Reconnaissance & Speech

They spent the next two days making their plan.

Rashan moved like a commander shaping a battlefield. Every hour held purpose. Morning began with conditioning. Afternoon became recon. Evenings were for mapwork and precision.

He wore his family's name like a blade. Clean robes. Measured tone. Noble crest always visible. When he spoke, people listened. When he asked for access, they stepped aside. No one challenged a Sulharen conducting an "inspection."

"My father requires full reports on vital infrastructure—grain storage, drydock capacity, trade reliability. He expects accuracy."

People complied. Some blinked. A few hesitated. Every answer came quickly.

At the granary, Rashan walked with the supervisor in tow. He asked exact questions.

"What hours receive the fewest carts?"

"Who locks the east gate?"

"How long to clear this corridor in a fire?"

The granary lay pressed against the merchant quarter. Built from pale stone, thick-walled and dry. Grain chambers stacked tall on either side of a vaulted corridor. Work crews rotated in waves—morning, midday, late dusk. Each team moved like clockwork. Guards stood at the front gate and along the rear hall, though their posture remained casual.

This was a soft target. Civilian in nature. Heavy with food, light on weapons.

Rashan estimated two fire potions to ignite the structure. A third would collapse the central chamber. Accelerant poured beneath the grain racks and over the middle struts would fuel a complete burn. Early afternoon offered the cleanest strike window, when the loading shift moved slowest.

The drydock and docks demanded more.

Rashan walked them in full daylight. Nobles inspected harbors often. No one raised a voice. He spoke directly to captains and work crews, asking hard questions.

"What guard unit handles the overnight shifts?"

"Where do you store pitch and resin?"

"Who grants clearance for merchant restocking?"

Taneth's harbor served as the city's main artery. Warships anchored beside grain barges. Repair scaffolds lined the piers. Supply crates stacked along the edge. Men hauled timber, coiled rope, and patched hulls from dawn to dusk. Guards rotated across four points, two per pier, always armed and visible.

This was a hard target. Active. Guarded. Strategic.

Rashan marked five critical zones: the central pier, the scaffolding bay, the resin storehouse, the loading ramp, and the tar platform. Each point required a separate potion. Accelerant poured near the barrels would trigger a wide burn. Fire on the scaffolding would spread vertically, cutting escape and control. The dock's destruction would remove Taneth's ability to repair, resupply, or reinforce by sea.

A midnight strike offered the best window. Quiet. Low visibility. Shift change already underway.

Finally came the bridge over the Yer.

Rashan walked it at dawn and dusk. He paced the length, leaned against the stone railing, and counted the number of carts and pedestrians across each hour. No one stopped him. Nobles admired city projects all the time.

The bridge stretched wide over the river's southern bend. Two carts could pass side by side. Merchant traffic flowed from warehouse to trade road. Stone supports ran beneath the surface in three arches. No stationed guards. Civil use only.

This was a soft target with massive consequences.

One potion placed beneath each support column would weaken the arches. Accelerant drawn in a single, winding line across the spine would ensure collapse from pressure load. The best moment came just before dawn, during the first lull in traffic.

Three targets.

Ten potions.

Of course he had done all his scouting while on his first run so no would remember him touring the targets that would soon burn down.

Rashan studied his map, each mark crisp in charcoal.

Food. Ships. Travel. The core arteries of a city.

Once the fire took them, the Dominion would find only smoke.

The question, now, came down to timing.

Rashan leaned over the map, fingertip tracing the charcoal circles. Each mark meant something. Each strike had purpose.

He held no interest in being in the city when the Dominion arrived. The strike needed to come early enough to disrupt Taneth's function—late enough to give people a chance to move.

Few expected an invasion. Most still waited for orders, believing peace held or that the Empire would somehow intervene. Confusion blanketed everything. No unified response. No clear plan. Just silence, noise, and hesitation.

But he intended to clear that confusion today.

A speech. Time to use that noble status of his.

People would hear what was coming—even if belief escaped them. Many would still choose to stay and fight. Fools. But at least they would make the choice with their eyes open.

Rashan saw opportunity.

His mother's caravan already prepared. She carried about a quarter of the bread he had stored across the city—enough for those willing to leave. The rest remained hidden in secure caches he had personally arranged. If the plan fell apart—or conditions shifted—he could reload and try again when his next loop became available. He made sure each route stayed flexible.

The answer lay in the strike pattern.

The granary would go first. Flames would rise. Screams would follow. Commanders would race toward the fire. Then, while the chaos rolled through the alleys and the air thickened with smoke, he would strike the docks and drydock. Guards would remain scattered. Patrols would stay off balance. Five precise placements would cripple Taneth's naval function—no repairs, no resupply, no escape.

The bridge over the Yer would wait. A day, maybe two. Long enough for the message to settle. With no food and no fleet, many would choose the road. His mother's caravan would already be moving. The path would remain open—briefly.

Whatever bread remained in his hidden stores would burn with the rest. Better ash than enemy rations.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. The map held steady in front of him. His team stood ready.

The timing lined up.

Life was about to catch fire.

But he was dreading what came next.

He had to give a speech to give the people a chance to make an active choice stay or leave. The weight of his family alone would give a voice in Taneth.

But it had to be done.

The day before his mother's caravan would depart, he sent messengers across Taneth. Each one wore Sulharen crimson, bearing a sealed proclamation stamped with his family's crest. The message was clear and formal: House Sulharen would speak publicly the next afternoon. A matter of duty and honor.

Officially, the words came in his father's name. Unofficially, they were his.

The purpose ran deeper than appearance. He wanted everyone out—but fighting men and women most of all. Every blade that left the city became one more to stand against the Dominion later. Every family that fled would be one fewer burden when the war came crashing through Taneth's gates.

And if the Sulharens appeared to be leaving too? Even better.

By midafternoon, the courtyard had filled.

Opposing noble houses stood near the back, arms crossed, watching with cold calculation. Allied families clustered closer to the front, wearing silks and jewelry, formal but quiet. Mercenaries lingered at the flanks. City guards, off-duty blades, and ex-soldiers filled in the middle. Behind them: merchants, apprentices, common folk—gathered not by loyalty, but curiosity.

The Sulharen name carried weight—not just as nobles, but as one of the ruling families of Taneth. When a Sulharen called, people came.

The dais had once belonged to a Yokudan command circle—carved from curved sandstone, lifted above the square with shallow steps and flanked by old statues of warrior-kings. The back wall still bore faded symbols of war: curved blades, binding oaths, blood marks. Today, two vertical banners hung from either side, red and black with the Sulharen crest.

To the left of the platform, his mother stood tall beneath a veiled circlet, the kind worn by older noblewomen during civic ceremonies. Her robes were violet silk, lined in silver. Her presence commanded silence, even without a word.

Sadiaa stood beside her. Hair braided into a high crown. Dressed in layered blue and gold wrap, with house knots tied into her sash. She didn't fidget. She didn't smile. She simply stood there—sharp-eyed, unreadable, and watching.

At the foot of the dais, a proclaimer waited. An older man, dressed in ceremonial green bearing the city's crest. His voice rose like a hammer falling.

"By proclamation of House Sulharen, ruling bloodline of Taneth—by authority of Lord Samir Sulharen, and the honor carried by his name—his son shall speak."

A pause rippled through the courtyard.

"Rashan Sulharen, step forward."

His right to speak was because of a technicality. His father still lived. His brothers still outranked him by birth. But they were gone. And that left him.

Rashan moved up the steps slowly.

He wore formal house colors: dark red coat, black trim, light armor underneath—nothing ostentatious, just enough to signal discipline. His boots struck the stone in steady rhythm. He gave no smile. No wave.

At the top of the platform, he turned and faced them all.

His mother and sister stood to his left, silent and unmoving.

And before him, Taneth waited

As Rashan looked over the crowd, he adjusted his posture slightly—chin high, shoulders even, gaze steady. He didn't force it. This part of him came naturally.

Every room he entered, eyes followed. It couldn't be helped.

He hadn't earned it through charm or speech or some cultivated mystique. It came from blood. From presence. From something his father called "the weight of a name." And Rashan carried it well.

Jalil had it too—that silent, unshakable gravity. You either had it or you didn't.

Rashan sighed inwardly.

If his brothers had been here, they could have done this. Worn the mantle. Given the speech. He could've stayed where he was best—quiet, calculating, tucked behind the curtain with his notes and his plans.

But they were gone. And it fell to him.

He had read dozens of speeches—Imperial rhetoric, Yokudan declarations, war calls, diplomatic placations. He'd studied how leaders shaped a crowd's will. Back on Earth, psychology had been part of the training. As a SEAL, understanding body language, cadence, silence, and suggestion had been survival.

And right now, all he needed was one word: yes.

He didn't need belief. Not yet.

First, he needed agreement.

So he stood straight, let the air settle around him, and began in a voice calm and grounded—not loud, not dramatic. Just precise.

"Taneth stands on a foundation older than memory."

He let the first line sink in. Simple. Heavy.

"The stones beneath our feet were carved by hands who crossed the sea not to beg—but to build. They did not ask for shelter. They took the land, raised walls, bled into the sand, and called it home. Not because they were given the right… but because they claimed it."

The crowd shifted slightly. A few tilted their heads. Some nodded—forebears, mostly. Traders. Proud families who traced their line to the first wave from Yokuda.

"We remember our ancestors not for the comfort they passed down, but for the burdens they carried. They gave us more than cities. They gave us the will to endure."

His eyes moved slowly across the front rows. Opposing nobles. His mother's allies. The armored shoulders of captains and mercenaries.

"Our strength does not lie in walls or gates or watchtowers. Those can be broken. They have been broken."

He paused, not long. Just enough.

"It is the will of her people that holds Taneth together."

And still—he did not speak of the Dominion.

Not yet.

Let them lean in first.

Let them agree.

And they did.

A soft murmur passed through the gathered crowd. A ripple of stillness followed. Not silence from discomfort—but from weight. The kind that pulled heads forward, made eyes sharpen.

They were listening.

And Rashan had their breath in his hand.

"And the people are at risk," Rashan said, voice steady.

He let the words rest—no poetry, no lead-in. Just truth.

"The Dominion is coming."

The crowd started to grow loud.

"Let me finish," Rashan said. "I know what I'm saying is just one of many opinions. Let me ask you—when is the last time we got a ship of military men back?"

He'd been watching the ports. Ships came, yes. But he hadn't seen a single passenger ship carrying soldiers.

The people looked at each other and murmured.

He pressed again.

"They are selectively blockading us. Not with full fleets, but with control. Cargo is allowed. Coin is allowed. But fighting men and women? They're being held back. Slowed. Delayed. They don't want our strength returned."

He let that settle—then delivered the blow.

"This city will fall. We stand unprepared for their full might. We must leave the city…"

Oh, they roared at that.

The crowd erupted—yelling, arguing, throwing their arms wide in disbelief. Pride met fear, and it showed.

There was plenty of opposition. He could see it—tight mouths, narrowed eyes, arms crossed. But he also saw it in the crowd—those quiet shifts of weight, glances exchanged. Seeds of agreement.

"Silence!" the proclaimer shouted. It took more than a few tries.

And finally, the noise stopped.

Someone shouted, "Coward!" Another voice called out something else—anger thick in the air.

Rashan stood still, then answered.

"I am not looking to flee. I am looking to stand."

His voice cut clean across the space.

"Their ships are faster. Their fleets more coordinated. Their battlemages trained. But they do not have our mettle."

He stepped forward.

"Let them meet us in the sand—where their navy carries no weight, where their formations break, where their magic finds no foothold."

His voice rose—not in volume, but in certainty.

"We will cut down their mages. We will scatter their war bands. We will burn their plans under sun and stone."

He lifted his chin.

"Let them come. But let us choose where they bleed."

There was no applause.

Just silence—tight, bristling, alive.

Then a voice from the back shouted, "You're abandoning the city!"

Another fired back, "Better to abandon stone than bury your family beneath it!"

Arguments erupted across the plaza. Forebears barked over Crowns. Nobles accused commoners of cowardice, and commoners mocked their pride. A few guards stepped forward, unsure if order needed to be kept—but Rashan made no move.

He stood still. Let it unfold.

The shouting didn't shake him. The fury didn't matter.

They were no longer standing silent. They were deciding.

He let it go ten full minutes.

Then, with ritual weight, the proclaimer struck the ceremonial staff against the stone platform—once, twice, three times.

The plaza stilled.

Rashan stepped forward again.

"My mother—Lady Mira Sulharen, Matron of House Sulharen—will lead a caravan at first light."

His voice rang clean and composed.

"Food will be provided. Space given to any who wish to leave—noble, warrior, craftsman, widow. No name forgotten. No debt owed."

He let the offer sit.

"You choose."

Then his voice sharpened, carrying the iron weight of something older than the walls around them.

"Remain here, and meet them in streets built for trade, not battle… or walk with us into the deep sands. The lands our ancestors crossed beneath burning suns and blood-red moons."

His gaze swept the crowd.

"Let the Dominion come ashore. Let them plant their banners and march forward."

"We'll show them the cost."

He stepped to the edge of the platform.

"Let them meet our blades where the dunes swallow formations, where their mages choke on wind and grit, where every stone remembers Yokuda."

He raised his chin.

"We will drive them back to the sea—and drown them in it."