A noble's carriage passed through the crooked streets of Adresgate — a sleek, black coach trimmed in polished steel and draped with blue banners bearing a frost emblem, side by side with the crimson sigil of the Flame Emperor.
Inside the carriage sat The Grand Baron, Lord Tybery Drummond — a man carved from grim nobility and iron command. His face was weathered but proud, his beard streaked with silver, framing a mouth set in cold authority. Sharp eyes, dark and unsparing, glinted beneath heavy brows, and his hair, swept back in disciplined waves, betrayed no vanity. He wore the deep navy and steel of a baron's court, trimmed with black fur and a crimson sash pinned by the imperial seal. His presence filled the carriage like a storm behind glass — composed, but always waiting to break.
The Viceroy's Palace crowned the heights of Adresgate like a blade turned skyward. Once the citadel of a forgotten dynasty, it had been remade by imperial architects into a stronghold of power and pageantry. Its sandstone walls were overlaid with burnished bronze and veined marble, glowing like fire under torchlight. Towering granite pillars flanked the entrance, etched with imperial edicts and scenes of conquest. Crimson banners hung between them, snapping in the salt-stung breeze, each bearing the golden flame of the Emperor's sigil.
As Lord Tybery Drummond approached the gates, a broad, armor-clad man stepped forward, bowing low with rigid formality.
"Lord Drummond," he said, his voice deep and practiced, "we are honored by your presence. His Excellency awaits."
Tybery's gaze swept the firelit arches and bronze-dressed walls. He nodded once, curt and unreadable.
"The other lords?" he asked, his tone as sharp as ever.
"They have already arrived, my lord," the man replied, still bowed. "They await you in the Viceroy's chamber."
The doors opened with a low, thunderous groan.
Beyond lay a cavernous hall of pale stone and polished bronze, the Viceroy's Court — a place where power pooled like blood in a basin. A long, curved table of lacquered wood stretched beneath a ceiling painted with constellations and imperial victories. Flames danced in copper sconces, their light catching on gilded armor and wary eyes.
Five lords sat at the table already, each marked by the symbols of their distant domains — mountain thorns, silver wolves, rising suns, tidal crests, and pale serpents. Their expressions were shadowed, their greetings silent.
At the head of the table sat the Viceroy, robed in deep crimson and black, a half-mask of beaten gold hiding the upper half of his face. His gloved hands were folded before him. He did not rise. He did not need to.
Lord Drummond crossed the threshold without breaking stride.
Not his palace. Not his table.
But he carried his authority with him — like a weapon.
"Lords Mordon, Trovon, Agbul, Rikon, and Palvir," Lord Drummond said, nodding once at each of the gathered barons.
All five offered shallow acknowledgments — tight-lipped, uneasy. They looked like men who had slept poorly for weeks.
Then Drummond turned to the man seated at the head of the table — taller than most, with a hard-set jaw, a commanding presence, and a bristling black mustache that gave his words extra weight.
"Lord Sacrus," Drummond said with a small bow.
The Viceroy returned the nod — curt, unreadable.
His expression rarely changed. A man carved from war and politics, who had long forgotten the difference between the two.
"How was your journey from Icevale?" Sacrus asked, his voice clipped and formal.
"Long. Uneventful," Drummond replied flatly. "Which, these days, is a blessing."
Sacrus gave a thin smile.
"Then you're due for something more eventful."
Before Drummond could answer, Lord Mordon leaned forward, his jaw clenched, voice bitter.
"The news is from the Emperor himself."
"There's trouble in the North," Sacrus confirmed, steepling his fingers. "Our legions near Pagoth suffered heavy losses."
"Eleven thousand dead," said Agbul grimly.
A silence fell.
Drummond's shoulders tensed. He already knew what was coming.
"The Emperor requires your swords once more," Lord Sacrus said evenly. "Twenty thousand troops are to be raised for the Northern campaign."
That drew uneasy shifts from the other barons — glances shared in quiet protest. Their banners had already bled in the Emperor's name. Few of their men had come back.
"That's five thousand each," the Viceroy continued, ignoring their discomfort. "You will begin preparations immediately."
There was no room for refusal — not here, not before Sacrus. His loyalty to the Flame Emperor was unshakeable, and his patience for dissent thin as a razor's edge.
Drummond met his gaze, unreadable.
"It shall be done," he said.
The other lords stirred in their seats — one muttered under his breath, another let out a slow exhale. None dared oppose the command aloud.
"Good," said Viceroy Sacrus simply, his voice smooth and final. "You have three weeks. At best."
The weight of his words settled over the chamber like a shroud. No one spoke.
The fire crackled in the long hearth behind him, casting flickering shadows across the faces of the lords seated around the table. The silence held until Sacrus broke it with a nod.
"We are hopeful this next push will breach their walls."
Hope. A fragile word in such a room.
But they had heard it before. For seven years Pagoth had endured — a fortress buried in snow and spite, where even fire magic faltered. Thousands had frozen before its blackened gates, their corpses now part of its barricades.
The Lords said nothing.
Sacrus shifted in his chair, lacing his gloved fingers together.
"That being said…" he began, almost lazily. "There's been a rather unexpected report. Not from the North this time — but from the South."
That drew some attention.
Lord Rikon sat up, eyes gleaming with eagerness, his fingers drumming against the table.
"Ah. The news from Tar?" he asked with a thin smile, like a man hoping for scandal.
"A bone demon, was it?" Lord Palvir added, arching an eyebrow, voice skeptical but amused.
Lord Drummond clenched his jaw.
"I've heard the tale."
"Your brother is stationed in Tar, isn't he?" Lord Mordon said, leaning slightly forward, a sharpness in his tone.
Drummond gave him nothing.
Sacrus interjected before the air could grow too cold.
"The famed Captain Titus Drummond," he said, with a voice steeped in practiced admiration. "The Ice Captain. Hero of the Black Wastes. Loyal sword of the Crown."
He smirked slightly.
"They say his lieutenant encountered the creature."
Drummond's eyes narrowed.
"So it's true?"
"As far as the reports suggest," said Lord Trovon, tapping his signet ring against his goblet. "And he wasn't alone. They say Belanor Thor'don was with him."
The name cracked like a whip.
"Hah! The traitor," Mordon barked, spitting the words like venom. "So he's still stirring up filth in the Empire's shadow."
"Fifteen dead," Palvir echoed, quieter now.
Drummond allowed himself a thin, joyless smile. He didn't care for his older brother — never had. The idea of the great Titus Drummond suffering even a small humiliation stirred something bitter and satisfying within him.
"Did he pursue?" Drummond asked, his voice flat.
"He tried," said Sacrus. "But Belanor and the boy vanished into Vandera."
"Crafty bastard," Mordon muttered.
Sacrus gave a cold grin.
"Well, that refuge won't last. The Flame Emperor has taken a particular interest in this… anomaly."
He let the statement linger, then slowly rose from his seat. His shadow stretched across the map table.
"I'm afraid the peace with the Mages of Vandera is coming to an end."
The room shifted. Backs straightened. Eyebrows lifted. A few exchanged glances — sharp and uncertain.
This was not expected.
"The Emperor has dispatched reinforcements to the Ice Captain's camp," Sacrus continued. "Three hundred seasoned men. They march under sealed orders. Their destination is clear: Vandera."
A moment passed. Then another.
The lords remained silent, each calculating, each imagining the consequences of war — not against a crumbling frontier hold, but against Vandera, ancient and arcane. A place of spellcasters, diplomats, and whispered pacts. A place bound by old treaties.
"War with the Mages of Vandera," Lord Drummond finally said, breaking the quiet, "Is it truly worth the cost?"
Sacrus didn't blink.
"The Emperor believes so," he said. "This boy — whatever he is — must not live. He poses a threat beyond what we understand."
He gave Drummond a pointed look.
"You, of all people, should understand what fire unchecked can do."
Drummond stiffened, but said nothing.
"And you trust the Emperor's judgment in this?" asked Palvir, softly, carefully.
"Trust?" Sacrus repeated. "No, Lord Palvir. I obey it."
A silence followed. He let it hold before continuing.
"For too long, the mages of Vandera have played both sides — cloaking rebels in false neutrality, whispering in imperial ears while sheltering traitors in their halls." He paced slowly behind his chair. "This time, they will answer. In fire."
"No more fighting from the shadows," said Trovon, his tone growing iron.
"No more half-measures," added Rikon, his excitement now darkened by the weight of what was to come.
"And what of the treaties?" asked Agbul, finally speaking. His voice was heavy, practical. "Breaking them would be—"
"Necessary," Sacrus snapped. "The Flame Emperor has judged it so."
Lord Mordon chuckled dryly — a sound that died too soon.
"Who's ever known the Emperor's reasons?" he said.
Then he saw Sacrus's face.
The Viceroy had not moved, but the cold fury in his eyes silenced Mordon more effectively than a blade. The chuckle became a cough. The cough became nothing.
Sacrus leaned forward slightly.
"It is not our place to question His Radiance. It is our place to carry out his will. Cleanly. Absolutely."
Drummond studied the Viceroy, brow furrowed. Sacrus had once been a soldier — before titles, before the throne rooms. His loyalty wasn't born of politics. It was born of fire and oath. That made him dangerous.
"And what of Belanor?" Rikon asked, breaking the tension. "Surely he's the true threat."
"The Emperor sees them both as one," Sacrus answered. "And so we will deal with them as such."
The fire cracked again.
The war table, once used for border patrols and spice route negotiations, now bore the shape of something else. A spark. A fuse. And they were all sitting too close.
"Then it's war," Lord Drummond said at last.
The others nodded slowly — not out of agreement, but inevitability.
Sacrus sat back in his chair, satisfied.
"You'll each be notified of new developments by week's end. And Lords…"
He let the word hang, then spoke with finality:
"Make no mistake. This is not just about a boy. It's about control."