The wind came first.

  A dry, heavy wind that carried the scent of iron and ash. The watchmen upon Caparthia's walls felt it before they saw anything—an unfamiliar air, dense and burdened with the kind of silence that precedes catastrophe.

  Then, on the horizon, the dust rose like a wall.

  Far beneath the white blaze of the midday sun, the imperial army emerged.

  It was a golden stain stretching as far as the eye could see, advancing in flawless synchrony. Every shield caught the sunlight like living flame; every crimson banner rippled with the cadence of a single colossal heart beating in unison.

  One hundred and fifty thousand men marching without shouting, without hesitation, the emblem of the golden dragon engraved upon their breastplates.

  Behind them came monsters of steel: the Empire's siege engines, rolling towers driven by mana crystals, and winged beasts bred for war.

  The sound was a continuous thunder, as though the earth itself protested beneath their weight.

  From the kingdom's central tower, the heralds fell silent. Only the wind could be heard, and the tolling of bells announcing the enemy's arrival.

  From the main balcony, King Erkhan, Duke Laurence Douglas, and the gathered nobles watched the golden tide in silence.

  The counselors' faces were tight with strain; some concealed their fear with dignity, others barely at all. Only Laurence kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, the reflection of the sun dancing across his black armor.

  At his side, the king murmured,

  "The Seventh Princess has arrived…" he said gravely. "That is the emblem of the Empire's heir."

  That same afternoon, while the dust had yet to settle, an imperial herald arrived beneath a white flag.

  He bore an invitation sealed with the sigil of the Three Suns.

  The Seventh Princess, Naira Ferrussi Becker, wished to parley with King Felipe Erkhan before dawn.

  The meeting took place the following day upon the Plain of Darn, a barren stretch of land between the two armies.

  There, upon soil claimed by neither side, stood a great white pavilion guarded by imperial soldiers of the princess's personal guard.

  King Erkhan arrived accompanied by Duke Laurence Douglas and a small retinue of knights.

  There were no unnecessary words. There was no trust.

  When the princess appeared, the wind shifted.

  Her hair was black as midnight, her eyes the color of dawn, and her armor of burnished mithril seemed to radiate its own light. She moved with serene precision, each step measured, each gesture calculated to command the very air around her.

  The wind tore at the white canvas of the pavilion, carrying with it the scent of iron and distrust.

  Two worlds facing one another. Two breaths held tight.

  Naira Ferrussi Becker regarded King Felipe Erkhan as one studies an animal before cutting its throat.

  White hair. Dawn-colored eyes. Lips carved to utter false promises.

  The mithril of her armor shimmered like a captive sun.

  "I come in the name of my father, Emperor Ferrussi, Sovereign of the Three Suns," she said, her voice soft and perfectly modulated. "I bring a message of clemency."

  A heavy silence followed.

  Laurence Douglas, standing beside the king, did not look away from her. He did not see a woman—he saw a mask. A creature forged by the Empire's pride and power.

  She continued.

  "The Empire does not seek to destroy, but to unite." She let the word unite slide forth like slow poison. "Deliver Lusian Douglas to us, and I swear upon the Suns that Caparthia shall keep its name, its lands, and its crown."

  Her words hung in the air—beautiful and venomous.

  King Erkhan clenched his fist beneath the table. Against his will, his mind conjured the image: imperial envoys demanding that Sofia Douglas surrender her son.

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  The thought alone chilled his blood.

  Not for fear of her—though all the realm knew her power—but for what it would mean. An internal fracture. A rupture between the northern houses and the crown. Political suicide.

  If Sofia refused—and she would—the kingdom would tear itself apart from within, weakened at the very moment the Empire pressed it against the wall.

  And if, by some madness, they did surrender him… could the Empire's word be trusted?

  No one believed so.

  With Lusian in their grasp and the kingdom divided, the road south would lie open. No treaties would be required. Only conquest.

  Laurence understood it as well.

  The princess's proposal was no treaty—it was a well-dressed trap. A move meant to sow distrust, weaken morale, and open a fracture among them before the first blow ever fell.

  Naira maintained her serene smile, polished as her education.

  In her mind, the world was a perfectly ordered board: the kingdom's pieces were mere peasants clinging to superstition, a primitive people who should feel honored to be absorbed into imperial glory.

  Such was the doctrine instilled in her since childhood—and she had never once questioned it.

  And so she spoke with confidence, revealing her intentions without weighing the burden of her words.

  A mistake.

  One only the unscarred can afford to make.

  King Erkhan recognized it at once.

  That "offer" was not a pact—it was a provocation.

  Behind the gentle voice and the compassionate gaze, he saw what she truly was: a princess who believed she knew everything, yet did not understand what it meant to face an enemy that refused to kneel.

  The silence within the pavilion was absolute.

  Only the crackle of torches and the distant murmur of wind from the kingdom's walls could be heard.

  Naira Ferrussi Becker regarded King Erkhan with the calm only true heirs to a throne can feign.

  Her posture was immaculate: spine straight, chin lifted, gaze unwavering. The heir of the Three Suns. The prodigy who had defeated all of her generation. The one the Empire's sages called the daughter born to be queen.

  Yet beneath the mask of serenity stirred the thrill of one about to prove her perfection.

  She had spent years mastering tactics, diplomacy, and the art of war.

  She knew what to say, when to say it, and how to move every piece.

  Or so she believed.

  "I come to offer peace," she said, her voice soft as a caress. "Give me Lusian Douglas, and the Empire will protect your people. Refuse—and you will find only ruin."

  Laurence Douglas felt a chill trace his spine.

  (Peace, he thought bitterly. In her mouth, that word smells of ambush.)

  For an instant he imagined Sofia hearing such an offer: the beasts of the duchy devouring ambassadors, the ground drowned in fire and blood.

  Sweat slid down the back of his neck.

  King Erkhan, however, remained unmoved.

  He was old—but not na?ve.

  He had lived through more battles won and lost than Naira had years of life.

  The young princess did not intimidate him.

  She irritated him.

  "You speak of 'peace,' Your Highness," he replied in a low, steady voice, "yet what I hear is demand. Do you call plunder mercy?"

  Naira smiled, convinced she had him cornered.

  "I call it mercy to prevent the inevitable. The Empire does not conquer out of whim, but destiny."

  It was the perfect phrase—the one her rhetoric masters had taught her to deliver when facing the Empire's foes. A line designed to subdue, not to converse.

  But beyond the walls of her academies, words alone were not enough.

  Knowledge faltered before the weight of experience.

  Erkhan regarded her with a mixture of pity and disdain.

  (A queen without scars… she does not yet know the price of command.)

  Laurence lowered his gaze, understanding there would be no negotiation.

  "You have just sealed the war, Princess. May the gods have mercy on your own."

  Naira's expression did not change, yet the tension that followed was so dense even the wind dared not slip through the canvas.

  When she withdrew, her retinue followed in disciplined step.

  Around her, generals watched with pride.

  She, however, thought of only one thing:

  Lusian Douglas… soon you will be mine.

  Unaware that her first lesson had already begun.

  The silence in the throne hall was thick, broken only by the creak of wood, the flicker of torches, and the metallic shift of impatient armor.

  King Felipe Erkhan and Duke Laurence Douglas had just returned from their meeting with the imperial princess.

  The nobles awaited them, tense as prey scenting a hunter.

  When the king recounted Naira Ferrussi Becker's demand, a cold murmur swept through the chamber.

  The first to speak was Duke Briggs. His voice trembled faintly.

  "If… if what she says is true, Your Majesty… surrendering the boy might avert war."

  The word surrendering fell like a stone into a lake of pride.

  Glances were exchanged—some heavy with doubt, others with shame.

  It was Bourlance who broke the silence with a snort.

  "Avert war?" he retorted, planting his hands upon the table. "One does not bargain with an empire whose blades are already leveled at our walls. Their offer is not mercy—it is a sentence."

  He grimaced.

  "And who among you is brave enough to ask Duchess Sofia to yield her son?"

  Briggs shrank into his seat.

  "Not… not I," he muttered, paling at the mere thought. Even rumors of Sofia Douglas's wrath were enough to stiffen any man's spine.

  "Then what shall we do?" another noble asked, uncertainty cracking his voice. "We could buy time… strengthen the defenses… wait for reinforcements from the other houses…"

  A sharp strike echoed through the hall.

  The king had planted his staff against the stone floor.

  His blazing gaze swept across them like fire.

  "No one else is coming!" he thundered. "Let courage not flee your bodies, nor fear cloud your duty. The Empire may demand what it pleases—but we will give them nothing. Not our lands. Not our sons."

  His voice hardened like drawn steel.

  "They shall know only our honor… and the edge of our blades."

  Silence fell absolute.

  No one dared reply.

  The most fearful lowered their heads, aware that this decision carried them to the brink of the abyss.

  Beside the throne, Laurence watched the old monarch in silence.

  He saw no weakness in him—only a resolve burning like red-hot steel.

  (So this is how a king stands before war, he thought.)

  Felipe Erkhan nodded slowly, as though sealing a pact with history itself.

  "Then it is decided," he said with solemn calm. "There will be no accord. Caparthia will fight."

  A murmur rippled through the hall—half fear, half pride.

  They knew what it meant: many would not return home.

  But if death was the price of freedom, they would pay it with heads held high.

  The wind slipped through the cracks of the hall, stirring the kingdom's banners.

  And from the distant walls, as if heaven itself answered their oath, the first roar of war drums thundered across the land.