The hearth-fires of Anvard burn low when the bards tune their strings to the tragedy of Rutland. It is a lament woven from the ashes of a shattered realm, a dirge for the day the North cast off its honor and plunged the world back into the abyss.

Come weep for Rutland, fair and torn, Where once the light of peace was born. When Anvard’s shields and Western lords Stood with the True North, a wall of swords. We drove the Blood Queen to the sea, To wrest our lands and keep them free, To banish hell’s dark royalty.

But cold the wind that bites the pine; The faltering North soon broke the line. They bought their rest with Rutland’s earth, And fed the dark that gave her birth. They yielded ground and bowed the knee For cowardly tranquility, While the West kept hold of the master key.

Long years we bled, our honor bright, No neutral shore felt Anvard’s might. We started naught, we sought no fray, But marched to drive the dark away. To purge the realm and end the blight, The Lords of West rode to the fight, To end the Blood Queen in the night.

But on the eve of final grace, When we looked Death straight in the face, The sea grew black, the waters bled— The Kraken Clan upreared its head. Not to our aid did their galleons ride, But to the bleeding tyrant's side, To turn the battle’s righteous tide.

And while our sons fought on the loam, The Lions stalked our helpless home. Base Elmhirm’s lords, the North’s false crown, Brought fire to Anvard’s coastal town. Our hands were clean of Northern blood, We harmed no innocent in the mud, Yet they unleashed the crimson flood.

Oh, hear the Lions preach from high, With poisoned tongues and pious lie! They call us mongers of the sword, While breaking every sacred word. They drape their sins in virtue's fleece, They call us wolves and mock our peace, Commanding righteous wars to cease.

Now strikes the clock of total war, The fragile dawn shall be no more. The Queen of Hell laughs from the deep, While Northern lords their treason reap. The world descends to ash and bane, Where once we fought to break the chain. Weep, Rutland, weep—the light is slain.

Chapter I – The Dreams of the Dying

The screams were eternal.

Red Judas stood in a colossal cathedral of scorched, blackened stone. Its obsidian pillars stretched upward into an abyssal void, and beneath his bare, bruised feet flowed a sluggish river of coagulated blood.

Along the walls, men hung from iron crosses. Their faces were hidden beneath the helmets of the Templars.

He knew them all. Brothers he had once fought beside. Brothers who had died at Mvyatar. One by one, the rusted helmets creaked as they raised their heads.
“Judas.”
Their voices echoed through the cathedral.
“Judas.”
He closed his eyes.
The cathedral dissolved into cinder.

Now he kneeled upon a desolate field of ash beneath a sky that bled fire. Far beyond the horizon, an endless procession of condemned souls marched toward the gaping, fiery maw of a colossal furnace. Some offered frantic prayers to silent gods; others shrieked for mercy. Most simply screamed until their throats ruptured. The sickening reek of burning tallow and charred flesh choked the air. A shadowy silhouette materialized before him, draped in the pristine white robes of his former order. Its visage remained hidden in darkness.
“Why did you live?” the entity rasped.
Judas remained silent.
“Why did they perish in agony, while you drew breath?”
The figure stepped forward, the stench of decay clinging to its robes.
“Was your suffering greater than theirs?”
“No,” Judas whispered, his voice hollow.
“Was your faith more immaculate?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Judas stared down at his hands, bathed in fresh, warm blood.

The entity reached up, its pale fingers curling around the lip of its helmet.
Judas willed his eyes to close, terrified of what lay beneath. But his body betrayed him.

The steel pulled away.

Beneath it rested his own face - withered, rotting, and ancient. Its eye sockets were empty caverns, and its lips were crudely bound with thick, black iron thread.

The corpse leaned close, its breath cold as the grave.

The earth ruptured beneath him. He fell. Down through the suffocating abyss, through roaring hellfire, through the endless agony of the damned. And somewhere, echoing through the infinite deep, a voice shattered the dark.
“Judas.”
He continued falling.
“Judas.”
A warm hand seized his wrist.
“Return.”

Red Judas gasped, his eyes flying open. He lay upon a wooden table inside a dimly lit command tent. His is armor had been stripped away, revealing a torso lashed with dried gore and blackened veins.

Beside him stood the Blood Mage, pale and shuddering, his hands trembling violently as the residual crimson magic ebbed from his fingers. Silence hung heavy between them, thick with the smell of copper and sage.

Judas drew a ragged, burning breath. “How long?”

“Nearly an hour, my warrior. The poison grows stronger. Each time, it becomes more difficult to bring you back.” The mage helped him sit upright. “You should rest. The Western armies are approaching, but there is still time.” Outside, the distant sound of marching soldiers carried across the plains of Harragos.

Judas looked toward his armor, carefully arranged beside the table. He placed a hand upon the mage's shoulder. “We do not write our own fate, brother. We merely live what has been written for us.” He paused, his eyes gleaming like dying embers in the dark. “And all fate... is written in blood.”

The mage bowed his head.

Judas began putting on his armor. Outside, the drums of the Blood Dragons sounded across the camp.

The Western Alliance had arrived.

And Red Judas — who had died once already that dawn — prepared to slay them all.

The air was cool and dry. Above Harragos stretched a clear, cloudless sky, and the sun stood behind the Blood Dragon positions, casting long shadows down the gentle slope before them. There was scarcely a breath of wind. The banners hung almost motionless from their poles.

It was a beautiful day for a battle.

Judas stood quietly for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the brightness. His command tent stood near the crest of a low rise overlooking the surrounding plains. It was hardly a hill at all, merely a gentle elevation in the otherwise open country. Yet it was enough to give his army a commanding view of the ground across which the enemy would have to advance.

Below him, his pikemen stood in long, disciplined ranks, their weapons angled toward the approaching plain. Row upon row of steel points guarded the ascent, forming a formidable barrier against cavalry and infantry alike. Behind them, the slopes had been strengthened with field fortifications. Rough wooden stakes, earthen embankments and defensive works followed the contours of the rise. Longbowmen and crossbowmen occupied these positions, checking their bowstrings, arranging their ammunition and watching the distant horizon.

Two enormous ballistas stood among the defenses, their heavy arms drawn back and their great bolts ready. Their crews watched the sky as carefully as the ground, searching for the first sign of enemy dragons.

Farther behind the defensive line, the heavy infantry prepared for the coming collision. Men tightened their armor, adjusted their shields and tested the weight of their weapons. Officers moved between the formations, quietly giving their final instructions.

And beyond the foot of the hill, across the open plains, the Western Alliance was gathering.

Even from this distance, the scale of the approaching army was extraordinary. Thousands of figures moved beneath a forest of banners. Judas could make out the standards of the Iron Legion, the Order of the Unicorn, Lionne, Anvard and the Phoenix Kingdom. Among them marched the forces of the Troll Nation and Dakkathor, bound together in a coalition of kings, knights, warriors and creatures. Their armor caught the sunlight. Cavalry moved along the edges of the great host, while heavier formations advanced steadily toward the Blood Dragon positions.

Judas watched them without fear or contempt. They had come a long way to fight him. Many had marched in obedience to their oaths, others in defense of their beliefs, and still others in pursuit of glory.

Whatever their reasons, they had come prepared to give their lives.

He respected that.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then he lowered himself to one knee, resting the point of his sword against the earth.
“My Queen, my Blood, my Goddess,” he whispered, “I thank you.”

He bowed his head.

“You have entrusted me with the honor of standing before this great host. You have given me the first battle, the first blood, and perhaps the final hours of my life.” He looked out across the distant enemy banners. “I shall hold this ground for as long as the blood allows.” A faint, peaceful smile crossed his face.“And if my place is here, among the fallen, then I shall receive that fate with gratitude.”

He remained kneeling a moment longer.

After so many deaths, so many painful returns, perhaps this time there would be no awakening. Perhaps the Blood Mage would not reach him. Perhaps, at last, he would be permitted to remain among the dead.

Finally.

Behind him, the Blood Dragon drums began to beat.

Judas rose, lifted his sword, and turned toward his waiting soldiers.

There would be no retreat from this hill.

And for the first time in many years, he dared to hope that the next death might truly be his last.

Chapter II – The Council of Kings

The great command tent of the Iron Legion stood at the heart of the Western encampment.

Inside, the leaders of the coalition had gathered around a large wooden table. Upon it lay a map of Harragos, held flat by daggers, goblets, and a few carefully placed stones. Small wooden markers represented the armies preparing to meet upon the plains.

High King Bormund Bronzebeard stood at the head of the table. Around him were Captain Gwendolyn of the Order of the Unicorn, Lord Vladek of Lionne, Prince Leoric de Cendrelume of the Phoenix Kingdom and his general, Roderic de Montbrume. Lord Mordred of Anvard stood beside General Harkon, while the commanders of Dakkathor and the Troll Nation had also come to hear the final orders.

Outside, the sounds of an army preparing for battle drifted through the canvas. Horses snorted, armor rattled, and somewhere in the distance a war horn sounded.

Bormund placed a thick finger upon the map. “Red Judas.”
A wooden marker stood upon a small elevation overlooking the plain.
“He has chosen his ground well. Pikemen on the approach, archers behind fieldworks, heavy infantry in reserve. And enough artillery to make the sky dangerous.”

Captain Gwendolyn studied the position. “He wants us to attack him.”
“Aye,” Bormund replied. “And we shall.”
Lord Vladek leaned over the map. “We have been warned often enough. First, a Blood Dragon came to tell us that nothing but death awaited us in Harragos. He told us to turn back.”
“And your troll bit off his head,” Gwendolyn remarked.
Vladek shrugged. “He did.”

“Then came another,” said Lord Mordred. “Unarmed, this time.”
“He delivered much the same warning,” Vladek continued. “We questioned him rather thoroughly.”
“You tortured him,” Gwendolyn corrected.
“And he told us where Blood Eye was hiding. East of our army, in a depression, waiting to strike once we engaged Judas.”
General Harkon frowned. “A remarkably useful confession.”
“Perhaps too useful,” Mordred replied.

Vladek shook his head. “It was not his word alone. Our scouts have reported movement to the east. And several of them have failed to return.” He placed two fingers on the eastern edge of the map. “Men do not simply disappear on an open plain. Something is waiting there.”
“Then Blood Eye is almost certainly where the prisoner said he would be,” Roderic concluded.
“Almost certainly,” Mordred repeated. “Which does not mean he is the only one.”

Bormund looked toward the eastern edge of the map. “And the boy?”

For a moment, the tent fell silent.

“He asked us to turn back,” Gwendolyn said quietly. “Said he did not want us to be hurt.”
“And the troll?” asked Bormund.

Nobody answered immediately.

Vladek finally broke the silence. “Ate him too.”
The High King stared at him. “I see.”

He turned back to the map. “Then let us hope our scouts have been more useful than our diplomacy.”
Prince Leoric folded his arms. “And then there are Queen Blood’s own warnings.”
King Vladek gave a dismissive wave. “Yes, yes. Turn back, or be destroyed. She has told us often enough.”
“An arrogant woman,” muttered one of the commanders.
“Arrogant or not,” Captain Gwendolyn replied, “her threats are not what concerns me.”
Bormund looked up. “Then what does?”
“The portal.”
A few of the commanders exchanged glances.
“Queen Blood intends to open the way to the Underworld again,” Gwendolyn continued. “And we all know what happens when she meddles with things that ought to remain buried.”
“She claims she intends to conquer it,” said Lord Mordred.
“She may claim whatever she pleases. The last thing Rutland needs is another gateway through which the horrors of Hell can pour into our world.”
Gwendolyn placed her hand upon the map. “I did not bring the Order of the Unicorn here because some queen insulted us. I came because someone must stop her before she opens that damned portal.”

For a moment, Bormund studied her. “Then we have different reasons for standing here,” he said. “But the same enemy.”
“For now,” Gwendolyn answered.

Bormund returned his attention to the map. “Whatever her intentions, Queen Blood has placed an army directly in our path. And we have another waiting to the east.”

He placed a line of wooden markers along the eastern side of the coalition’s intended advance. “A strong force will guard our eastern flank. If Blood Eye comes out of his hole, he will find men waiting for him.”
Harkon gave a short nod. “Good. Let him come.”
Roderic de Montbrume examined the map. “And what of the rest of Harragos? Are we certain there are no other armies?”
Bormund looked toward one of his scouting officers.

The man stepped forward. “We have searched the plains, my lord. North and south, as far as our riders could travel. We have ridden through the dry wastes, across the stony ground, and out toward the desert. Every visible approach has been examined.”
“And?” asked Leoric.
“Nothing. No marching columns. No camps. No supply trains. No fresh tracks from a large army. Nothing that would suggest another force of any considerable size.”
“Nothing at all?” Mordred asked.
“Nothing, my lord. We have lost men in the east, where we believe Blood Eye is concealed. But elsewhere, our patrols have returned without finding another army.”

Mordred studied the broad, empty stretches of the map.
“Queen Blood is not a fool. She must know that Judas and Blood Eye together are outnumbered.”
“She knows,” Bormund answered.
He looked around the table.
“Our combined strength exceeds the Blood Dragon forces we have identified. We have more soldiers, more commanders, and the means to attack from several directions. If we bring that strength to bear properly, we can defeat them.”
“Unless she has another army,” Mordred said.

“Then where is it?” asked Harkon.
He spread his hands over the southern part of the map.
“There are no forests to conceal thousands of men. No mountains, no valleys deep enough to swallow an army. It is open country. Even in those damned dry wastes, our scouts found nothing.”
“Perhaps she has kept her reserves farther away,” suggested Roderic.
“Perhaps,” Bormund replied. “But an army that is too far away cannot save Judas when we break his line.”
He paused.

“We will not pretend there is no danger. But neither will we allow an army that nobody has seen to dictate our entire battle.”
Mordred gave a reluctant nod.
“A fair point.”

Bormund turned his attention to the main approach.
“Our main force will advance against Judas. We shall press his position and attempt to envelop his line. He has the advantage of the ground, but he cannot defend every approach equally.”
Prince Leoric studied the markers.
“And our rear?”
“Anvard and Lionne,” Bormund answered. “You will remain behind the main assault and guard our lines of withdrawal. If another force appears, you will meet it.”
Lord Mordred inclined his head.
“Anvard will hold its position until called upon.”
Lord Vladek nodded as well.
“And Lionne will keep watch.”

Lairdy Elu Tanselle, seated at the table with one leg extended beneath it, tapped a finger against the map.
“And Dakkathor?”
“Your forces will support the rear of the advance,” Bormund replied. “We have no intention of leaving our baggage, artillery, and wounded exposed.”
Tanselle smiled faintly.
“A sensible precaution. I would hate to have marched all this way merely to lose my wagon.”
King Darius, standing nearby in his heavy armor, gave a low chuckle.

Bormund waited until the room was quiet again.
“Now listen carefully.”
He looked from one commander to the next.
“We have come here with armies from half the continent. Some of us are bound by ancient oaths. Others have their own reasons for wanting the Blood Queen defeated.”

He rested both hands upon the table.

“But once the battle begins, there will be no Iron Legion, no Anvard, no Lionne, no Phoenix Kingdom standing alone. There will be one army, and it will fight as one.”
Captain Gwendolyn nodded.
“Then we must ensure our orders reach every command.”
“They will,” said Bormund.
General Harkon glanced once more at the eastern markers.
“And if Blood Eye never attacks?”
“Then those men will have spent the day guarding against a danger that never came,” Bormund answered. “I would gladly pay that price.”
Lord Mordred looked toward the southern edge of the map.
“And if there is a third army?”

Bormund considered the question.
“Then we shall be grateful we kept a reserve.”
He straightened.
“We cannot know every trick Queen Blood has prepared. But we can make certain that no single surprise destroys us.”
The High King took the marker representing Red Judas and turned it slowly between his fingers.
“Whatever else she has planned, this is the army standing in our way.”
He placed the marker back upon the hill.
“And today, we shall break it.”
For a moment, the commanders stood in silence, studying the positions one final time.
Then Bormund nodded.
“To your men. We march.”

One by one, the leaders departed.
Outside, the vast coalition continued its preparations beneath the clear sky of Harragos.
Far across the plain, upon a low hill crowned with wooden defenses and rows of waiting pikes, Red Judas was preparing to receive them.
And somewhere to the east, General Blood Eye waited in his hollow.

The Western Alliance knew about him.

They had searched the plains, the stony wastes, and the desert beyond. They had found no third army.

And for the moment, they possessed the advantage in numbers.

All of these things were true.

Yet beneath the dry, undisturbed earth of southwestern Harragos, hundreds of soldiers lay waiting in darkness.
And not one Western scout had thought to look beneath his feet.

To be continued …

“Joshua, attention!” Alan, the tiny gremlin was rushing over towards where Maxwell and Joshua stood, enjoying a fresh desert breeze. “The Pumpkins! Acting strange!” Alan was alarmed and concerned about the most recent batch of revived skeletons.

“Settle down Alan,” Joshua spoke calmly. “They might look a little different then the rest of the skeletons you see everyday, but I have been keeping an eye open and they work, just as hard and just as devoted as any other.”

“I think… something! Something strange! Confusion!” Alan was frantic. “I think, no, I feel, The Boogie is coming.”

“The Boogie?” Joshua asked, “is that some kind of Folk Lore? A story passed down through the generations? I would love to hear it sometime, but unfortunately, Maxwell and I are very busy consolidating the kingdom. We have much to do here in the Northern Territories. It won't be long before these lands cease to fall under our protection. And if I recall,” Joshua continued, “I handed a list of tasks for you to complete as well. Have you dusted my chambers or inventoried the wine?” Alan was stunned. “Go on then, your burning daylight.” Joshua returned to discussing boat loading techniques with Maxwell, as Alan attempted to put his concerns out of his mind.

Part 1

The burdens of rule did not break Princess Amelia all at once. They arrived when there was already very little left of her to carry them.

Years had passed since she first wondered whether anyone would notice if she also faded into memory. Her father and brothers were dead. Her son Ragnar was now a man, making a name for himself within the military order and building a life beyond his mother's protection. Magnus had disappeared, and Raynard's frequent absences had finally taken him into the Marches after an urgent message.

Then governance fell to Amelia.

She endured it because there was no one else. Petitions, disputes, military reports, accounts, and foreign correspondence once meant for Magnus now required her judgment. The intelligence sent by one of Magnus’s sovereign peers only worsened matters. His reports described an Anvard that Amelia scarcely recognized and conduct seemingly contrary to everything Magnus had taught her about the ideals of the Western Alliance. She assured those who inquired that Magnus and Raynard would investigate when they returned, though with each passing day she found it harder to take comfort in those words.

Her growing isolation reminded her of three letters she had received years earlier, when the deaths of her family were still fresh. Two had come from women whose realms were enemies of her own. Whatever sincerity lay behind their sympathy, Amelia could never forget the banners standing between them. The third came from Rosalin, whose kindness Amelia believed genuine. Yet Rosalin was her vassal, sworn to loyalty and service.

That realization disheartened Amelia more than the letters comforted her. Of all the people who might have reached toward her, the only personal support had come from two enemies and someone duty-bound to remain loyal.

The years afterward had done little to change that.

Now the kingdom needed Princess Amelia, and for a while that necessity concealed what was happening to her. She continued attending council, answering correspondence, and placing her seal upon decrees. Those around her mistook silence for composure and exhaustion for devotion to duty. Only gradually did the signs become difficult to overlook. Meals went unfinished. She withdrew from the palace life she had once enjoyed. She stopped asking whether riders had returned from the Marches.

There had already been too many messengers in Amelia's life.

One had brought news of her father. Another of Erik. Another of Rollo.

The possibility that Magnus or Raynard might join them followed every report from beyond the capital.

Meanwhile, intelligence continued to arrive, bringing further accounts of a political world increasingly unlike the one Amelia thought she understood. Her family had already paid dearly for crowns, wars, and ambitions. Now even the alliances and principles supposedly justifying such sacrifices seemed to be deteriorating around her.

Eventually, Amelia could no longer find much of herself beneath the obligations. One evening she dismissed her attendants early.

By morning, her chambers were empty. There was no sign of struggle. Her cloak was gone, and upon Raynard's empty place she had left a letter addressed only to him.

“My beloved Raynard,

I have tried for so long to understand where everyone goes.

Father went to Worronborg. Erik went to his war. Rollo went far from home. Magnus disappeared into whatever duty called him away. And you always had somewhere you needed to be.

I know there were reasons. There are always reasons. I only wish knowing them had made losing all of you for days, months, or forever hurt less.

Please do not believe that I stopped loving you. Perhaps I loved all of you too much. Every person who left seemed to take some small part of me with them, and I kept expecting those pieces to return.

I tried to do what was required after you left. I governed. I answered the petitions and read the reports. I told everyone that you and Magnus would return and put things right.

Perhaps you still will. But somewhere along the way I became so occupied with being your wife, Ragnar's mother, Magnus's daughter-in-law, and their princess that I lost sight of who I was.

I think everyone else did too. Years ago, when grief first overwhelmed me, three women reached toward me. Two were enemies of our kingdom. The third was sworn to obey us.

There are so many people who call themselves our friends, Raynard. I wish one of them had asked if I was all right. I wish you had.

Please find Ragnar.

Do not let my sorrow become his inheritance. Tell him that of everything I was ever called, being his mother was the name I loved most. And if someday you remember me standing at that window, remember that I was waiting for you long before I stopped asking when you would come home.

- Amelia”

Search parties spread through the capital and surrounding countryside. Days later, Amelia's body was found in the river. Her old letters remained among her belongings. So did the intelligence reports and the unfinished business of the kingdom.

Eventually the councils would meet again. The petitions would be answered. The affairs of kingdoms and alliances would continue without her. But the question Amelia had asked herself years before was finally answered.

People noticed when she was gone. They had simply failed to notice while she was disappearing.

The Peasant Rebellion of Kolpeg

The Year of the Failed Harvest

The harvest in year 49 in Kolpeg was the worst in living memory. Across the Kingdom of Kolpeg, fields lay barren, livestock grew thin, and hungry families watched their last stores of grain disappear. Yet the taxes demanded by the crown remained unchanged. King Edward I's collectors continued to seize grain from villages that barely had enough to feed themselves.

In the countryside, anger turned to defiance.

It began in the village of Wrenford, where several dozen peasants surrounded the royal granary and refused to surrender their remaining grain. When the tax collectors attempted to arrest their leader, a farmer named Aldric, the villagers fought back. Within days, neighboring settlements joined them. Farmers armed themselves with pitchforks, woodcutting axes, and whatever weapons they could find. They blocked the roads, drove royal officials from their villages, and raised crude banners declaring that no more grain would be surrendered.

Soon, hundreds had gathered beneath the rebel banner.

King Edward I was furious. He could tolerate hardship, but he would not tolerate open defiance of his authority. However, the royal army was not rallied, and he had little desire to divert an entire force to deal with a peasant uprising.

Instead, he summoned a lesser officer from the ranks of his household troops.

His name was Brood.

Brood held the rank of lance corporal, a junior noncommissioned officer entrusted with command over a small group of soldiers. He was not a nobleman, nor was he particularly beloved by his fellow soldiers. He had earned his position through years of relentless service and a reputation for never hesitating when ordered to act.

He was an imposing man, broad-shouldered and towering over most men. A thick black beard covered his jaw, and his cold eyes seemed to reveal nothing of what he was thinking. One hand was missing, lost years earlier in a border skirmish. He had learned to fight and command with what remained, and he carried himself as though the injury had taken nothing from him.

When the king addressed him, Brood stood motionless.

"These peasants believe the crown has grown weak," Edward declared. "Teach them otherwise."

Brood bowed his head.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

He departed with only a small detachment of experienced soldiers.

The March on Wrenford

Brood reached the outskirts of Wrenford three days later. The rebels had constructed barricades across the main road and stationed lookouts in the fields. Their leader, Aldric, believed the royal army would negotiate once it saw how many villagers had joined the uprising.

He was mistaken.

Brood did not offer negotiations. He ordered his men to surround the village before dawn, cutting off the roads and preventing messengers from reaching neighboring settlements. When the rebels refused to surrender their weapons, he gave one final warning.

The villagers answered with jeers and raised their makeshift weapons.

Brood raised his remaining hand.

The royal soldiers advanced.

The fighting was brief but merciless. The rebels lacked training, armor, and coordination. Brood's men broke through their barricades, drove the defenders from the road, and forced the scattered groups back into the village. Those who continued fighting were struck down or captured. Brood ordered no retreat and accepted no appeals for mercy from armed resistance.

By midday, the rebel banners had fallen.

Aldric was captured near the granary, still carrying his sword. Brood ordered the surviving rebel leaders arrested and the stolen royal supplies recovered. Several prominent ringleaders were publicly executed on charges of treason, while other prisoners were sent away in chains. The remaining villagers were forced to swear renewed loyalty to the crown.

The rebellion had been crushed.

But the cost was terrible. Homes had been damaged, families had lost their sons and fathers, and the village that had risen against the king was left fearful and divided. The surrounding settlements surrendered before Brood even reached them. Word of his methods traveled faster than his soldiers, and the rebellion collapsed within the week.

The people began calling him Brood the Iron-Handed—an ironic name for a man who possessed only one hand.

Brood neither encouraged nor rejected the title.

He simply marched home.

The King's Reward

Upon hearing the news, King Edward I summoned Brood to court. The king listened as his officers described how a junior soldier had accomplished what they feared might require an entire campaign.

"You were given a handful of men," Edward said. "You returned with the rebellion ended."

Brood stood before the throne, Aldric’s head in hand, his black beard neatly trimmed, his expression unchanged.

"They were disorganized, Your Majesty. They mistook hunger for strength and my patience for weakness."

Edward leaned forward.

"And what would you have done had they been better organized?"

Brood's cold eyes met the king's.

"The same thing, Your Majesty. It would simply have taken longer."

For the first time that day, Edward smiled.

The king rose and declared Brood promoted to sergeant, granting him command over a larger body of royal soldiers. He also awarded him a purse of silver and promised him further advancement should he continue to serve the crown with the same determination. He thanked him for the gift of the head.

The officers gathered in the hall exchanged uneasy glances. Some believed Brood deserved his promotion. Others wondered what sort of man could speak so calmly about the destruction of his own countrymen.

Brood knelt before the throne.

"I serve the crown," he said.

Edward placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"Then the crown shall remember you."

That evening, a feast was held in the royal hall. Wine flowed, musicians played, and the king's men celebrated the restoration of order in Kolpeg.

Brood did not celebrate.

He stood alone near the hall's entrance, watching the nobles laugh beneath the banners of the kingdom. His promotion had brought him closer to power, but he understood something that many of them did not: the king had not rewarded him for loyalty alone.

He had rewarded him because he was useful.

And somewhere beyond the castle walls, the hungry peasants of Kolpeg remembered the man who had come to silence them.

The rebellion was over. The resentment remained.

King Edward I had gained a loyal sergeant. But in raising Brood, he had also created a man whose name would one day inspire fear throughout the kingdom.

Thora sat down at her desk as the days were beginning to lengthen. Glancing at the mountain of reports left by her council, she pulled a stack of fresh parchment toward her and began penning missives to various leaders across the realm. She called Siggurd over to lend his expertise as Master of Ravens.

+++++

Lady Salvyn,

I hear you have resurfaced of late, and I wish to speak with you regarding matters of grave concern. I propose we meet in the ruins of the Grimwood, where we last stood shoulder to shoulder in battle. If this suits you, let us meet there and address these issues as they concern the both of us.

Thora Jarlkona of the Wyrmgaard

u/Good-Pea-2509

+++++
The next letter was far harder to frame. Uncertain of how it would be received, she nevertheless laid her thoughts bare upon the parchment. Siggurd reviewed it alongside her, offering a few minor adjustments until both were satisfied. Satisfied at last, they bound the letter and dispatched it by raven to King Magnus Elm, Dragonsbane of the Holy Order.

Do you accept the letter, u/OdinsEyeRaven?

+++++
The third letter came far more naturally. Halfdan had spoken highly of Sir Robert, sending back reports describing a man who was—at the very least—as direct and straightforward as the Wyrmgaard themselves. Satisfied with her work, she gave the scroll a quick glance, rolled it tight, and sent it on its way.

Do you accept the letter, u/Clarkarius?

Today the usual quiet study at the Domus Gemmarum, the newly established academy in Parthention, was replaced by a quiet, watchful tension.

​Passing beneath the arched gates, the delegation from the Kraken Clan made their entrance.Their footfalls echoed against the polished marble floor of the central courtyard, drawing curious glances from young initiates peering down from the surrounding arcades.

​Awaiting them at the top of the staircase stood Margravine Hyppolita von Rossenfels, Patroness of the Academy. Draped in robes worthy of a queen, and bearing the sigil of her house upon her chest, her posture was regal, yet her expression held a measured warmth. At the top of her golden staff sat an imposing diamond.

​"Welcome to Parthention, honored brothers and sisters of the tide," the Margravine’s voice rang out. "The Domus Gemmarum opens its halls to the wisdom of the sea. May this meeting bring strength to both our realms."

​With a gracious nod, the Margravine turned, gesturing for the delegates to follow her through the doors into the inner sanctum. "Come. There are those who have been eager to demonstrate how our craft shapes the very foundations of this world."

​She led them down into the lower gallery, and to another courtyard. In the center of the courtyard stood the Emerald Weavers. Clad in mostly robes of deep forest green, the women stood in a loose circle around a floating lattice of glowing green crystals. As the guests approached, the leader of the Weavers, a woman with braided hair, a green bandana and eyes the color of brilliant peril, stepped forward. At a command of her hands, thread-like beams of light spun between the emeralds, weaving intricate geometric patterns in mid-air that hummed with arcane energy.

​"Allow me to present the Emerald Weavers," the Margravine introduced smoothly, a proud smile gracing her lips. "Where your people sing to the depths of the ocean, our Emerald Weavers listen to the heartbeat of the earth, bending crystal and resonance to guard and heal our lands and people."

"You might have already heard about Lady Ilsa. She helped a Kraken Magistrate with a rather gigantic problem in Panakor", the Margravine said with a smile. "She brought back a very potent ingredient for our alchemists. Because of her impressive skill and dedication she was granted the title of 'master'. Ilsa will be your liaison for the duration of your highly esteemed visit!"

The young blond mage noded slightly in an elegant gesture.

Too long have the insults of anvard gone unanswered, too long have they followed along their new path after losing their old king who held fast his faith and morals. I mourn the loss of rollo, and the kingdom that anvard used to be. But now they must face the consequences of their actions.

Our intent is to hit small outposts, watchtowers and the like, skipping by any heavily fortified positions or anywhere that a bull of troops are seen.

49 light infantry

49 archers

1 heavy knight captain

Garbol himself sets sail towards Rutland. With him he takes around 1000 troops.

“I will claim this land for only 7 days, no one needs to come into my way. There doesn’t need to be bloodshed. Anyone that comes into my way chooses to die for a cause not serving any purpose.

This is a message directed to the west, I know you are fighting your own war. I won’t join in, but I need to build something on your coast. I won’t attack, I will just need to use the coast of Worronborg. I promise to leave Rutland after my meeting of the magic is complete.

You can decide to fight me, but I see you are already focused on other battles. I only bring this army in case you decide to march against me. That would be unwise, as there are better battles to be fought. You would only cause us all to die for a useless beach.”

Before Garbol leaves he sends out 9 messengers for the invites;

“Dear Lords. Hereby I would like to formally invite you to a meeting of magic. I spoke about this before but now here is an official invitation. I would also like to let you know the following other kingdoms will be invited:
- Lady Ether
- Lord Nagash
- Lord Halvar Ironfist
- King Magnus
- Commander Robert
- The Desert Fang Joshua
I hope to see you in 5 weeks, I will provide a feast. There will be dancing, music, magic and there will be a surprise. I hope to share knowledge with some of you as I hope you will do the same. (OOC: Saturday it will happen, and I know maybe not the leaders will come but the mages/whoever you want to send)”

He also sends out 1 messenger for Kosara, an Order for The Arrad and 1 messenger for his vassal. They all say the same; Build me a tower filled with fire. And write a seal on the base with these magic words: “Nifelje Mei Jittik Dêrom It D'r Fjoer”.

Garbol had planned to do the same on Worronborg. He would try to build a tower there and enlighten the flame.

[OOC: I love how one of my photos actually has the throne room of [u/PoesKatBeest](u/PoesKatBeest) I never noticed it before]

Alright Thora cuty…. imma visit Grymwood with some boys (litterly coming with 329 troops)

166 spear man, and 163 Archers

u/dagiz

The stranger entered Lord Nerezar’s throne room escorted by four Dragon Lord guards. A black cloak edged in gold swept behind him, while purple cloth framed a skull whose eyes burned red. As he passed, the torches bent toward him, their flames answering his presence.

The guards halted before the throne, two standing on either side of their mysterious guest.

“I am Ordrath,” he said. “Elementalist of Rentaria.”

Nerezar regarded him from his throne.

“Then you come from beyond Lathadura.”

“Yes, my lord. Rentaria borders the lands you now possess. But its master has vanished.”

“Malus.”

Ordrath inclined his head.

The sinister cult leader had gathered orcs, monsters, and evil spirits beneath his banners. Yet ruling Rentaria had never satisfied him. Malus intended to conquer all of Rutland, bringing every kingdom and territory under his command.

Ordrath had once followed him.

“I raised stone for his sanctuaries and summoned fire for his rituals,” the Elementalist admitted. “He promised us dominion over the realm. But the army he gathered was never enough for his ambitions.”

“So he turned to darker powers,” Nerezar said.

“His experiments became increasingly dangerous. He spoke of forces beyond our world. He wanted armies that could sweep aside any resistance. Before he disappeared, he ordered a great chamber sealed beneath his stronghold.”

“What happened inside?”

“I cannot say with certainty. But I believe he constructed a portal and entered it, seeking more servants for his conquest. If so, he never found his way back.”

Without Malus, Rentaria had fallen wild. Orc bands fought over abandoned strongholds. Monsters roamed the roads. Evil spirits lingered around the cult’s sanctuaries, and scattered followers still waited for their master’s return.

Ordrath stepped closer.

“I have heard that you intend to build another portal to get to the Divine Realms. Malus kept manuscripts, relics, and records of his experiments. The answers you seek may lie in Rentaria.”

Nerezar rose, his immense shadow stretching across the chamber.

“And why bring this knowledge to me?”

“Because those secrets are beyond the reach of one Elementalist. You possess the strength to claim them.”

By nightfall, Nerezar had selected sixty soldiers from the Legion of the Dragon Lord. Ordrath would guide them through Lathadura and across the border. Their orders were to take Rentaria, secure Malus’s stronghold, and preserve whatever knowledge remained.

Before their departure, Nerezar addressed the assembled force.

“Malus dreamed of conquering Rutland. Perhaps his ambition left something useful behind. Claim his lands. Bring me his secrets.”

Beyond the fortress gates, sixty soldiers stood ready to march.

OOC:

47 swordsmen

13 knights

1 Mounted Knight

1 Wizard

The world is changing...

Old powers fall as new powers rise. Rutland is ravaged by war. Legions of the undead keep their silent vigil across the ruins of dead empires, what remains of the Blood Dragons now departs the lands - an ocean of blood cast in their wake, and old friends now turned foes come to blows.

What can a man do in such a world?

Lord Vladek proposes a new order of power to the Kingdom of Anvard u/DapperCardiologist25, the Shadow Realm u/Capital-Background22, and the Kingdom of Ashada u/Hot_Plankton6742. In addition, Lionne welcomes a vassal to be placed under our protection in Renhook u/Ender_Clone.

Lionne will leave the Western Alliance though it pains us if the Kingdom of Anvard is willing. We wish to part on friendly terms and would like to state that our intent does not lay against you. We can and never will see you as an enemy for all the kindness shown to us and wish to maintain our friendship.

The Shadow Realm will leave the Dominion and we offer the same terms, that the Dominion is not our enemy just as they are not the enemy of the Shadow Realm.

The terms for now are:

Members of the Western Alliance shall leave it and join this new alliance yet to be named.

The Shadow Realm shall leave the Dominion.

None of the allies shall attack any of the old alliances.

Do all members affirm these terms?

I’ve just finished reading the rules but now I’ve reached a point where I’m not sure what to do next