’d been able to locate. There weren’t many left, most were trained to tame farm animals, and those left with military training were not great, but they’d managed to care for the steeds well enough.

The soldiers would need to ride 2-3 per beast until they cleared the desert biome. From there, the main unit would continue toward Elyndor while a few select soldiers more loyal to Lilliana than House Alistar would set out to piss off the Hydra.

“Alright,” Benedict said, spotting the reddish gold wyvern he’d personally selected at the head of the approaching beasts. “Let's go fuck with a myth."