The War of Madness
The main hall of the Drake Kingdom was struck into stunned silence.
All the officials stood transfixed, their faces ashen with incredulity. The air was heavy, almost palpable — the sort that comes after a thunderclap.
To send troops against the Ironforge Kingdom now, of all occasions?
It was lunacy.
Even though two hundred thousand men of Ironforge had perished in the last catastrophe, they still possessed an army of four hundred thousand — double the strength of the whole army of the Drake Kingdom.
Sending out two hundred thousand soldiers against an enemy in twice their number… wasn't that equivalent to spilling an egg at the mountain?
The very idea gave the court goosebumps.
And worst of all, Ironforge was a nation grieving. Their hearts were sore, their citizens enraged, their morale riding high on the power of anger fueled by sorrow.
"Provoking them now…" one minister breathed, shaking. "Is His Majesty risking the heavens themselves to smite us?"
"If they don't unleash their wrath upon us," another whispered, "then who else could they?"
Murmurs swirled like waves across the court — fear, confusion, incredulity.
A single voice finally cut through, quivering but distinct.
"Your Majesty, do not do this!" the officials shouted in unison, dropping to their knees.
At the hall's center, on the dais of buffed obsidian, Lucian Drake sat on the Imperial Throne — clad in his rich violet Imperial robe, its golden thread flashing in the dancing torchlight.
He furrowed his brow, his purple eyes flashing with a glint of irritation.
"Why must I not?"
His voice was even, almost languid — but beneath it, an unspoken pressure rippled through the hall.
An elderly minister moved forward, his body shaking as he bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty… though two hundred thousand soldiers are lost, their kingdom is still strong, well-supplied, and well-fed. To anger them at this time would be to match weakness against strength. This is not an act of wisdom. I implore Your Majesty to change your mind!"
Lucian leaned forward, his elbow supported by the armrest, a small smile playing on his mouth.
"Even if they hold firm and we are weaker, the defenses of Ironforge are vacant — their gates unprotected. Their grief has blunted their watchfulness. The time is now to attack while the heavens smile upon us. If we do not act now… when?"
The ministers looked at each other with worry.
A second high-ranking official emerged, voice trembling but sincere.
Your Majesty, the Ironforge Kingdom has now lost two hundred thousand men. Their folk are weeping, their hearts full of grief. If we strike now, it would be an unjust war! Our cause will be condemned before the first sword is unsheathed! Besides, sorrow can turn to strength. Their fury will temper solidarity — their morale will rise! Think thrice, Your Majesty… before you act!
Lucian's smile withered. One by one, he rose from his throne. His Imperial robe swept like a dark wave behind him as he came down the steps — his steps reverberating through the still chamber.
When he spoke once more, his voice brought cold authority.
"Unjust?" He chuckled scornfully. "Those two hundred thousand Ironforge warriors entombed in the Red Rock Iron Mine were felled by divine wrath. Even the heavens could not abide their transgressions. We are but the servants of fate — a just army fulfilling heavenly intention."
He swept his eyes across the hall — piercing, unyielding.
"This war shall not be unjust. It shall be divine vengeance."
The room was silent. The ministers dared not breathe.
Then another official — his face tired, his hair grey — found his courage and came forward. Thomas White, the old Sage of State, who had served out two reigns.
Your Majesty," he said gravely, "our national strength is weak. Whether we win or lose, this war will drain us dry. When our strength fails, other nations will close in like wolves. For the sake of the kingdom — think thrice before making this decision."
Lucian's purple eyes flashed toward him. There was no rage in them this time — only a weird, burning conviction.
"It is just because our power is feeble," he declared, "that we have to go to war. Tell me, Thomas — if we take Ironforge's land, their mines, their folk… won't our strength increase tenfold? How else does a kingdom rise except by boldness?"
Thomas's lips quivered. He longed to say something else — but words would not come.
The court was shaken into low, desperate grumblings.
"Your Majesty…"
"This cannot be…"
"We will bring ruin upon ourselves…"
But Lucian was past his patience.
"Enough."
The word snapped through the hall like a lash.
He held up his hand sharply, his dark hair swinging as his robe billowed around him.
"My word is final. No more suggestion of retreat or delay. Anybody who challenges me again—"
His eyes swept them as if a storm were about to burst.
"I'll take away your title and send you from court!"
Silence.
Absolutely, annihilating silence.
The officials bowed their heads, faces drawn and white with fear. None of them could face his eyes.
Each one balanced his loyalty against his life — and his life was wanting.
To die for the madness of a ruler was one thing; to lose home and family for it was quite another.
The hall remained immobile. Only the soft crackle of torches filled the silence.
But then — a man alone stood forward.
The echo of his boots resounded in the chamber.
His back straight, his head unbowed, his presence as solid as a mountain.
The others shook with silence, but he stood by himself before the Emperor.
And when he spoke out — clear, powerful, defiant — it cut through the thick air like a knife.
"Your Majesty…"
They all turned to him.
Their eyes grew wide.
It was him.
The lone man who continued to speak when all the others had gone silent.
The man whose allegiance burned hotter than fear itself.