The wind stopped.
No dust, no sound—only the space between two gazes that seemed to measure the entire world.
Lyra, steady.Karna, smiling.Two predators waiting for the first mistake.
The bow still raised.The pistol still lowered.Time suspended on the edge of a blade.
And then… the sound.
Low, distant—but real.Hooves.
The echo coming from the lower walls shattered the silence; a sentinel, breathless, shouted from the towers of the marquisate:
"The unknown army! One day from the eastern border!"
The bow lowered.The silence returned, but it was no longer the same—heavy, inevitable.
Karna drew a deep breath.
Her brown eyes, once playful, now reflected calculation and duty.
"Well, it seems we'll have to leave this for later. Follow me."
Lyra hesitated for an instant, gaze assessing him, before taking the first step and following in silence.
As Karna led the unexpected visitor through the corridors of the Marquisate, the air shifted—dense, tense, thick with omens.
The hall of the marquises was immersed in an oppressive silence, where every stare became a sharpened blade.
Phoebe and Haron sat in their usual places—imposing, though their expressions betrayed a shadow of unease.
The muffled murmur of the councilors echoed like a distant whisper, weighted with doubt and fear.
Haron was the first to break the silence, his deep and measured voice cutting through the air:
"It's been long minutes since Karna departed. Tell me… do you believe the word he brought us to be true?"
Phoebe turned to him—serene, yet with the firmness of one who knows the peril of power:
"You refer to Prince Éreon? I cannot claim to know his true intentions. However… we do not intend to kneel before him."
The silence in the hall remained thick—each word hanging in the air like a steel wire ready to snap.
Then came the sound of the doors.A guard announced, his voice laced with urgency:
"Lord Tirésias, Lady Tirésias, Sir Karna has arrived!"
The guard's voice echoed through the hall, firm, though carrying a hint of hesitation.
He paused briefly before continuing:
"But… he is not alone, my lords. He said the one accompanying him is a messenger from the army marching east."
Marquis Haron nodded slowly, his gaze firm.
"Let them enter."
The guard bowed and withdrew, opening the great doors of the hall.
Outside, two sentinels crossed their spears before the visitor.
"Weapons," one ordered, his tone firm, not arrogant, but weighted with protocol.
Lyra did not hesitate. Slowly, she removed the pistols from her side holster and the dagger strapped to her thigh, handing them over with the calm of someone merely returning a borrowed thing.
"Careful with the trigger," she said, in a tone almost courteous, as she surrendered the weapons. "It answers better to impatience than to reason."
Karna restrained a faint smile. The guards stepped aside, opening the way.The doors opened wide.
And the sound of boots echoed on polished marble as Karna entered the hall, posture impeccable, expression composed.
He inclined his head slightly before the two lords, in respect.
Behind him, Lyra followed in silence—precise steps, hands clasped behind her back, the cold expression of a military envoy accustomed to bearing orders and burdens.
When she stopped, she lifted her chin and spoke clearly, without hesitation:
"Lord Tirésias. Lady Tirésias. I apologize for my unannounced visit, but I am here on behalf of His Highness, Prince Éreon."
Phoebe kept her gaze fixed upon the visitor, her voice calm, yet sharp as fine steel:
"By the way you approached us, I fear we have little choice but to listen. So tell me… what does your prince desire from our lands?"
Lyra did not avert her eyes.
"I am here to collect an old debt."
Phoebe raised an eyebrow, her voice still tranquil:
"I fear I am unaware of any debt owed to your prince."
Lyra tilted her head slightly, a faint, cold smile crossing her lips.
"I heard you were blind, Lady Tirésias."
The air shifted.The silence, once solemn, grew dense—heavy with memories no one dared name.
Lyra stepped forward.
"Tell me… do you remember when your sight was restored?"
Marquis Haron rose from his seat with clenched fists, fury ready to turn to action—to strike like an iron hammer upon anyone who dared threaten his people.
Phoebe lifted her hand, and with a single serene gesture, stopped him.
Her gaze was cold as a deep lake; an absolute calm that rendered all impulse useless.
"What are you insinuating with that question?" she murmured, her voice low, ceremonial, yet firm. "Depending on your answer, our army will march east—not as allies, but as enemies. From what I know, your prince commands nine hundred and ninety soldiers. Our lands hold twice that number."
Lyra smiled, a corner of her lips carrying the echo of a cutting memory; a voice crossed her mind:
Phoebe is dangerous. Be careful, girl. Don't be fooled—the one who will make you move won't be you, Lyra.
She drew a breath, and her voice sliced through the hall with military precision:
"Indeed… it would be the worst scenario if those nine hundred and ninety marching east were truly the entirety of your force."
Phoebe studied Lyra's face for a moment, as if weighing the truth in her words. Then she turned to Karna.
"Sir Karna," she said, with noble authority, "you said you awaited this prince Éreon. I'll speak frankly—should we fear him?"
Karna stepped forward, posture relaxed yet eyes sharp as a drawn bowstring. His voice, even when sincere, carried his natural lightness:
"Numbers mean nothing before him. Éreon doesn't move on impulse; he moves when he's absolutely certain he'll remain standing at the end. If that time has come, we'll know it by the blood—and by the silence that follows."
Among murmurs, the councilors exchanged uneasy glances—each one measuring cost and gain, each one calculating how to protect their lands and their necks.
Phoebe raised her hand once more, and the hall fell silent. Her voice, now, was decree:
"I'll send Isabela, Doros, and Thalia. They'll accompany you with a detachment of our newly trained soldiers. You will have autonomy to move them as you see fit."
She turned her face to Lyra, eyes like blades dulled by serene light:
"Messenger," she said, "tell your prince we will not kneel. If he chooses to attack us, he may not later complain of the consequences. Do not ask for mercy, and do not blame us for what will follow. Go now, and carry this answer."
Lyra inclined her head in acknowledgment, without submission—a gesture of one who accepts the terms of war and politics without emotional concession.
She lingered a moment, studying Phoebe, as if mapping reactions and memories, then turned away.
Without looking back, she left the hall with firm steps; Karna followed soon after, measured pace, his smile returning only when he passed beneath the shadows of the columns.
The echo of the closing doors seemed to mark the instant when the neutrality of the West and the march of the Black Dragon became promises of inevitable collision.
Far away, beneath the same pale twilight sky, the army marched eastward.
The rhythmic thud of footsteps and the metallic cadence of weapons formed a melody of iron and discipline that echoed through the valleys.
The cold wind carried the metallic scent of freshly polished blades and the weight of black banners beating against the air—each one bearing the white sigil of the Lunar Dragon, shimmering amid the dark cloth. A living omen of the war to come.
The soldiers advanced in perfect formation, each line moving as one body, trained to obey without hesitation.
At the head of the formation, mounted on a horse black as night, Éreon watched the horizon in silence.
His gaze fixed, impassive—the expression of one who had foreseen the ending long before the first sword would rise.
The wind swept between the ranks, cold and constant.
Éreon raised his hand, and the sound of hooves ceased.
"We make camp here."
Marcus turned to him, startled.
"But, my lord… it's still early to camp."
Éreon kept his eyes on the horizon—the East stretched ahead, gilded by the dying light.
"The children weren't trained to march in darkness," he replied. "And depending on the response from the lords of the East… many of these will not return."
Marcus fell silent.
A brief nod, and he moved off, commanding the officers to raise the camp.
Then Éon approached.
"The messenger has not returned."
Éreon did not answer immediately.
He kept his gaze on the path winding through the distant hills.
Only then did he speak, without turning:
"She'll join us tonight. We're half a day from the Marquisate… she won't be long."
Éon watched him in silence, his face uncertain.
Éreon noticed, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed his lips.
"Ask," he said. "I know the doubt is eating at you."
Éon hesitated, but his voice came firm:
"I overheard your talk with Lyra before she left. When you said you had abandoned sixteen centuries… those weren't just words, were they? Truly… no one will remember you?"
Éreon turned his gaze slowly toward him.
His eyes, glinting in the sunset, seemed to carry entire eras of memory.
"They will remember," he answered, his voice low, weighted. "But not as the son of Érobo."
Éon felt the weight of those words fall over him like a mantle of iron.
He stood motionless, staring at the horizon, as the sound of Éreon's horse fading into the distance marked the solemn rhythm of the destiny drawing near.
The wind stilled once more, and the field fell silent.
The prelude to war would begin at dawn.