Morning broke over Vellmont Keep in strokes of rose and gold, the sky a painter’s masterpiece untouched by the shadow of war. The rolling fields beyond the city walls stretched green and lush, speckled with wildflowers that bowed under the kiss of the wind. Birds flitted between the orchard trees that lined the outer farmlands, their songs carefree, oblivious to the storm gathering beyond the horizon.
And yet, past the serenity, past the quiet hum of life, the enemy stood poised to strike.
Inside the keep, the defenders stirred. The air buzzed with a quiet urgency as the people of Vellmont readied themselves for what was to come. Some soldiers donned their chainmail in hurried silence, fortification runes glowing along the surface of the armor. Their fingers had grown nimble from years of practice. Others tightened the straps of their leather tunics, their breath slow and steady. At the barracks, a young squire scrubbed at a stubborn stain on his trousers, his hands raw from the cold water, cursing the ale he had spilled the night before.
Further down, a grizzled veteran sharpened his blade against a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape filling the air like a funeral dirge. Beside him, an archer muttered to himself as he fletched a fresh set of arrows, his hands moving in an almost meditative trance. A few men broke their fast in the courtyard, hunched over steaming bowls of porridge, eating as if it were their last meal.
Atop the ramparts, the enchanted ballistae stood ready. These were not simple siege weapons of wood and iron, but constructs of ancient craft—great ballistae bound with runic inscriptions, their bolts infused with magic that crackled with untamed energy. The watchmen stationed there whispered among themselves, eyes flicking between the distant enemy lines and the sun creeping over the horizon.
Beyond the ramparts, the world turned to steel and fire. The foothills of Vellmont swarmed with dark figures—rows upon rows of mechanized war machines, their forms blending the grotesque and the divine. Towering Iron Revenants, once ogres of flesh and fury, now clad in power armor adorned with the sigils of their new masters. Their eyes burned with eerie luminance, the telltale glow of the Starflare Bayonets and Plasma Glaives humming in unison. Each movement was slow, deliberate—bodies trapped between undeath and duty.
Surrounding them, the Emberclad Infantry waited, warriors draped in the crimson and obsidian garb of the Vale’s rebellion. Some bore the scorched insignias of old houses, remnants of their shattered pasts, while others donned enchanted cuirasses, whispering silent prayers to the spirits that bound them. Among them, the warrior-mages of the Vale stood with their staffs and swords, conjuring sigils in the morning light, their breath forming runes that dissipated in the cool air.
Elsewhere, Emberclad soldiers prepared for the day in various ways. Some scrubbed their trousers in basins of cold water, cursing the stains of the night before, while others polished their armor, rubbing away the grime of past battles. A handful took their breakfast in quiet contemplation, while the more fortunate indulged in the warmth of the bathing tents, assisted by attendants who poured steaming water over their shoulders.
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In one such tent, Lyrius Draconis lounged like a king upon a cushioned bench, his bare chest gleaming from the warmth of the bath. Steam curled around him, dissipating into the air as he swirled a goblet of spiced wine in one hand, his fingers drumming lazily against its rim. His posture was one of indulgent ease—legs stretched out, shoulders lax, as if war itself were a mere formality to be entertained at his leisure. A soldier burst inside, breaking the serene atmosphere. "Sire, there is an urgent message on your intercom."
Lyrius took the offered device, activating the holo-display. Wulfric’s name flickered on the screen, along with coordinates and a simple message: a request for parley.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Lyrius’s lips. Without hesitation, he snapped a picture of himself with his middle finger raised—his own personal coordinates displayed at the tip—before sending it back with a curt response: "Take it or leave it."
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The site of the parley was an open field, chosen by Lyrius for its clear vantage points, ensuring no ambush could go unnoticed. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant fires, rustling through the golden plains as the two factions approached.
Wulfric arrived first, his warbison stamping impatiently as he reined it in. His personal guard flanked him, their armor scarred and their gazes sharp with suspicion. Across the field, Lyrius and his men approached—some on horseback, others, like their leader, mounted atop warbisons of their own. The shifting loyalties within the Emberclad Rebellion were evident; many who once followed Wulfric now stood beside Lyrius, their silent presence a wound Wulfric could not ignore. His grip tightened on the reins, his rage barely concealed.
“The fucking whore’s son cunt shows himself,” Wulfric spat, his voice laced with venom.
Lyrius arched a brow, his smirk lazy. “In the flesh.”
Wulfric’s glare could have melted steel. “Tell me, you snake—was it you who unleashed the Ghouls upon Elderwynd?”
Lyrius tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Ghouls? On Elderwynd? Hells, if I had known you were there, I would have sent flowers.”
Wulfric bristled. “You think this is a game?”
Lyrius sighed, inspecting his gloved fingers. “Oh, I don’t think, dear Wulfric. I know. Now, I assume there’s a reason you haven’t simply had me killed?”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”
Lyrius leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I don’t know—perhaps the fact that my Dragon-mech is currently patrolling the skies on autopilot?”
A flicker of hesitation crossed Wulfric’s face, his men shifting uneasily. The tension was palpable.
Lyrius extended a hand, mock sincerity in his tone. “Join me, Wulfric. Be on the winning side for once.”
Wulfric’s response was swift—he spat directly at Lyrius’s face.
Lyrius chuckled, wiping it away with the back of his glove. “Suit yourself.” He raised his hand. “Soldraknirr.”
The sky darkened as the massive Dragon-mech descended, its metal wings slicing through the air like blades. A thunderous roar reverberated across the plains, shaking the very earth as the beast landed, its gleaming body exuding raw, mechanical menace. Wulfric’s guards paled, some gripping their weapons in futile defiance.
Wulfric’s rage faltered, replaced by grim resignation. With a final, lingering glare at Lyrius, he turned away. His men followed, some leading their warbisons on foot, eyes flickering back toward the looming machine that watched their retreat.
Lyrius exhaled, then lowered his hand. A burst of Starfire erupted from the mech’s maw, searing the ground where Wulfric had stood moments before.
“Consider that my answer,” Lyrius murmured.