At that moment, the town of Seigert, formerly known as the Serut base and town, was enveloped in a suffocating tension. It wasn't the tension of an impending battle, but a different kind: the tension of despair mixed with a faint, desperate hope—a hope for the return of the victorious Noble Serut, or so they believed.
Seigert was a pale shadow of a city. Abject poverty cloaked it like a grey shroud, visible in the pale faces of its inhabitants and the thin bodies of children who ran barefoot through narrow alleys. The stench of faeces and accumulated garbage in the streets stung their nostrils, seeping into every corner, clinging to clothes and breath. Epidemics regularly swept through, mercilessly preying on the weak, for the health standards were deplorably low, and hospitals, if they existed, were mere empty shells without medicine or doctors. Education was a luxury most of the city's children didn't know; schools were abandoned or had become havens for the homeless and refugees.
Seigert, with its 22,000 inhabitants and 6,000 refugees, resembled a large pen, not a city. Crumbling walls, dilapidated roofs, broken windows looking out onto emptiness—everything screamed neglect and forgottenness. Refugees, fleeing the horrors of wars they had no part in, found themselves trapped in another hell, sharing poverty and misery with the city's original inhabitants. Their gazes held a mix of despair and anticipation, staring into the distant horizon, hoping a glimmer of hope might appear.
In the heart of this ruin, in the royal chamber that once teemed with life and extravagance, the chief butler, Mr. "Jonic," moved with slow, heavy steps. He was a man in his late fifties, his white hair falling across his forehead, his eyes bearing the fatigue of years and the burdens of long service. He was tidying the royal chamber, wiping dust from heavy furniture, polishing tarnished silver, and arranging wilting flowers in crystal vases. Every movement carried a strange precision, the precision of someone trying to hold onto the last threads of hope, or perhaps the last threads of sanity.
"Are you sure, Jonic, that Noble Serut will return today?" asked "Arios," one of his young assistants, in a hushed voice, as he wiped a faded oil painting depicting Noble Serut in his youth.
Jonic stopped arranging a torn silk curtain and slowly turned. "Certainly, Arios. Noble Serut is victorious. We've heard the news. He will return to deliver us from this misery. Don't you see how the city awaits him?" Jonic said, trying to infuse his voice with certainty, but Arios noticed the subtle tremor in his hands.
"But... the city is collapsing, Jonic. People are dying in the streets. No food, no medicine. Does Noble Serut truly know what's happening here?" Arios continued, his eyes wandering around the luxurious room that seemed alien to the harsh reality outside.
Jonic sighed deeply and returned to arranging the curtain. "Noble Serut is busy with greater matters, my son. Wars and conspiracies. But he won't forget his people. These preparations... they are a message of hope. We must show him that we still believe in him, and that we are ready to welcome him as a hero." Jonic spoke as if trying to convince himself before convincing Arios. He knew deep down that the hope they clung to was fragile, and that Serut, if he returned, would not be the victor they imagined. But he preferred this illusion to facing the harsh truth.
Meanwhile, Seigert waited, waiting for a hero who would not come, or a hero who would come in a completely different way than they imagined.
Elsewhere, far from Seigert's despair, life pulsated with a completely different vitality. Zidan's forces, led by Zenan and Marge himself, had returned to Kysor. The march was long and arduous, but discipline marked every step. The soldiers, despite their exhaustion, carried the gleam of victory in their eyes, and their steps were steady, kicking up dust on their path.
The forces arrived at a sealed camp, where Zidan awaited them. There was no time for celebrations or long rests. New plans had to be made, and new goals had to be achieved. In the main command tent, lit by faint oil lamps casting long shadows on the walls, Zidan met with Marion, Rogu, Savara, and Javer with them. A large map of the "Western Kingdoms" was spread on a rough table in the middle, marked with red and black lines.
Zidan sat at the head of the table, calm as usual, but his eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence, and his mind worked like a complex machine. He wore light armor, and his long black hair was tied back. His presence commanded silent respect.
"Welcome, commanders," Zidan said in his deep voice, which carried an undeniable authoritative tone. "You achieved a great victory at Tel Kafir and proved your worth. But our work is not yet finished."
Zenan, standing next to Zidan, wore his heavy armor, his face bearing the marks of battle, but he smiled faintly. "We are at your command, sir. What is the next step?"
Zidan looked at the map, then raised his head to look at Savara. Savara stood, with his usual calmness and wisdom gained from long years of leadership, his eyes watching Zidan with deep interest and appreciation. He was not a subordinate of Zenan, Marge, or Marion, but a commander in his own right, possessing absolute loyalty to Zidan, who had lifted them all from a previous life unworthy of them, and given them purpose and glory.
"Savara," Zidan called.
Savara stepped forward. "Yes, sir?"
"I want you to prepare an army of 1,200 soldiers," Zidan said clearly. "Your mission is to conquer Seigert and bring it under our influence."
This wasn't the first time Zidan had entrusted a great mission to his commanders, but this mission held a special weight for Savara. Zidan had specifically reserved this role for him and hadn't chosen him to lead the battle at Tel Kafir because he saw him as the most suitable commander for this strategic mission. Savara wasn't nervous; he was calm as usual, but a flicker of satisfaction and appreciation gleamed in his eyes. The time had come to execute the plan he had long awaited.
"Se... Seigert, sir?" Savara asked, his voice almost a whisper, but he quickly regained his composure. "I... I am ready, sir! I will do it to the best of my ability!"
Zidan smiled faintly. "I know you will, Savara. Seigert is a weak city, suffering from neglect and poverty. There will be little resistance. But the mission is not just a military conquest. It is a strategic step to unify the region."
Marge, a strong-built man with a thick beard, who stood beside Zenan, interjected. "Savara is a wise commander, sir. He will bring us victory."
"I am ready, sir," Savara said in a steady, calm voice, expressing his trust and deep loyalty to Zidan. "I will do it to the best of my ability, as you have always known me to do. This mission is an honor for me, and I know you saved it for me."
Zidan nodded. "My trust in you is great, Savara. Prepare your forces. I want you to start moving within three days."
"Your command, sir!" Savara said, then bowed respectfully and returned to his place, though he could barely contain his excitement. His thoughts raced, planning the battle, envisioning victory, and the glory it would bring.
Then Zidan looked at Javer, who sat quietly, observing the conversation with interest. Javer was an intelligent man with excellent administrative and organizational skills, and he had proven his competence in managing Kysor's affairs.
"Javer," Zidan called.
Javer raised his head. "Yes, sir?"
"When Seigert is conquered and annexed, I want you to be the mayor of our newly organized Seigert," Zidan announced.
Javer was slightly surprised, but he quickly regained his composure. He expected an administrative task, but being the mayor of a city the size of Seigert was a big challenge.
"Mayor, sir?" Javer asked, trying to grasp the magnitude of the responsibility.
"Yes," Zidan affirmed. "Seigert is in a deplorable state. It needs complete reorganization. Infrastructure, health, education, everything. I want you to rebuild it and make it a thriving part of our region."
"It's a great responsibility, sir," Javer said seriously. "But I accept it with pride. I will do my best to meet your expectations."
"I know that," Zidan said. "Marion, Rogu, I want you to provide all necessary support to Savara and Javer. This is not just a military campaign; it is a step towards building a strong and unified region."
"Certainly, sir," said Marion, a man with extensive experience in administrative affairs. "We will work with Javer to develop a plan for rehabilitating the city as soon as our forces enter."
"And we will ensure that supplies are ready for Savara and his forces," added Rogu, the logistics officer.
The atmosphere in the command tent was filled with seriousness and determination. Zidan saw beyond mere military victory. He saw a kingdom expanding, flourishing, and incorporating new lands under its banner. Seigert was just another piece on the grand chessboard he was drawing.
As Savara left the tent, his mind ablaze with excitement and planning, he thought of the glory that awaited him. He did not know that the city he was about to conquer was living in an illusion, waiting for a hero who would not come, and that his "liberation" would be the end of a false dream and the beginning of a new reality, which might be better, but would certainly be completely different from what they imagined.
Seigert awaited the return of its victorious noble, while Zidan's forces prepared to conquer it. The irony was cruel, and fate quietly spun its threads, preparing for an inevitable confrontation that would change the city's destiny forever.