Divine Capital. Another noble mansion.
Late sunlight slid between lattice screens, striping the study in gold.
Behind a mountain of ledgers sat the lord of the house, sleeves rolled, quill poised above an account book. Across from him stood his aide, shoulders straight, a thin report in his grasp.
"My lord, the Sundawn land-acquisition plan has failed."
The quill halted in mid-stroke. Instead of fury, the lord showed only puzzlement.
"Sundawn land-acquisition plan? Remind me—what in blazes is a Sundawn?"
Prepared for that question, the aide cleared his throat.
"Well... um... two years ago, one of our field agents discovered a loophole. If an Ashvale child in a borderland vanished, ownership of nearby farmland would revert to the agent's kin. Looked easy.
Nothing to lose and everything to gain, so we sent a forcefully upgraded Innate ascendant to handle it."
The lord leaned back, frown deepening. "And?"
"The Lockwood family, our local partners, were wiped out. Our ascendant cut contact and is now listed rogue."
A hush filled the room—only the distant hum of city traffic seeped through the window. The lord didn't care much about the ascendant.
This was the divine capital. It's much rarer to find a mortal here than an innate ascendant. For a man of his stature, an Innate ascendant was a simple foot soldier.
The lord gestured toward a giant map covering the far wall.
"Show me this Sundawn place."
The aide crossed the rug, boots silent on polished wood. Scanning the map for a moment, he touched a pin-prick by the Great Lake's fringe. Sweat beaded at his collar despite the cool air.
He realized that he had bothered his lord for... this.
The lord kept looking at the microscopic speck by the shore of the Great Lake called 'Sun Dawn' for a full minute.
"That speck is Sundawn?" the lord asked in disbelief. "We spent resources on that?"
"Yes, my lord. We thought the warrior was… expendable."
A slow sigh escaped as the lord rubbed his temples. "Forget it. That patch of reeds offers nothing we need. Chalk it up to experience."
The aide nodded, backing toward the door.
"Next time," the lord called, voice mild but edged, "only bring me problems that matter."
"Understood, sir." He bowed and slipped out.
Left alone, the lord's gaze drifted back to the glimmering map. That border dot seemed laughably small against the sprawl of Ashenvale.
His plans were for the Empire. What the heck was that small speck?
With a soft snort, he turned the page of his ledger. Empires demanded grand designs; a forgotten lake town wasn't worth another heartbeat of thought.
...
Somewhere between the Great Ashenvale and the Khitian mountain borders.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, a blood-red glow spread across the jagged peaks of the Cloud-Kissed Range, melting the crags into a warm, glowing hue.
Halfway up the highest ridge, an old tower weathered by fifty winters clung to the stone like a stubborn barnacle.
Its banners—once the proud hold of a man who stood against a hundred thousand—were little more than tatters, snapping in a wind that whistled through broken slats.
Deep in the tower's undercroft, dust lay thick on a circular bronze-rimmed crystal device, a relic whose sigils had slept for decades. This was the round table in the war room.
When the world lost the orange blaze of the sun and the first stars twinkled awake, the relay's runes stuttered, then flared, humming like a heart that had just remembered to beat.
Letting out a sound akin to an old spaceship starting up, the device was back at work.
Six phantoms flickered and appeared around the circular table like a device.
Caldor, eyes sharp as an eagle's, cloak flaring about lean shoulders.
Moments later, a second image resolved—Grymvald, scout and born mischief-maker, twirling his battered spear with a grin.
Stone-solid Rogan followed, a hulk, folding his arms so broadly the illusionary chamber seemed to shrink around him.
Edric appeared next. He was more shadow than man—half a smile beneath his hood.
Magnar walked in like he was running late for rehearsal, his fingers picking out silent chords on an imaginary lute.
Finally, Weyland coalesced, tower-shield strapped across her back and a silver braid looped in the leather thong their general had given her on his final march.
They let the familiar hush settle. In the old days the general himself would have filled the silence with steady orders or an irreverent joke.
Now the hum of the relay served as both a heartbeat and a eulogy.
Weyland cleared her throat. "Everybody got the news right? The youngest son is alive."
Six pulses throbbed in unison, as if the relay had captured their heartbeats.
"Not another wild goose?" Magnar asked, raising a brow. "I still haven't forgiven you for the 'lost heir in the Southern Reaches' fiasco."
"No. This time, the news seemed to be legitimate." Edric's voice was soft yet unarguable. "Lady Rosalind herself sent word. The reason she finally revealed it to us is our general's grandson.
The name he answers to is Riveron Ashvale, Prince of Sundawn."
Grymvald rocked on his heels, spear clacking against the stone. "And the general's wife? We combed half the continent for her."
"She's alive," Weyland said. "Hidden beneath the same skyline. That little town had kept her safe more than once this fortress did."
Rogan chuckled, the sound like rolling boulders. "Fifty years of dead ends and the answer turns out to be 'look in a fucking border town.' Remember that blizzard march where I almost lost a toe?"
"You fell into a river," Caldor replied dryly with a suppressed chuckle. "The bridge was three meters away."
"First, it was night," Rogan snapped back. "Second, heroic scouting involves risks—"
"Heroic failing, more like," Magnar muttered, though his smile softened the jab.
Caldor allowed himself the barest twitch of amusement before turning practical. "Though... why did little Miss (Rosalind) decide to send word now? What changed?"
"Did fifty years rust your brain, dumbass?" Weyland said, her face switching from mocking to exasperation. "Our General massacred too many. You think they are just going to let the bloodline rise?"
Edric supported, "And don't forget the court. Ashbourne House is definitely going to play some under-the-table games."
The space fell into a silence as they let the heaviness sink in.
Finally, Magnar flicked his hand, and a phantom map sprang above the device, coastlines traced in glimmering light.
"Here's the plan—no war report, just the outline.
I'm going to information pooling spots, see if I can find anyone targeting him from the martial world side.
Caldor, take your eagle. Go to Sundawn and leisurely find a high ground to snipe. According to Little Miss, they won't be acting just yet."
Then he looked at the rest, "The rest of you go and meet Madam. It's been fifty years; she's probably still holding up the sky for those ungrateful brats. Ease her worries and find out if the grandson is up to the standard."
Grymvald sighed, "Finally, we can fulfill what we promised."
Rogan: "Don't be too happy yet. What is the grandson like? Is he another one like his uncles? We need to know. I'm not going to pledge allegiance to some fuckwit."
"We'll find out soon enough," Weyland said and lifted her hand, drawing a seal. "Synchronize internal clocks."
Whiiiirrrlllll
The device lit, and soon the phantoms felt their time was the same. This was a standard practice for them when they went on separate routes for the same mission.
This seal improved team coordination.
They each touched the device in turn, a ritual echo of the moment they had laid hands on.
Weyland: "Rendezvous at Sundawn's nearest port. Midnight. Seventh night from today."
Caldor: "Agreed. Move out, soldiers."
The next second, the phantoms flickered out. Each has their job.
...….
Thunder-wings carried Caldor across the cloud crests, his eagle's feathers slicing the air where his general once rode his horse with a million strong army.
Every valley he crossed stirred a memory: General laughing at rain-soaked soldiers, scolding recruits, bleeding beneath enemy arrows with a grin that dared death to claim him.
It was emotional for him. He had spent almost 500 years following that man. Only fifty years have passed after this death.
He still felt it was yesterday. The wind itself tasted like old promises.
Magnar moved through the capital's shadows unseen. His old connections were called.
On the seventh midnight. Weyland stood at the pier's edge, banner roll tucked beneath her arm. A rush of air stirred the fog—Caldor's eagle swooped, talons skimming water before settling on a piling.
The Other four too appeared out of nowhere. From tree tops, from shadows. If someone saw this, they would doubt their eyes.
Weyland: "Caldor, status update."
Caldor: "Non-threatening. No movements yet. It's only been a week. They might wait until everything cools down."
Everyone else nodded. This was their assumption, too.
Rogan: "Where's Magnar?"
Weyland answered, "Seems he found much more than expected. Somebody from the top court is moving the chess pieces. Not much information yet."
Grymvald: "Well, fuck. That's not good news."
Edric: "No shit, genius."
"Stay alert these days," Weyland said, voice low and certain. She paused for a moment, taking a breath. The other four too stood in attention.
She unrolled her past General's banner. The five veterans knelt, fists over hearts.
"General," Rogan murmured, granite throat suddenly tender, "your Hands are back in business. Bless us."
.....
The six veterans took to the road. Guards on Sundawn's Town entrance squinted into the greying light, hands drifting to sword hilts.
Six travelers approached, shabby only at first glance to a mortal. But anyone with a martial sense would feel like their souls were being squeezed just from a gaze.
"Bet the Guard captain forgets his own name before he shouts 'Halt!'," Grymvald whispered amusedly.
The gate captain stepped forward, barked half a greeting, then faltered under Weyland's arched brow and Rogan's friendly, dangerous smile.
He waved them through with a bob of the head that was almost a bow.
Beyond the arch, Sundawn's streets unfurled—cobbles still damp from night rain. The city buzzed with tales: pirates' problems, nobles vanished, and the buzz of the new power shift in this small town.
"Think he'll like us?" Rogan asked, adjusting the spear on his back.
"We're unexpected family," Edric said. "He'll adapt."
While patrolling the area around the Ashvale manor, the crew decided to continue guarding the surroundings until the official Royal Edict establishing the Duchy arrived.
According to Rosalind, the Edict would take approximately two weeks to arrive.
After choosing their lookout spots—usually rooms with a good view or the bell tower of the local lake deity church—they decided to move out.
"Alright ya fuckers... get to positions around the manor. Keep on lookout," Caldor barked and disappeared into the morning mist.