La Belle Époque.
That is the name the Imperatrice of the Daemon realms has proclaimed for this radiant era—a golden age for all Daemonkind. An age where the shadows of chaos and disunity have been cast aside, where the endless bloodshed that once defined their existence is no more.
Gone are the brutal years of fratricide, when Daemon fought Daemon with no cause beyond survival. Gone, too, are the humiliations of the past—those dark centuries when humans, emboldened by zeal and greed, hunted them down like beasts, slaughtering entire tribes with impunity.
Under her leadership, the Daemon race has risen, united beneath a single banner. No longer scattered clans and petty warlords; no longer prey to human ambition. One by one, the old human kingdoms crumbled under the relentless advance of her legions. The grand fortresses that once seemed impregnable were reduced to ashes. Entire dynasties were cast down like broken statues, until even the sacred Holy City, once believed untouchable, fell into the hands of her empire.
The Imperatrice’s vision of a new order swept away all vestiges of the old world. Archaic institutions, like the Adventurer’s Guild—once a symbol of unchecked violence masquerading as heroism—were dismantled.
“Y—Your Majesty…”
Before her knelt yet another trembling nobleman, his voice faltering with fear. Like so many before him, he had come to pledge his fealty, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the marble floor, his entire body quaking under the weight of her presence. The chamber was filled with others, the line stretching far beyond the towering doors, each waiting their turn to kneel.
The Imperatrice did not even glance at him. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she gestured to her guards, and the man was dragged away like an unwanted trinket—just another pawn surrendering his title in exchange for the mercy of the new regime.
Such theatrics bored her. Bread and circuses, she thought with disdain. Displays of loyalty were only a distraction from what truly mattered. She had no time to indulge in these petty rituals when her empire demanded more pressing attention.
Her dominion had expanded at an astonishing rate, swallowing entire kingdoms and regions almost overnight. Maps were redrawn so rapidly that cartographers could scarcely keep up. Some marveled at her swift conquests, calling them unparalleled in history, while others whispered of folly—that the Imperatrice’s empire had grown too large, too quickly.
The human armies that had managed to evade her forces did not vanish but instead scattered into guerrilla cells, forming ragtag militia groups. These remnants, desperate and embittered, waged a vicious insurgency. They haunted the very lands she had promised her Daemon settlers—a green and fertile paradise that was now stained with blood. Roads were unsafe, villages burned in the night, and every farmstead claimed under her banner was another battleground. Even as her armies marched farther west, the Daemon settlers found themselves isolated and besieged.
The conquest of the western kingdoms was still unfinished. Rozafyr stood defiant as the last beacon of resistance, home to the exiled Papacy and countless other royalty and high nobility who escaped. Their leadership clung to their walls like barnacles to a ship, refusing to surrender even as the tide of Daemon forces crept closer. It was the final kingdom holding out against the new order—an ember that refused to be extinguished.
By day, the Imperatrice entertained the façade of triumph and mercy as countless nobles desperately swore their fealty in an attempt to cling into power. Those happened in the former seat of the Pope—now her throne.
When it was all over, the Imperatrice rose from the throne. Her back ached, and her wings—folded tightly against her back for hours—throbbed with a dull, familiar pain. With a low, controlled sigh, she arched her spine, flexing her wings.
Her elegant robes whispered against the stone steps as she descended the dais, the heavy fabric trailing behind her like a cascade of twilight. Just as her heels clicked against the last step, she was greeted by her most trusted advisor—Marshal Kravan.
Kravan was unlike the other Daemon warriors who basked in the brutality of conquest. He was sharper, colder—a soldier who understood that war was as much about strategy as bloodshed. Where other Daemons wore black diamond armor forged for intimidation, Kravan’s attire was pragmatic, that is a sleek, modern military uniform, adorned only by insignias that marked his authority.
“Your Majesty,” Kravan gave a curt bow. “The armies of the Valkorian Kingdom and the Borian Tsardom have arrived. They stand ready to fight alongside us.”
“Those humans?” she muttered with barely concealed disdain. “How many?”
Kravan straightened. “Combined, they bring two hundred thousand troops.”
The Imperatrice’s frown deepened, irritation crossing her ethereal features. “Two hundred thousand,” she repeated slowly. “For two nations with centuries of warfare between them? They bring me this?”
Kravan’s gaze was steady, unflinching in the face of her displeasure. “They’ve bled each other dry with their wars, Majesty. What remains is all they could muster.”
The Imperatrice sighed.
As per Kravan’s advice, the Daemon nation could not conquer the west alone. Through countless negotiations and precarious concessions, she had forged an alliance with these nations. They were the premier industrialized powers of the west, equipped with weaponry and tactics refined through relentless skirmishes.
Yet, despite the strategic advantages of this alliance, a gnawing unease settled in her stomach. What truly lies behind their sudden willingness to fight alongside her? she mused. Old rivalries don’t vanish overnight. What do they seek in this newfound camaraderie?
It was more like an alliance of convenience. For her, she gained two powerful allies. For them, they could recoup their losses from the war fought by each other and avoid a confrontation with the Daemons.
“Take me to their commanders.”
Kravan gave a sharp nod, saluting. "Right this way, Your Majesty."
The Imperatrice followed him out of the grand cathedral, the night air cool against her skin. The Holy City lay in ruins, a husk of its former self. Smoke curled from broken rooftops, and the streets—once bustling with life with proud citizens of Gaia’s chosen—now lay eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the distant murmur of wind through shattered windows.
None of the Daemon commanders had shown any interest in rebuilding, most were busy finding slaves for themselves, and lash out on any human they found.
They approached a large camp set up outside the walled city, where rows of tents stood under fluttering colorful flags bearing the emblems of the Valkorian Kingdom and the Borian Tsardom. Torches burned low, casting long, flickering shadows over the gathered troops.
These were not the trembling, pious defenders of the Holy City. These men—Valkorian and Borian alike—were hardened by the brutal realities of industrial warfare. They were uniformed, carried well-maintained weapons, and despite their fatigue, maintained their discipline.
The fluttering flags bearing the emblems of the two nations—one stitched with the eagle with the orb and scepter of Valkoria, the other with the iron crown of the Tsardom. Soldiers exchanged hushed words in unfamiliar dialects, glancing her way but keeping their curiosity well-hidden behind rigid discipline.
“Their commanders await inside,” Kravan murmured, gesturing toward the largest tent, its entrance guarded by two stoic officers.
She swept through the entrance without waiting for acknowledgment, her presence like a cold wind cutting through the tent’s stale warmth. The thick scents of damp canvas, sweat, ink, and stale alcohol clung to the air. At the center stood a heavy wooden table, cluttered with maps—and, to her growing irritation, a half-finished card game.
The sight of two rival commanders—men who had once spent decades spilling each other’s blood—now sitting together, sharing drinks and shuffling cards, was an absurdity that grated against her patience. They glanced up as she entered, but neither seemed particularly hurried in acknowledging her.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and similar colored coat, slowly pushed himself to his feet. The laziness of the gesture was compounded by the slosh of liquid as he drained the last of his glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving her a smirk that danced dangerously close to insolence.
“Borian alcohol is strong as always,” the man muttered, setting his glass down with a clink. He gave her a brief nod—no more than a monarch might spare for a favored hunting dog. “Generalfeldmarschall Reitte of the Valkorian Kingdom, Your Majesty.”
The second commander, lounging comfortably in his chair, didn’t bother standing at all. A thick fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders, the iron crown insignia on his cap glinting in the low torchlight.
“Field Marshal Volkov,” he offered smoothly, tilting his head just enough to show acknowledgment, though not deference. “I’d offer a more formal welcome, but it seems you’ve caught us in a rare moment of peace. Cards and vodka do wonders for diplomacy between old enemies.”
The Imperatrice’s golden eyes flicked between them, glinting like molten metal in the dim light. Her gaze swept across the playing cards strewn across the table and the half-empty bottle between them. The irritation bubbling beneath her skin threatened to spill over, but she kept her voice cold and even.
“This,” she said, her words sharp as a blade drawn from its scabbard, “is how you prepare for war?”
Reitte chuckled low in his throat, settling back against his chair with lazy confidence. “War’s nothing new to us, Majesty. We know when to fight—and when to rest. Might as well enjoy the quiet before the storm.”
Her wings shifted behind her with the faintest rustle, a subtle but unmistakable warning. “I didn’t forge this alliance so you could drink and gamble like tavern fools. You stand under my banner now.”
“With respect,” Reitte replied, raising one hand as if to forestall her anger, “we’ve fought more wars than you’ve seen winters. Drunk or sober, we’ve never lost a fight worth winning.”
She stepped forward, and the subtle change in distance was enough to shift the atmosphere in the tent entirely. Her presence loomed over the table, suffocating the lightheartedness between the two commanders.
“That may be so, Generalfeldmarschall, but understand this—you do not fight for your petty kingdoms anymore. You fight for me. If I find you lacking…” Her gaze narrowed, like the edge of a knife pressed to their throats. “I’ll make your past wars look like children’s squabbles in comparison.”
Reitte only smiled. “I fight because my monarch commands me. Nothing more, nothing less.”
The Imperatrice’s golden eyes narrowed dangerously, her jaw tightening as she fought to leash her temper. A flicker of rage curled in her chest, but she mastered it. Not here. Not with these fools.
She straightened, towering over the table as her wings gave an imperceptible twitch, rustling against the tension-filled air. "Why, then, have your kings brought me only two hundred thousand troops—combined—from both your nations?"
Volkov exhaled slowly through his nose, folding his hands on the table with a deliberate calmness, as if bracing for a blow. "Two centuries of warfare bleed a country dry, Your Majesty. No one wants to fight. Be thankful we stand here at all."
“Gratitude,” she said, the word laced with venom. “You expect me to be thankful for scraps? For soldiers dragged from the ruins of your failed ambitions?”
Reitte leaned back lazily in his chair, a sardonic grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Failed ambitions or not, Your Majesty, they’re still better soldiers than most. And when they fall, it won’t be from lack of courage—it’ll be from exhaustion. My men can march and fight, but they can’t conjure food from barren fields, nor bullets from thin air.”
The Imperatrice rolled her eyes. “So? I trust you brought your own supplies.”
“Yes, we brought our own artilleries, though it seems your soldiers isn’t willing to share ammunitions.”
“You need to prove your worth before earning my trust.”
Reitte chuckled, unbothered by the thinly veiled threat. “Trust is overrated, Your Majesty. I’ve found fear works just as well.”
Volkov shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing, his hands still folded on the table as if weighing every word that passed between them. Then, he inclined his head slowly, though his expression remained impassive. “We are here to fight. The rest is your concern.”
The Imperatrice scoffed softly, her wings shifting behind her in a subtle, restless motion, but she let the comment pass without rebuke. Her gaze flicked toward Marshal Kravan.
Kravan met her look with a nod, then turned to the commanders. “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me. We have something… important to show you.” He gestured toward the tent’s entrance with a flourish.
Volkov pushed back his chair with deliberate slowness, while Reitte downed the last of his vodka with a smirk before rising to his feet.
“This better be good, Marshal,” Reitte muttered, adjusting his collar. “I hate surprises.”
Kravan’s smile tightened, but he said nothing, holding the tent flap open.
The Imperatrice swept out first, her wings trailing like the edge of a gathering storm. Reitte and Volkov followed close behind, exchanging wary glances but keeping any further remarks to themselves.
Outside, the night lay heavy and still, broken only by the faint, flickering glow of torches from the joint Valkorian-Borian encampment. The sounds of distant boots on gravel and murmured orders floated through the air, but even those grew quiet as the commanders followed the two Daemons.
For a brief moment, both generals exchanged a look—one filled with shared confusion and suspicion. They couldn’t yet discern what the Marshal and the Imperatrice intended to show them, but it became clear soon enough.
From the dark emerged a behemoth—rolling forward with an ominous clanking sound, its bulk gleaming under the pale torchlight. A massive steel box, fortified with thick armor plates, crawled forward on segmented treads. On either side, colossal cannons swiveled slowly, each large enough to bring down entire fortifications with a single blast.
Flanking the mechanical monstrosity, the two greater Daemons knelt before the Imperatrice, lowering their horned heads in reverence.
“Your Majesty,” the Daemons rumbled in unison, their deep voices like rolling thunder.
Marshal Kravan turned to face the two commanders, his voice measured and deliberate. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the apex of Daemon engineering—the Landship.”
Reitte took a step closer, resting one hand on the cold, armored surface of the war machine. “A landship?” he echoed, the skepticism clear in his voice. “What in the Abyss am I looking at here? A rolling fortress?”
Volkov, still processing the sight, narrowed his gaze. “What does it run on?” he asked quietly, not out of curiosity, but caution. “A machine of this size demands fuel—and fuel doesn't conjure itself.”
Marshal Kravan clasped his hands behind his back and answered smugly. “The Landship runs on something I believe you’re familiar with—black gold. Oil. Efficient, though it comes with… unique risks.”
Reitte scoffed, brushing a hand along the massive metal hull, feeling the cold bite of the armored surface beneath his fingers. “Oil-fed engines? And what happens when the oil runs dry? Or when it stalls in the middle of enemy fire?”
Kravan’s lips curled into a confident smirk. “That won’t happen. The engineering is flawless—each Landship has six crewmen: a pilot, gunners, an engineer, and officers to manage operations. It weighs 16 tonnes, rolls smoothly over any terrain, and comes equipped with twin 75mm cannons capable of leveling enemy fortifications. Secondary armaments include two 8mm machine guns for infantry suppression.”
Volkov tilted his head slightly, his calculating mind already dissecting the design. “And the armor?”
Kravan gave a curt nod. “Steel reinforced with mithril plates. Tough enough to shrug off most artillery fire and resistant to magic. It can endure a direct hit from your standard field cannon, though I wouldn’t recommend testing that theory too often.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Reitte and Volkov shared a brief glance with each other. “And how many do you have?”
Kravan smiled.
----------------------------------------
Come to think of it, this was Ries' first time traveling out of the capital as Prime Minister. Her visit was part of a broader effort to strengthen ties between the Empire and its protectorate states, ensuring a seamless integration of their autonomy into the expanding reach of the central government.
Currently, Ries was in the Queendom of Elvire, an elven protectorate nestled in a forest along the Empire’s western border. The elves clung stubbornly to their ancient ways, as if time itself bent around them. To them, the Empire's banners planted on their soil were mere decoration—a polite fiction that allowed them to believe they remained untouched by imperial rule. Every movement, every finely chosen word carried the weight of pride and tradition, as if conceding even a scrap of power might cause their centuries-old customs to crumble.
Their queen, however, was not bound by such illusions.
Queen Sylviera was older than the Empire itself, old enough to remember its chaotic birth—when warlords battled for dominance in a shattered land. She had watched empires rise and fall before, surviving not by resisting the tides of history but by bending with them. It was a subtle but crucial difference. Her wisdom was not rooted in nostalgia but in pragmatism. And unlike her people, she saw clearly where the winds were blowing.
Ries sat across from Sylviera in the Queendom’s great hall, where shafts of sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, scattering soft colors onto the stone floor. The air carried the faint scent of wildflowers and ancient wood, a reminder of the sacred forest outside—a place as much a part of the Elves as their own blood. Ries adjusted her posture, shifting uncomfortably beneath the sharp gaze of the Queen. Her feline ears flicked under the brim of her hat, a reflex she could not entirely suppress. The Queen’s stare was calm, deliberate, and probing, as if she could strip away every polite pretense and see the raw thoughts hiding beneath.
“It must be strange for you,” Sylviera said at last, her was smooth, almost hypnotizing. “To walk through halls built before your empire took its first breath.”
Ries gave a small shrug, masking her discomfort. “I must say, it’s my first time visiting an Elven settlement.”
The Queen’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Oh? And I must say, it’s the first time I’ve seen a Beastman in such a high position within the Empire.”
Ries resisted the urge to let her tail lash. There was always that undertone—a subtle reminder that, no matter what uniform or title she wore, many would never see her as more than a Beastman.
“Is that curiosity I detect?” Ries asked evenly. “Or skepticism?”
“Neither,” Sylviera replied with a faint smirk. “Merely observation. You are an uncommon sight. It makes me wonder—do they place you at the forefront to demonstrate how progressive they’ve become? As I recall, humans aren’t fond of sharing power with outsiders.”
Ries’s tail twitched, but she forced herself to remain composed. It was a game, and she had learned quickly that in diplomacy, missteps were unforgivable. “I stand here by choice, not by anyone’s design.”
“How noble,” the Queen murmured, her words cool but sharp with reproach. “Yet with the passing of the new constitution, you’ve not only stripped away the autonomy of protectorates like mine but absorbed them outright through law. And now your soldiers patrol my city streets under the pretext of defending the border.”
“And for good reason. The west is in chaos, and war has a way of bleeding across borders,” Ries replied smoothly. “You wouldn’t want a wave of refugees overrunning your Elven city, now, would you?”
Sylviera’s smile remained—polite but distant, like a blade hidden beneath silk. “So you say. But the line between protection and control is a thin one. Tell me, Prime Minister—when Rozafyr falls, what will stop the Empire from turning that protection into conquest?”
Ries allowed herself a calm, calculated smile. “You think too little of us, Your Majesty. The Empire doesn’t need to conquer what it already governs.”
For the first time, Sylviera fell silent. It was the truth, and they both knew it. Elvire had long been tethered to the Empire, its foreign policy and defense dictated from Valyra. Official annexation was merely a formality—a final stitch to close a wound that had bled slowly for decades.
The Queen’s gaze sharpened. “About Rozafyr. I hear the demon hordes have besieged their capital. I want assurances that they will never set foot in my domain.”
“Your forests will remain untouched,” Ries replied coolly, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
Sylviera held Ries’s gaze a moment longer, as if weighing those words with a skepticism she didn’t bother to mask. Then, with a soft, dismissive hmph, she turned her head. “I suppose I’ll trust you—for now.”
The Queen’s emerald eyes drifted over the stained-glass windows, the beams of light filtering through them casting soft patterns across the ancient wood floor. “You said this was your first time in an Elven settlement, didn’t you?”
Ries inclined her head slightly, unsure of the Queen’s intent.
Sylviera smiled—a subtle, unreadable expression that hinted at something between amusement and curiosity. “Then allow me to show you around,” she said, her voice lighter now. Without waiting for an answer, the Queen stood gracefully, her long, silver hair catching the light as if it were woven from moonbeams.
Ries rose as well, her feline ears flicking beneath her hat. “I didn’t think you had much interest in hosting imperial officials.”
Sylviera cast a glance over her shoulder, a faint smirk touching her lips. “Come, Prime Minister. There’s more to Elvire than courtrooms and treaties.”
The doors creaked open, and Ries followed Sylviera out into the open air, the scent of pine and wildflowers growing stronger as they stepped into the heart of the Elven city. Towering trees formed a canopy overhead, their branches thick with greenery that shrouded the settlement in perpetual twilight. Winding paths of stone curved between ancient wooden buildings that seemed to grow out of the forest itself.
Unlike the capital, where the air was thick with smoke, the atmosphere here was so pure it seemed to carry a weight of its own. Ries felt her tense shoulders ease, the air filling her lungs with a refreshing coolness she hadn’t realized she missed. It took effort to keep her composure. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted, though her tone remained carefully neutral.
They continued walking in silence, the soft crunch of their footsteps on the moss-covered path the only sound between them. Elven citizens, draped in elegant robes and adorned with nature’s finery, glanced their way—curious, puzzled even. A Beastman and an Elf walking side by side was an unusual sight. Some tilted their heads in thought, their brows furrowing, but recognition soon flickered across their faces when they noticed the imperial insignia pinned to Ries’s uniform.
Still, Ries kept her focus on Sylviera. There was no use fretting over the stares—she’d learned long ago that she’d always be seen as an outsider, no matter where she went.
As they rounded a corner, Sylviera’s pace slowed, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, threaded with wistful reflection. “My people think they can stop time if they stand still long enough. That if they hold fast to their traditions, the world beyond the forest will somehow remain distant.”
Ries glanced at the Queen, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. “Is that why you’ve chosen to work with us?”
“Not at first.” Sylviera let out a soft chuckle, a sound both weary and amused. “Do you know how many times the Empire tried to conquer us during its early days?”
Ries arched a brow. “I’ve read a few accounts. But history tends to favor the victors.”
“Ofcourse it does,” Sylviera replied with a faint smirk. “The records probably describe us as stubborn and isolated, waiting for the inevitable. But the truth is, we fought fiercely. The forest remembers those battles, even if your books do not.”
She paused, her gaze turning distant, lost among the towering trees around them. “At first, they came with swords and shields, with wooden siege towers and cavalry—predictable tools of conquest.” Her tone darkened slightly. “Then came something new. They brought arquebuses, clumsy things at first, and after that, bronze cannons that frankly terrified us at first.”
"Then that turned into rifled muskets," Sylviera continued, her voice taking on a distant, nostalgic quality. "Bayonets fixed at the ends, marching in disciplined lines—precision over brute force. I remember the first time we saw their improved cannons breach our forest walls, the sound shaking the very roots beneath our feet. The scent of iron and gunpowder replaced the air we cherished. It was clear, even then, that they were learning—adapting."
She paused, tracing her fingers lightly over the bark of a nearby tree, as if the ancient wood could still whisper tales of those battles. "And with every failed invasion, the Empire returned with something new—something more dangerous. Until, at last, they realized the forest could not be taken by force. That was when they brought treaties instead of soldiers. Promises of peace... thinly veiled in parchment."
Ries listened carefully. "So you fought the Empire every step of the way, only to surrender to paper in the end."
A bitter smile tugged at Sylviera’s lips. “No, Prime Minister. We never lost.” She straightened. "Others fought until there was nothing left of them—only ruins where their cities once stood, and echoes of customs they could no longer remember. But we… we endured. Not unchanged, perhaps. But we endured."
“Is that so…” Ries absorbed the Queen’s words in silence, a faint understanding stirring within her. Survival, it seemed, was not always about winning or standing firm. Sometimes, it meant bending, adapting—weathering the storm without losing what mattered most. But there was a harshness in that truth, too. Survival didn’t come without sacrifice.
Sylviera’s gaze sharpened, her tone reflective yet edged with admiration. “Humans are... remarkable creatures. They are weaker than most races, both in body and magic. They lack the longevity of Elves, the ingenuity of Dwarves, or the ferocity of Beastmen. They quarrel among themselves, wage wars against their kin, and commit atrocities without hesitation. And yet—despite all that—they persist.”
She paused for a moment, letting her words settle, before continuing. “What they lack in strength, they make up for with invention. They took Dwarven machines—good enough by most standards—and said, ‘It needs to be faster, more efficient.’ And so came their industrial revolution. They did not wait for innovation to come to them—they hunted it, improved it, until the world changed to keep pace with their ambitions."
“What they lack in magic, they bridged through ingenuity—crafting systems and tools that make magic accessible, even to those born without talent. They found ways to bend power to their will, not through raw skill, but through practicality. For them, magic isn't a sacred gift—it's a problem to solve. Even if some in their kin resisted it."
"And where other races take solace in their long lifespans, humans embrace urgency. They live as if each moment might be their last, and in that fleeting time, they reshape the world with frightening speed. Every victory is built atop a foundation of mistakes they refuse to stop making—because they learn from them.”
Sylviera’s gaze drifted, as if seeing distant lands beyond the trees. “Adaptable. That is what they are. They reinvent themselves with every setback. When others gave up on unexplored lands, they found the so-called New World. And they didn’t just find it—they claimed it, made it their own, and reshaped it to fit their vision.”
She turned back to Ries, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not that they are stronger, smarter, or more gifted. It’s that they refuse to accept their limits. For every weakness they have, they find ten ways to overcome it—if not today, then tomorrow. And they don't wait for others to teach them how.”
“And you admire them for that?”
The Queen’s smile was faint but sincere. “Admire? No. But I respect it. Underestimating them would be a mistake—one we learned too late.” She ran her hand along the bark of a tree, her fingers tracing the ancient ridges as if drawing strength from the past. “They’re dangerous not because they are the strongest, but because they will become what they need to be to survive.”
The two women stood in silence, the forest around them whispering with a breeze that stirred the canopy above. Ries shifted her weight slightly, her feline tail flicking in thought. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
Maybe the Queen's words were a warning—one not just for her but for her people, too. To resist change was to risk being swept away in the inevitable tide of history, where only those who reached for the future would stand on top.
“You’d make a great Minister,” Ries finally said, her tone dry but with a trace of genuine respect.
Sylviera’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Is that so? I’m flattered, but I’ll have to decline. I still have this domain to manage.” Her fingers drifted away from the bark of the tree, as if she was tethering herself once again to her responsibilities.
Just as those words left her mouth, a loud crash echoed from the direction of the city square. It sounded like wood splintering under force, followed by the distant clamor of startled voices.
A military officer burst through the treeline, his boots crunching against fallen leaves. He snapped to attention and saluted crisply. “Your Excellencies, the General requests your presence at once!”
Ries narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Madam! There’s a group in the square claiming to be a Hero and his party,” the officer reported.
That caught Ries’s full attention. Saitou… Asumi, Elise... and the others. She remembered the ragtag bunch. A Heroes as ordained by the Western Church. There was also a Palushian among them.
“Take me to them,” she ordered. Then, with a glance toward Sylviera, she added, “Are you coming?”
The Queen gave a small, amused smile, as if the universe’s unpredictability didn’t faze her in the slightest. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to keep your ‘friends’ waiting, would we?”
Ries rolled her eyes but followed the officer briskly, Sylviera keeping pace beside her. The cool air of the forest gave way to the heat and noise of the city as they neared the square.
The scene was exactly the kind of chaos Ries had expected. Soldiers stood rigid in a wide circle, weapons ready, surrounding a colorful group at the center of the commotion.
And there they were—Saitou, who is desperately trying to explain the situation; Asumi, calmly observing as if she wasn’t surrounded by armed guards; Elise Blackwood, already in some poor soldier’s face, barking complaints about ‘imperial hospitality,’; the feline Beastmen who stood ready with her daggers; Beside her, the Elf stood still—eerily composed—her long fingers brushing the curve of her bow, her sharp eyes watching for the slightest provocation; and that Palushian, standing there unsure of what to do.
“Stand down, they’re not a threat.” Ries waved her hand dismissively.
The soldiers hesitated for only a moment before lowering their weapons, stepping back with reluctant obedience.
The instant the tension eased, Saitou shot forward—but before he could reach her, Elise was already there, throwing herself at Ries and wrapping her in a suffocating hug.
“Anise!” Elise squealed, squeezing tighter than was strictly necessary.
Ries grimaced, her tail flicking irritably. “Elise, let go—”
Before she could pry the girl off, Saitou skidded to a halt beside them, breathless and wide-eyed. “The Demons!” he gasped. “They’re sieging Starfall!”
----------------------------------------
From what Ries could gather from the Hero's rambling, the situation was worse than she’d initially thought.
Starfall, the capital of Rozafyr, had been under siege for nearly two weeks, and the defenders were hanging by a thread. Supplies dwindling, morale shattered—it was only a matter of time before the walls fell. And now, in a desperate bid for salvation, the so-called Hero—along with his entire party, mind you—had abandoned the siege entirely.
Ries couldn't believe it. They hadn't stayed to defend the city. They hadn’t fought to hold the line or buy time for reinforcements. No. They had fled the battlefield, crossed the border, and thrown themselves at the mercy of the Empire, begging for help.
The Hero was now demanding that the Empire deploy the quarter of a million soldiers stationed here—across the border into Rozafyr territory—to break the siege and drive back the demonic horde. His justification? “Stopping the dark demon horde and save humanity.”
Ries scoffed inwardly. Of course, that wasn’t all. The Hero also included a request for her to personally lead the campaign—because apparently, nothing screamed “hope” like a Beastwoman-turned-Prime Minister marching into someone else’s war.
But even if she wanted to, it wasn’t that simple. The Empire was already bogged down fighting a naval war—committing troops to another conflict would be reckless at best and disastrous at worst.
Ries crossed her arms, her tail flicking with agitation as she eyed Saitou and his disheveled party. "So, let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You ran out of the city, left it to burn, and now you expect the Empire to bail you out?"
Saitou winced. "It’s not like that—"
"It’s exactly like that," Ries snapped. "You deserted the siege to come here. And now you want me to march an army into Rozafyr? Do you have any idea what you're asking? Mind you, I’m not a commander."
The Hero shifted uneasily under her sharp gaze. "I know it’s a lot... but if Starfall falls, the demons—"
"I know what happens if Starfall falls," Ries interrupted. Her ears twitched in frustration. "But that’s not my call to make. Only the Empress can declare a war—and the Empire doesn’t throw itself into conflicts lightly, especially not with a war already raging at sea."
Still, she could fulfill the petition made by the six ministers. She could ignore it, of course, it’s her call to do or not to do it. But she found it wise to follow the advice of experts.
After all, a strong leader surrounds herself with exceptional individuals.
"I'll take your request to the Empress," she continued. "But don’t hold your breath. This isn’t some fairy tale where you run to the big kingdom and they swoop in to save the day. If the Empress decides this isn’t our fight, you're on your own."
Saitou looked as though he'd aged a decade in that moment, but all he could do was nod. "Thank you… I think."
Sylviera’s amused voice drifted beside her. "And they say politics is dull."
Ries shot her a flat look. "Remind me to never become a Prime Minister."
The Queen chuckled softly. "I’ll keep that in mind.”
Before Ries could say more, a voice cut through the commotion.
“Excuse me.”
Both women turned to see a man approaching from the crowd, dressed in a fine, dark suit. He carried a large rolled parchment, reminiscent of the herald who once announced the death of the former Emperor. But unlike that garish herald, this man wore no ostentatious colors.
He cleared his throat and unrolled the parchment. “A message from Her Imperial Majesty,” he declared.
Oh no, not again.
“Her Imperial Majesty mourns the destruction of the Chaos Dragon’s domain, Rozafyr. In accordance with her sacred duty as Apostolic Queen of Rozafyr and defender of the faith, the Empire of Valyra now declares war to protect her righteous sisters in faith.”
The man’s voice grew louder, punctuated by solemn reverence. “God save the Empress!”
The crowd of Elves didn’t know how to respond, some only murmured. Ries exchanged a glance with Sylviera, then looked to the Hero, who was celebrating as if he had already won the war.
Ries exhaled, a deep sigh of resignation. The Empress, it seemed, was content to pile on more work.
Without another word, Ries turned to the general.
“Prepare to cross the border.”
----------------------------------------
General Eras clenched her fists as she watched her troops make another futile attempt to storm the beleaguered city. From her vantage point atop the encampment hill, she could see the flashes of gunfire and the plumes of smoke rising from the broken walls.
It had to fall. It must fall.
For over three weeks, she had thrown everything at that city. Her cannons had pulverized its defenses, her soldiers launched wave after wave of assaults, and shapeshifter infiltration teams slipped through the night. Even her bombers—winged daemons—had rained destruction from above. Yet the walls still stood, not just with bricks and mortar, but with the sheer defiance of those damned defenders.
Her intelligence had told her there were around Forty thousand inside. Not just troops but high-value targets—the entire Rozafyr royal family, the Pope, and the remnants of the western nobility. The gates were shut tight, the supply lines severed. Surely, by now, they should’ve starved—or broken under fear. But they hadn’t. How?
Her cannons had blasted gaping holes in the walls, wide enough for entire legions or daemon hordes to pour through. But every attempt to push through was met with machine gun fire that shredded her soldiers before they even reached the breach. Blood pooled in the mud like wine spilled from a shattered goblet. Even her elite greater daemons were pinned down, unable to close the distance before being torn apart by bullets.
General Eras grit her teeth. They should have been broken by now. Every tactic she had used—the relentless assaults, the psychological pressure, even bombing supply caches within the walls—had failed to collapse their morale.
Eras spun on her heel, glaring at one of the greater daemons that stood beside her. Its massive frame was draped in jagged black armor, a living monolith of darkness and rage. “Why haven’t they fallen yet?!” she snarled, her fury a knife-edge in her voice. “Why didn’t you charge through the breach?! Bullets graze your armor!”
“We are trying, your excellency. But—”
Eras snapped her wings open with a thunderous clap, launching herself into the air. The daemon’s excuse trailed off, swallowed by the roar of battle below as she ascended, her sharp, predatory eyes cutting through the smoke and chaos like twin daggers. The acrid scent of fire and blood filled the air, mingling with the ear-piercing shrieks of her fliers as they swept over the city, each clutching crude bombs ready to unleash ruin.
From this vantage point, the full scope of the carnage unfolded beneath her, waves of soldiers throwing themselves against the walls, only to be shredded by gunfire. The broken battlements yawned open in jagged breaches, wide enough to funnel an army through—but each attempt to storm them ended the same way. Heavy machine guns hammered out merciless bursts of fire, cutting down attackers before they could take a step inside.
Eras beat her wings harder, climbing higher. The city below glimmered with flickering fires from earlier bombardments, but for every building her forces destroyed, another barricade sprang up in its place. The defenders were relentless—scurrying through ruined streets like vermin, patching walls and rearming machine gun nests with maddening speed.
Then, she saw it. Or rather, them.
Airships.
At first, they were faint outlines—massive silhouettes emerging from the clouds. The droning hum of their engines grew louder, sending a chill racing through Eras’ veins. There had been no mention of airships in any of the intelligence reports.
The Western Kingdoms couldn’t have fielded these on their own. Airships were luxuries—too expensive to maintain, too difficult to field regularly in battle. That left only one possibility.
The Empire.