Ogard Kingdom.

The great hall of Ogard Keep.

A fortress within itself—massive stone pillars carved with the likeness of wolves and serpents, the ancient totems of the kingdom.

Fires burned in iron braziers, as the banners of Ogard hung in the autumn air, green and silver stitched with the crowned wolf.

King Roderic of Ogard, a broad-shouldered man with streaks of steel in his beard, sat upon the wolf-carved throne at the head of the chamber.

His eyes, sharp and weathered, scanned the parchment in his hand.

The seal had already been broken—the crimson wax impressed with the sigil of the Valerian royal house, the crest of the Empire. But the handwriting within was unmistakably that of Prince Sylas Valerian.

The hall was quiet.

Only the distant growl of wind from the mountain passes seeped through the stone. Around the long table before the throne sat his council: generals, merchants, priests, and lords bound by oath and fear alike.

Each waited for their king's word, but all had seen the darkness flicker across his face as he read.

Finally, Roderic folded the parchment and set it upon the table.

"It has come," he rumbled, his voice carrying the weight of decision. "The Second Prince commands Ogard to rouse its armies. We are to march on Byzeth."

A murmur swept through the council—half disbelief, half unease.

"Byzeth?" said Lord Halbrecht, his war-scarred general, leaning forward with fists clenched upon the oak. "That land is not any kingdom. It is ruled by the Fourth Prince himself. The boy Aric Valerian wears its crown. To march against him is to raise sword against Imperial blood."

The words hung heavy in the chamber.

To oppose an Imperial prince—no matter how forgotten or despised—was to step dangerously close to treason.

But Chancellor Gerran, a lean man with eyes like coals and fingers heavy with rings, tapped the table with cold calculation.

"We must remember the customs of the Empire. The Valerians have long upheld the principle that conquest between the vassal kingdoms is beyond the hand of the Imperial Legions. They will not act—not for Aric, nor for any. The throne itself forbids interference unless rebellion is raised directly against the Emperor."

"Custom," Halbrecht spat. "Custom is well enough when peasants clash over borders, but this—this is blood kin! Will the crown truly stand idle if we try to take what belongs to a prince?"

Roderic lifted a hand, stilling them. His gaze was steady, iron-willed.

"The crown will stand idle because it suits them. The silence from the capital during Byzeth rebellion attempt tells us enough. This is no rogue order—it is sanctioned, if only by indifference."

The priest at the far side, High Flamekeeper Osric, shifted uneasily. His robes smelled faintly of incense, his lips trembling with piety and fear.

"To strike at a prince of the Empire is to tread the path of sin, Your Majesty. Even if the Legions stay their hand, what of the gods' judgment? The blood of an Imperial is sacred."

"Sacred?" Lord Halbrecht barked a laugh. "Tell that to the soldiers who starve in winter while Byzeth fattens itself on northern trade. Tell that to the men buried in shallow graves when the Fourth Prince seized his throne with foreign swords at his side."

"Enough," Roderic's voice thundered, silencing them.

He rose from the throne, the torchlight catching the crown upon his head.

"The matter is not whether the boy is sacred. The matter is that Sylas commands, and we cannot ignore it. Ogard is a kingdom of wolves, but even wolves bow to the hand that feeds. Sylas promises reward, and should we falter, he promises ruin. We will not test his patience."

Chancellor Gerran leaned forward, seizing the moment.

"Think of what lies in Byzeth. Merchant routes that stretch to the sea. Grain houses enough to feed half our levies. And the Midgard province—rich with gold, its markets brimming since the Fourth Prince pacified the rebellion. All this could be ours if we are swift."

Another lord, heavyset and draped in furs, stroked his beard. "If Byzeth falls, what prevents Aric's allies from crying vengeance? Northrend aided him once—"

"They will not," Gerran cut him sharply. "The northerners care for Byzeth trade, not who rules it."

The room held with tension. All knew the truth—Aric Valerian was not the weakling prince he had once been.

His conquest of Byzeth had stunned the thirteen kingdoms. His name, prior spoken with mockery, was now whispered with a mix of fear and awe.

To march against him was to test the strength of a rising fire.

But Sylas's shadow loomed greater.

King Roderic descended from the dais and stood among his council. His presence was like a wolf among hounds, his eyes cold and sharp.

"You are caution of the Fourth Prince. So am I. But what we fear more is Sylas Valerian. That man is not to be crossed. He moves the pieces of this game with ruthless efficiency, and we are but one of many. Already he rallies the Blackiron Kingdom beside us. If we falter while they march, Ogard alone will be left to face his wrath."

The lords muttered, their fear shifting like sand.

"Your Majesty," Halbrecht said at last, voice low, "if we commit to this, there is no turning back. Our men will bleed, and Byzeth will not fall quietly. You know the Fourth Prince will fight like a cornered wolf. Perhaps even call on the Empire to shame us."

Roderic's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile.

"So be it. Let him call and plead. It will change nothing. The Empire does not lift its sword in these matters, and the Emperor will not intervene. If the Fourth Prince wishes to survive, he must prove stronger than us. And if he is not, then he will be carrion for the crows."

The silence that followed was suffocating, as though the walls held breath.

Finally, Roderic turned back to the throne and placed his hand upon the wolf's head carved into the armrest. His voice carried like thunder.

"Prepare the levies. Call the banners. Soon, Ogard marches for Byzeth."

The hall erupted into motion—scribes rushing with ink and parchment, generals whispering of supply lines, lords already imagining the plunder of conquered lands.

Yet beneath the clamor, unease still rippled through the chamber.

The high priest crossed himself with flame sigils, muttering prayers under his breath.

Lord Halbrecht bowed, but his face was stone, carved with doubts that could not be spoken aloud. Chancellor Gerran alone smiled thinly, his rings glinting in the firelight like the eyes of a serpent.

And upon the throne, King Roderic sat once more, his jaw set like iron.

His heart knew fear, but it was buried deep beneath ambition and necessity. The order had been given.

The wolves of Ogard would march, and Byzeth would feel their fangs.

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