Asher hit the ground hard, the breath forced from his lungs as his back slammed against the dirt. It wasn’t the first time today. It wouldn’t be the last.

  Above him, Dravyn stood, his brow furrowed in concern. “My king, are you—”

  “Again,” Asher snapped.

  He surged up from his knees, the ground beneath him trembling with raw force. Each step he took, the earth responded—rising, solidifying, bending to his will. His control over earth magic was sharpening, growing more precise, more devastating.

  On the last step, Asher vanished.

  A burst of void mist erupted where he had stood. The training yard behind the palace gardens became thick with the swirling darkness of his magic, tendrils of purple-black smoke curling like living things.

  Jorven and Dravyn immediately widened their stances, scanning the field. Their battle instincts screamed at them—he was somewhere.

  Then, in a blink, Asher reappeared—above Dravyn, descending like a wraith from the sky. His training sword was aimed downward, a perfect strike.

  Void magic swirled along the blade’s edge.

  Dravyn barely had time to react. He brought up his own weapon to block, steel meeting steel—but then, the air around Asher’s blade shifted. The void energy condensed, swirling at the tip of the training sword like a singularity.

  A whisper of impact—

  Then nothingness.

  Dravyn’s sword disintegrated. The metal didn’t shatter, didn’t break—it simply ceased to exist, unraveling into nothing as if it had never been forged.

  Dravyn’s eyes went wide in horror. His instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could, Asher’s blade brushed against his gauntlet—

  And it too began to unmake itself.

  The steel corroded instantly, breaking apart like dust in the wind, the edges of the armor unraveling in slow, cruel tendrils of dissolution.

  Asher’s pulse hammered in his ears. The magic was too much. He pulled it back, forcing the void to retract, sucking the power inward before it could devour more than he intended. The moment he did, the gauntlet’s destruction halted, leaving it barely intact.

  Silence.

  Dravyn flexed his fingers, staring at the damage. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Asher, his expression unreadable—until Asher caught it.

  Fear.

  Not fear of battle. Not fear of loss.

  Fear of him.

  Dravyn’s voice was low, almost reverent. “My king… that power…”

  Asher exhaled, flexing his fingers, staring at the fading remnants of void energy clinging to his skin.

  “…is out of this world,” he murmured. “I know.”

  Before either man could say more, the shadows twisted beside him.

  Sylthara stepped forward, her black-violet robes flowing behind her, her wings stretching lazily. The violet-streaked strands of her midnight hair gleamed under the evening sun, and her blue and green swirling eyes—those luminous, knowing pools of Loyalty and devotion—locked onto him.

  “Master,” she purred. “Lunira is waiting for her training.”

  Asher turned to her. He could still feel the pulse of the Core inside him, the magic clawing against his insides, demanding more.

  Not now.

  He nodded and turned, walking toward the clearing where Lunira waited.

  Training wasn’t over.

  Not yet.

  Asher walked across the training grounds of the Junior Knights Academy, the institution he had personally founded to shape the future warriors of Aetherhold.

  This was where Lunira had been assigned—until she came of age.

  The problem was, no one actually knew how old she was.

  She had been found in the ruins of Nyxhold, an orphan of war, a survivor of horrors that would have broken most grown men. But she had endured. And so, Asher had placed her here, under his protection, to train until he deemed her ready.

  And she would be ready.

  He approached the head instructor of the academy, Madame Elisse, an aging warrior with sharp grey eyes and an even sharper temper. She turned as she saw him, her eyes widening before she immediately dropped into a deep bow.

  “My king,” she said formally. “Of course—Lunira is in Training Room Three.”

  She remained bowed, unmoving.

  It took Asher a second to realize she was waiting for his permission to rise.

  He sighed. “Thank you, Madame Elisse.”

  She straightened, stepping aside as he moved forward. His shadow stretched unnaturally behind him, curling and shifting—Sylthara hidden within it, her presence barely perceptible, but always there.

  Asher pushed open the heavy oak door to Training Room Three.

  Inside, the small figure of Lunira stood with her back to him, oblivious to his presence. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and steel, the dim lanterns casting long shadows along the stone walls.

  She was clad in chainmail too large for her, the links rattling slightly with every movement. In her hands, a dulled steel training sword, notched from repeated strikes.

  She swung it again and again at the wooden dummy before her, panting from exertion, yet never stopping.

  Her form was crude, unrefined—but there was something in her movements. Instinct.

  She would be a knight.

  Asher stepped fully into the room.

  Lunira froze, ears perking at the sound.

  Then she spun—her green eyes lighting up as she caught sight of him.

  “Asher!”

  The little girl sprinted forward, armor clanking, and without hesitation, she latched onto his right leg.

  Asher let out a soft chuckle, placing a hand on her head.

  “Hello, Lunira.” His voice was softer now, no longer that of a warlord, but of a mentor. “Are you ready for your training?”

  She beamed up at him, eyes filled with boundless determination.

  “Yes!”

  The evening air was crisp as Asher led Lunira to the small dueling yard behind the Junior Knights Academy. The torches lining the stone walls flickered against the twilight, casting long shadows over the worn dirt and training dummies.

  Lunira walked beside him, still bubbling with excitement, her chainmail rattling softly with each step.

  Sylthara followed at a distance, lounging against one of the wooden pillars, watching the exchange with quiet amusement.

  Asher stopped in the center of the yard and turned to Lunira, tossing her a dulled training sword. She barely caught it, the weight of the blade forcing her small arms to strain.

  “Good grip,” he said, adjusting her hands slightly. “But you’re holding it too tight. If your hands lock up, your movements slow down. Stay loose. Control the blade, but don’t let it control you.”

  Lunira nodded, correcting her stance.

  “Now,” Asher continued, drawing his own training sword. “Attack me.”

  She hesitated. “Won’t I hurt you?”

  Asher chuckled. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Lunira’s brows furrowed in determination. She charged, swinging wildly at his ribs.

  Asher barely moved. With a subtle shift of his wrist, he redirected her strike, letting her own momentum throw her off balance.

  Lunira stumbled forward.

  “Too much force,” Asher noted. “You’re trying to break through instead of getting past me. Again.”

  She huffed but steadied herself, trying again. This time, her movements were a little more controlled, but she still telegraphed every strike—her shoulders tensed before she swung, her footwork was heavy.

  Asher dodged with ease, stepping around each attempt.

  Lunira gritted her teeth, frustration creeping in. “I can hit you!”

  Asher gave her a small smile. “Then hit me.”

  She lunged forward, this time feinting left before cutting right.

  Better.

  But still not good enough.

  Asher caught her sword mid-swing, twisting it out of her grip and stepping behind her in the same motion.

  Before she could react, he ruffled her hair.

  Lunira growled, swiping his hand away. “That’s not fair!”

  Sylthara let out a soft, amused hum from the sidelines. “How adorable.”

  Asher ignored her. “You need to think, Lunira. You’re small. That’s not a weakness—it’s an advantage.”

  Lunira blinked up at him. “It is?”

  “Yes.” He crouched beside her, his tone calm and patient. “If you try to fight someone like me in a contest of strength, you’ll lose every time.” He tapped a finger against her forehead. “But speed? Agility? Precision? That’s where you’ll win.”

  She tilted her head. “Like… like a wolf fighting a bear?”

  Asher grinned. “Exactly.”

  Lunira’s face lit up with understanding.

  He stood back, holding out his sword again. “Now, try again. But don’t just swing blindly. Watch. Wait. Look for my weaknesses.”

  Lunira inhaled deeply, gripping her weapon with renewed focus.

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  This time, she didn’t attack right away.

  She circled him, watching.

  Asher let a small flicker of approval show on his face. Good.

  Then she moved—faster, more precise. She darted in low, aiming for his knee.

  Asher deflected the strike, but she was already pivoting, swinging at his ribs.

  A better attack. Smarter.

  He blocked it, but she didn’t stop. She was adapting, changing her rhythm, not letting herself get caught in a predictable pattern.

  After several exchanges, she finally landed a glancing strike against his shoulder.

  It didn’t hurt—but it was enough.

  Lunira gasped, eyes wide. “I—I hit you!”

  Asher chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. “Yes, you did.”

  She practically vibrated with excitement.

  Asher let her have her moment before crouching beside her again, resting a hand on her shoulder.

  “You did well,” he said softly. “But remember—landing a strike isn’t the same as winning a fight. Your enemy won’t stop just because you hit them.”

  Lunira’s excitement dimmed slightly, replaced by a more serious expression.

  “You have to be ready for what comes after. Always keep moving. Always be ready.”

  She nodded, absorbing the lesson.

  Then—she did something unexpected.

  She hugged him.

  It was quick, almost shy, but she buried her face against his chestplate for a brief moment before pulling back, cheeks red.

  “Thank you, Asher,” she murmured.

  He softened, his usual battle-hardened exterior momentarily slipping.

  “Anytime, Lunira.”

  He ruffled her hair again, much to her protest.

  “Hey!”

  Sylthara sighed dramatically from her perch. “How nauseatingly wholesome.”

  Asher shot her a look.

  Lunira stuck her tongue out at her.

  Sylthara smirked.

  Asher stood. “We’re done for today.”

  Lunira frowned. “But—”

  “No buts,” Asher said firmly. “Training isn’t just about fighting. It’s also about resting.”

  Lunira let out a dramatic sigh, but there was no real protest behind it.

  As Asher turned to leave, Sylthara fell into step beside him.

  “She’s growing attached to you,” she murmured.

  “I know.”

  Sylthara gave him a look. “And you’re letting it happen?”

  Asher exhaled. “What would you have me do?”

  Sylthara tilted her head. “Prepare her for the world.”

  “I am,” Asher said.

  Sylthara’s gaze flickered toward Lunira, who was still standing in the training yard, gripping her sword tightly.

  “…We’ll see.”

  Asher didn’t answer.

  But in his heart, he knew—

  Lunira wasn’t just a student.

  She was family.

  And he would protect her with everything he had.

  Asher had little time to himself these days.

  The moment Lunira’s training had ended, he left the dueling yard without pause, his body still aching from his own earlier training. But there was no time to rest—not when the fate of Aeloria was hanging in the balance.

  Sylthara, ever-present, remained in his shadow, unseen but felt. She had grown silent, watchful, the glow of her crimson eyes flickering just beyond the material world.

  He made his way swiftly through the palace halls, his boots echoing against polished stone as he approached the Council Chambers.

  Today, he was to meet with the Viridial Enclave and the Kharthai Dominion—two powerful factions whose support could mean the difference between victory and annihilation.

  He needed their troops.

  Aetherhold’s 60,000 soldiers were a formidable force, but not nearly enough. The Veinforged outnumbered them, and if Vorlath’s hidden masters could summon more…

  Everything would be at risk.

  Asher exhaled slowly, suppressing the tension clawing at his gut. He had led armies before. He had commanded legions, won wars. But now, the battle wasn’t fought with blades—it was fought with words, promises, and power.

  And that was a far more dangerous battlefield.

  Asher crossed the threshold into the Council Hall.

  Saelric stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone.

  He stepped forward, eyes locked onto Asher, his gaze not on his face, but on his chest.

  On the Void Core that pulsed just beneath his skin.

  “By the gods…” he whispered. “That power…”

  Brynn stiffened, stepping forward as if to block him, but Asher raised a hand, stopping her.

  Saelric wasn’t afraid.

  He was enthralled.

  “What are you?” Saelric breathed, almost reverent. “No—what have you become?”

  Asher straightened, shoulders squared. “A king.”

  Saelric exhaled sharply, a hungry look flickering behind his golden eyes. Not of greed, but of curiosity—of a scholar who had just uncovered a truth long buried by time itself.

  “I will give you my armies,” he said without hesitation. “The Viridial Enclave will serve you.”

  Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Even Vicky raised a brow at the lack of negotiation.

  Asher narrowed his gaze. “And what do you want in return?”

  Saelric smiled.

  “I want to study it.”

  Asher hesitated.

  Saelric gestured toward the faint pulse beneath Asher’s skin. “That Core inside you—its magic is not of this world. I have devoted my life to the study of the unknown, and this—” he exhaled, his voice trembling with awe— “this is beyond anything I have ever seen.”

  Brynn frowned. “And if he refuses?”

  Saelric didn’t waver. “Then I take my forces elsewhere.”

  Silence.

  Asher glanced at Brynn, who gave a subtle nod. She had already studied the Core herself—and if Saelric’s insight could help…

  He turned back to the Archmagister.

  “Do as you wish,” Asher said. “But you do not try to control it.”

  Saelric smiled, satisfied. He bowed deeply.

  “The Viridial Enclave swears fealty to Aetherhold.”

  One alliance secured.

  One more to go.

  Varkos Thorne leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

  “An impressive display,” he mused, watching the exchange. “But the Dominion does not bend as easily as Viridial.”

  Asher met his gaze evenly. “Then name your terms.”

  Varkos’s lips curled. “Simple. We want full exclusive mining and crafting rights to any new resources discovered in your future campaigns.”

  Brynn immediately tensed. “That is too much.”

  Varkos tilted his head. “Then I suppose you don’t need our 50,000 troops.”

  A sharp silence.

  Asher clenched his jaw. He knew this was an overreach. The Dominion was built on trade—they didn’t care about the war, only what they could gain from it.

  But Asher needed numbers.

  Before he could respond, Aetheros spoke, her voice calm but absolute.

  “You overestimate your leverage, General Thorne.”

  Varkos’s jaw tightened. “Do I?”

  Aetheros stepped forward, the air humming with her presence. “You ask for exclusive rights to something we have not even discovered yet. But let me make something very clear to you—Aetherhold will not be extorted.”

  The room tensed.

  Asher let the words hang in the air before finally speaking.

  “You get the contract,” he said, voice measured. “But only on newly discovered minerals from the next campaign. Anything beyond that will be negotiated separately.”

  Varkos exhaled through his nose, considering.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “Then we have an accord.”

  Asher moved through the halls of Aetherhold with purpose, his pace steady but urgent. The weight of what was to come settled over him like a stormcloud. His body still ached from the relentless training earlier in the day, but there was no time for rest. The attack on Nyxhold had to be planned, every detail accounted for.

  The iron doors of the war chamber loomed ahead. Unlike the grand council hall, this room was not meant for politics or diplomacy—it was a place for warriors, strategists, and kings who shaped the fate of the world through steel and blood. The chamber was built from dark stone, its walls lined with weapons of past conquests, banners of old victories, and maps that told the stories of fallen kingdoms.

  Inside, gathered around a massive war table, waited the commanders who would forge the strategy for the coming battle.

  Brynn stood with arms crossed, her piercing blue eyes already scanning the map laid out before them, absorbing every possible route, every potential weakness in Nyxhold’s defenses. There was no hesitation in her—only calculation, only the mind of a queen who had long since learned that intellect was a weapon sharper than any blade.

  Across from her, Vicky leaned casually against a pillar, but her golden-hazel eyes were sharp with thought. There was no jest in her expression tonight—she was a warrior first, and she knew as well as anyone that what lay ahead could make or break them.

  Aetheros stood near the far end of the table, her silver-blue eyes unreadable as she studied the assembled leaders. Her celestial robes shifted with an ethereal glow, ever-changing between violet, deep blue, and silver. Where others looked upon war with mortal eyes, she saw further, deeper. The presence of something greater flickered behind her gaze, a cosmic understanding that no one else could truly comprehend.

  Sylthara did not sit. She never did. She was a shadow at Asher’s back, her dark robes billowing as if carried by a breeze no one else could feel. Her wings folded behind her, the edges curling and shifting like living smoke. She was silent, but Asher felt her eyes on him, ever watchful. Ever waiting.

  Jorven, standing at the map’s edge, exhaled slowly, his gaze cold and assessing. He had spent a lifetime fighting wars, watching kings rise and fall. If he had any doubts about this plan, he had yet to voice them.

  Dravyn stood near him, fingers tapping impatiently against his blade. The younger warrior had always been one to move first, think later. The waiting, the planning, the discussion—it was not what he was built for. He lived for the moment when steel met flesh, when battle turned to chaos, when instinct ruled over strategy.

  Kaelen sat hunched over a collection of schematics, rubbing his temple as he examined calculations scrawled across parchment. The chief engineer of Aetherhold had been working tirelessly, designing siege weapons that might finally bring Nyxhold’s walls crumbling down. If the city’s defenses could be broken, it would be his work that made it possible.

  On one side of the table, watching Asher with a strange hunger, was Archmagister Saelric Taldros of the Viridial Enclave. His golden eyes burned not with ambition, but with fascination. He was not here for war—he was here for Asher himself. The Void Core that pulsed within Asher’s chest had consumed his thoughts from the moment they had met. Even now, he barely seemed interested in the strategy.

  Opposite him sat Lord-General Varkos Thorne of the Kharthai Dominion, rigid as a statue, his battle-worn armor gleaming under the dim torchlight. He did not give his loyalty easily, nor did he seem particularly impressed by Asher’s rule. But he had given his word, and in the Dominion, that meant something.

  The doors closed behind Asher with a resounding thud. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward him. He pulled off his gloves, setting them on the table’s edge, before placing his hands firmly against the map.

  “This war begins now,” he said.

  Kaelen reached forward, his fingers tracing the rough terrain etched onto the map. Nyxhold was a fortress carved into the mountains, its walls nearly unbreachable, its location making any approach near-impossible. Only one real path led to it—a narrow pass through the cliffs, a natural chokepoint that forced any army into a confined space.

  "The direct approach is a slaughter," Kaelen muttered. "The pass forces us into a kill zone. They’ll cut us down before we reach the gates."

  “They will,” Jorven agreed, arms crossed. “Unless we make them think we’re not coming that way.”

  Saelric arched an eyebrow. “Deception?”

  Jorven nodded. “A feint. We let them see what they expect—a full-force frontal assault—while we move our real strike team into position elsewhere.”

  Asher’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

  Jorven tapped the main pass, where the bulk of the Veinforged army would be stationed.

  “We make them believe the attack is happening here. A massive frontal assault—siege weapons, battalions moving in formation, the full might of Aetherhold in full view.”

  Varkos frowned. “That’s a waste of troops.”

  Jorven shook his head. “It won’t be a real attack. The Viridial Enclave will use their magic to create an illusionary army—twice our real numbers, convincing their scouts that we’re throwing everything we have at them.”

  Asher glanced at Saelric. “Can you do it?”

  The Archmagister smiled thinly. “We can make them see what we wish them to see.”

  Kaelen tapped another point on the map—a network of caves near the northern ridge.

  “These tunnels,” he said. “The Dominion has mapped them before. If they’re stable enough, we can move an entire strike force beneath Nyxhold itself.”

  Varkos smirked. “And if they aren’t stable?”

  “Then we dig new ones,” Kaelen said simply.

  The pieces clicked into place in Asher’s mind.

  Brynn nodded slowly, considering. “If this works, we take Nyxhold with minimal losses.”

  Dravyn smirked. “And if it doesn’t?”

  Jorven exhaled. “Then we all die.”

  Vicky sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Gods, I hate you all sometimes.”

  Asher straightened, looking at each of them in turn. “We move at dawn in three days. Varkos, prepare your engineers. Kaelen, get your scouts into those tunnels. Saelric, begin illusionary preparations.”

  His emerald gaze swept the room.

  “This war ends with us.”

  No one argued. No one hesitated.

  It was time to march.

  Nyxhold would fall.

  And then, they would set their sights on the Skyward Throne.