Distant footsteps echoed down the grand hallways of the Evergreen Palace, with their arching roofs and their large, open windows that allowed in not just the plentiful light of the sun, but the noises and aromas of all that the Dawnwood had to offer. As Captain Relaar of the Rooted Guard stood on the balcony of her great office in the western tower, she should, by all rights, have been at peace. For nothing was as peaceful as this, the view across the rooftops and trees of her home, the capital city of Sunalor, taken in with the accompaniment of elder tea, brewed from the finest of leaves.

There was just one problem: by custom, nobody ran in the Evergreen Palace. Yet these echoing footsteps grew closer with every moment that passed.

Captain Relaar retreated from the balcony to sit behind her desk, and she sipped the last of her cup of tea before the scout burst in the door. The young man had none of the grace and decorum that the world associated with the elves, and yet if he did not, there was surely good reason for it.

But what news could he possibly bring that would cause him to act in such a way? And what news could he bring that the Captain of the Rooted Guard was the first port of call? This was a near-honorary position, overseeing the capital’s guard force, whose main responsibilities were to offer a form of ceremony to the opening of new libraries, public baths, and the like. This organisation had not seen combat since the Honey Wars, and yet…

‘What news, soldier?’ Relaar forced herself to ask.

The scout opened his mouth, but at first, no sound emerged. And then he managed, only faintly, ‘...Attack.’

Relaar rose to her feet. ‘The swarm?’ she asked, memories of her battles with the witchcraft-imbued bees flooding her mind as it had so many nights over the past few years.

Yet the scout shook his head. ‘Goldmarch,’ he breathed.

‘Goldmarch? Queen Amira thinks to march upon the Dawnwood? Where do your spies report such activity? I cannot imagine our neighbours in the Sundorn would allow such—’

‘They do not march, captain, they sail. They sail through the Great Golden Canal as we speak.’

Relaar felt her world flip on its head in that moment. She, of course, knew of the canal project—it had been labelled a beacon of cooperation between these two powerful nations. Her involvement in this project, however, had been minimal; no use was there for soldiers, even ceremonial, in matters of democracy. And yet even should she have been involved, could she have seen this coming? The Goldmarch had for decades had no navy to speak of, their sea borders split in four, and therefore it being of much more significant military advantage to build instead a land army. Where could a Golden fleet have emerged from?

‘How many?’ she asked.

‘Our scouts report thirty ships, somewhere between sixty and one hundred soldiers aboard each vessel. They should arrive by sunfall.’

Relaar resisted the instinct to sink back into her chair; it would not do to show weakness, for that could ripple through the ranks like wildfire, and impact the result of this apparent inevitable war. Instead, she nodded, and forced herself into action.

‘Listen to me carefully,’ she said. ‘Find Lieutenant Seralin, tell him he is needed in my office at once, and tell him all that you have told me. Once you have done so, leave him and seek the Master of Alteration. Tell him nothing except to retrieve soldiers all across the Dawnwood as efficiently as possible. Once he has relayed these orders, he is to report to my office. The Master of Alteration is under Seralin’s command, but he will have to excuse this singular misinterpretation of protocol. Understand?’

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

‘Find Lieutenant Ser—’ the scout began to repeat.

‘Yes or no, private?’

‘Yes,’ the scout said with a nod, and Relaar gestured for him to carry out his duty.

Lieutenant Seralin appeared momentarily, his face paling for the first time that Relaar had seen in five years of working together. ‘Attack? From the sea?’

Relaar ignored the question. ‘I have asked the Master of Alteration to summon the national guard,’ she informed him, not apologising for not looping Seralin in, considering the circumstances. ‘How many soldiers will he retrieve by sunfall?’

‘I do not know, I…’

‘How many?’ Relaar repeated, more forcefully this time.

Even Worldbending magicks only go so far, captain. There are mana reserves to think of, and efficiencies of groupings to consider. I—’

‘How many?’

‘Perhaps one thousand.’

‘Then we are outnumbered three to one,’ Relaar said, this time sinking into her chair; she could trust Seralin to maintain morale. ‘And we must assume that the enemy has a plan. Seralin, command all alchemists in the city to create explosive potions, and every worldbender—soldier or otherwise—to relocate these potions into the sea.’

‘Mines, captain?’

Relaar nodded. ‘As best we arrange. Though we should not count on this strategy; any good general will have anticipated this, and will have ensured the proper countermeasures. From our reports of disturbances in the Iron Sea, I am forced to assume that this means enchanted hulls—magicks that have the secondary impact of driving the natural away.’

Lieutenant Seralin returned the nod, and moved to leave the office.

‘Those are not the extent of your orders, lieutenant.’

Seralin paused at the threshold to the office, turning back to face Relaar.

‘Provide all summoned troops with the best bows and lances in our arsenal. Position them atop the harbour walls; this is our more opportune defensive position. Should the harbour walls fall, there should be a standing order to retreat to the inner walls.’

‘What of those in the outer city? Should we evacuate?’

‘No,’ Relaar replied. ‘Arm them.’

‘But captain, they are not soldiers. So few of them have combat skills at all.’

‘Only those who volunteer,’ Relaar said. ‘But we must arm as many as possible if we are to fend off the invaders.’ Before the lieutenant could confess further. ‘And send word to the council. Invasion is under our domain, but they must be informed. Perhaps there is work that can be done to maintain morale—put this idea to them.’

Seralin nodded. ‘I will.’ Once more, he turned towards the door, to carry out the orders as Relaar had given them.

‘There is… one more thing. I ask that you keep this as quiet as possible.’

Seralin, hearing the tone of Relaar’s voice, pressed the door closed. ‘Yes?’

‘Pick out the tallest tree at each side of the harbour. Evacuate its residents. Arrange potions of rot at their base. As a last resort, we fell them, and we set them aflame.’

‘We…’ Seralin started, his eyebrows raised. ‘The fire would…’

‘The inner wall’s enchantments will stop it.’

‘But those outside, their homes… They would be lost.’

‘If it comes to the felling of the trees, then those homes are already lost. Seralin, we must do as the Hero of Iranir once did. Should it come to this, we must commit treason to protect our home. Are you ready to pay the price of exile?’

The lieutenant nodded. ‘I… will arrange it as you say. Let us pray to the Architects that it is not needed.’