From every window of Riosa Castle, one could gaze out over the gorge, where the landscape transformed dramatically with each passing season. In spring, wildflowers carpeted the cliffs; in summer, mist rolled like silk between the peaks; autumn painted the foliage gold and crimson; and winter cloaked the entire valley in silence and snow. The view was counted among the five most breathtaking in the southern lands.
Seen from the skies, the fortress surrounding the castle formed the shape of a massive star, its angular bastions extending like points of light. Locals and travelers alike called it the shard of a star embedded in the earth—a name as poetic as the fortress was formidable.
Thanks to its commanding position and unique design, Riosa served not only as a symbol of pride, but as an impeccably defended stronghold.
“How many casualties?” Andrei asked, his tone clipped.
“Seven dead. Eleven seriously wounded. The rest sustained minor injuries,” replied Barnon, consulting a parchment marked with troop names and positions.
The operations room—once a humble food cellar beneath the castle—had been transformed into a nerve center of command. Lanterns flickered against stone walls. Around a wide oak table stood Andrei, Barnon, and Duke Bellator, their faces tense with grim focus.
A battle had erupted before dawn, catching the valley in shadow. The sun had yet to rise above the gorge when the alarm bells rang.
To reach Riosa, one had to navigate the river that carved through the gorge, then scale the steep valley slope and ascend to the hilltop fortress. An attack on the valley meant the enemy had breached the castle’s natural defenses.
Andrei’s eyes narrowed. “A sneak attack with no declaration of war?” he said, voice edged with scorn. “So they’ve decided to discard even the most basic rules of engagement.”
Duke Bellator gave a grim nod. “In Grandel, declarations of war are more than ceremony. They’re tradition. Custom. Even Ugel followed them when they marched on Argan four years ago.”
“Well,” Andrei muttered, “apparently that line’s been crossed.”
Barnon leaned in, pointing to a map of the surrounding terrain. “This doesn’t look like a full-scale invasion. There are only about a hundred troops camped at the river’s source, just beyond the gorge. It’s likely a reconnaissance force—probing the valley, assessing Riosa’s defenses.”
“If they’re testing us,” said Duke Bellator, “they’re preparing for something larger.”
“If the gorge falls, we’ll need to brace for a siege,” Andrei warned, his voice steely.
“We’ve stationed archers in every tower,” Barnon said reassuringly. “Each corner of the fortress is fortified. Cannons have been mounted along the northern and western walls. It won’t be easily taken.”
Andrei, who hadn’t slept a wink the night before, leaned over the map table and carefully repositioned a brass pin.
“If this turns into a drawn-out campaign,” he said, his voice heavy with fatigue, “we’re at a disadvantage. We’re up against Ugel—who knows what inhumane methods they’ll stoop to? If they unleash disease within the fortress, we’ll be helpless.”
He straightened, eyes scanning the room. “Securing enough supplies to last at least six months must be our top priority. We need to dispatch a messenger falcon to the Royal House of Regal—before our supply lines are severed.”
Duke Bellator frowned, stroking his grey-streaked beard. “What of a counterattack? Shall we assemble a vanguard?”
Andrei shook his head. “No, Duke. We can’t afford to strike too hastily. We don’t know what traps they may have laid. Rushing in now would be reckless.”
Murmurs filled the room as strategies clashed and opinions jostled for dominance. But then, a calm, clear voice cut through the noise.
“We need to reinforce the barrier around the castle first.”
All eyes turned toward the speaker. The imperial princess had been silent until now, watching from the edge of the room like a shadow draped in velvet. Her words hung in the air, commanding attention.
Elise stepped forward, the folds of her deep crimson cape trailing softly across the stone floor. Reaching the table, she slid the pin Andrei had placed for Riosa Castle back down to the base of the gorge.
“And we must strike back—swiftly,” she continued, her tone firm. “A reconnaissance battle is as much about willpower as it is about strategy. If we hesitate, we give them confidence. We must prove, beyond doubt, that the Argan faction still stands strong.”
She paused, scanning the doubtful expressions gathering around the table. Her lips curled into a faint, ironic smile.
“There’s no reason to be intimidated,” she said coolly. “We possess a power savages could never hope to match.”
A beat of silence followed. The officers exchanged uneasy glances.
Elise raised an eyebrow. “Magic, of course. Why are you all so surprised?”
Her gaze dropped to the topographic map, where a red X marked the site of the dawn skirmish. Her fingers lingered near the symbol, the weight of memory flickering behind her eyes.
“To this day, the only way to break magic is with stronger, more potent magic. And that power lies solely with Argan’s royal bloodline—and those who bear the blood of dragons.”
She lifted her chin, her voice growing colder. “The barbarians cannot stand against true magic. At most, they’ll scatter thornvine brambles to disrupt mana flow, but that won’t amount to anything lasting. As it has always been, magic will be our greatest weapon.”
Duke Bellator stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “Your Highness… forgive me, but…”
His voice trailed off. The room grew tense with unspoken truth.
It had been eight years since Argan’s army began phasing out magic. The boy emperor—once lauded as the reincarnation of the founder for his brilliant command of the arcane—had lost more than half his magical ability in a matter of weeks. The first failure came with the collapse of the protective barrier on the kingdom’s border.
In the aftermath, Argan’s military had been overhauled, shifting its strength toward physical defense and conventional tactics. Magic, once the backbone of their power, had become a fragile memory.
Bellator’s gaze met Elise’s. “The risk… is not small.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “But neither is surrender.”
Elise curled her lips in a knowing smile, one that held no joy—only the weight of bitter understanding.
“His Majesty won’t take the field,” she said coolly. “He has a weapon to wield in his stead. There’s no need. I’ll use the magic.”
Andrei shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing. “A weapon? That’s not a word I like, sister.”
She ignored him, fingers deftly moving the pin across the map once more. Her eyes swept over the parchment with sharp, calculating focus.
“We have two advantages,” she continued. “Favorable terrain and magic they can’t defend against. If we fully exploit both, the Ugel forces will never make it to the castle. That means every strategy must be redrawn—with the magnitude of my magic at its center.”
Her voice was steady, devoid of vanity, but firm with conviction.
“I may not be as skilled as Andrei,” she added, glancing briefly at her brother, “but I can still put on enough of a spectacle to remind the world that Argan has not forsaken its mages.”
Duke Bellator’s eyes narrowed. “Like in Norella, Your Highness?”
Elise nodded without hesitation. “Yes. That time it was an earthquake. This time… a landslide, or perhaps a rockfall, should suffice.”
Her tone was casual—dispassionate, almost—as if discussing weather instead of destruction. Whispers of a dragon protecting the imperial princess had already spread across the continent. This would be the perfect moment to feed those rumors, to fan the flames and cloak Argan’s desperation in legend.
She placed the pin squarely in the center of the valley, just above the site of the skirmish.
“It’s actually fortunate,” she said, tapping the pin. “That they moved early. We need to act fast—push them back before reinforcements from the Northern Alliance cross Regal’s border.”
Elise traced her fingertip along the map, drawing a line from Rotiara in the far north down to western Regal.
“Even riding without rest, it would take them two weeks,” she murmured. “And if it’s Rezette… leading a full army southward from the capital, he’ll need at least a month.”
Her hand paused.
Rezette Kyrstan. He was more than just a name—he was the unknown on the edge of every plan. A wild card. Unpredictable. And unlike the commanders gathered in this room, he wasn’t bound by politics or loyalty to Argan.
She had no way of knowing what he was planning—or whether he would help or hinder her—but one thing was certain.
Once he learned what she was trying to do here, he wouldn’t stand by and let it happen.
He loved her. But he did not love her country. Or her family.
He was a man cold enough to remain indifferent even to his unborn child—simply because that child might one day bring harm to her. He would never allow her to throw herself into danger for Argan’s sake.
In that way, Rezette wasn’t just a variable in her strategy.
He was an obstacle.
Which meant the time she had now—these few precious weeks out of his reach—was everything. What she did with this window would decide the outcome.
