Ten years later.
From the highest tower of Athax, the South looked golden and unconquerable, but tension twisted beneath the shining surface.
Beyond the southern hills, the Western Kingdom's banners — black and ash, a wolf crowned in thorns — kept creeping closer, swallowing border towns one by one.
The South was bleeding. Slowly, quietly. And soon, bleeding would no longer be enough.
The South needed help.
Killan stood at the tower's edge, dark hair stirring in the hot wind. His gray eyes were narrowed on the distant haze, sharp and unreadable. The sun hammered the stone walls, but he didn't seem to notice. Command came naturally to him — silent, immovable, inevitable.
Footsteps approached behind him, measured and steady. Vignir, his oldest friend and Garrison Defender, gave a small bow. His short brown hair was sweat-dampened under the heavy weight of his armor, but his brown eyes were calm, steady as the mountains themselves.
"They're waiting for you, Killan," Vignir said, voice low, dropping the honorifics as they were alone.
Killan didn't answer at first. His gaze drifted north — toward the Kingdom that remained untouched by Western aggression. Toward the mountain behind clouds — blue and silver banners flying high above fields of snow.
House Svedana.
"They won't wait much longer," Vignir added with a quiet chuckle, trying to lift the heavy air between them.
Killan finally turned. "Then let's not keep them waiting."
Inside the Council Chamber, the council room sweltered under the Southern heat. Thick tapestries muffled the clamor of the city outside, but inside, the tension was palpable.
The banner of House Valmird — fire and dragons stitched in blood-red thread on black — loomed over the gathering, a silent reminder of the power they still clung to.
Harlan, ever quiet and thoughtful, leaned over the map, tracing invisible lines with his finger. His short brown hair was damp at the temples, but his brown eyes stayed sharp, analytical.
Across the room, Santi paced, his face flushed with frustration. His hand kept drifting to the pommel of his sword, an unconscious habit when tempers ran hot.
Near the wall, Nolle — the youngest of them all — tried to lighten the atmosphere with a half-smile, but even he knew laughter would find no easy home today.
Eir stood slightly apart from the others, poised and composed, her green eyes following Killan's every move. She wore the sharpness of an archer captain well — pretty, clever, and lethal — but the quickening of her breath when Killan entered did not go unnoticed.
As Killan and Vignir stepped into the chamber, voices cut off mid-argument.
"Your Grace," Harlan said respectfully, straightening.
"We were discussing the Northern situation," Eir added, her voice smooth but tight. She folded her arms neatly across her chest.
Santi scoffed. "Discussing? More like tearing our hair out."
Vignir's chuckle rumbled in the silence, deep and good-natured, easing some of the stiffness.
Killan approached the map table, hands braced against its edges.
Laid before them was their world:
The South, golden under the unforgiving sun.
The East, fertile and glittering green.
The West, devouring all in black and ash.
And the North, shrouded behind veils of mist and cold.
His gray eyes rested on the North — steady, considering.
"You've all heard the rumors," he said. "The Northern Kingdom thrives. Their armies remain the largest, best-fed, and truly unconquered. House Svedana — their Lady — rules with a gentle, but iron hand."
"And you believe these rumors?" Santi asked, frowning. His voice was hot, itching for a fight. "Campfire tales? Old drunkards babbling about a girl who's never lost a battle? A girl who holds some kind of power?"
"Girl?" Harlan said thoughtfully. "She would be a full-grown woman by now, I think. Those stories were a few years old."
"I'm quite surprised that's the only thing you latched on to, Harlan," Santi glanced at him.
"Oh, I heard you," Harlan responded thoughtfully. "But this is the North we're talking about. History told us they did wield some kind of ability."
"No one dares challenge them," Nolle said with a crooked grin. "The West tried — they lost more than half their strength. Now they pick fights everywhere else, anywhere but the North."
"Maybe because the West is not foolish," Vignir added calmly. His brown eyes met Killan's, a quiet message passing between them.
"They say," Harlan said, voice steady, "that the Lady Svedana rides into battle herself. That her soldiers, all loyal to her, would rather die on their feet than retreat."
Eir stepped closer to the table, her finger tapping the golden fields of the East. "Even Peduviel has bent the knee. The Eastern Kingdom swears fealty to the North now — not to us, not to anyone else."
A heavy silence settled after her words, one that even Santi didn't dare break immediately.
Killan's gray eyes lingered on the North — steady, considering.
"If we stand alone," he said, voice low but firm, "we will fall. If we stand with the North, we have a chance."
Eir shifted her weight, tension radiating from her. "And if they refuse our hand, Killan?"
Killan allowed the barest hint of a smile to touch his lips — a sharp, dangerous thing.
"Then we will give them a reason not to."
As arguments resumed — some hot and loud, others murmured and urgent — Killan turned back to the window overlooking the city.
Somewhere beyond the mountainous region in the North, a girl-turned-legend sits untouchable.
And he would find her.
Or be crushed beneath her banners.