Once the hoplites moved to their posts, Aleric did not hesitate. He understood what summoning them would mean: Visibility, escalation and attention from forces larger than the barons. But he also knew safety built quietly in secret was still fragile—a glass house waiting to be smashed. If he wanted to be safe from future attacks, he had to display his strength. He had to become a deterrent against outside forces. Only then would safety become achievable.
As he watched his summoned hoplites move to their positions, he thought about what kind of forces he wold need. He could not choose names nor could he dictate exact identities. What he could do, however, is shape his intent. He would shape his intent and send it into his well of power and trust it to reach what he needs. It was still a gamble, he knew it, but the risk of future attacks drove him to act. He would just hope his iron will would be enough for it to work.
He closed his eyes and projected his will and intent inward. He needed strong veterans. Men with magic. Professionals that could serve as the backbone of his forces.
Just as he was visualizing, he received an immediate response. The air thickened, the atmospheric pressure spiked until his ears popped. Mana compressed so densely that even breathing felt heavier, like inhaling liquid silver. Then—a pillar of light descended from the heavens. It tore through the sky like divine judgment, a blinding vertical scar that bleached the world white.
It could be seen from the hills, a beacon of impossible power. For a fleeting second, Aleric wondered if he had miscalculated. Not the strength, but the scale. There would be no backing out from this. The sky itself had announced him.
The pillar could be seen from the furthest roads and even from the upper balcony of the Baron's manor, Baron Edrin stepped out onto stone, his eyes widening as the light reflected in the dark wine of his glass. "What has he done…" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the hum of the energy.
Across the city, a griffin rider slowed mid-flight, the beast shying away from the sudden surge, and from her courtyard in High Valmere, Elowen Virelle looked toward the horizon, her jaw tightening. The pillar burned bright. Too bright. But by the time she moved, it would already be too late.
+++++
At the estate, the pillar struck the training field. It did not burn. It did not scorch. It breathed. From within it came a scent: dense forest, wet earth, ancient vegetation. It smelled as though nature itself had stepped forward to offer its protection.
Then, steel emerged. Boots marched in synchronized rhythm, a heavy, metallic thud-thud-thud that shook the dirt. Out of the light came knights. Not crude mercenaries. Not regional soldiers. These were steel-armored warriors bearing crested shields and longswords resting at their hips. Their armor was polished, fitted, and immaculate.
They marched in disciplined ranks, helms forward, formation tight. On their tabards was a sigil Aleric recognized from the deep wells of legend: Camelot. The knights of the Kingdom of Camelot. Warriors who once stood under the banner of King Arthur.
Aleric stared, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Magic knights…" he murmured.
Their presence radiated something beyond martial discipline. Refined mana clung to them like a second skin, a shimmering aura of ancient oaths. Fifty knights completed their march and stopped in unison. Shields raised slightly, then lowered in a unified salute. Their very presence made the air feel heavier.
Aleric exhaled slowly. He had expected strong summons; what he had not expected was to summon knights of legend. For a brief, dangerous moment, he felt small. These were not constructs or faceless soldiers. They had once followed a king who shaped the history of Great Britain, and now they stood before him. The realization did not feel like triumph; it felt like a crushing responsibility. But it did not pause him for long.
As soon as they were fully summoned, he sent out his intent again. This time he was looking for ranged soldiers, people who could help defend the estate from its walls.
Another pillar descended. This one was warm. It carried the scent of sun-baked sand, salted sea air, and ancient cedar. The wind shifted, bringing a coastal breeze into the heart of the estate.
Figures emerged. Light armor first—Greek breastplate, bronze greaves, and arm guards. They wore Corinthian helms with no plumage, their faces hidden behind T-shaped slits. Longbows were already in their hands, tall and masterfully crafted from composite wood and horn.
Athena stepped forward slightly, her breath hitching in her throat. Recognition flickered instantly in her grey eyes. "These are…"
The Trojan Archers. The world-renowned bowmen of ancient Troy. The very same who had rained death upon the Greek lines for ten long years. She had seen them fight; she had watched thousands of her followers fall beneath their relentless volleys.
"They do not miss," she said quietly, her voice tinged with a rare, somber respect.
The twenty-five archers moved with silent, lethal professionalism. They saluted, then aligned themselves beside the knights, their movements fluid and economical. So far, he managed to summon Infantry and archers—the company's roster was already forming naturally.
What Aleric believed the Gilded Fang needed now was a rapid response force. Men who can take to the field quickly to chase down stragglers and also be adaptive. He sent his intent back into the well, this time, he could feel the toll on his mental strength. He had to push further, forcing his way deeper and deeper into the well, trying to connect with what he needed. As he pushed, he felt a connection forming. Just as it fully formed, a new pillar descended.
The pillar that descended this time was pure, opaque white. Nothing was visible within it until the ground began to tremble. Then came the sounds: horses snorting, stamping, the rhythmic beat of disciplined hooves.
The white light thinned, and they emerged. Twenty-five mounted cavalry clad in bronze and steel, long xyston lances angled upward like a forest of needles. Their cloaks flowed behind them, and their horses were massive, battle-conditioned beasts.
They were unmistakable. The Companion Cavalry of Alexander the Great. The elite Hetairoi of Macedon. No cavalry in the ancient world had been more loyal, or more devastating in a charge. They reined in simultaneously, lances grounded in a silent acknowledgment.
This was supposed to be the summoning of regular troops, men to form their mercenary company and also act as security for the estate. Instead, every summon that came out turned out to be the best of the best of their time period. This wasn't the summoning of the foundation of the Gilded Fangs anymore. This became the rise of a new military power.
As Aleric stared in shock at all the summons that answered his call, Athena had to squeeze his shoulder to bring him back from his thoughts. "You should not forget that these men are going to need healers and doctors. Without them, our company won't last."
Aleric did not hesitate. "Right, healers."
A beat of silence followed. Then a light spread across the ground like dawn—not blinding or violent, but gentle and warm. The air filled with the scent of crushed herbs, olive oil, and holy incense.
Twenty men stepped forward carrying leather satchels filled with tools and remedies. They were clad in simple but refined garments beneath light protective gear, their eyes sharp and their hands steady. They were the disciples of Asclepius, the greek god of medicine, and also the finest healers of the ancient world.
They bowed respectfully, and one stepped forward, his voice calm. "We are happy to serve my lord."
Aleric felt a wave of relief. He knew armies did not survive on swords alone; they survived on those who could mend the flesh and he was glad these were the people that answered his summons.
+++++++
When the last pillar faded, the training field stood transformed. The field was filled with Knights of Camelot, Trojan Archers, the Companion Cavalry of Macedon and the Disciples of Asclepius. Everywhere they looked, they could see a force of organized and disciplined legendary warriors.
Even Fafnir was silent, his emerald eyes wide, stunned. Fenrir's golden eyes moved slowly across the assembled ranks, assessing the quality of the "pack" Aleric had gathered.
Athena folded her arms, her gaze lingering on the Trojans. "This changes things."
It was an understatement. Aleric looked at what now stood within his walls. He had chosen to accelerate his plans and summon troops to help with the overall security, and the well of power had answered with history's finest.
Above the estate, the sky still shimmered faintly from residual mana. Across the city, Elowen Virelle mounted her griffin without waiting for her reinforcements. The event that took place was outside her expectation and she needed to see what had happened. She had been warned not to arrive uninvited, and she remembered the weight of Fenrir pinning her to the earth. This time, she would not land. She would assess from the safety of the sky. Or so she believed....
As she angled toward the estate, the transformation was unmistakable. Disciplined formations now occupied the training field. Even from high above, she could see the metallic uniformity and the disciplined spacing. This was not a rat-tag assembly of mercenaries; this looked more like a military inspection.
Her eyes narrowed. Then, her griffin shifted uneasily beneath her. A low rumble vibrated through its chest. It sensed something below. Something watching.
+++++
At the baron's manor, Edrin stood frozen on the balcony long enough to watch the final pillar fade. That was not ritual magic. That was not summoning circle craft. It violated every magical theory he had ever studied. Whatever it was, it was not normal.
His face drained of color. "whatever this is...." he whispered. "it can't be good."
He turned sharply, his voice cracking. "Butler!"
The elderly man appeared instantly. "Arrange a carriage with an escort of twenty cavalrymen. Now!"
"My lord?"
"Now!"
The butler did not question again. Within minutes, hooves thundered from the manor gates. Edrin climbed into the carriage himself. He had to see it. Had to understand. If Aleric was the source of that power, Edrin's position was either unshakable or catastrophically threatened. He needed answers, whether Aleric would provide them voluntarily or not.
Back to the Gilded Fang's estate, Aleric watched the distant speck of Elowen's griffin. She still believed the sky was a sanctuary. That there was no way they could reach her there. He could have decided to let her leave, but he chose to honor his earlier warning. Power, once revealed, was safest when it was undeniable. The situation was already contained. His summons already stood ready, awaiting his command. Soon, his message will be sent.
As he watched her a little longer in the sky, he decided. He would teach her a lesson. One that she will never forget. He turned slowly toward Fafnir and leaned close enough that only the dragon could hear.
"The griffin is in the sky over the estate," Aleric said calmly. "Remind her of our earlier warning."
A faint, dangerous smile curved Fafnir's lips.
"Do not kill her."
The smile widened. "You may eat the griffin, though."
A low chuckle escaped the dragon-man. "With pleasure."
Fafnir stepped away and removed his outer garments with unhurried composure, placing them neatly aside. Heat began to ripple from his skin, shimmering the air. His spine arched, and scales erupted across his flesh in molten waves of crimson and gold—not bursting, but emerging, as though they had always been there.
His frame expanded, limbs lengthening into talons that gouged the earth. Wings tore outward from his back in a violent unfurling. The ground beneath him dried and cracked instantly. Fafnir stood in his true form—a colossal dragon, scales gleaming like forged treasure, eyes burning like twin suns. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils.
He did not run. Did not crouch. He simply flapped his wings once. The gust flattened the grass across the entire field. Dust and debris spiraled outward. And then—he ascended.
The sound alone thundered across the estate. High above, Elowen's griffin shrieked in alarm. She turned, and her breath caught. A massive dragon was advancing towards her and as he flew up, the sound of laughter could be heard.
"Hah! Let us see if Griffin tastes like chicken!" Fafnir roared, the sound rolling across the sky like heavy artillery.
Elowen's eyes widened in true terror. Her griffin panicked, banking hard in a desperate attempt to retreat. But the dragon was faster. Far faster. Fafnir surged forward, the sky itself seeming to recoil. Then he opened his jaws. The roar that followed was pure pressure—windows shattered across the city, and citizens dropped to their knees.
On the road approaching the estate, Baron Edrin's carriage nearly overturned. The horses reared violently. "What in the gods' names—?!" Edrin shouted. Then he saw it. The dragon in the sky is chasing a griffin-like prey.
+++++++
Ten kilometers away from the Fangs' estate, in a clearing hidden by dense woodland, five hundred men stood assembled. They were all professionals. Disciplined and efficient.
The master of the assassins' sent to the estate stood at the front, his armor donned and his blade at his side. He had opposed Baron Edrin for nearly two decades. Edrin ruled with contracts and coin; the master ruled with silence and leverage.
Balance had been maintained through mutual restraint. Until now. If the Baron bound himself to a mercenary company capable of fielding armies, that balance would shatter permanently. This was no longer a rivalry between nobles; this became about survival.
But beneath that cold strategy burned a raw, bleeding rage. One of the bodies shredded in Aleric's courtyard had been his son. He had trained the boy himself. Sharpened him. Forged him. The finest assassin in the country. He had never failed a contract, not even when the target was a high level mage.
It had been meant to be routine. Instead, he died in pieces.
The master's jaw tightened. "Move out!" he ordered.
Five hundred men began marching toward the estate. Their pace was fast but silent. What they could not have known was that they were marching straight toward soldiers of legend.
++++++++++
Above the city, the dragon closed the distance.
Elowen clung tightly to her griffin's harness, her knuckles white against the leather. She had believed altitude was make her safe. Now she understood the bitter truth—it was merely open space, and open space favored wings larger than hers. The heat radiating from Fafnir was a physical wall, scorching the air and making her griffon's feathers curl.
From afar, Aleric watched the dance between predator and prey. His expression did not change, but something inside him had gone very still. A word from him—and the sky burned. That kind of authority was not meant for men, yet it answered him without hesitation. He was calm on the surface, but his pulse had not slowed since the first pillar fell.
The destruction caused by Fafnir was efficient and controlled. And it had answered him instantly. That unsettled him more than the dragon's flames. It had been easy. Too easy to order him to hunt her down. The weight of his power suddenly felt like a mountain falling on his shoulders.
Security first, he reminded himself. Let the world understand the cost of attacking us.
The sky burned with the reflected gold of Fafnir's scales. The ground trembled under the weight of the legendary army now standing in his courtyard. And ten kilometers away, war marched closer by the minute.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Aleric was no longer running. He had become a key power in the region, a sun in a world of candles. That kind of power draws the eyes of everyone.
Aleric Saint stood at the center of the storm he had created, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the dragon chased the griffon and beneath the trees, five hundred men approached. He didn't look like a boy anymore. He looked like a man waiting for his subjects to realize the world had changed.
The sky burned. The ground trembled.
And the Gilded Fang waited.