That day felt as though the world had decided to pass through Dracye's tent in waves. Lady Seraphyne had departed at mid-day. Night had barely settled its velvet cloak across the camp before another visitor came, as if fate itself had scheduled an unbroken chain of reckonings for him.
The tent was wide, shadowed by heavy drapes and maps strung across walls. The great table in the center was littered with scrolls, bone-carved miniatures and inked lines marking supply routes and choke points. On the western edge of the Ilvaran map, new strokes of crimson ink traced the slow, deliberate tightening of a noose. Perhaps they were his strategies to bleed Elarion dry in measured cuts that would leave the nation gasping.
Dracye sat with his cloak discarded carelessly over the edge of the bed, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his forearms. His eyes were closed, head tilted back against the chair's worn headrest, the faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that exhaustion hadn't completely claimed him. The war lived in his mind as much as on the parchment before him, every move already rehearsed in silence.
The tent flap stirred, letting in a draught of night air and the faint murmur of soldiers' voices outside.
"Your Majesty," a servant's voice broke the stillness, soft but urgent, "Prime Minister Vaelthorn has arrived."
For the first time all day, Dracye's hard expression softened, and subtly he said
"Send him in. Immediately."
A man in his fifties entered. A long scar ran from his left cheek to the corner of his lips, distorting the faintest hint of a smile. Mavryn Vaelthorn, his once-bright ginger hair had faded to copper and iron, tied loosely at the nape. His presence was the sort that required no announcement, the guards stationed at the corners straightened without being told.
"By the speed" Mavryn said, his voice edged with dry amusement, "you now conquer provinces. Vortalis will soon need a bigger map."
Dracye exhaled a soft scoff, almost a laugh. "I see, you still bothers with strange compliments."
As he spoke, he rose from the chair and stepped forward, the earlier weariness slipping from his frame. Mavryn opened his arms in mock solemnity, and Dracye closed the distance with a rare, genuine smile. The two men embraced.
After the warm welcome Mavryn moved, the lamplight grazing the scar along his face. From within his cloak, he produced a worn, folded paper and set it on the war table.
"There's movement near the southern pass," he said. "Ilvaran remnants or maybe opportunists. I came to deliver it myself."
Dracye's eyes skimmed the paper briefly before returning to him. Without a word, he pushed himself back. He crossed to the sideboard, uncorked a dark bottle, and poured deep crimson wine into two glasses. He returned with deliberate steps, offering one to Mavryn and said,
"You didn't come just to deliver a message."
"No." Mavryn's gaze held his, taking the glass, with the weight of unspoken history pressing between them.
Mavryn with drink in his hand, lowered himself onto the heavy chair across from Dracye. For a moment, neither spoke. They drank like men who had repeated the act a hundred times before. Mavryn studied Dracye quietly, his gaze lingering on the young ambitious emperor.
"Your mother was here?" he asked at last.
Dracye's jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the campaign map before him as though the parchment itself had offended him.
"She was," he muttered.
"And?" Mavryn pressed gently.
"She left."
Mavryn said nothing. He simply sipped from the wine again, letting the fire crackle fill the void. Dracye broke the silence at last, his voice low, almost uncertain.
"Do you think I was cruel?"
"No," Mavryn replied, in his even tone.
"You were precise. There's a difference. But cruelty… cruelty is sometimes inherited too."
A brittle smile ghosted across Dracye's lips at that, gone as quickly as it came. He leaned against the chair, the flames painting his hairs in restless gold.
"When will you return to the capital?" Mavryn asked at length.
Dracye's voice came out cool and calm as ever,
"Not until I've drained the marrow from these lands. My appetite's still sharp. You hold the reins in Vortalis, so why should I waste time behind a desk while there's treasure still left to be found, bountiful land left to conquer?"
Mavryn said nothing at first, but his eyes slid toward the dagger half-buried beneath parchment. He tapped it with two fingers, narrowing his eyes.
"And that?" he asked quietly. "Is Elarion your next feast?"
Only then did Dracye met his godfather's gaze. His eyes were cold, his voice smooth as a blade drawn from oil.
"All their fat lords and soft daughters are gathered in one place. One strike, and their crown crumbles. They won't even bleed properly, but I'll make sure they do. How did I overlook a land so ripe, so resourceful, so easy to break? That ends now."
He turned back to the map, controlled and cold. But Mavryn's voice sharpened, carrying a weight that had checked Dracye since childhood.
"You were raised to strike without mercy, but also to finish what you start. Now is not the time." Mavryn pressed closer.
"I know you're more eager than anyone to be most strongest of all," Mavryn said.
"But wars aren't won by one man alone. Even if you have the sharpest mind, the strongest skill, and the will of iron you still need those who stand beside you. The Vortalis army has been in the field for Eighteen months without rest. They're not made of the same steel you are, Dracye. People call you the Lucifer's first-born, but remember the rest of your men are only human."
"Even beasts pause after a kill. Let your army sleep and rest. Let the enemies rot in their comforts. Let them grow fat again, their sentries careless. That is when you slaughter them."
He picked up the dagger, rolling it back across the table like a warning, the gold in it catching firelight.
"Strike when it is clean," he said. "Not when your heart is loud. I trust you'll heed that. "
Mavryn drained his glass and rose, drawing his cloak about him, its crimson hem trailing like spilled blood over Ilvarion's stolen carpets. As he turned, his voice cut the silence.
"I'll gut the last of Ilvaran myself. Save your blade for the crown you truly want."
***
It was close to midnight. The fire pits burned low, their embers crackling softly in the silence. Most of the camp had gone quiet, the drunken laughter and clatter of soldiers long since drowned by the slow pulse of sleep. Only the insects remained, their endless chorus skimming across canvas and dry grass. Horses shifted restlessly in their tethers, stamping against the earth, snorting into the heavy night air.
And beneath it all—
zzkk… zzzkk… zkkk.
That sound came again. A faint, mechanical distortion, jagged and unnatural, as though the fabric of the world were stuttering on itself.
Dracye stepped out of his tent without a word, already clad in black leathers and a dark cloak. His sword hung at his hip. His gloves were drawn tight across his hands. In the pale flicker of the campfire light, he looked less like a man and more like something the dark itself had shaped: the devil, perhaps, stepping out wearing a handsome face to lure the world into his shadow.
From the shadows, another cloaked figure emerged, his hood drawn low to hide his face. His hand fell instinctively to the hilt of his blade as he bowed his head in quiet deference.
"Your Majesty," he murmured, in a low voice. "Something you need?"
Dracye's gaze remained fixed on the dark horizon, he said: "A horse. Quietly."
The hooded figure raised his head in surprise. He had been with Dracye long enough to know when a command carried more weight than it seemed. He blinked once, steadying himself at the sudden request, then inclined his head in obedience.
"As you command, Your Majesty." He hesitated only a breath before speaking again.
"Your Majesty… forgive me, but may I ask, where are we going at this hour?"
"To walk on Elarion's ground myself. And I am going alone."
The words rang like iron in hooded man's mind. Alone. A warning bell, echoing against the charge entrusted to him by Prime Minister Mavryn: the Emperor's safety was his burden to bear. A pause hung heavy between them. Although not visible but his jaw tightened. He knew this look in Dracye eyes. Restraint but obsession, the quiet hunger that drove him toward whatever had caught his attention. Once his curiosity was stirred, he pursued it like a hound on a scent, relentless until it was sated.
Finally, the hooded figure stepped forward into the lamplight, the shadows peeling back to reveal the lean, honed lines of his body: flexible and strong, built for swift, silent movement, the kind honed not in open battlefields, but in the dark, unforgiving work of shadows. Out came his voice edged with the kind of boldness only a man in his position could risk.
"Elarion?" he asked. "Now?"