Chapter Two - Infernal Steeds
Hours later, Jethro stood at the war table, a map of Ever-Realm spread before him, its edges marked by the sigils of kingdoms both allied and hostile. King Adron's voice, sharp with the weight of responsibility, echoed in the chamber as he discussed the grim reality that loomed over Meliah. The tension was palpable—war was not just a threat anymore; it was inevitable.
"The Ashen Five have grown bolder," King Adron said, his eyes darkened with worry. "They've taken Garibaldi and Yochri's armies to the border. We received word last night that Fri and Isslnor have pledged troops to join them. Gon is not far behind."
The Ashen Five were once disunited, fractured by their own ambitions. But in recent years, their hatred for Meliah had become a shared cause. Each kingdom was different—Garibaldi with its vast, organized military, Yochri with its cunning spies, Fri and its relentless cavalry, Isslnor and its formidable siege engines, and Gon, whose forces were unpredictable, striking with barbaric fury. Together, these five kingdoms formed a political and military coalition that threatened to overwhelm Meliah.
"They've unified under a single banner," Jethro said, his voice thick with frustration. "Who's leading them?"
King Adron shook his head. "Tyros, my old rival.He has done what no one thought possible—unite the Ashen Five. They'repreparing for war on a scale we haven't seen in decades. Our spies suggest afull invasion within weeks."
Militarily, Meliah had held its own for generations, boasting an army of seasoned warriors and expert tacticians. But against the combined forces of the Ashen Five, even Meliah's strength seemed fragile. They could hold out for a time, but without reinforcements, their resources would be stretched thin. And then there was the alliance with Aeneah and Qestor—two kingdoms that had long stood as Meliah's allies.
"Qestor is ready to send aid," the king continued, pointing to the island kingdom to the southeast. "King Vandal has agreed to bolster our forces with his ships, but they're still recovering from the raids last winter. Their forces won't last through a prolonged siege."
"Qestor's navy could at least secure our coastal villages and disrupt supply lines to the Ashen Five," Jethro mused. "But Aeneah's education is what we need to train our fighters for the frontlines."
King Adron nodded. "Aeneah's king, Rothgard, has promised us men and supplies, but they have their own troubles. Border skirmishes with the northern tribes have weakened their defenses. They'll send what they can, but it may not be enough."
The alliance with Aeneah and Qestor had been forged through years of diplomacy and mutual defense, but even they were facing their own challenges. The kings of both realms respected Adron, but with their own borders threatened, their military aid was limited. They remained faithful to their alliance, yet Jethro knew that Meliah could not rely solely on them for victory.
Jethro traced a finger along the map, feeling the weight of his responsibility. The task ahead was daunting. War was coming, and as the First Prince of Meliah, he was expected to lead their armies, to strategize and to win. But with the Ashen Five threatening from the west and Meliah's allies stretched thin, the battle would be one of attrition—a battle they might not survive.
"We need more time," Jethro said finally, his voice soft but resolute. "We need to buy time, keep them from uniting on the battlefield."
King Adron sighed. "Then time, my son, is what we must steal."
∆ ∆ ∆
Far to the east, beyond the borders of Meliah, an eternal storm brewed over the desolate land of Dartmoor. At its center, towering above the blackened earth, stood Doomspire, Mizpah's tower. Its dark stone walls stretched high into the storm, jagged like the fangs of some great beast. The tower loomed over the wasteland, its spires vanishing into the clouds, shrouded in shadow and mist. No light shone within its windows—only darkness ruled here.
Inside the palace, Mizpah's army gathered in the massive Hall of Shadows, a cavernous chamber with towering ceilings and walls etched with ancient, cursed runes. The floor was of black marble, cold and reflective, while pillars of dark stone rose like ancient sentinels, holding up the weight of the castle's malevolent power. At the far end of the hall, a colossal throne of obsidian sat, cold and unyielding, where Mizpah often presided over his creations.
His army stood in the hall below, filling it from end to end—grotesque creatures born of Mizpah's dark magic, their monstrous forms twisted and unnatural. They had no will of their own, no emotion beyond unyielding rage and hatred. Their gray, mottled skin glistened in the dim light as they stood in perfect, lifeless rows, their heads bowed in silent obedience. They are called Golgi.
A host of Golgi awaited Mizpah's command, as always, for they could do nothing else. They were his slaves—his puppets.
Mizpah, draped in a flowing black cloak, stood at the head of the hall. Dark clouds swirled around the spire, and the distant sound of thunder reverberated through the castle, a constant reminder of his control over the storm. With every gust of wind that swept through the hall, the air seemed to grow colder, more oppressive, as if the very atmosphere was under his thrall.
He walked slowly toward his throne, each step echoing in the vast emptiness of the hall. His eyes glinted as he raised his hands to the storm outside, drawing strength from the tempest he commanded.
Mizpah stood before his army, his dark robes billowing as the storm roared above. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the lightning that tore through the sky. His voice, deep and cold as the grave, cut through the air like a blade.
"The time has come," Mizpah began, his voice commanding the full attention of the throng of monstrous figures before him. "The Fifth Dagger stirs, and soon, it will be in our grasp. You know your mission. Fail me, and the wrath of the Void itself will consume you."
In the dim, flickering light, Marakus, the Black Knight, stepped forward. Clad in armor as dark as the abyss, with eyes that glowed faintly red beneath his visor, he bowed low before Mizpah. Behind him, a group of creatures mounted their infernal steeds—black horses wreathed in flames, their hooves scorching the earth beneath them. These riders, ten of them, known as the Vorrak, were Mizpah's most fearsome agents. Cloaked in shadow, they felt no mercy, no fear—only the drive to fulfill their master's will. Each Vorrak bore a skeletal visage under their helmets, their bodies hollowed by the dark magic that sustained them.
"Marakus," Mizpah hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "Lead the Vorrak to the farthest reaches of Ever-Realm. The time has come to crush any who stand in our way. Bring me the dagger, and let the world tremble beneath the hooves of our Fire Horses."
With a sharp nod, Marakus turned to his mounted warriors. Their eyes flared with an unholy fire as they pulled their reins, ready to ride into the night, leaving only destruction in their wake.
"Go," Mizpah commanded, his voice like thunder. "Bring ruin to Ever-Realm."
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