The Precursor

Dressed and ready, Renher strode towards the war room, where his trusted generals, Alison and Thymur, awaited his arrival.

Yet, before heading there, he found his feet halting before Kaileen's chamber. He needed to speak with her, to mend what had been strained the night before.

With a steadying breath, he reached for the door and pushed gently—but it did not yield. Locked.

"Kaileen?" His voice was softer than usual, carrying an edge of concern. Silence answered him.

Frowning, he called again. Still, there was no response, as though the room were empty. A sinking feeling settled in his chest.

His gaze hardened as he turned towards the attendant's quarters, positioned beside Kaileen's room for her convenience.

Raising his voice slightly, he called for her. Within moments, a young woman rushed forward, her steps hurried. As per custom, she bowed before speaking.

"What is it that you wish for, my king?" Her voice was clear and steady.

Renher's expression remained unreadable, but there was a weight to his tone when he asked, "Where is Kaileen?"

The attendant blinked before hurriedly replying, "Her Majesty has not left her chambers since last night. She also refused to take her breakfast, despite my insistence."

Renher's jaw tightened. Guilt gnawed at him, coiling around his ribs like a vice. He should have stopped her last night—even if it meant standing his ground more firmly.

He could easily break down the door if he wished. His strength was such that even a grizzly bear would crumple beneath a single punch. A mere wooden barrier was nothing to him.

Yet, he did not move.

This was Kaileen's choice, and though it frustrated him, he would respect it.

Instead, he turned to the attendant and ordered, "Bring me a quill and ink."

Without hesitation, the attendant rushed to fetch the requested items. Renher's gaze wandered over the corridor, eventually landing on a small table where a vase of pink roses had been placed. Kaileen's favourite.

He had ordered these flowers to be imported from distant lands, as Skairus' climate was ill-suited for their growth. These roses were places all around the castle, as long as it was something his queen wanted he would do everything in his power to accomplish it.

As soon as the attendant returned, Renher sat at the table, brushing aside the vase with a single glance. The attendant, understanding his unspoken command, promptly moved it aside.

With rough hands, he began to write.

My love,

I know you are angry with me for not listening to you, but bear with me this last time. When I return from battle, I will take you to a special place I once found during my journeys. There, beneath the open sky, I will braid your hair with my own hands, and we will feast on your favourite dishes.

So please, my sunshine, do not continue this act. Eat something, or else my thoughts will remain with you on the battlefield, and I may falter. You would not want that, would you?

I will return soon, and we shall finish our conversation from last night.

Yours, always.

Renher

With a final flourish, he set the quill down and carefully plucked a rose from the vase. One by one, he removed its petals and placed them atop the folded parchment, wrapping it gently.

Just as he prepared to slide the note beneath the door, a faint sound from inside made him pause. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he listened.

Footsteps.

Renher's heart pounded as he straightened, anticipation building. He tucked the letter into his armour, waiting—hoping—that the door would open.

But it never did.

The footsteps halted just behind the door.

On the other side, Kaileen stood still, her back pressed lightly against the wooden frame. She had sensed his presence long before he had spoken—such was the awareness of an 8th-circle mage. Yet, her emotions warred within her.

Should she open the door? Should she let go of her frustration?

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

Then she heard his voice.

"I will be back, my love. Just wait for me until then, my sweetheart."

She inhaled sharply. Her heart ached at the tenderness in his words, but she remained where she was, simply listening.

From outside, Renher saw the faintest shadow shift beneath the door's small gap. He knew she was there. He knew she was listening.

But he also knew that no amount of persuasion would move her—not now.

After a long moment, he exhaled, stepping back.

Turning to the attendant, he gave a final instruction. "Take care of her while I am gone."

The woman, who had been watching the entire exchange in stunned silence, barely managed a nod before bowing deeply.

With a lingering glance at the door, Renher finally turned and left.

His next destination—the war room.

The journey was long, nearly a twenty-minute walk from the castle to the army barracks. As he walked, he found himself lost in thought, his mind still dwelling on Kaileen.

Then, with a shake of his head, he picked up his pace, breaking into a jog.

The castle maids, seeing their emperor sprinting through the halls in full armor, could hardly believe their eyes.

They exchanged wide-eyed glances, already preparing to recount the sight to their families later that evening.

By the time Renher reached the war council's building, he had shaved five minutes off his time, arriving early.

The two guards stationed at the entrance saw a fully armoured figure approaching at an alarming speed.

For a moment, they thought it was just another soldier—until they recognized who it was.

Eyes wide, they swiftly opened the door, saluting in perfect synchronization. "Your Majesty."

Renher returned the gesture, stepping inside.

As he made his way to the main hall, officers bustled around, preparing battle strategies, their arms laden with scrolls and documents. Many stopped to salute as he passed, their expressions shifting from surprise to admiration.

Yet Renher barely registered them. His mind was still elsewhere.

By the time he reached the council chamber, he realized he had arrived too early. The room was empty.

Then, from behind, a shadow stretched along the floor.

He turned.

It was Alison, his most trusted general.

With a small nod, Renher acknowledged him, stepping inside with him.

As he took his seat at the grand war table, waiting for the others to arrive, he allowed himself a final thought of Kaileen.

And then, he steeled himself.

The battle awaited and losing focus during war is nothing short of a sure death sentence.

In the next five minutes, the remaining council members quickly took their seats. Among them was Thymur, clad in a long robe emblazoned with the emblem of a hydra. 

His handsome face, framed by golden hair, carried an air of wisdom beyond his years. In one hand, he grasped a wooden staff, its surface inscribed with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with arcane energy, giving him the appearance of an aged sage despite his youthful features. 

He swiftly took his seat.

Renher gave a nod of approval, the rest also arrived, signalling the start of the meeting.

"Report on the war's progress," he commanded. "Focus on casualties and our expenditure."

Thymur, already anticipating the request, had the details prepared. He cleared his throat before beginning:

"Since the war's initiation, our losses have amounted to—

47 soldiers fallen,45 heavily injured,300 with light injuries,15 mages sustaining minor wounds.

The total expenditure covering food, weapons, medical aid, funerals, and wages has reached approximately 10,000 gold coins. 

However, the spoils of war, primarily orc hide and mana stones, have yielded an estimated 12,000 gold coins in revenue—perhaps even more. 

Given our annual income of 100,000 gold coins from trade, taxation, and mercenary work, this war has, economically speaking, been more of a gain than a loss.

Moreover, with the orc menace eradicated, our borders will be significantly safer."

Renher's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Allocate a portion of our earnings to the families of the deceased," he ordered. "Ensure they are given priority in employment within the castle—whether as maids, chefs, or other suitable roles."

The meeting proceeded with strategies being debated at length. Various approaches were proposed for the upcoming battle—flanking manoeuvres, siege tactics, potential ambushes, and the necessary cleanup operations post-victory.

As discussions grew heated, Thymur's gaze flickered toward the window. A pigeon perched there, unnaturally still. His sharp eyes caught sight of the crimson seal wrapped around its leg—a sign of urgent correspondence. His heart skipped a beat.

Without hesitation, he rose from his chair and approached the window, gently taking the letter from the bird's grasp. The rest of the council barely paid him any heed, too engrossed in their deliberations.

Renher, however, observed Thymur keenly. Something about the urgency in his movement unsettled him. Thymur was not a man easily rattled.

Breaking the seal, Thymur quickly scanned the parchment. His brows furrowed. Then, regaining composure, he cleared his throat—a quiet yet commanding sound that brought the entire room to silence.

"This," he began solemnly, "is a message from the Mage Association. They have decided to lend us aid in the coming battle."

A murmur of shock rippled through the chamber. Even Renher, usually unreadable, arched an eyebrow.