Under Raven’s banner.
The general opened his mouth.
To scream. To curse. To beg.
Raven swung his hand.
The motion was small. A flick. The gesture of a man brushing away a fly.
The ship — the ’Iron Tide’, the flagship, the pride of the Valdorian navy — split.
Not exploded. Not shattered. Split. Cleanly. Along the center line. From bow to stern. The deck separated. The hull separated. The keel separated. The two halves — the port side and the starboard side — fell away from each other. The ocean rushed in.
The general fell.
Between the halves. Into the water. Into the black, freezing, churning water. His body — the body of a man who had survived forty years at sea, who had won twelve battles, who had never been defeated — sank.
The flash.
The light. White. Blinding. From Raven’s hand. The mana — concentrated, released — flashed. The flash consumed the wreckage. The ship. The bodies. The debris. Everything vanished. Consumed by the light. Erased.
The ocean was calm.
The sky was clear. The clouds were gone. The magic circles were gone. The meteors were gone. The ice spears were gone. The fleet was gone.
Raven hovered.
Above the empty ocean. Alone. His coat billowing. His violet eyes looking at the horizon.
~~ The Valdorian Capital — The Same Moment
The crystal shattered.
The sound was heard across the capital. The crack — like thunder, like the sky itself breaking — echoed through the streets. The people stopped. In the markets. In the taverns. In the temples. They stopped and they looked. At the Great Hall. At the tower. At the crystal.
The crystal — the great treaty crystal — was dark.
For three hundred years, it had glowed blue. A constant. A comfort. A symbol. The light that children were born under. The light that couples married under. The light that the dead were buried under. The light of peace.
The light was gone.
The chaos was instant.
In the palace. In the council chamber. The Empress — the ruler of Valdoria — was in her chambers. Her attendants ran. Her guards mobilized. The ministers — the civilian government, the bureaucracy that ran the nation — assembled.
"The crystal has broken!"
"The treaty—!"
"The demons—!"
"Prepare the military! Call the reserves! Fortify the borders!"
"WE ARE GOING TO ARRANGE THE COUNCIL!"
The last voice came from behind the curtains.
The council chamber had a dais. At the back of the dais — curtains. Heavy. Silk. The color of gold. Behind the curtains — the Empress. Not visible. Never visible. The Empress of Valdoria did not show her face to the council. She ruled from behind the curtain. Her voice — filtered through the silk, through the fabric — was the voice of the nation.
"Call for the other nations," the voice said.
The ministers went silent.
The voice was— calm. Not panicked. Not frightened. The voice of a woman who has ruled for thirty years and who has faced crises before and who does not flinch.
"The treaty has been broken," the voice said. "By the demons. The five nations must unite. Send delegates. To all four. The Athoria Kingdom. The Barbarian Tribes. The Free Cities. The Eastern Federation. The delegates will carry the message. The council will be convened. In thirty days. At a neutral location. All nations must attend."
The ministers bowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The delegates were sent.
~~ The Delegates
Three delegates. Three nations. Three messages.
The first delegate went north. To the Free Cities. The message was received. The Free Cities — a loose confederation of merchant republics — agreed to attend the council. Their delegate would be sent.
The second delegate went east. To the Eastern Federation. The message was received. The Federation — a military alliance of three minor kingdoms — agreed to attend. Their delegate would be sent.
The third delegate went west.
To the Barbarian Tribes.
He arrived.
At the border. At the crossing. At the place where the grassland met the desert. The barbarian territory.
He found ruins.
The palace — the bone palace, the throne of the barbarian kings — was rubble. The stones were scattered. The wood was ash. The ground was blackened. The smell — of smoke, of death, of poison — lingered.
The barbarian kingdom was destroyed.
Not conquered. Not occupied. Destroyed. The king — dead. The council — dead. The military — scattered. The nation — gone.
The delegate found something else.
Signs. Tracks. The evidence of an army. Not a barbarian army. A different army. The tracks came from the south. From the Athoria Kingdom. The tracks went north. Into the barbarian territory. The tracks returned south.
The Athoria Kingdom had destroyed the Barbarian Tribes.
The delegate sent a message.
By magic. By the communication crystal — the small, hand-held device that allowed instant communication across hundreds of miles. The message was brief. Coded. Urgent.
’Barbarian nation destroyed. Athoria responsible. Proceeding to Athoria to confront.’
The fourth delegate — the one sent to the Athoria Kingdom — had already arrived.
He stood in the throne room.
The throne room of the Athoria Kingdom. The Great Hall. The one that had survived the fire. The one that had been rebuilt. The one that now bore the green banners of the Emerald bloodline.
He was not alone.
The third delegate — the one who had found the barbarian ruins — had arrived. Two delegates. In the same place. At the same time. Both looking for the queen.
They stood.
Before the throne. The empty throne. The stone throne — the one that had been built from earth and stone, the one with the gold veins, the one that was connected to Raven’s mana.
A man was seated on the throne.
Not the queen. A man. His hair was black. His eyes were— they could not see. The man was looking down. At something. At his lap.
The delegates looked at each other.
"Where is the queen?" the first delegate said. His voice was formal. Diplomatic. The voice of a man who is accustomed to courts and protocol. "We wish to see Her Majesty. We carry messages from our respective nations."
"Where is Queen Vivian?" the second delegate said. His voice was harder. Military. The voice of a man who has just found a destroyed nation and who is looking for answers.
The announcement came.
"Her Majesty, Queen Vivian of the Athoria Kingdom!"
The delegates bowed.
Their heads went down. Their eyes went to the floor. The formal, automatic gesture of diplomats in the presence of royalty.
Their eyes lifted.
The moment they did — the moment their eyes left the floor and rose — the word stopped in their throats.
The queen had stepped in front of the man.
She was on her knees. Before the throne. Before the man. Her emerald hair was loose. Her gown was white — the queen’s gown, the ceremonial dress. But the gown was open. The bodice was un laced. Her breasts were visible — small, firm, the nipples pink, stiff. Her skirt was hiked. Her thighs were bare. Her stockings were visible. Her panty was visible — white cotton, the fabric snug.
His cock was against her cheek.
The man’s cock. Twelve inches. Dark. The shaft veined. The head swollen. The cock was pressed against the queen’s cheek. Not in her mouth. Against her face. The side of the shaft against her skin. The dark against the pale. The veins against her cheekbone. The head — at her temple, the pre-cum leaking, the clear fluid on her emerald hair.
She licked.