Three months had passed...
Under the pale autumn sky, troubling news spread swiftly from the scouts: Iskhalin forces had been spotted nearing the borders of the Southeastern territory. For the villagers who had now formed an alliance, this was not merely a threat—it was the first true test of their courage and unity.
**
The Tension Begins
"They don't know we've united," said Maeron during an emergency meeting at the Central Hall. Her voice was firm, though her eyes betrayed a hint of concern. "To them, this is still a wild land, ripe for plunder."
The Iskhalin forces had not come out of vengeance or ideology. They were merely following orders from King Sharrfan: expand the territory, seize the harvest, subdue the weak. But what they didn't know was that the villages at the foot of Mount Gedi were no longer weak.
Thanks to a new command system initiated by Azfaran and Maeron, the alliance's troops had been formed into well-trained small units. Training had been carried out in secret, spread from valley to highlands, over the past several months.
"We won't wait for them to burn our fields," said Azfaran in that same meeting. "We meet them at the edge of the forest, where we know every stone and root."
**
Battle and Victory
The night before the clash, the allied troops moved silently in shadow formations. They dispersed between the roots of ancient trees and slippery stones. At dawn, the Iskhalin soldiers walked straight into the trap.
The first strike came from the left, then the right. Wooden arrows flew from behind the bushes, targeting enemy horses and archers. Then Azfaran's guerrilla units emerged from behind, striking at logistics wagons and supply tents.
The Iskhalin troops began to draw their swords but appeared confused and sluggish, still groggy from sleep. Many hadn't even donned their armor, clearly unprepared for war. Only the night watch was alert, but even they had little energy left after fending off bandits and wild animals throughout the night.
"They're not ready for the forest," Azfaran whispered, watching the disoriented Iskhalin soldiers. He leapt down from a large boulder and led a direct charge into the heart of the enemy's formation.
The battle was swift. Guerrilla tactics, mastery of the terrain, and a determination born of survival gave the allied forces the upper hand. Some surviving Iskhalin soldiers were captured. When interrogated, one of them said, "We didn't know who you were. We were just following orders. We thought this was just another defenseless village."
Enemy weapons were confiscated. Abandoned logistical equipment was salvaged. Meanwhile, a temporary camp was set up at the edge of the valley to tend to the wounded and regroup the troops.
**
Shadows and Oaths
As twilight settled over the makeshift camp, Azfaran walked among the fires, checking on the injured and speaking to the young warriors who had fought that morning. Maeron followed him at a distance, quietly observing the tired but glowing faces of those who had defended their homes with all they had.
"We can't fight every battle like this," Maeron said as they sat by a fire on the ridge overlooking the valley. "Next time, they'll come in full armor. With more men. With siege."
Azfaran nodded, sharpening the edge of a salvaged blade. "Then we must not only fight with steel, but with vision."
Maeron turned to him. "You've earned their loyalty. But loyalty fades without direction. What you did today—it lit something in them. But it will need form."
Silence lingered between them before Azfaran spoke again, slower now. "Do you believe this... this alliance... can become something more?"
Maeron didn't answer immediately. Instead, she pulled a leather-bound scroll from her satchel and unrolled a rough map of the region. She pointed to the mountain passes, the trading routes, the natural choke points.
"If we control these," she said, "we control not just the land—but the movement of trade, the flow of messages, the safety of travelers. We create order, not just resistance."
Azfaran looked at the firelight dancing across her face and realized what she was truly offering: not just strategy, but the vision of a future. A new realm—one born not out of ambition, but necessity.
He gripped her hand for a moment. "Then we begin tonight. Not just a defense—but a foundation."
**
The Founding of the Trading House and Blacksmith
That initial victory was more than a military success. It opened the path toward an organized economy and diplomacy. Within weeks, a Trading House was erected along the main route between the Gedi Valley and the Trading Path.
Built of stone and timber, it became a place for merchants, emissaries, and intermediaries from distant villages to gather, curious about the identity of this "new alliance." Trade in metal, spices, and rare goods quickly flourished.
With new supplies of metal—particularly iron—arriving from outside, local craftsmen were finally able to build the region's first blacksmith workshop.
"No more wooden spears," said Mathan, an old blacksmith who had once only made farming tools. "Now we can make real swords."
These new weapons were distributed to every guard post and training unit. Azfaran personally oversaw the first tests.
"Heavy, but balanced," he said, swinging a thin iron blade. "This changes everything."
**
The Coronation of Azfaran
News of the victory and economic progress reached the mountain villages that had once hesitated to join. One star-filled night, the elders of the surrounding territories gathered once more in Annvled, a sacred place revered by several Eirindale tribes.
There, under torchlight and the sound of bamboo flutes, they delivered a collective proclamation:
"This union, has surpassed the bounds of mere alliance. It was born from embers of vengeance and hope, forged by blood, sacrifice, and silent vows. This is no longer a coalition of strength—this is the birth of a new hope. A kingdom that will shake those who disturb our land, and a kingdom that will carve its own history. And upon a throne built of steel will and the intention to protect dignity and homeland, stands Azfaran—not just a leader, but a king summoned by fate and feared by time itself."
Azfaran stood speechless before them. His robe was plain, without a crown. But in the eyes of the people, travelers, and village leaders, he saw hope and belief.
Maeron stood at his side, quietly becoming the silent pillar of the kingdom to come.
"I don't need a title," she said when Azfaran offered her a formal position. "Let me remain in the shadows. But I will guard this kingdom as if it were my own."
**
The Smoldering Resolve
The Kingdom of Eirindale was not born of a grand war, but of early tension, a small victory, and the will to protect something greater than land—identity and dignity.
But peace had not yet fully arrived. From the mouths of the captured Iskhalin soldiers came horrifying stories: hundreds of villagers who hadn't escaped in time had been taken to Iskhalin—enslaved and forced into labor by the new tyrant king.
"They forced us to attack," one trembling prisoner confessed. "They needed more slaves. Many were taken to salt mines, to their expansion projects, or to serve in the palace. They won't return... unless you go and get them."
Tears fell from the eyes of captured soldiers, some seemingly regretful.
The news ignited fury among the people. The weeping of mothers who had lost their children turned to embers of rage. Young men demanded further training. And Maeron knew—the real battle had not yet begun.
As dusk fell, Azfaran stood atop a stone tower, gazing eastward.
"If they think we'll stay silent... they're wrong."
A kingdom had been born—and with its birth, a new resolve flared into life: to free their lost brethren and defend the land they had just begun to build.