The acrid scent of burning wood and the distant echoes of shattering gss filled the air as smoke billowed from numerous homes across the former city of the kingdom of Drakoria, Verde. In the midst of the chaos, terrified residents of Verde scrambled to flee the city. The city streets were sprawled with bodies, mostly of nobles. Not even their children were spared as the raging citizens loot and burn every house they think belong to nobles while waving the banner of the Kingdom of Drakoria.

  There were barely 4000 of them but the few that lead them were too strong to fight against. Probably retired awakened soldiers, but no one knows, for their faces were masked.

  Keita could do nothing but watch helplessly as the city he loved crumbled before his eyes. In a distant corner of the street, a heart-wrenching scene unfolded as a wailing woman was forcibly pulled away from her lifeless child, her hair gripped by a group of young men. They dragged her further into the shadows, away from the main street. Soon he heard her smock being torn and heard her scream and heard the scream stifled and he heard the rustling of straw and he heard a man grunting and the woman whimpering.

  "Cowards," Keita muttered under his breath. The messages had arrived long before, yet they had waited until the soldiers had left the city. His bde whispered as it slid out of its sheath, his aged hand trembling as he drew it forth. With steady steps, he made his way to the corner where the young men are.

  ┌─────── ? ───────┐

  The crescent moon hung low in the obsidian sky, casting a faint silver sheen upon the rugged terrain of the Valley of the Fallen Ones. Ulric Von Hohenberg, a stoic figure draped in great ropes adorned with the emblem of his house, sat astride his steed at the pinnacle of the valley. His presence, like a shadowy sentinel, loomed over the gathering multitude.

  Around him, torchlights danced like fireflies in the encroaching darkness. The flickering fmes, wielded by loyal soldiers, painted their faces with an eerie, ephemeral glow. The restless murmurs of men and clinking of armor filled the air, creating a symphony of anticipation.

  The valley, a somber graveyard of past battles, bore witness to the weight of history. A myriad of names, now etched into legend, whispered on the wind—the fallen ones who had given their lives to save the continent from the Zars, the outsiders.

  Thirty thousand warriors, their armor gleaming dully in the moon's pale light, formed an imposing gathering. They stood in serried ranks, a formidable sea of spears and shields, their allegiance pledged to Ulric or the purse he commands. Each face etched with determination, their hearts beat in unison, a collective pulse of resolve.

  Ulric's demeanor was far from enthusiastic as he sat atop his horse, contempting the path he now tread. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisioned the day when he'd be at the helm of an invasion, leading his forces against his beloved kingdom. He couldn't help but ponder what his revered ancestors, the guardians of Drakoria's legacy, would think of him now. The thought brought forth a sad, bitter sigh from deep within him. He wanted to be king but never at the expense of Drakoria. His ambitions had made sense when the king was unawakened, unworthy to be king. It had made sense when he was suspected of been an imposter but even the goddess vouched for him. He has no justification to be invading, so why is he still invading?

  As he looked upon the amassed soldiers and the looming invasion, he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

  As Ulric's mind wrestled with doubts, the approaching hoofbeats behind him broke his concentration. However, he remained resolute, keeping his eyes fixed on the growing assembly ahead.

  "Any major report?" Ulric inquired, his focus remaining on the soldiers.

  The messenger's voice carried a grave tone as he replied, "The City of Verde was attacked."

  Ulric turned to the messenger, his expression marked by a sudden surge of surprise. "Dragonhart?"

  "No, Grand Mage," he replied somberly. "Reports say about a thousand civilians. Many nobles are said to have been killed, including Baron Beaufort. It seems to be in response to this."

  Ulric accepted the rolled parchment handed to him, his expression growing graver. He unfurled it, holding it with one hand while conjuring fire with the other.

  "It was spread everywhere across the regions," the messenger added remorsefully as Ulric read. "We ignored it because we didn't think anything would come of it."

  -To the annexed regions, turn your back on the rebels and prove to your king that you want to be free and he will come to your aid.

  -Anybody who raises his bde against the king or Drakoria makes his lineage and bloodline an enemy of Drakoria.

  When Ulric was done reading he burned the parchment. He understood why they ignored it. On face value it reeks of desperation, the kind that will make one ugh but not to Ulric. When he had looked into young Dragonhart's eyes, there was only absolute confidence. Nothing capable of desperation.

  What are you pnning?