The wind in the Biakind Mountains does not blow; it bites. The air at an altitude of three thousand meters above sea level is so thin that every breath feels like inhaling ice dust. Sharp mountain peaks pierce the gray sky, covered in eternal snow that cares nothing for the politics of humans below.
In a hidden valley surrounded by steep granite cliffs stands an old, forgotten fortress: Bastion Iron-Tooth. Once a border guard post, it is now an emergency headquarters for those who have just declared war on the Gods.
Inside the main hall of the rough-walled fortress, a giant fireplace burns, but fails to completely dispel the cold.
Rhea Ashart sat near the fireplace, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Her face was still pale, her lips slightly blue. In her hand was a pewter cup filled with strong herbal tea that Arlene had brewed to restore her nearly depleted essence. Every time she swallowed, she could feel the warm flow spreading to her left chest, refilling the emptiness left by Arlen's suction. It hurt, like blood flowing back into a numb leg, but it was the pain of life.
All around her, the room was filled with tension thicker than mountain air.
Dalt Ashart, her adoptive father, stood near the large map table in the center of the room. He wasn't wearing his usual silk merchant's robe. Instead, he wore a thick fur coat and tactical goggles. Beside him, Jax—the big man who had flown Mira from the tower—was removing his mechanical armor.
Dalt touched the glider wings on Jax's back with the proud smile of an inventor. “The gyroscopic stabilizers worked perfectly on landing, Jax?” Dalt asked, ignoring the tense atmosphere.
“A little shaky at terminal velocity, sir,” Jax replied, his voice heavy. “But the metal alloy you suggested withstood the frictional heat well. Without this device, we would have been mush on the capital's sidewalk.”
“Good. Prototype IV is a success,” Dalt nodded, jotting something down in his little notebook. “Ashart never disappoints.”
Mira watched the interaction. It turned out Jax wasn't just a mercenary. He was a test pilot for Ashart's war technology. His adoptive family had been preparing for this for years.
“Can you two stop talking about toys when we've just become the continent's most wanted fugitives?”
The sharp voice cut through the technical conversation. Lysandra Eriallve stood in the dark corner of the room, leaning against a stone pillar. Her red hair looked dull, her face was bare of makeup, and her eyes were swollen—signs that she had cried all night after hearing the confirmation about her aunt. Next to her stood an old man with a bright red beard—Lord Ignis Eriallve, Lysandra's father and the current Head of the Eriallve Family.
“Lysandra is right,” said Lord Ignis, his voice like clashing coals. “We are hiding in this rat hole while Arlen is probably burning our homes in the capital.”
“Houses can be rebuilt, Ignis,” replied Henesa Ashart calmly. She sat across from Mira, applying healing ointment to the scratch on Mira's cheek. “Lives cannot. We are here because this is the only safe place. Ashart's long-range sensors have blocked the Intian's tracking in this area.”
The hall doors swung open roughly. The snowy wind rushed in. A short but stocky man entered. He wore the fur-lined leather clothing typical of the mountain dwellers. Lord Kovan, Governor of the State of Biakind. The only leader in the region who openly dared to take them in.
“My eyes are back,” said Lord Kovan, breathing heavily. His rough face looked pale behind his thick beard. “And the news... is bad. Very bad.”
The atmosphere in the room tensed instantly. Ulric, who was studying a map in the corner, looked up. Anna stopped sharpening her knife.
A thin young man in a torn Asnaven courier uniform entered behind Lord Kovan. He fell to his knees in front of the map table, trembling violently. Not from the cold. But from trauma.
“Report,” Arlene commanded, stepping forward.
“Ugudan...” the young man stammered, his eyes wild. “The city of Ugudan... is gone.”
“Gone how?” Dalt pressed. “A military attack?”
“A massacre,” whispered the courier. Tears streamed down his dirty cheeks. “No one survived. Men, women, children... they were cut to pieces. Piled up like firewood in the town square.”
Mira felt nauseous. Ugudan. That peaceful little town.
“And...” the courier swallowed hard. “There was blood writing on the town hall wall. Justice for Machima. Fasheart Rises.”
Total silence fell over the fortress hall. Only the crackling of firewood in the fireplace could be heard.
“Bastard,” Lysandra hissed. “He's framing us.”
“More than that,” the courier continued. “I saw the perpetrators leave at dawn, before Arlen's troops arrived. They... they were wearing stolen Fasheart uniforms. But the way they moved... the way they killed...”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The courier looked at Arlene. “They weren't starving miners like us, Commander. They were efficient. They were silent. And when one of them took off his helmet to drink... I saw his face.”
“Who?” asked Mira.
“An ordinary man,” replied the courier. "But his eyes were empty. Like a doll. And his neck... There were magic runes."
“Shadow Unit,” Anna said suddenly. She jumped down from the table where she had been sitting. “Not the shadow monsters we fought in the clock tower. That's the Human Unit. The kingdom's Black Ops. They've been brainwashed since childhood, their emotions erased with magic, trained only to kill and infiltrate.”
Anna stared at the map. “Arlen used his own troops to slaughter his own people, then dressed them in our uniforms. It's... classic. And effective.”
Lord Kovan slammed his large fist on the table. "My people will panic! If they hear that Fasheart is slaughtering civilians, they won't support this rebellion! They'll see us as monsters!"
“That's the point,” Henesa said coldly. Her political analysis was as sharp as a razor. “Arlen knows he lost his moral legitimacy after his energy-sucking system was destroyed. He needs a common enemy. He needs a monster to unite around. So he created one.”
Henesa stood up and walked toward the large map spread out on the table. She placed a black piece on the city of Ugudan.
“Narratively, he wins,” said Henesa. “Within hours, the entire continent will think we are cannibalistic terrorists. Public support will flood to Arlen. He will have justification to do anything.”
“Anything?” asked Ulric softly.
The courier raised his head again. “Prince Arlen is there. In Ugudan. He's giving a speech over the bodies. He's declared Total War.”
“One week,” said the courier. “He's given one week for full mobilization. He's going to attack Fasheart and anyone who protects it with the full force of Asnaven.”
One week.
Time seemed to stand still. One week before the greatest storm in the history of this continent would strike them.
Dalt Ashart sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We're outnumbered. We're outgunned. And now, we're demoralized.”
Dalt pointed to the map. “Biakind,” he said, pointing to the mountainous region where they were located. “We're safe here geographically. These mountains are a natural fortress.”
Lord Kovan nodded stiffly. “But we need supplies. We can't eat rocks.”
“Kifea,” Dalt pointed to the state east of Biakind, directly bordering the kingdom's central region. “This is the key. Kifea is a rice granary and a major trade route. Its governor, Lady Amara, is still undecided. She is neutral.”
“She won't be neutral anymore after hearing the news from Ugudan,” said Lord Ignis Eriallve pessimistically. “She will run into Arlen's arms for fear of being slaughtered by the ‘Fasheart Rebels’.”
“And the other states?” asked Mira, forcing herself to stand even though her legs were still shaky. She walked unsteadily towards the map table.
“The Northern, Eastern, and Northern Coastal states... all have sent letters of support to Arlen,” reported Arlene, who had been silently reading the messages delivered by carrier pigeons. “Ugudan's propaganda worked. They are afraid. They are angry. They are sending their best battalions to join Arlen.”
The map was dominated by blue (Asnaven). There were only small red dots in the southeast (Fasheart) and southwest (Biakind). They were surrounded.
“We're done for,” muttered Lord Ignis. “The Eriallve family should have fled to another continent when they had the chance.”
“If you want to run, run, Father,” Lysandra cut in sharply. "But I won't run. Aunt Beatrix died there. She was drained dry. I will burn them all."
“With what?!” snapped Ignis. “We only have a handful of fire mages, a few Fasheart miners armed with pickaxes, and Ashart's toy technology! Against Asnaven with thousands of Battle-Mages?!”
An argument erupted. The panicked voice of Lord Kovan, the desperate voice of Lord Ignis, and Dalt trying to calculate logistics all mixed into a dizzying cacophony.
“Silence.”
The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the commotion instantly. Rhea Ashart. She didn't shout. She simply placed her hand on the map, right above the image of the Celestial Palace, now marked with a skull symbol.
All eyes were on her. The girl who had been dancing with the Prince just last night. The girl who was at the center of all this chaos.
“You think like politicians,” said Mira, her amber eyes staring at each person in the room. “You think about territory, about public opinion, about troop numbers.”
Mira pointed to her own chest. “But I know our enemy. I know Arlen. More than anyone else in this room.”
Mira took a breath, the pain in her chest reminding her of the terrible truth. “Arlen isn't attacking because of strategy. He's attacking because he's hungry.”
Mira took the knife from Anna's waist and stabbed it into the map, right on the border between Biakind and Kifea.
“He lost his four energy-sucking pillars. He lost his main stock (Professor Haldor). And he failed to eat me,” Mira glanced at Arlene, grateful. "He's empty now. His battery is leaking. He's using emotion and adrenaline to cover up the fact that he's dying."
“One week,” Mira said. “That's not preparation time. That's his deadline. If he doesn't get a major energy source within a week... he'll weaken.”
“You mean...” Ulric, standing behind her, began to understand. His eyes sparkled behind his cracked glasses. “This total attack isn't to conquer territory. It's to harvest.”
“Exactly,” Mira nodded. “He'll deploy troops to Fasheart not to punish the rebels. But because that's where the remnants of the Machima Race are. Humans without Intian, but with life energy. He’ll turn the entire population of Fasheart into batteries.”
Henesa smiled slightly at the corner of her lips. She saw her daughter's transformation. From a lost girl, to Kars' student, to a spy, and now... to a Leader.
“Dalt,” Henesa called. “Prepare a diplomatic channel to Kifea. Offer them an exclusive lifetime trade agreement if they're willing to open the back gate for us.”
“Arlene,” Henesa turned to her former servant. “Prepare your troops. Teach those miners how to wield Ashart weapons.”
“And Rhea...” Henesa looked at her daughter. “Rest. You need to regain your energy. Because in one week... You will stand before your former lover again. And this time, there will be no dance.”
Mira nodded. She walked away from the map table, toward the fortress window facing east. There, behind the storm clouds, Arlen's army was preparing.
Mira was grateful to the Academy's Strategy Class. To Kars. They were part of her current transformation.
Ah, she had truly inherited Kars' way of thinking. She missed that man. She regretted ever forgetting him.
But Mira's focus was on Arlen. If she couldn't defeat that prince, how could she ever claim her own land?
Mira touches her still-aching chest. You took a part of me, Arlen, she thinks. Now I will take everything from you.
Outside, the snowstorm begins to fall, covering the bloodstains of the past and preparing a clean white canvas for the blood that will be spilled in the future. The war has begun.
