Sakhaar Tiamat. The undisputed ruler of Rhazgord. Supreme commander of the largest and most seasoned army on the continent. A leader forged in blood, steel, and fire. He was neither as savage as his father Drakar nor as innately gifted as his son Corvus. What elevated him to the pinnacle was not innate superiority—it was his iron will, unrelenting discipline, and the power etched into his body by the Lightstone.

  There was only one word to define Sakhaar: Soldier. He was a soldier in every sense. Each day followed a martial rhythm. He rose before dawn, marched to the training grounds with his unchanging, firm strides, sweat for hours, then attended to his warriors. At sunset, he reviewed drills, ate the same rations as his men, pored over reports by night, and slept at the same hour, always. Not a single day strayed from this routine. Neither victories nor betrayals could disrupt his order. He was born in discipline, raised in discipline, and bent the continent to his will through discipline.

  His mere presence instilled fear. Silence fell wherever he stood. In rooms he entered, soldiers bowed their heads to speak; commanders weighed every word. On battlefields, he advanced like a god—showing neither pain nor mercy. He ignored his own wounds, returning to drills even before cleaning his blade after battle. Sakhaar had no time for weakness. He was Rhazgord’s sword.

  Though one of the strongest men on the continent, he still tested himself daily, practicing martial arts to keep his body stone-hard, rolling in the same mud as his warriors. Unlike his son, Sakhaar was no visionary. He was a cog in the machine. Change was a threat. Rhazgord had grown under ancient laws, built upon old rules. Sakhaar’s duty was to strengthen this order, not disrupt it.

  So when he faced his son—unseen for months—he did not ask how he was. No paternal warmth softened his gaze. His face betrayed no longing. When Sakhaar fixed his eyes on Corvus, he saw not a child of his blood but a soldier. To him, Corvus was no son—merely a warrior.

  Corvus did not flinch. His father had always been this way. He mirrored the emotionlessness shown to him. In his father’s eyes, he saw not a son but a subordinate reporting to his commander.

  “I have matters to report.”

  Before Sakhaar’s brows furrowed, his eyes carefully studied his son. Corvus’ voice was harsher, sharper. Yet nothing could surprise Sakhaar. Crossing his arms, he inhaled briefly.

  “I already know everything worth reporting,” he said indifferently.

  “Valerius’ letter reached me.”

  Corvus’ gaze flicked to Valerius’ loyal warriors riding nearby. Though Sakhaar claimed omniscience, Valerius’ letter held only fragments. What Corvus had to say would not fit on parchment.

  “There are matters the letter omitted,” he stated, voice unyielding.

  “Matters concerning our family.”

  Sakhaar’s sharp eyes locked onto his son. Silence fell—brief but heavy. He sensed Corvus’ change, not just in words but posture. Yet it was not only his character that had shifted. His power had grown. Sakhaar felt his son inching closer. They had long spoken not as father and son but commander and subordinate. But the fire in Corvus’ eyes now reminded him of his own youth.

  With a flick of his hand, Sakhaar dismissed the surrounding warriors. None protested. Gripping his saddle, he glanced at the army trailing behind. Assured none could hear, he spoke without turning: “Speak.” His voice carried its usual weight of command. Corvus hesitated—a son raised in his father’s shadow, feeling the gravity of standing before him. But it lasted only a breath. The man before him was both father and his nation’s greatest general.

  “It concerns the Lightstone,” Corvus said, voice sharp as wind, solid as stone.

  “Certain merchants in Sorbaj collaborate with major families to trade it.”

  Sakhaar’s eyes narrowed, shadows hardening his face. The Lightstone, Rhazgord’s lifeblood, was meant to be earned in battle—not bartered by merchants. That a warrior’s blood-bought power could be sold reeked of weakness, treason. Worse, Sorbaj’s families meddling with the Lightstone threatened Rhazgord’s fragile balance. The stone’s control kept their blade’s edge honed. It belonged to battlefields, victories, blood—not merchants or tribes.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Most Lightstone harvested from demons remained under the Tiamats’ control—Sakhaar’s grip. Disrupting this order stabbed Rhazgord’s heart. He could not ignore such a threat. His brow furrowed, voice icy: “How many know this?”

  “Only me,” Corvus replied instantly.

  Silence. Sakhaar’s glare sharpened. A soldier’s duty was to report all intelligence to superiors. Orders, rules, discipline—Rhazgord’s foundation.

  “Why did you not inform your grandfather or Valerius?!”

  Sakhaar’s voice cracked like a whip. The air thickened, his presence a threat. Corvus felt the weight of his father’s wrath. Once, it would have crushed him. Now, he endured. Yet instinct whispered Sakhaar’s rage was a blade’s edge. Corvus breathed deeply, meeting his father’s gaze.

  “Because I have a man inside.”

  The words gave Sakhaar pause. Corvus pressed, voice hardening: “Had I told Valerius or Grandfather, they’d have acted rashly and ruined everything.” His eyes gauged Sakhaar’s reaction.

  “And with enemy spies infesting our lands, I trust no one.”

  The words unsettled Sakhaar. “No one” included his own family. Yet… Corvus was right. Valerius’ unchecked fury would have burned all to ash. Drakar, clinging to tradition, would have crushed Corvus’ only opportunity. Sakhaar stared at the horizon.

  “And you… Do you control the stones?”

  The question struck like an arrow. Corvus didn’t blink. He knew his father would unravel the truth. Sakhaar, who’d spent years mastering Rhazgord’s political chaos, missed nothing.

  “Not all,”

  Corvus answered flatly.

  “But my support has grown my agent’s share. Through him, I learned the merchants’ identities. Yet…”

  He paused, eyes unwavering.

  “I’ve not uncovered which family brokers this.”

  As he spoke, he watched for even a flicker in Sakhaar’s gaze. His father remained stone-faced. Corvus softened his tone: “All profits from my agent flow to your coffers, of course.”

  A lie. Baral skimmed some; Corvus funneled the rest into his projects. Only scraps reached Sakhaar. Corvus sensed his father knew—but Sakhaar showed nothing. He merely tilted his head, eyes briefly scanning Corvus’ face. The silence told Corvus enough. Sakhaar saw his son’s skimming as a reward—tolerable if the mess was contained. But Sakhaar’s mind snagged elsewhere.

  “You spoke of enemy spies in my realm.” His voice chilled.

  “My intelligence noted spies only in Bahoz—already dealt with. Explain.”

  Sakhaar asked not out of concern but to probe Corvus’ mind—to see how his son analyzed threats. Corvus gazed at Bahoz’s distant silhouette, tone cautious yet certain: “I doubt the Lightstone trade could grow this large without outside aid. No family in Sorbaj alone could manage such scale.”

  He watched Sakhaar’s brow twitch. No comment. Corvus pressed, voice sharpening: “And we only purged Brihmond’s spies in Bahoz. If even Brihmond infiltrated us…” He paused, gaze locking onto Sakhaar.

  “The Sizat or Muasset Empires won’t sit idle.”

  Sakhaar knew Rhazgord’s foresight into demon movements was a prize for any power. No nation was foolish enough to ignore its value. Had Rhazgord sold this knowledge, empires would lay treasures at their feet. But the Tiamats were not bought with gold. Their wealth lay in their land’s stones and their warriors’ steel will. No great power had dared test Rhazgord’s patience—until now. Sizat envoys once offered fortunes, only to retreat at Sakhaar’s refusal. But this was no mere bid for knowledge. Sakhaar’s instincts warned that empires now probed Rhazgord’s weaknesses. A misstep would drown the continent in blood. Corvus tugged his reins, pointing to Bahoz. Sunset cast long shadows over its stones.

  “My agent in the Lightstone trade is there,” he said coldly.

  “If you want details, hear them from him.”

  Sakhaar studied his son—young but assured, clever but not yet dangerous. Corvus’ words rang true. Yet one question lingered: What is he truly plotting?

  With a deep nod, Sakhaar growled: “We ride.”

  He barked orders. Tens of thousands marched toward Sorbaj, their steel clashing like echoes of Rhazgord’s might. But Sakhaar did not follow. He rode ahead with Corvus, side by side, toward Bahoz.

  Corvus had already won—he’d seized his father’s attention, redirecting it to Rhazgord’s hidden rot. But this was only the first step. As they rode, he plotted his next move. Yet their calculations diverged. Where Corvus wove long, intricate plans, Sakhaar’s mind held simpler, bloodier solutions.

  It was time to remind the continent what kind of beast Rhazgord truly was.