The Cromos Empire had conquered every kingdom in the east and west between the Years of the Eblem Crown, 57 to 115.
For generations, each Flame Emperor who ascended the throne ruled over the vast, subdued realms without a hunger for further conquest. The Empire had grown rich, bloated, and still—until the year 197.
That year, Alos Vaktorun broke the silence. He began his campaign with the annexation of Adresgate—a swift and solitary victory. Two years later, he was crowned Flame Emperor. And with the crown upon his brow, he turned his eyes northward.
But the North had not been like the kingdoms of men.
Pagoth stood in the frozen wastes like a challenge hurled at the feet of the empire. Cromos's legions had never marched so far into the frostbitten lands. There, fire dimmed. Steel grew brittle. And the North answered every advance not with fear—but with Ice and Water magic so ancient and brutal, even the Empire's warmest sorcerers had shivered at their names.
Seven bitter years had passed. Pagoth still stood.
The city's walls had been carved into the spine of a mountain, tiered and towering, its rooftops buried beneath snow and silence. Smoke had risen from narrow chimneys, tight-knit buildings huddled close, as though bracing against the wind. Behind it all, the jagged peaks had loomed—cold, white, watching.
The Northmen had believed that only the Flame Emperor himself could ever break their gates.
But Alos Vaktorun had grown old and heavy, his fire flickering in the dusk of his reign. His sons were either too young or too soft to survive the cold.
So Pagoth remained—unyielding. Defiant. While the rest of the world had bowed to fire, the North had still knelt to winter.
And winter did not burn.
Inside the stone halls of the royal palace, servants bustled with quiet urgency. Trays of steaming meat, sweet fruits, and pitchers of southern wine passed from hand to hand. Today, King Pexus of Pagoth hosted distinguished guests—mages of influence and renown, both from within his icy kingdom and beyond.
Among them sat the formidable Virelle, Guildmistress of Pagoth, draped in silver furs, her sharp eyes ever watchful.
The king and his guests were gathered around a long, oak-carved table laden with delicacies and exotic vintages from the southern kingdoms across the sea. Firelight flickered in golden sconces along the walls, casting dancing shadows on ancient banners and fur-lined stone.
King Pexus leaned forward, lifting a goblet with a grin tugging at his thick, curly beard.
"I wish you could've seen it," he said, his voice booming with amusement. "The bloody Cromosians froze stiff right outside our great wall. A finer sight I've never seen."
Laughter rumbled among the guests, but Pexus waved a hand toward a broad-shouldered man across from him.
"They'll never be ready for Commander Ramov's Ice magic," the king went on, nodding at the red-haired veteran with a face like carved stone.
Commander Ramov offered a modest smile and bowed his head slightly. "The cold does most of the work," he said.
"Nonsense," Pexus replied, thumping his goblet on the table. "You're our wall. Our storm. You've kept those Cromos goats frozen in their armor, pissing icicles outside our city."
Another round of laughter swept the table, but beneath it, respect lingered. Outside, winter howled against the walls of Pagoth—but inside, firelight, pride, and power warmed the heart of the North.
"We've managed to hold the madmen off for seven years," King Pexus said, his tone shifting. The laughter died from his face, replaced by the weight of truth. His eyes—dark and heavy beneath furrowed brows—hardened like ice.
"...But we do not know how many more years our luck will hold."
The room fell still.
Servants slowed. The flickering torchlight seemed dimmer. Around the grand table, all eyes turned toward the king.
"Despite the fatal blows we've dealt the Empire," Pexus continued, his voice quieter now, steadier, "Alos Vaktorun's flame refuses to die out. If anything... his ambition burns hotter than ever."
He let the silence hang, the weight of it pressing against every soul in the hall.
Then, slowly, the king's gaze moved around the table, studying his guests one by one.
There sat the twin sisters Marcel and Marilli of the Shadow Tower, robed in matching black silks, their expressions unreadable, like mirrors reflecting only each other.
Next, Lady Friepus Salim of Toman, wrapped in deep violet fur, her fingers adorned with bone rings. She raised her goblet, but did not drink.
Beside her lounged Guidemaster Tanaka, the famed Water Dragon of Gotam. His silver hair spilled over one shoulder, his aquamarine eyes unblinking, hands folded atop his cane carved from coral and steel.
And finally, Guildmistress Virelle of Vandera, this sharp as ever in her high-collared cloak, her grey-streaked braid hanging like a sword down her back. She met the king's gaze with the calm of someone who had seen cities fall.
King Pexus sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Pagoth still stands," he said, "but so long as the Flame Emperor breathes, winter alone may not be enough."
"Your Guilds have managed to stay neutral through this war between fire and ice," King Pexus said, his voice steady but laced with reproach. "But neutrality is no shield. The other Northern Kingdoms have refused to aid us, either too proud or too blind to see what's coming. Once Alos is done with Pagoth, he will not stop. He will burn the remaining four nations one by one."
His gaze fell on Lady Friepus Salim, sharp as a blade.
"He will come for you next, my lady. Toman lies closest to Pagoth. I urge you to advise your king—His Majesty must be warned of the price of his ignorance."
He swept his eyes across the table, now deadly calm.
"If Pagoth and Toman fall," he said, looking now at the twin mages and Guidemaster Tanaka, "the entire North will fall with us. The remaining three kingdoms will not withstand the firestorm alone."
Guidemaster Tanaka shifted, his aquamarine eyes narrowing.
"You ask us to aid you, Your Majesty?" he asked with measured calm.
Before the king could speak, Commander Ramov answered for him.
"We ask you to join us in driving the Cromos Empire back, before it's too late."
"Our Guilds are neutral," Guildmistress Virelle replied crisply. "If we take sides, the Empire will mark us first. We would be the opening flame in their warpath."
"They will burn you regardless, Lady Virelle," said Commander Ramov. His voice was grim. "Vandera's involvement with rebel cells is no longer a secret."
"We offer shelter to those in need," Virelle countered, her voice still composed.
"You offer shelter to the Empire's cancer," said Marcel coldly, one of the black-robed twin mages. Her sister, Marilli, remained silent but watchful.
King Pexus leaned forward, his eyes locked on Virelle.
"The Flame Emperor will raze Vandera before he finishes with us. Your city houses some of the strongest mages in the realm. You, Lady Virelle, are worth a hundred soldiers yourself. But even you are no match for ten thousand Imperial blades."
"Especially when they're led by sorcerers of flame," Commander Ramov added grimly.
Guildmistress Virelle lowered her gaze. She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
She knew it was true.
They had harbored fugitives. Supplied food, medicine, and weapons to the resistance. Turned their rebel proxies into a blade aimed at the Empire's gut. All from the shadows. But the shadows were shrinking—and the fire was spreading.
Then the king spoke again, voice heavy.
"Our spies report that Alos is mustering reinforcements. Twenty thousand new swords to join the thirty thousand already camped beyond our walls. A firestorm is coming. I trust you saw it on your way here."
"We saw the savages," said Marcel, her lip curling. "Their tents blot the hills like rot."
"I ask only that you consider what I've said," King Pexus continued, his gaze falling on each guest. "Guildmaster Tanaka, you are one of the most formidable mages in the Five Kingdoms. If we unite—if we combine our forces across all five nations—we may yet stand a chance."
Commander Ramov leaned forward, his voice firmer.
"I'm certain you all accepted His Majesty's invitation knowing what he would ask of you. This threat—this war—you all fear it. Alos Vaktorun will not stop until everything lies within his grasp."
The mages exchanged glances and nodded. They knew it to be true. Treaties signed fifty years ago meant nothing to a man like Alos. The Flame Emperor's ambition burned too fiercely for parchment and promises to contain.
"And now," the king went on, his voice darker, "I've received word that Alos's eldest son has come of age. Twenty and one this winter. They say he will soon take command of the Imperial legions."
"They also say," Ramov added grimly, "that his flame burns hotter than his father's ever did."
That revelation struck a hush over the table. The mages shifted uneasily in their seats, the weight of those words sinking in.
"Shall I remind you," Ramov continued, "what fresh fire does when unleashed?"
"Like the one that burned Adresgate," Tanaka murmured, his voice low and heavy with memory.
Across the table, Guildmistress Virelle slowly raised her head. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were filled with steel.
"I don't need approval from anyone" she said. "The Guild of Vandera acts freely. But our mages choose their cause—and I will give you my support."
She bowed her head slightly.
"I have seen what the Empire leaves behind. I visited Adresgate after it fell. I saw the ashes, the charred bones, the wounds fire carved into stone. If this fire-wielding prince joins the war…" She paused. "Vandera will be one of the first to burn."
She looked at the king. "I will convince every mage in Vandera to stand with Pagoth."
King Pexus gave a firm nod, gratitude flickering in his eyes.
"I will do the same," said Guildmaster Tanaka, raising his cup. "Gotam stands ready."
"We will notify the Shadow Tower," said Marcel and Marilli in unison.
Then Lady Friepus rose, regal and composed.
"I will speak to His Majesty, the King of Toman," she said. "I pray he will see reason and align our kingdom with yours, my lord."
King Pexus smiled faintly.
"Your efforts will not go unnoticed, my lady. If Toman joins the war, the others will follow."
"Let's hope so," Tanaka said, lifting his cup once more. "To putting out the fire."
"To putting out the fire," the others echoed, raising their glasses in solemn unison.
Virelle raised her glass last, the gesture reluctant. The fire prince weighed heavily on her thoughts. If the rumors were true—if his flame did burn brighter—then Vandera was already in danger.
She could only hope that when the fire came, her city would still be standing.