The morning light poured through the tall windows, soft and drowsy, warming the stone floor in golden pools.

  Zafran fastened the last buckle on his cloak, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Isolde was still curled up in the bed, the blanket wrapped loosely around her bare body, hair a dark spill across the pillow. One leg was half-tucked out, toes flexing lazily in the sunlight.

  She made no move to rise.

  “You really aren’t coming with me?” he asked, pulling on his gloves.

  Isolde yawned without apology, nestling deeper into the warmth.

  The blanket slipped a little lower over her shoulder.

  “Kingdom politics is boring,” she said, voice muffled by the pillow.

  “Too many old men arguing over who gets to blame who when the walls fall.”

  Zafran laughed under his breath.

  “It’s about the defensive protocols,” he said, fastening the clasp at his throat.

  “Could be useful. Might get a good idea out of you.”

  She rolled onto her side, peeking one eye open.

  “Do you think Fyonar lets children into their war rooms?” she drawled.

  “I wouldn’t know what they have. I’m better off hitting whatever comes through the door.”

  She gathered the blanket around her chest, her teal eyes sharper now, more awake.

  “Tell the staff not to bother me. I’m using the training field today. No interruptions.”

  Zafran smiled faintly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  He crossed the room, leaned down, and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead—warm, lingering.

  “Stay safe,” he murmured.

  “You too,” she said, already reaching for her clothes beside the bed.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then turned and slipped out into the corridor, the heavy door closing quietly behind him.

  Behind that door, Isolde rose, gathering her hair back, already moving with a soldier’s purpose.

  Outside, the morning wind stirred.

  And the day began.

  The Council Hall of Ocean Tide rang with argument before the princess even arrived.

  Dozens of voices overlapped—some clipped with anger, others bloated with fear. The nobles didn’t wait for order; they brought none. War was in the air, and every man wanted to own the way the wind turned.

  By the time Princess Seren stepped into the chamber, the storm was already howling.

  She walked slowly toward her seat at the stone end of the table, her ceremonial mantle trailing like a shadow. To her right, Ealden sat like a statue in iron, scarred hands folded on the table. Behind her, Zafran remained standing—straight-backed, armored, silent.

  And across the hall, unmoving among the chaos, sat Vaelion. The GrandArchMagi of Arcane. His deep violet robes pooled like smoke around him, glyphs drifting faintly at his shoulders. He had not spoken. He didn’t need to.

  Seren took her seat, voice cutting through the noise like cold water.

  “We have no word from Fyonar. No envoys. No response. What does silence mean to you all?”

  Lord Haren, the merchant patriarch, rose first.

  “It means preparation. Raise the levies. Mobilize the standing troops.”

  “For what?” barked Lord Kelreth from the House of Oaks. “We don’t know their intent. They didn’t attack Ocean Tide. They razed a caravan.”

  “A caravan parked under our watch,” Haren snapped. “On our soil.”

  “But no formal war!” came another voice. “If we move first, we look the aggressor.”

  “Let them strike first again, then?” a younger noble sneered. “We’ll wait until the gates fall?”

  “Azure Wind had no walls,” muttered a guildmaster. “We do.”

  “That won’t save us if they bring those… things again. Those puppets with planar cores—”

  A thunder of voices surged again.

  “Raise tariffs—”

  “Drain the treasury—”

  “The harvest isn’t in—”

  “You want to starve the outer provinces?”

  “You want them burning in their fields?”

  Ealden leaned forward, speaking low but firm.

  “We’re spread thin. Strong. But not nimble. We need focus, not more steel.”

  “Focus doesn’t hold a line,” one noble snapped.

  “Then hold the line with someone else’s blood,” muttered another.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Lord Selvar, old and sharp-eyed, turned to Zafran.

  “Well, Knight of the Azure Rose. You wear a blade and a title—do you have more than those?”

  Zafran stepped forward slowly.

  “If you tear each other apart to avoid a decision,” he said, “you won’t need Fyonar to destroy you. You’ll have done it yourselves.”

  Murmurs flared.

  “A soldier lectures nobles now?” someone spat.

  “You think being her lapdog gives you the right to—”

  “He’s earned that crest,” Seren said coldly. “Defy it, and you defy the throne.”

  Stillness followed.

  Vaelion’s voice broke it like glass.

  “We raise the ward.”

  The room froze.

  “You would drain the founding stones?” Lord Brane gasped. “That barrier eats planar energy.”

  Vaelion didn’t blink.

  “They are not yours. They were entrusted. You spent their light on luxury. Now they’ll hold a shield.”

  “A ward cuts trade, limits ingress—”

  “It ensures survival,” the GrandArchMagi replied. “You may count coins while your lungs burn. I will not.”

  Zafran’s voice came again, quiet, focused.

  “Lucian’s aim was Karin. Not Ocean Tide. Not yet. But if we sit idle, he’ll find cause.”

  One noble hissed. “Then what do you propose, knight?”

  Zafran turned toward Vaelion, his voice firm but measured.

  “Place the Academia under Ealden’s command. Let the Royal Guard coordinate with its assets. Just until we know what Lucian plans.”

  This time, the chamber didn’t explode. It fell utterly still.

  No shouting. No outrage. Just silence—tight and brittle.

  Because everyone knows that the Academia never listen to the throne. It stood within Ocean Tide’s heart—its spires rising higher than the royal citadel, its libraries woven through the oldest stone. The Power it held is arguably, larger than the royal knights army itself, and its halls housed spellcasters from every realm—yes, even from Fyonar.

  And to place that under the command of the Royal Guard Knight captain?

  That kind of consolidated power is dangerous.

  Asking for the Academia to bend their head, is also dangerous.

  And no one wanted to be the first to speak against it.

  Vaelion stirred.

  Not with fury.

  With faint amusement.

  “Interesting,” he said, his voice curling like smoke. “You propose to tether a storm, young knight.”

  Zafran held his gaze. “I propose we stop pretending the storm isn’t coming.”

  “The Academia is not yours to steer,” Vaelion replied, fingertips tapping once on the armrest. “Even kings do not pull its reins. If I bring this to the Circle, they will laugh.”

  “Will they?” Zafran asked. “When they see those puppets again—and the power that erased a wall in a single sweep?”

  A flicker passed over the GrandArchMagi’s expression. Something between warning and delight.

  “You’re playing with dangerous game,” Vaelion said. “But then… so am I.”

  He leaned back. About to say something.

  “I play no game, Grand Magus. Kingdom politics are foolish games. I care only for survival—not the comforts of its elites.”

  Vaelion laugh, soft, but amused. “Very good, Very good, well said young knight, I’ll bring it to the Circle, asking for their coperation.”

  “And if they refuse?” Ealden asked quietly.

  Vaelion smiled faintly. “Hmmm I don’t know, but if it involved our young knight here, I think they’ll comply in the end.”

  Zafran didn’t back down. “Then let the noble armies be consolidated, too. No split commands. One voice. One shield.”

  The chamber broke again.

  “You’d hand him all our steel?”

  “How can you strip us like that? this is outrageous!”

  Zafran looked at them. “If your pride is worth more than survival, then keep it. We’ll see how strong it feels when Lucian’s puppets march into your courtyards.”

  The nobles sneer, hissing, but has nothing better to say,

  Ealden’s voice thundered over them. “It’s the only way we keep our kingdoms from burning.”

  Seren stood at last.

  “This is not about names,” she said. “This is about function. Fyonar is not waiting for a debate. Every delay here costs us time.”

  Her eyes swept the room.

  “Then it is decided”

  And for a long moment—grudging, bitter, inevitable—the chamber bowed to silence.

  And one by one, they gave nods.

  Not because they believed.

  But because they feared what would happen if they didn’t.

  The council chamber was empty now.

  The clamor had drained out like water from cracked stone—leaving only cold air and the soft scrape of chairs.

  Only four remained.

  Seren sat still at the head of the table, her hands clasped lightly before her. Ealden leaned back slightly, one hand resting on his sword’s pommel, the other curled loosely on the armrest. Zafran stood behind her still, though his shoulders had eased. Vaelion had not moved at all.

  The silence stretched.

  Then, softly, Seren broke it.

  “Do you think they’ll do it?”

  Ealden answered first. “They’ll complain. Bite behind our back. But they’ll move.”

  Zafran added, “The nobles are too obsessed with their own, until their house is on fire.”

  Vaelion gave a soft exhale through his nose. Not quite amusement.

  “That’s the trouble with nobility,” he said. “Too many words. Not enough memory.”

  He lifted one hand and conjured a flicker of light—a thread-thin arcane line that danced along his knuckles before vanishing.

  “You spoke boldly, young knight. And care for none, do you make a habit of turning nobles into your enemies?”

  Zafran replied calmly. “It’s just a habit of speaking something without politically holding back.”

  Then Vaelion’s lips curved. Barely.

  “Dangerous habit, that. Speaking plainly. You’ll find the Circle doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “I’m not trying to impress them,” Zafran said.

  “Good,” Vaelion murmured. “Because if you were, I’d be less interested.”

  Seren turned slightly. “And will they comply?”

  “Oh, they’ll gather,” Vaelion said. “Fyonar’s silence is louder than any threat. Even the high towers can hear it.”

  He stood, adjusting his robe with an elegant sweep. “But don’t expect consensus. The Circle doesn’t move as one. It moves when pressed. And you, dear princess, have begun pressing.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  He paused at the doorway, then looked back.

  “If they defy me, I may need you to say those words again, young knight. and maybe a little bit… louder.”

  Zafran gave a small nod. “Then I’ll speak louder.”

  And then he was gone, the faint shimmer of his arcane glyphs trailing behind him like dust.

  The room fell quiet again.

  Then Ealden said, almost absently, “You made more enemies today than I have in years.”

  Zafran raised an eyebrow. “You jealous?”

  “Terrified.”

  Seren finally leaned back in her chair. “Good,” she said. “Let them fear him a little.”

  She glanced up at Zafran.

  “We’ve taken the first step,” she murmured. “Now let’s pray the ground beneath us holds.”

  And for a moment, in the aftermath of warless war, there was nothing left to say.

  The wind moved low across the training yard, brushing dust and early leaves across the stone floor.

  Isolde adjusted her stance.

  Boots planted. Knees bent. Her left shoulder dipped, spine twisted—then she pivoted and struck.

  The blade hit the training post with a sharp thunk.

  She stepped back, reset.

  Another swing.

  Faster. Tighter.

  Still, the sound it made didn’t please her. She clicked her tongue, turned her wrist. Again.

  Thunk.

  A pause. One breath in through her nose, slow out through her mouth.

  She circled the post, feinted high, swept low. Her movements were crisp. Exact. But when she landed, her balance was half a step behind.

  Her blade dropped. Shoulders rolled. She shook the tension loose, flicked sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist.

  “Dull,” she muttered, half to the post. “I’m being rusted.”

  Beyond the yard’s wall, a hammer rang slow and steady—someone mending a cart axle. Chickens clucked. A child’s laugh echoed, sharp then fading.

  She didn’t turn.

  She knew what it was.

  The outer perimeter of the manor had changed. Azure Wind had scattered here like ash taking root—old fighters, wandering families, fragments. No chain of command. No banners. Just bread ovens, hand-dug wells, and fence lines that bent with the wind.

  It was peace.

  And it didn’t quite fit in her bones.

  She gripped the sword again.

  Two steps. Turn. Strike.

  The blade cracked against the wood. Harder. Truer.

  She stepped back, breathing steady, sweat clinging to her shirt. She leaned the sword against the post, lifted her face to the sky, then toward the quiet stone manor.

  No sounds from the windows. No flutter from the flag.

  She rolled her neck, eyes drifting toward the far treeline.

  Then—faint, dry, almost amused—she smirked.

  “Damn you, Ocean Tide,” she murmured.

  Maybe not the city.

  Maybe the man inside it.

  She picked up her blade.

  And began again.