Hundreds of miles to the west, far from the desperate struggle at the outpost....

The throne room of King Alaric of Drakonia was a study in understated power. Unlike the rough-hewn practicality of Volgunder Keep, this was a space designed to impress, to intimidate, to subtly remind all who entered of the ancient lineage and unwavering authority of the Drakonian crown. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating intricate mosaics depicting scenes of legendary battles and royal triumphs.

Polished marble floors reflected the light, creating an almost ethereal glow. Tapestries, woven with threads of gold and silver, depicted the five great dragons of old, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the grim reality unfolding in the Eastern Wastes. This was not a place of war; it was a place of rule.

King Alaric, seated upon a throne of carved white oak inlaid with dark iron, was not what one might expect of a warrior king. He was middle-aged, yes, but his strength was not the brute force of a frontline soldier. It was the strength of a ruler, a man who bore the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders.

His build was solid, substantial, hinting at a past athleticism now softened by years of courtly life. His hair, once a rich brown, was heavily streaked with white, framing a face that was both handsome and weary, etched with the lines of responsibility and the subtle anxieties of power.

He wore exquisite clothing – a tunic of deep blue velvet, embroidered with silver thread, a heavy gold chain bearing the royal crest – but the finery seemed almost an afterthought, a necessary adornment rather than a source of personal vanity.

Beside the throne, standing with a quiet, almost unnerving stillness, was Philippe Ross, the King's Advisor. Ross was a study in contrasts: slender, almost gaunt, with long, dark hair pulled back from a sharp, intelligent face.

His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed to miss nothing, to analyze everything, to penetrate the facades and uncover the hidden truths. He wore simple, dark clothing, devoid of any ornamentation, yet he exuded an aura of quiet authority that rivaled even the King's.

The messenger, still dusty and exhausted from his desperate ride, knelt before the throne, his head bowed, his body trembling with fatigue. He had delivered his message – Arthur Volgunder's plea for aid – and now he waited, his fate, and perhaps the fate of Drakonia, hanging in the balance.

King Alaric reread the message, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips pressed into a thin line. The words, stark and urgent, painted a picture of a desperate situation: a massive Rubak army, a teleportation gate, demonic energy, and the imminent threat to Volgunder Keep. It was a plea for help, an admission of weakness, from a man who had always prided himself on his strength and independence.

After a long, tense silence, the King dismissed the messenger with a curt nod, ordering him to be given rest and sustenance, but to remain at the palace until further notice. Then, he turned to his advisor, his voice low and troubled.

"Philippe," he said, "what do you make of this? Arthur Volgunder… asking for help? It's… unprecedented. The situation must be dire indeed."

Philippe Ross, his gaze unwavering, met the King's eyes. "Arthur is a proud man, Your Majesty," he said, his voice calm and measured. "But he is not arrogant. He is also… wise. He would not send such a message lightly. He would not risk exposing his vulnerability unless he believed the threat to be… existential."

He paused, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his dark eyes considering the implications. "As for the contents of the message… I believe it confirms our worst fears. The demonic resurgence… it is no longer a distant threat, a whisper in the shadows. It is real. And it is using the Rubaks, and this… gate… as its instruments."

He continued, his voice gaining a subtle urgency. "The warnings from the Holy Kingdom… they were not the ravings of fanatics. They were prophecies, it seems. And we have been slow to heed them."

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"So," King Alaric said, his voice heavy, "you advise… full support?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Philippe replied without hesitation. "But… strategically. We must support Arthur Volgunder, yes. But we must also ensure that the Volgunders remain the shield of Drakonia. Their strength, their reputation… it is vital to the stability of the realm." He paused. "I suggest… the Golden Royal Knight Squad."

The King's eyebrows rose slightly. The Golden Royal Knight Squad. Fifty of the finest warriors in the kingdom, each a seven-star swordsman, trained in the ancient, almost mythical Draconian Royal Swordsmanship. They were the protectors of the crown, an elite force rarely deployed, their presence a symbol of both power and prestige.

They rode the Groklams, magnificent black horses with golden blazes, white manes, and unmatched speed. They were said to be descended from magical steeds, gifts of the dragons, creatures as legendary as their riders.

"Fifty men?" Alaric questioned. "Against an army of… thousands?"

"It is not merely about numbers, Your Majesty," Philippe explained, his voice smooth and persuasive. "The Golden Knights are… a symbol. Their deployment will send a message. To the other families, to the Rubaks, to everyone.

It will demonstrate that the Royal Kingdom of Drakonia stands with the Volgunders. That we recognize the severity of the threat. And," he added, a subtle emphasis in his voice, "it will ensure that Arthur Volgunder remains… indebted… to the crown. He will retain his pride, his position, but he will also know where his true allegiance lies."

King Alaric considered this, his gaze thoughtful. Philippe's logic was impeccable, as always. It was a political maneuver as much as a military one, a way to provide aid while also subtly reinforcing the crown's authority.

"Very well, Philippe," he said finally, his voice firm. "Prepare the Golden Knights. They will depart by nightfall. Their orders will be to assist the Volgunders, assess the situation, and report back directly to me." He paused. "And summon Captain Malik. I wish to speak with him personally."

A few minutes later, a figure entered the throne room, his presence filling the space with an aura of quiet power. Captain Malik, commander of the Golden Royal Knight Squad, was a man in his prime, tall and powerfully built, with a face that was both handsome and stern, framed by short, dark hair.

He wore the distinctive armor of the Golden Knights – polished gold plate, inlaid with intricate silver designs, the royal crest emblazoned on his chest. He moved with a fluid grace, a warrior's grace, his hand resting on the hilt of a longsword that was undoubtedly as deadly as it was beautiful.

He approached the throne, knelt on one knee, his head bowed in respect. Then, he rose, meeting the King's gaze with a steady, unwavering look. He offered a slight nod to Philippe, a gesture of acknowledgement between two men who understood the unspoken language of power.

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" Malik asked, his voice deep and resonant. "What are your orders?"

King Alaric rose from his throne, his gaze fixed on the captain. "Malik," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command, "I am deploying the Golden Knights. To the east. To Volgunder territory."

Malik's expression didn't change, but a flicker of surprise, quickly masked, crossed his eyes. The Golden Knights were rarely deployed, and never outside of the immediate vicinity of the capital. This was… unusual.

"The Rubaks are gathering, it is beyond a simple raid, they are planning for war" the King continued, his voice hardening. "Your mission, Captain, is threefold.

First, you will assist the Volgunders in any way you can.

Second, you will protect them.

And third… you will assess. Assess the situation, assess the threat, and report back to me, directly and frequently. Understood?"

Malik bowed his head slightly. "Understood, Your Majesty," he said, his voice firm. "The Golden Knights will not fail you."