In the Kingdom of Heracles, Rofca City was the capital of the western frontier.
As the largest and most prosperous city on the western side of the human kingdoms, Rofca City's size was only bested by the capital itself.
At the heart of Rofca City stood a majestic, two-century-old castle, home to the Alwyn family, dukes of the western frontier.
By late July, with the weather turning swelteringly hot, fewer folks were braving the midday sun on the streets.
A horse approached the eastern gate at a gallop. As it neared, its rider produced a token embossed with the western duke's coat of arms, securing swift entrance to the city.
The rider charged down the main street, right up to the castle's gates. After confirming his identity, a sealed message was quickly delivered into the hands of the castle’s lord.
Duke Grey Alwyn was over sixty years old. At an age where most seek quiet retirement, this towering and sturdy elder still possessed the vitality of his youth.
He recognized the seal on the cylinder; it was from his most trusted spy in the capital, bearing urgent news.
This was his last sliver of hope, Grey thought, unrolling the sheepskin parchment.
The brief message extinguished all hope. The robust old man sat, his face pale as if drained of blood, slumped on his ducal throne.
After a pause, Grey stared out the window and commanded, “Someone fetch Eric.”
A servant hurried off, and shortly after, the rapid stride of feet announced Eric, Duke Grey's only son, thirty-eight years of age.
"Father, is there news of my sister?"
Grey listlessly passed the parchment to him, "Elin is gone, the twelfth of last month."
"Impossible! How could she be gone so soon?" Disbelief etched on Eric's mature face, tears involuntarily streaming down, "I don't believe it, Father. Could the spy have made a mistake?"
Grey pulled out two more scrolls from the mountainous pile of documents on his desk and handed them over, his gaze lifted heavenward, "Three identical reports, Godspeed, my Elin... my angel."
Eric trembled as he read, but finally, as if seared by flame, he hurled them aside, "I will never, ever forgive the Church and the King. They’ve murdered my sister. I will take this hatred to my grave..."
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His emotions burst forth, as he began smashing everything in sight. The duke watched like a statue as his son raged before him. When Eric breathlessly scanned for more items to demolish and found none, the father’s deep voice rolled in, "Eric, my son, summon the officials."
Eric looked up at his calm, almost cold-blooded father, "Is it time?"
The Duke didn’t respond, simply gesturing toward the door, signaling immediate action.
Eric's gaze hardened with resolve as he stepped out of the room.
Within a quarter-hour, officials responsible for the affairs of the Duke's domains were gathered in the grand conference room of the castle.
Strictly speaking, these individuals in charge of specific domains were not "officials" since they weren't appointed by the capital. They were more akin to the staff, merely dignified by the Duke with titles.
With everyone assembled, the Duke dispensed with pleasantries and cut straight to the chase.
"Since the founding of the Kingdom of Heracles, we nobles have endured oppression by both the royal line and the Church—ninety years of it."
"All these years, the countless stabs, covert and overt, we've suffered. But to unite against the demons, we bore it all."
"But now, I've lost my only daughter."
In the old Duke's eyes burned a flame called vengeance.
"Leopold Heracles, Ramista, I swear I'll present your blood-drunk heads at my daughter’s shrine," roared the aged man, intending for the world to hear.
He surveyed the room, "Does anyone object to the war we're about to wage?"
Silence reigned on both sides of the table.
"Good. From this moment on, we are at war!”
"Intelligence Officer, retract some spies from other regions and redeploy them to the capital and the southern frontier."
"Quartermaster, recount all provisions and equipment in our territory. You’re authorized to levy supplies from civilians."
"Captain of the Guard, verify the numbers of the personal guard and the regular army. We're raising troops."
"Tax Officer, assist the Quartermaster and the Captain. Don’t shy from spending."
"Eric, my son, take my personal letter to the capital of the Northern Frontier. That old man will understand."
"As you command!" The officials chorused in unison.
"Any questions regarding the above?" the Duke eyed the solemn faces before him. No further questions.
The meeting adjourned, and orders spread from the heart of Rofca City to every corner of the western frontier.
Owning a tenth of the kingdom, the Western Frontier revved up like a freshly fueled steam engine set to war.
Old Duke Grey knew raising an army couldn't be kept secret—not that he intended deceit. But royal informants in Rofca always chafed him.
Now that faces were torn, his first order for the Intelligence Officer was to snare exposed spies in the city and deliver them for his disposition— and the Duke was already sharpening his blades.
He reminisced about his daughter as the whetstone slid over the blade. The last time he saw his angel was five years ago.
Was Elin's life truly happy? As the Church’s saint, she was deprived many affections, even commoners enjoyed, serving merely as a symbol seated so ironically in a place at odds with its name until the twelfth last month, in the sacred cathedral of the capital...
The twelfth of last month? The Duke's mind suddenly snagged on a thought. What else was on the twelfth?
Always confident in his memory, he was now frustrated by a mental fog, elusive and incomprehensible.
Ignoring a nick from the distraction, Duke Grey bloodied his hand as he began rifling through his desk.
With a focus mirroring his son's, he tossed aside document after document, turning the study into chaos.
At last, buried at the bottom of a pile, he found the Church's announcement. Its title read: "Priest Lambert of Rofca City’s Great Cathedral falls into heresy, now fugitive..."