After a long, silent walk, they finally reached their destination. The structure rising before them was one of the city’s oldest buildings. These stone walls, dating back centuries, had stood here even before the Rhazgord tribes united into a federation. Back then, this place had not just been a shelter or fortress—it was the Tiamats’ home.

  Now it served a different role. This was the Tiamats’ secondary stronghold and the heart of the Tiamat Guards. It typically housed the elderly members of the Tiamat dynasty, a mark of respect for their legacy. But the rest of the compound belonged to the Guards. Anyone stepping inside sensed this was no mere building—it was a symbol of tradition, authority, and power.

  The man awaiting them at the door was someone Corvus had idolized since childhood: Cortas Tiamat.

  Cortas was not just the former leader of the Guards. He was Corvus’s cousin and, most importantly, his idol. The eldest son of Valerius, he appeared young—as if still in his twenties—though he was well past thirty. He was a near-perfect replica of Valerius, but this copy was even more intimidating in stature and presence. Towering over two meters tall, his mere existence could crush those who stood before him.

  But years ago, everything had changed. Cortas, once believed to be the next Sanguinar, now stood far removed from that position. The reason was not Corvus—it was a wound that would never heal.

  When Corvus was thirteen, his mentor Montis had sent him on his first mercenary mission. For Rhazgordians, entering battle at that age was unheard of; most warriors didn’t see real combat until fifteen. But Montis believed Corvus was different.

  “He’s ready,” Montis had declared.

  “He’s not a child. He’s a warrior.”

  And Corvus, eager to prove him right, had marched to the front without hesitation. But Cortas forbade it. He refused to let Corvus face the demons on the frontline, ordering him to observe from a safe distance. He believed Corvus wasn’t ready—not strong enough to endure the battlefield’s brutal truths. As demons’ massive claws crushed warriors trying to shatter their armored hides, Cortas saw no guarantee Corvus would survive.

  For Corvus, defiance wasn’t an option. Back then, he had no authority—he was just an apprentice. Cortas, meanwhile, was already one of Rhazgord’s five strongest warriors. His command was absolute. Though Corvus burned to throw himself into the fray, he was forced to watch from the city walls.

  Below, Rhazgord warriors trapped the demons with unthinkable tactics, shattering their thick shells. At the forefront was Cortas, felling creatures twice his size. His combat style, the lethal precision of his strikes… Corvus watched, spellbound. This was one of Rhazgord’s greatest warriors.

  Then it happened. A banner rose—a crimson standard. A momentary pause rippled through the Rhazgord ranks. That banner had only one meaning:

  The leader has fallen.

  The battlefield froze. The second-in-command swiftly took charge, and the battle resumed. But Corvus’s blood turned to ice. The moment he saw the banner, he lunged forward on instinct. He refused to believe Cortas had fallen. But the warriors beside him restrained him.

  “Let me go!”

  His fury shook them, but they too had seen the banner. Their hearts ached, but their duty was clear: Corvus could not enter the battlefield.

  Victory came much later. The battle was won. But Corvus could wait no longer. The moment the victory flag rose, nothing could hold him back. He sprinted onto the field, scrambling through wounded and corpses to find Cortas.

  He couldn’t be dead. And he wasn’t.

  Ahead, a group of warriors clustered around a body lying in a pool of blood, surrounded by dozens of dismembered demons. Corvus’s eyes locked onto the figure instantly.

  Cortas.

  Warriors were shouting orders around him, pressing against his wounds. But even when Corvus heard them, he felt it was in vain. Cortas had survived—but at a cost.

  The healing took a long time. Even the energy of the Light Stone could not fully repair his damaged body. After months of treatment, his muscles looked the same, but his breath never recovered.

  He could no longer fight. Or rather, he could only fight for a few minutes. After those few minutes, his breath would fail him, and he would collapse. The man once seen as the future of the Tiamats was now drowning in his own blood.

  Despite everything, Cortas remained a trusted warrior. He never bowed to those who belittled him. Even with blood clogging his throat, he kept fighting. But a warrior was not defeated by his enemies—he was defeated by the decision of his own people.

  And in the end, that order came.

  Sanguinar decreed that Cortas be removed from the army and placed at the head of the Guards.

  For him, it was a kind of exile. But Cortas was loyal to his Tiamat blood. Even though he had lost his strength, he still had the heart of a warrior. So he obeyed the command. He fulfilled his duty with honor. He led the Tiamat Guards for years. But now, an era was ending.

  Today, as he welcomed Corvus, the wide smile on his face carried no trace of bitterness. He embraced the cousin he had not seen for a long time. To him, Corvus was no different from his own sister, Kaelyra. He knew of Corvus’s admiration for him and had always been one of the young Corvus' greatest supporters.

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  “I’m sorry, Zarqa, but from here on, this is for Tiamats only.”

  Cortas’s words did not bother Zarqa. It was something he already knew. Though he had been raised by the Tiamats, he was not one of them. And beyond these walls, only Tiamats could pass.

  Zarqa bowed his head and stepped back. But just as he was about to turn away, Corvus’s voice stopped him.

  “Tell Baldrek to find me.”

  Zarqa nodded. He knew that things would never be the same with Corvus again. But he still served him. Swallowing his sorrow, he disappeared into the dark streets.

  Cortas, his massive smile unwavering, gestured to the door.

  “Come on, cousin! Let me introduce you to the geezers!”

  First, they entered the courtyard, then a spacious room. Inside, six warriors stood tall. Their eyes glowed with a fiery red light. This crimson glow was a clear sign of their Tiamat lineage. Most of them were past their middle years, yet their bodies were still strong enough to challenge young warriors. The deep lines on their faces were not marks of weariness but the traces of countless battles and struggles. They were men forged in war, raised alongside death. With the experience of years, they seemed to already know who would live and who would die the moment they stepped onto a battlefield.

  These six warriors were the commanders of the Guards. Like every warrior under their command, they were all Tiamats. Each one was at least as powerful as a Sharazi. Two of them were women; the remaining four were men. Each commanded five hundred warriors, all of them elite soldiers bearing Tiamat blood.

  Corvus recognized most of the warriors standing before him; some had trained him in his childhood, taught him how to fight, and shared meals with him. These were not ordinary soldiers—they were among Rhazgord’s most formidable fighters.

  The Guards were not here because they had lost their strength, like Cortas. On the contrary, they were the finest warriors of the Tiamats. From the outside, they might seem like a mere security force, but in truth, they carried great responsibility on their shoulders. They were the main force of the Tiamats.

  The reason they commanded only a small number of men was precisely because of these immense responsibilities. The Tiamat tribe had a smaller population compared to other great tribes for the same reason. They were not just responsible for protecting their own members—they were also tasked with maintaining order throughout all of Rhazgord.

  It was their duty to prevent conflicts between tribes, resolve disputes, and uphold balance. However, not every issue could be resolved easily. Sometimes, tribes would resist decisions and rebel. That was when these warriors would step in. It was their duty to bring order to those who defied it, and many Tiamats had died on the battlefield for this cause.

  The bloody shadows of the past still loomed over them. Over the centuries, tens of thousands of Tiamats had perished in the name of maintaining order. Now, their numbers were fewer than those of the other great tribes. But their reduced numbers had not diminished their strength.

  Among the Rhazgord people, Tiamats were considered superior. Most Rhazgordians believed that they carried the blood of gods and that their eyes glowed red because of it. Even in childhood, they were compared to the adults of other tribes. Their blood granted them an unparalleled power. This was why they had never lost their leadership position for centuries.

  “I suppose I don’t need to introduce everyone one by one, do I?”

  Cortas was right. Corvus already knew who everyone in the room was. As he took a seat, the other warriors followed suit. However, Cortas remained standing. As Corvus wondered why he had not taken a seat, the answer came quickly.

  “My work here is done, Corvus. If you ever need help, you know where to find me.”

  There was a faint but profound sorrow in Cortas’s voice. He had never liked this duty, yet he had carried it out for years. Until now, he had seemed indifferent to it, but now that the moment of departure had come, the melancholy within him surfaced. Without even allowing Corvus to protest, he turned his back and walked out of the room with heavy steps.

  Corvus scanned the six warriors remaining before him. Though they were his kin, blood ties held no importance in this room. As their new leader, the first thing Corvus had to do was prove his authority.

  “Does anyone object to my appointment, or believe they should be sitting in my place?”

  Here’s a concise English translation of your text while preserving its essence and impact:

  Corvus wasn’t sure if he could defeat every warrior in the room during this challenge. But he had no other choice. He hadn’t expected any objections—yet something unexpected happened. All six warriors requested to speak.

  He turned to the woman seated to his right—his aunt, one of the oldest and strongest warriors in the room. In her youth, she had even challenged Sakhaar. Respected by all, she spoke on their behalf.

  “I believe we all share the same opinion, so I will speak for everyone.”

  The other warriors nodded in agreement. After ensuring their support, she turned to Corvus.

  “My dear nephew, Corvus. The problem is not your skill. It’s that this mission is beneath you.”

  Corvus had anticipated some resistance, but deep down, he had hoped for something different.

  “Even if this was ordered by my brother, I fail to see how your presence here benefits our family. If you stay in the army, you’ll reach the highest ranks in a few years. We refuse to let you waste away here.”

  As soon as she finished, the other warriors showed their agreement. To them, Corvus was too talented for this place.

  He took a deep breath.

  “I appreciate your concern, Aunt. But despite what many believe, I have not been exiled here. On the contrary, I have an important mis—”

  One of the elder warriors slammed his fist on the table.

  “Yes, you’re skilled! But don’t think we can’t handle a mission without you, Corvus!”

  At that, the other warriors sprang from their seats. Though they agreed, they began arguing loudly among themselves. The room descended into chaos, their crimson eyes burning with anger, fists ready to strike. The tension spread like wildfire.

  Corvus watched silently for a moment. Then, gathering all his Lightstone energy, he slammed his fist onto the table. The carved stone surface cracked deeply, a visible dent forming where his blow had landed. The thunderous sound stunned the warriors into brief silence.

  “As I said, I have a mission here—one given to me personally by Sanguinar!” Corvus declared. His gaze swept across the room, his voice unwavering with authority. “If you have objections, take them to Sanguinar! Now, shall we get to work, or do we all march to his presence?”

  A tense silence filled the room—not of fear, but of internal conflict. Though unwilling, the warriors slowly sat down, their dissatisfaction still visible in their eyes.

  “Fine,” one of the elders finally said, crossing his arms.

  “What is this important mission?”

  They had heard rumors about Bahoz but didn’t know the full story—especially about the secret and unauthorized Lightstone trade. Corvus revealed the situation carefully, omitting certain details. As the truth sank in, their objections faded. They realized he wasn’t just another commander—he was the embodiment of Sanguinar’s will. His presence wasn’t a mere assignment but a strategic decision.

  “Now,” Corvus leaned back.

  “Shall we get to work?”

  The warriors exchanged silent glances before nodding, one by one. The matter was settled. They began briefing him on the state of the Guards, recent events, and the challenges ahead. Corvus listened intently, mentally noting every detail.