The rising sun lifted lazily over the rolling fields, casting a golden glow upon the plains. The air already carried the weight of an approaching autumn – cool enough to bite the skin, yet still perfumed by the stubborn warmth of a summer that refused to die. The leaves were beginning to turn yellow on the scattered trees, and a light, almost translucent mist crept along the edges of the road where the army advanced.
Valeria rode at the front, her cloak fastened at the shoulder by a brooch shaped like a mill. With every step of her horse, the banner of Ventora fluttered behind her – a white horse galloping across a brown field, the symbol of a monarchy born through the force of will.
Behind her, a human torrent stretched as far as the eye could see: twenty-six thousand men and women, her loyal Ventorans, together with the forces of Leonespada and Porto Dourado, marching with discipline and purpose.
Among them were the deserters of Aurelia – ten thousand souls who had fled from the flames of war. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of hope, they had knelt before Valeria. They had sworn vassalage to the invading queen and now bore arms with the emblem of Ventora hastily stitched over their old uniforms.
From the top of a hill, Valeria gazed upon the horizon. Far ahead, shrouded in mist and light, Aureliana rose like both a promise and a threat – its towers and walls gleaming in the rising sun, like the edge of a freshly polished blade. The Queen felt the weight of thousands of footsteps behind her and the murmur of banners in the wind. Destiny marched with her.
The road to Aureliana, however, was a path of silence. Apart from the noise made by the army of the southern realm, nothing could be heard, only the Queen's thoughts.
After the defeat of Sir Galvano da Torre on the blood-soaked fields of Porto Dourado, nothing stood in Valeria's way. No enemy banners raised, no herald of the king to challenge her advance. Only deserted villages, burnt fields, and carcasses abandoned by the roadside – like the bones of a fleeing nation.
For days, the army marched through that emptied land, their footsteps echoing in a funeral rhythm. The banners of Ventora, Leonespada, and Porto Dourado swayed beneath a grey and motionless sky, and the wind carried only the distant scent of the sea and of ash.
When at last they sighted the walls of Aureliana, the army halted. The city rose before them like an ancient painting – white towers, tall gates, and golden rooftops that had perhaps given it its name – yet with no smoke, no voices, no life. The heart of a kingdom… stilled.
Valeria raised her hand and the column stopped. The silence was so deep that only the impatient hooves of the horses and the grinding of nervous teeth could be heard.
– Prepare the siege – she ordered, her voice firm but her gaze distrustful.
At that very moment, a cry echoed from the left flank. One of the scouts was returning at a gallop, covered in dust. Behind him, others followed, bearing the same look of disbelief.
– My Queen! – shouted the captain of the scouts. – The gates… the gates are open!
For an instant, no one moved. Those words hung in the air like an omen. Many believed it to be a trap – and who among the living could blame Valeria for thinking the same?
The Queen sent a handful of light horsemen inside. Time dragged on as the rest of the army waited, the wind whispering among the raised muskets.
When the scouts returned, the silence they brought was heavier than the cannons themselves.
The captain dismounted and knelt before her.
– Your Excellency… – he said, his voice low. – The city has been abandoned.
– Abandoned? – the word left her lips like a blade. – Are you certain?
– Yes, My Queen. The King… King Alaric Doriano IV has fled. He took with him the entire garrison, the guards, even the palace servants. Of the court, none remain.
Valeria stood still for a long moment. She looked toward the horizon, where the capital rose – silent, bare, and vulnerable, like a body forsaken by the gods.
– If what you tell me is true… – she murmured, her gaze hardening, – then Aureliana has surrendered without a fight. Let us show its citizens the face of the one who shall establish a new order in this land.
Valeria and her army entered through the city gates as though profaning a tomb.
The echo of hooves and footsteps resounded through the empty streets until, little by little, faces began to appear – first one, then dozens, then hundreds. Thin men, hollow-eyed women, children covered in dust and hunger. Gathering slowly, like a torrent long contained, the people came forth.
Cries rose from every direction: 'Long live Queen Valeria! Liberator of Aurélia!' The church bells began to ring – not by order of priests or clerics, but by the hands of those who still had the strength to celebrate. The streets, once paved with the triumphs and pride of the Doriano kings, filled with tears.
Valeria rode slowly, the banner of Ventora fluttering behind her like a wound in the wind. She felt the weight of their gazes – looks that mingled hope and fear, devotion and despair. She passed broken doors, looted markets, dry fountains. The smell of misery was stronger than the perfume of the flowers that women, in timid gesture, threw at her feet.
On the façades, she saw hanging the remnants of a dying kingdom: torn flags bearing the Sun of Aurelia, nailed to windows like mourning cloths; burnt portraits of King Alaric; hurried inscriptions painted upon the walls – 'Justice for the people', 'The king has fled', 'Freedom comes from the south'.
At every corner, Ventoran soldiers dismounted and distributed bread and water; some embraced the civilians, others wept upon seeing the misery their own enemies had left behind. And Valeria, high upon her steed, saw everything – the faces, the wounds, the dead that no one had buried.
When she crossed the Square of the Sceptres, the heart of Aureliana, silence returned. There, the power of kings was carved in stone: marble statues of the ancient Dorianos, now decapitated or stained with smoke. The great imperial fountain lay dry, its waters replaced by ash and dust.
At the far end stood the Imperial Palace, seat of the kings of Aurelia. The doors were wide open, and the lion banners had been torn down. At the top of the walls, the wind made the new flag flutter – the brown standard of Ventora, embroidered with Queen Valeria's silver mill.
She stopped her horse and looked up at the palace. The voice of the people, now in chorus, reached her like the roar of the sea:
– VALERIA! VALERIA! VALERIA!
For a moment, the Queen said nothing. She merely looked at the empty palace, the throne without a king, the echo of her footsteps upon the cracked marble.
She knew that, at heart, the calming of the people was only the first breath of a new era, and that each cry of 'freedom' carried with it a new sun over Aureliana. For the first time in years, the city was breathing, but Valeria knew that the war was not yet over.
The palace's bronze doors opened with a prolonged groan, echoing through the bare corridors. Valeria, together with her generals and advisers, entered. The sound of their footsteps resounded beneath golden vaults that had witnessed centuries of glory and decay.
On the walls, tapestries embroidered with the Doriano emblem hung in tatters, burnt at the edges, covered in dust. The air was dense, impregnated with the smell of smoke and abandonment. It was the heart of an empire – and the heart was dead.
The Throne Room opened before them. Tall, imposing, bathed in a cold light streaming through broken windows. At its centre, the Solar Throne rose atop three steps of black marble, carved in gold and crystal. It was there that King Alaric IV had once sat with the arrogance of the gods, incapable of sharing in the suffering of his subjects. Now, it was empty.
When she reached the throne, Valeria paused.
She looked at it long and carefully. It was a magnificent throne, yes, but cold, and too large, even for a queen such as herself.
Without hesitation, she placed her hand on one of its golden arms and ascended the steps.
The echo of her footsteps was the only sound in the room.
As she sat, the sun streamed through the broken windows and touched her face. This gesture marked the first time since the founding of Aurelia that anyone, apart from the Doriano dynasty, had occupied the throne of that kingdom.
– The king and his court have fled, but his people remain – she said, her voice ringing throughout the room, firm and without hesitation. – And it is to the people that we owe answers – she made a brief gesture to her officers. – Send men and women throughout the city – she ordered. – Let them speak with the elders, with the soldiers who stayed, with the hungry and the sick. I want to know what remains of this kingdom… and in what state the city has been left to me. Send scouts to the outskirts as well. I want reports on every village, every bridge, every road. I want to know if the enemy is retreating or merely hiding.
Her command echoed through the walls of the throne room, and time passed, leaving Valeria in suspense about what had transpired in the city and its surroundings.
Dusk fell over Aureliana like a copper cloak, and Valeria still remained on the throne, motionless, when the doors opened and a succession of officers, scouts, and emissaries entered, bringing with them the weight of the first reports.
The first to kneel before her was a captain from Leonespada, young, his face marked by dust and eyes still burning with the fervour of his discovery.
– Your Majesty – he said, bowing his head, – we have the first reports. The people speak… and they speak much.
He gestured for the scribes to unroll the map upon the table.
– After the defeat of Sir Galvano da Torre at Porto Dourado, panic spread through the capital. The king, the court, and the royal guard tried to flee in secret. They were heading for Coronaforte, taking with them the gold, the archives, and the crown's relics.
– And what did the people do when they realised they were to be left at the mercy of the invaders? – asked Valeria, her voice calm but her gaze sharp as a blade.
– The people knew, My Queen. Someone warned them. When they saw the coachmen preparing for the escape… they rose up. They closed the streets, raised barricades. They wanted to prevent the king from abandoning them. The royal guard tried to force their way… and fired upon the civilians.
A murmur ran through the room. Some officers lowered their eyes, others clenched their fists.
– Hundreds died in the streets – continued the captain, – and the king, even so, escaped. He fled with the blood of his own people at his heels. That is why the city welcomed you with flowers, Your Majesty. Not as a conqueror… but as a liberator.
For a moment, no one breathed. Slowly, Valeria allowed a faint smile – not of triumph, but of bitter understanding.
The second emissary was a thin man, sunburnt, a veteran of the southern plains. He carried the faded standard of Granarossa, and his tired gaze spoke more than any dusty scroll.
– Your Majesty, I bring news from the south – his voice was hoarse, as though he had not drunk clean water for days. – The lands of Valleodorosa, Torrevento, Granarossa, and Vigneto Vecchio… are in deep drought.
Valeria leaned slightly on the throne, her gaze steady and attentive.
– Continue – she said, without preamble.
– The drought began in Vigneto Vecchio – the man explained, – and spread like fire over the dry grass. The vineyards died, the wells ran dry, the fields became hollow. The southern army, before departing for the war, took with them all the grain, meat, even the salt from the reserves. The people were left with nothing – he swallowed hard, words nearly failing him. – Mothers mix dust and water to stave off their children's hunger. In Torrevento, they say the dogs and crows were the first to disappear.
– So, it is not only the throne that is empty – murmured Valeria, after a long silence, – it is the entire kingdom – she took a few steps toward the emissary, her stance firm. – Prepare carts in Ventora with grain, salted meat, wine, potable water. Everything that can be sent, let it be so.
Her advisers exchanged glances – some surprised, others cautious.
– Your Majesty… – ventured one of them, – and the cost?
Valeria turned to him, her gaze as cutting as a freshly sharpened blade.
– The cost will be paid in loyalty – she replied. – No fleeing king can feed the people. No empty throne can warm their hearts. But I can. All the carts shall carry provisions to the affected areas, and they shall also bear this message:
'This food comes from the Kingdom of Ventora, sent by the hand of Valeria, first of her name, Queen of the Free and Liberator of the Oppressed. Let those who receive it know that she asks not for gold, but for loyalty. Let them swear by the bread that nourishes them, and that bread shall be theirs. Swear by the name of Valeria, and they shall have a future.'
The scribes wrote each word hastily, quills scraping upon the parchment. After speaking her words, she sat once more on the throne.
– Feed them first, then you will see who truly rules over the south.
The audience was almost concluded when, suddenly, one last man entered. His uniform was torn, dust covered his hair and face, and his gaze carried the resignation of one who had already accepted the inevitable. He bowed before Valeria and remained kneeling, head lowered.
– Speak – said the Queen, in a serene but firm tone. – What further news do you bring me?
The man hesitated. His lips were dry, his hands trembling over the crumpled parchment he carried.
– Your Majesty… I bring the worst of all… the Kingdom of Aurelia… no longer exists.
For a moment, no one moved. Some officers exchanged glances, others furrowed their brows, and one of the advisers even stepped forward, confused.
– What do you mean 'does not exist'? They still have their king, their army was defeated but not yet vanquished…
– Explain yourself – ordered Valeria, remaining motionless upon her throne.
The messenger lifted his gaze, and on his face was not fear – it was desolation.
– To the west – he began, – from the city of Verdejante, Lord Cassiano Verdegrande, Viscount of Verdejante, has declared independence. He has proclaimed himself King of the Kingdom of Verdalia, and has sworn that he will never again submit to Aurelia and the Dorianos. He has already received vassalage from Ponteverde, Campofiorito, and Fontechiara. His banners already flutter with the symbol of the silver vine.
Murmurs grew, spreading through the hall like a restless tide. But the messenger was not finished.
– However… to the north, the situation is even worse – his words came with difficulty. – Lady Isolda Riberalta, Countess of Riberaguarda, has formed an alliance… the people call it a confederation. She has named it the Northern League.
Valeria leaned forward, her steel gaze fixed upon the man.
– And who is part of this League?
– The lords of Boschetto, Torre d'Argento, Roccapietra, Torre del Sol, Colinavento, and Lagoverde, Your Majesty. All have sworn mutual support. They have no king or queen, nor do they desire one. They have promised to defend one another, act together… and resist any power that comes from the south.
A heavy silence fell over all. Valeria's generals looked at one another in disbelief. The Kingdom of Aurelia, once one of the pillars of the continent, had shattered like broken glass – each sharp fragment reflecting a piece of what had once been a powerful crown.
Valeria remained silent. The brown standard of Ventora swayed gently behind her, the fabric illuminated by the flickering torchlight.
At last, she rose and slowly descended the steps of the throne, passing among her officers.
– You have heard the reports – she began, her voice firm, grave, with the cadence of a verdict. – King Alaric Doriano IV has fled. He left the throne empty, the people starving, and his name covered in shame. His vassals, instead of defending him, pursued their own schemes, crowning themselves or hiding behind leagues and treaties.
She took another step, her shadow stretching over the golden Doriano emblem still visible on the floor.
– The Kingdom of Aurelia is dead – her words thundered. – Its death did not come by Ventora's sword, but by the cowardice of their own children. This war happened because the Aurelian people judged us weak, feeble, an easy target to cure the rot within themselves – her tone grew more solemn. – I did not come to conquer this land. I did not come to burn their homes nor tear down their banners. I came to liberate a people betrayed by those who should have guided them. I came to restore order, justice, and hope, which the throne of Alaric had forgotten.
The cries of agreement were audible throughout the hall, thundering toward the heavens, but were almost immediately silenced by a gesture from their Queen.
– From this moment – Valeria declared, raising her voice, – there shall be no division between Ventorans and Aurelians. From today onwards, Ventora and Aurelia shall be one body, one will, one crown – she paused. The silence cut like a blade. – I declare the Ventoro-Aurelian Empire founded – the echo of the name filled the hall, vibrating through the stones, the columns, and the souls of those present, – an empire where Ventorans and Aurelians shall be equal under the same banner. Where one's iron shall sustain the other's bread. Where the throne shall not be a symbol of power… but of union.
Valeria turned once more to her generals and advisers.
– Prepare the decrees. Inform all the provinces, from south to north, that the old kingdom has ended. Prepare coins, banners, and seals with the new imperial emblem: the white galloping horse of Ventora and the golden rampant lion of Aurelia. History begins anew today, and may the gods, if they still watch us, know that the dawn belongs to the bold.