Two centuries.
For two hundred years, blood had soaked the borderlands between the Republic of Lu and the Kingdom of Vanward. Villages vanished beneath fire and steel, generations were raised on inherited hatred, and countless soldiers were buried beneath nameless desert sand.
Yet tonight, beneath a calm desert sky, that war was meant to end.
The city of Luzia—Vanward's desert stronghold—shimmered at the edge of the wasteland. Built from pale stone and reinforced with ancient fortifications, it stood precisely on the border, where neither nation trusted the other enough to step further. Torches lined the courtyards, their flames swaying in the warm night wind.
The moon hung high and full. Stars watched silently as silk canopies fluttered overhead.
At precisely 7:30 p.m., the celebration began.
Royalty from both nations gathered in uneasy harmony. Crystal glasses clinked. Musicians played soft melodies. Servants moved carefully among embroidered robes and polished armor. Laughter filled the air—but beneath it lay tension, coiled and waiting.
Near the heart of the courtyard stood King Julies Vanward III.
Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence alone commanded respect. His royal coat bore silver trimming, though it sat on him more like a soldier's mantle than a king's attire. Sharp eyes scanned the gathering with quiet vigilance.
Beside him stood Gris Luxion, Commander of Vanward's army.
Gris wore a dark uniform free of ornamentation. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes missed nothing. Old scars traced his hands—silent proof of a man shaped by war.
Julies swirled his wine, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Strange, isn't it?" he murmured. "Seeing Lu's nobles laughing in my city."
Gris replied evenly. "Laughter comes easily. Trust doesn't."
Julies exhaled through his nose. "You never change."
At 8:30 p.m., the music softened. Servants stepped aside as two kings moved forward.
Julies raised his glass, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard.
"Tonight, we end a war that has stolen far too much from both our peoples," he declared. "May this treaty ensure our sons never raise blades against one another again."
Applause followed—cautious, but hopeful.
Across from him, King Marsh Brandston of the Republic of Lu lifted his glass. His expression was composed, his smile measured.
"To peace," Marsh said. "May history remember this night as the moment hatred finally ended."
Glasses clinked.
The feast began.
For a fleeting moment, it felt real.
Then Julies staggered.
The sharp sound of glass shattering cut through the night as wine spilled across the white stone floor. His body collapsed forward.
"Julies!"
Servants screamed. Nobles recoiled. Guards rushed in.
Gris was already moving.
Julies' face drained of colour. His breath came shallow, fingers trembling as they clawed weakly at his chest.
Poison.
Gris knew instantly.
Before orders could even be shouted, another truth struck the court like a blade.
King Marsh Brandston was gone.
No guards. No attendants. No trace.
Chaos erupted.
For two agonizing hours, healers fought desperately to keep Julies alive. Antidotes were forced past clenched teeth. Sweat soaked their robes. The poison had been crafted to kill kings.
Julies survived.
Barely.
Near midnight, Gris entered the royal chamber. Torches burned low, shadows stretching across stone walls. Julies lay on the bed, breathing shallowly, eyes half-lidded yet burning with fury.
Gris stepped forward.
Julies let out a weak, irritated chuckle.
"Don't you dare… start talking like a court official now."
Gris stopped, jaw tightening. "You shouldn't be speaking."
Julies' lips curved faintly. "Since when have I listened to you?"
Gris clenched his fists. "You nearly died."
Julies laughed softly—then winced. "Nearly." His eyes hardened. "That coward ran."
Gris nodded. "We have his location."
Julies turned his head slightly, voice low and sharp.
"I want that bastard here before sunrise."
Gris didn't bow. He struck his chest once in acknowledgment.
"Then I'll bring him."
Outside the chamber, the night air felt colder.
Gris moved swiftly through the palace halls. Officers snapped to attention as he entered the command room.
"Status."
The Vice Commander stepped forward. "King Marsh Brandston is confirmed at Lu's border stronghold. Heavy fortifications. Approximately one battalion stationed."
A slow grin spread across Gris' face.
"Good."
The Vice Commander hesitated. "Sir… that's enemy territory."
Gris turned, eyes glinting beneath the torchlight.
"So is betrayal."
He continued without pause. "Prepare five horses. The fastest. And alert the Greviers."
The room fell silent.
At 11:55 p.m., five figures stood before Luzia's western gate.
They wore masks carved like demons—each unique, each unsettling. Fanged grins frozen in wicked expressions, hollow eyes reflecting torchlight. Cloaks fluttered in the desert wind, weapons hidden beneath layers of dark fabric.
These were the Greviers—Vanward's executioners, unleashed when war demanded silence.
Gris approached last.
From within his cloak, he drew a mask unlike the others.
Jet black, polished to a dull sheen. A monstrous grin of oversized, jagged teeth stretched across its face. From its brow curved two thick horns, stained a deep royal purple, twisting upward like something born of nightmare rather than legend.
Gris secured the mask over his face.
At that moment, the man vanished.
Only the demon remained.
He mounted his horse, black cloak billowing behind him, purple horns catching moonlight. The Greviers turned toward him—not as soldiers, but as followers acknowledging their executioner.
"The treaty is dead," Gris said, voice cold beneath the mask. "Now we collect the truth."
The gates groaned open.
Five riders surged into the moonlit desert, hooves pounding like war drums as they vanished beyond the walls.