NOVPUBOutside, flames danced atop the iron braziers, casting long, flickering shadows across the camp. The orange glow etched grim patterns onto the faces of several dozen soldiers, each man moving with mechanical precision as they assembled the Dragon Head ballistas under strict orders. Lord Commander Alec Lyon stood behind them, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes hard as tempered steel.
None dared falter under that gaze.
Though now a noble, Alec had not been granted ownership of the Grand Aegis Legion by default, as lords in other domains often were. His authority was limited, not inherited.
Asher—once a man of Earth—had seen what unchecked military autonomy could do to a kingdom. He had known warlords, factions, coups. Because of that, he forged a different path. In his realm, all elite forces reported directly to House Ashbourne. Power remained at the core, loyal and consolidated. Rebellion, in such a structure, was not impossible—but far less likely.
His lords, by decree, were permitted only the city guard and a personal contingent of one thousand men—enough for honor, not for ambition.
Alec had begun forging his own elite cadre within those bounds—a force he named the White Mountains. Valiant men, handpicked and drilled to carry the banner of House Lyon. But even now, Alec's eyes remained on the Grand Aegis soldiers, the Emberframed—hulking men clad in darkened plate, chosen from the fiercest warriors of the land.
These were titans of flesh and iron. Their size, their endurance, their very presence made lesser men feel small. Alec had selected the strongest recruits he could find for his own force, but even they could not yet rival the Emberframed.
Tonight, he had them setting the Dragon Head ballistas along the northern perimeter. Suspicion gnawed at his thoughts. The wyverns that had passed overhead… too swift, too deliberate.
Perhaps it hadn't been a flyby. Perhaps it had been a scout.
Better to be cautious.
"Lord Commander," one of the soldiers called, wiping sweat from his brow. "We've assembled ten Dragon Heads. Do we halt preparations?"
Alec's cold stare met the man's eyes. "No."
The single word landed like a warhammer.
"That was a bit strong," came a familiar voice, light and teasing. "That man has a family, don't kill him with fear."
Alec turned, already scowling. Lambert. Of course.
The man wasn't even wearing his armor.
"Two wyverns just flew past this camp," Alec said, squinting at him, "and you haven't even strapped on your mail?"
Lambert shrugged and patted his shoulder like an old drinking companion. "You're half wyvern now, Alec. You're always breathing fire about something. I've been wearing that cursed armor for months. Let a man breathe."
"On enemy soil?" Alec growled.
"House Nubis isn't our enemy anymore," Lambert replied, grinning as usual, never bothered by Alec's glower.
Alec raised an eyebrow. "Velmyra doesn't belong to House Nubis anymore either. It belongs to the United Army. And they are our enemy."
Lambert clicked his tongue. "Must you always march with your jaw clenched? I came to ask a simple question: When are you going to marry? I heard Paul just joined with a Stormbringer."
Alec's face remained unreadable. "Did you come here to talk about Eritrea?"
The grin slipped from Lambert's face, replaced by a slight scowl. "We both know she's hopelessly in love with His Lordship. Wasted devotion, if you ask me."
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"I heard Lady Sapphira is here. And she's not wearing the hood of the Grand Priestess."
Alec gave Lambert a slight shove, just enough to keep him at bay. "She's with His Lordship."
His voice dropped lower, almost reverent.
"He's a lucky man… to have her."
It's by her grace we still live," Lambert said softly, his eyes drifting to the distant silhouette of Asher's tent. A soft wind stirred the flames in the nearby braziers, casting elongated shadows over the guards stationed around it. Towering among them stood Nero, unmoving like a statue of war, flanked by a host of paladins whose silent vigil exuded a quiet menace. The light from the flames etched their armor in gold and crimson, illuminating their oppressive forms like holy executioners waiting for command.
Then—without warning—the flames began to flicker violently.
A rush of air followed. Heavy. Rhythmic.
A sound Alec knew too well.
The beating of wings.
Massive wings.
His ears picked it up before the others. His eyes widened.
"Wyverns…!" he whispered. "Lots of them!"
He turned on his heel, voice thundering through the camp. "Load the ballistas! Sound the horn!"
He was already sprinting toward his tent, boots thudding against the earth. Somewhere behind, a horn split the night open—a deep, guttural blare that shook the very air and sent flocks of birds screaming from the trees.
In the war tent, Asher's eyes flicked to the exit. He tilted his head slightly. Through the thick canvas, he could just hear the chaos erupting beyond: men shouting, metal clashing, and one word shouted again and again—
Wyverns!
His expression hardened. "Leave," he ordered Sapphira, voice low but resolute.
He reached for his sword—only for the tent flaps to part at that moment. Nero entered, eyes grim. "My Lord," he said, voice taut with urgency, "the skies are black with them."
Shing!
Steel whispered as Asher drew his blade.
In one smooth motion, he swept past Nero and out into the night.
The world outside was chaos.
The heavens were ablaze.
Dozens upon dozens of wyverns darkened the skies, their massive bat-like wings beating the air like war drums. Some loosed gouts of flame, bathing the camp in blistering heat and roaring fire. Below, his men scrambled, ballistas launching thick iron bolts upward, each shot accompanied by the deafening creak of tension and the roar of retaliation.
The bolts struck true—some wyverns shrieked and spiraled down, crashing into the earth with bone-shattering force. But there were too many.
Their numbers were staggering.
Their growls were sharp and guttural, cutting through the clash of steel and the crackle of fire.
Asher stood in the eye of the storm, his golden eyes catching the firelight.
Time seemed to slow for Asher.
His breath caught in his throat, eyes trembling as they swept across the burning horizon. Hundreds of wyverns blotted out the sky, monstrous silhouettes with wings like stretched leather sails—dragon-like beasts in all but name. The air was thick with smoke, heat, and the deafening roar of chaos.
From their fanged maws spewed fire—torrents of it.
Tents vanished in bursts of flame. Screams echoed through the night. Men, wood, steel—devoured in seconds. Asher's grip on his sword tightened. He could feel it, deep in his bones.
Count Rimmon had come for vengeance.
Suddenly, a shift.
The priests and priestesses who had come with Sapphira moved in unison, their robes billowing with wind and power. They raised their hands to the heavens, chanting words. From their palms, radiant glyphs bloomed—hexagonal sigils of light that surged into the air.
Barriers.
Dozens of them.
Shimmering walls of divine energy snapped into place, catching the fire mid-air and shattering the inferno before it could touch flesh or flame. Wyverns shrieked, their breath attacks thwarted. The tide, for a moment, had paused.
And then it came.
A shadow larger than all others.
A black wyvern.
Massive—nearly twice the size of the others, its wingspan eclipsing the moonlight. Its scales shimmered like obsidian in motion, and its eyes glowed with unearthly rage. Its rider sat high upon its back, clad in darkened armor edged with cruel spikes.
Count Rimmon.
His mount opened its jaws and released blue fire—a torrent that roared forth like a titan's breath. It cut through the sky, a streak of hellish light meant to melt anything in its path.
But it didn't land.
A brilliant wall of golden light erupted in its way, swallowing the blue fire whole and holding firm.
Asher turned his head.
Of course—it was her.
Sapphira stood calm at the heart of the storm, arms raised, eyes glowing with ancient power. The shield she conjured rippled outward, spreading across half the camp like a divine dome. It shimmered with celestial light, humming with power far beyond the mortal coil.
"What…?"
Count Rimmon's voice cracked.
He stared down from his wyvern, stunned—not by the shield, but by her.
His breath hitched, his mind blanking. In all his years, through blood and conquest, never had he seen a woman so radiant. Even amidst the fires of war, Sapphira stood untouched—unearthly, inviolable.
A wyvern shrieked beside him, diving toward the barrier, claws outstretched.
Rimmon blinked, jolted back to reality.
If it struck the barrier—if it came near her—
He snarled and yanked his reins, tilting his own beast hard into the diving one, slamming it mid-air and knocking it off course.
The two wyverns spiraled apart, screeching.
Asher wasn't surprised.
He knew Count Rimmon's weakness—a woman.
And someone like Sapphira? She was his bane made flesh.
Without hesitation, Asher raised his hand. A gleam of cold light coalesced in his palm, forming into a sleek, razor-tipped ice javelin. He spun it once, then locked eyes on the sky.
"Paladins!" Asher's voice cracked like thunder.
Two hundred paladins responded in perfect unison, spears drawn back, arms poised with lethal precision. Their armor glinted beneath the barrier's golden glow.
"Loose!"
Asher hurled his javelin.
It tore through the air like a frozen comet, punching clean through the throat of a wyvern flanking Count Rimmon. The beast shrieked once—then spiraled down in silence.
Rimmon's eyes widened, head whipping around just in time to see dozens of spears streaking through the heavens. One by one, wyverns cried out and fell from the sky, impaled mid-flight.
Over forty wyverns dropped in a single heartbeat.
But it didn't stop there.
In the sky above, flickering embers began to form—dying sparks that burned brighter and brighter, then took shape.
Men.
Ghosts in armor. Assassins born from flame.
They vanished—and reappeared wherever their daggers had been thrown. Wyverns shrieked in horror as their wings were slashed mid-glide. Dozens plummeted, crashing into the earth like broken meteors.
And below, Ashbourne's hulking soldiers surged forward, armed with spears and heavy lances. They struck the falling wyverns with brutal precision.
"W-What in the world—!" Count Rimmon stammered.
His hands clenched around his reins. His heart thundered.
This was House Ashbourne?
Even faced with a hundred wyverns, they hadn't just held the line—they'd counter-attacked.
And succeeded. 𝚗ovp𝚞b.𝚌om
What kind of troops were these?!
He looked again. The soldiers he thought had burned alive… were moving. Their bodies crackled, cloaked in embers, their steps unwavering. Like knights wrapped in flame, they marched toward the wyvern corpses without a hint of pain.
"Why… won't they burn?!"
His wyvern shrieked, wings faltering as it instinctively pulled away from the battlefield. Retreating.
Rimmon's eyes snapped back to Asher—the golden-eyed lord who stood like a war-lord amid fire and light.
Has he been named by Tenaria…? Does he have access to the Lord's Domain?
That thought struck deeper than any javelin.
How else does he have these troops?!
....
A/N: I honestly forgot to upload and now I've missed a day.
