The morning rose grey over Rocciaguarda, bringing with it a cold light that spilled across the shattered walls and the mud-filled blood-soaked ditches. The field still breathed the battle of the previous day, and the scent was a heavy mix of wet earth, burnt flesh, and iron corroded by blood.
Inside the fortress, the silence was sharper than any blade. Maps and scout reports covered the central table like scars covered the face of a veteran – crooked lines of rivers, hurried scribbles marking troop movements, numbers that seemed endless. Dante stared at them, but his eyes did not see the paper; they saw the shadow of all the deaths still weighing on his shoulders.
Before him, Elizaveta remained as still as a marble statue, her pale skin almost reflecting the dim light streaming through the windows. Between them, the stillness was a wall, raised by everything they did not say.
She was the first to raise her voice, so low and icy it could have been the whispering wind of a forest:
– What do you intend to do with Lucien Darcos?
Dante finally lifted his gaze from the maps. His eyes were hollowed by fatigue, yet they burned with a stubborn flame. His voice broke the silence with a grave weight, like the creak of rusted gates:
– If we bring him to our side, Elizaveta, we will not only be taking one of Ferralia's best generals, but we will also be showing everyone that our cause is greater than this war. That the very Iron Dominion can be corroded from within. Every soldier who joins us is a blow to their heart. But Darcos… Darcos would be more than that. He would be an open wound, always bleeding.
The words fell on the table like stones, but Elizaveta did not smile, did not nod. She merely stared at him, motionless, the tips of her fingers lightly tapping the hilt of her sword, as if the blade could respond to what her mind refused to accept.
– Or it would be our perdition – she replied, in a cold tone. – Have you thought of that, Dante? A man like Darcos does not bend, does not yield. He can pretend to, he can swear loyalty and even drink our wine, but inside, he will continue waiting for the right moment to drive a knife into our backs. A false ally is worse than an outright enemy.
Silence fell again between them, heavy and thick. Outside, the heavy steps of patrolling sentinels could be heard, the distant neighing of horses, and the slow crackle of fires still resisting the damp morning wind.
Elizaveta drew a deep breath, as if the cold air gave her strength to put into words the burden she carried.
– For now, Darcos is only a secondary concern. Don't forget that between you and me we barely muster six thousand soldiers. How many do you have left? Three thousand? Three and a half? Perhaps four thousand? My meagre numbers are just under two thousand. We are two wolves circling an entire empire, Dante, and no matter how much you dream of turning one of their dogs against its master, we cannot forget that a hungry wolf who does not watch the flock eventually starves.
Dante straightened himself in his chair, as if conviction itself had given him height. The fatigue on his face did not hide the firmness in his voice:
– Lucien Darcos is the key, Elizaveta. He knows every weak point of the Iron Dominion: the walls that seem unbreakable, the generals who feign loyalty, the cities barely standing under the weight of taxes. He has the power, the influence, and, most importantly, the loyalty of his soldiers. If he marches with us, we will not only have more soldiers, but we will also have a crucial asset. This would be the blow that divides Ferralia from within.
Elizaveta raised her chin, her eyes like cold blades, and let out a brief laugh, devoid of any warmth.
– You speak of an asset as if it were a playing card, but you forget that Darcos is no card at all. If the Iron Dominion is the body, he is its heart. A corrupt, wicked heart. If we open his chest, perhaps the blood will poison us before we can claim any victory. We cannot sacrifice the entire rebellion for a strategic advantage.
For a moment, Dante placed his hands on the table, fingers spread, as if trying to hold fate itself there, over the maps stained with wax and wine.
– No – he said, firmly. – He is not just an advantage. He is survival. He is useful because he no longer belongs to the system he served. His defeats over the past five years have stained his name before the Ferralian court. The council's vultures are already circling him, and he knows it. Returning to them would be his certain death. It is not loyalty he offers us, Elizaveta, it is instinct. It is survival. And instinct is often stronger than honour.
Elizaveta remained silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on Dante, as if seeking an answer in him that would never come. His breathing was slow, measured, like the edge of a blade hesitating between strike and retreat. Finally, she rose and spoke with a clear voice:
– Bring him.
The guards at the entrance did not hesitate. The sound of boots disappeared into the damp morning, and Dante merely watched in silence. Elizaveta added no word, but her eyes betrayed that she still harboured doubts about Dante's plan.
Minutes later, the clinking of chains announced Darcos's arrival. He was brought in between two soldiers, hands bound in thick iron shackles, his remaining wrist already red from friction. His posture, however, betrayed neither fatigue nor humiliation: he walked upright, his face expressionless, like a mask of stone, his eyes hard and unfathomable.
They placed him before a simple wooden chair prepared for him, but the chains prevented any dignified gesture. Still, Lucien seated himself as if it were a throne being offered, as one who refuses the condition of prisoner.
His voice broke the heavy air, grave and devoid of emotion:
– Tell me, my friends: what is it that you want from me?
Dante leaned forward, eyes fixed on the shackled man. His voice came low, but each syllable sounded like the dragging of a chain:
– Tell me, Darcos… what would happen to you if you returned to Ferrumia now, after this defeat?
For a moment, nothing moved. Lucien kept his face closed, but something flickered in his eyes that was neither fear nor anger. He drew a deep breath before answering, as if savouring each word before letting it fall:
– What would happen to me? – he repeated, his voice grave, marked by the weight of defeat. – I have lost more than soldiers. I have lost entire regiments, high-calibre cannons that will never fire again, and, worse, I have lost names that echoed like walls at the front of a battle. Draven Dragospire has fallen. Victor Ferroforte is dead. Two pillars of the Iron Dominion, killed under my command. The court does not forgive failures like this. Medals do not await me, Dante Ferroso. The scaffold does. I would likely lose my head before I could even open my mouth in my own defence.
Dante let out a brief sigh, almost a joyless smile, and leaned back in his chair.
– Then be useful again – he said, firmly. – Show us that you still have value.
Lucien lifted his gaze, fixing it on him with intensity. For a moment, his expressionless face faltered, as if the question had touched a deep wound. He straightened himself in the chair, the chains jingling with the movement, and his voice came like burning iron:
– Useful? – the tone carried incredulity. – How can I be useful to you, when, for the past five years, I have been nothing but your most loyal enemy?
– You are mistaken, Darcos – said Elizaveta, in a cold, measured voice. Her tone carrying the firmness of one who knew words could weigh as much as steel. – You can still be useful. You no longer have a nation to fight for. Your liege wishes your head, and everything you built has crumbled on this battlefield. But you still have something: your influence.
She took a step forward, her gaze fixed on his like a blade ready to pierce armour.
– With your name alongside the rebels', we could divide Ferralia in two. The common people, who have already lived too long under the yoke of the Ferroforte, would see a sign in you. And the veterans, who have for five years shed blood to exhaustion, tired of fighting with no end in sight, could follow you. Together, we would make this last effort greater: not merely a rebellion, but a kingdom free from tyranny and fear.
The words fell like stones into dark waters, sending invisible ripples through the minds of all who listened. Even Dante remained silent, observing, as if measuring whether Elizaveta's calculated coldness could open a crack in the shackled man.
Lucien, however, did not reply immediately. His face remained impassive, though his eyes glimmered with a light no one had known how to read. When he finally spoke, his voice was serious, drawn out, as if carrying the weight of a sentence already passed:
– War is never clean, Lady Volkova. Blood and ashes, betrayals and broken promises. That is what kingdoms are made of. I have no lord to serve anymore. I have no crown, no banner, no loyalty to swear. Nothing remains… except my sword – he raised his chained arms, and the rings jingled with a dry sound. – A sword that has no master.
– You need not wander the land like a directionless ghost, Darcos – said Elizaveta, her voice low, but loaded with an intensity that pierced the prisoner's stone mask. – You are not merely another defeated general, condemned to oblivion. You have something none of us possesses: the ability to unite those who have lost everything. The people do not need another tyrant, nor another lord to crush them under iron chains. They only need guidance. A new direction.
– And if I accept? – he said, leaning slightly forward, his voice hoarse, but without arrogance or provocation, only a raw, almost human doubt.
– Then you will have only one price to pay: your loyalty – replied Dante, resting his hands on the table covered with maps and reports. – Not to our cause, nor even to us, but to the future of Lucien Darcos. All that remains from these five years are the ruins of a rotten empire and the memories of men like you, who bled for nothing. If you join us, it will not be to reign. You will have no crown, no throne. But you may free the Iron Dominion from the chains that crush it – Dante paused, his eyes fixed on Lucien's, as if wanting to imprint each word on him. – If you do not choose, nothing will remain for you. No glory. No army. Not even your head.
Lucien held his gaze on Dante, his face hard, impassive, like a stone wall. Yet behind his cold mask, a whirlwind of thoughts churned, emotions colliding like armies on an open field. It was clear in his eyes – there was no longer loyalty to Ferralia, for Ferralia no longer existed as he had served it. What remained was not an empire, but a cemetery of desperate ambitions, a collective tomb where men like him were buried alive, honours transformed into chains.
– Every war has a price, Darcos – said Elizaveta, firm as steel, yet with a coldness that hid compassion. – The blood, the pain, the ashes. If fought for revenge or honour, they never end. They are merely chains dragged from generation to generation. But if you join us, you have a chance. Only one. To do something true. Something that is not blind like loyalty to a liege who never deserved you, who now only wants your head on a stake.
She paused. The external sounds of various activities drifted into the room, indicating that the rebel garrison was already awake and carrying out the tasks assigned to them.
– Tell me, Lucien… aren't you tired? – her hoarse voice was now lower, more intimate, almost a whisper. – Tired of fighting for an unjust cause, tired of being merely a puppet in a game of iron and blood? Tired of being discarded like nothing the moment your usefulness ends?
After a silence that seemed eternal, Lucien lifted his eyes to her. For the first time since entering shackled, there was a different spark in them. It was not surrender, nor submission. It was something rarer: understanding. Not total, not complete – but enough to open a fissure in the wall of his indifference. It was not acceptance, it was choice. Not merely for survival, but for the opportunity to shape his own destiny with his own hands.
He drew a deep breath, and a genuine smile appeared on his lips, so unexpected it seemed to change the heavy air of the room.
– You are right – he murmured, his voice weighty, but without the hardness of before. – I will not fight for Dante's cause, nor for the banner his rebels carry. I will fight for myself. And… perhaps… for those who still have something worth fighting for. One last effort, as you said.
The spoken words sounded like an oath, not of loyalty, but of purpose. Dante remained silent, but his eyes shone with a flame he dared not show.
Elizaveta made a small gesture with her hand. The soldiers hesitated for a moment, as if they did not believe the order, but obeyed. The handcuffs opened with a sharp click, falling to the floor with a sound that seemed an echo of freedom.
Lucien slowly raised his wrists, flexing his remaining hand for brief moments, before standing. The weight of the chains had disappeared, and yet it seemed that a greater burden had left his body.
He looked at Dante, then at Elizaveta, and his voice sounded deep, but with an unexpected lightness.
– Then, let us begin.