Archmage Quintus staggered, the recoil of immense power threatening to spill him onto the stones. He caught his weight on his staff, and for a single, resonant moment, the Words of the Voiceless flared with a pale silver sheen. The very battlements groaned in sympathy, the stone feeling the strain of the magic he commanded.
With practiced haste, he drew a scroll, the Words of Assertion leaving his lips in a sharp, commanding rhythm. The parchment disintegrated in his hand, melting into a blue, viscous goop that dripped and was absorbed by the hungry stone. A deep hum surged through the stones of the Argent Wall, a rising chord of power as a transparent barrier erupted from the ramparts, arcing over the city to form a perfect, shimmering dome. A final, wide beam of raw energy shot from the apex of the Wardstone Spire to seal the connection.
The effort left him hollow. His mind, seeking an anchor, drifted to Darian Aethelia—the Pyre-Sovereign. The man's personal power was legendary, but it was not what had forged the empire. It was his vision of unity. For power to be truly wielded, an individual must become an organization, and an organization must become an individual.
As a chieftain, Darian had taken the scarce talent of his chiefdom and hammered it into a single, coordinated instrument of war. Expending a great amount of personal effort, he had rewritten the very Words of Assertion in the Primal Tongue so they could be cast in unison, by a collective will. With this small coordinated force, he had been able to overpower his neighbors. Pilfering talent from those he conquered, he taught them the ways of his chiefdom and added them to his growing army.
He went on to buy scholars, reward them, and, in turn, his returns were nothing to scoff at. Developing theories in military science, offering some small nuggets of wisdom, and improving the philosophy used by his army in their art of war, the scholars sharpened his army into a blade that turned the young Aethelian Empire's whims into decrees.
This legacy of unified power was the empire's bedrock. It was why Darian's descendants dutifully followed his blueprint; so much so that at one point, they funded the unthinkable. Research that integrated the Properties of the Elements with the human body. From that scholar's "feasible" theory, the Swordsmen were born.
And outside the dome, the Swordsmen were fulfilling their purpose perfectly. Quintus had held up his end of the brutal bargain: I will pin the enemy down. You whittle them down. With the bulk of the enemy's attacking force now committed to a weak attack, his final duty was to raise the city's shield, containing the war's fury and preventing it from spilling into the streets.
He gave a curt nod to his Warden, who stood silently beside him—a Keeper of the Patron's Secrets. Or maybe he was recording him. You never knew when these fucks decided to record you. The nod was both a dismissal and a command to prepare.
Gripping his staff with a white-knuckled clench, Quintus began the chant for the Ghost-Walk. The phantom behind him, its mangled lips still spraying black blood, mimicked him with every syllable that he uttered. Each word he spoke was a crack of thunder that rattled even his teeth. He could not see the Spire, but he felt its acknowledgment in his bones. A stone platform would be waiting. As the final word left his lips, the profound fatigue he had been holding at bay finally settled in his limbs, and with it, the phantom winked out of existence.
Aboard the stone platform, the wind was forcing tears from his eyes that dried instantly on his cheeks while the chill of it bit into his face. He could have made himself comfortable, but his mind was a battlefield of its own.
They would win this fight. That had been assured the moment Hamus unleashed his miasma in the open field, and sealed when Quintus pinned him down. Yet, the victory felt hollow. The cost felt wrong. It had taken too much. And Hamus had been pulling his punches—Quintus had felt the restraint.
Still, there was a discrepancy he had noticed. To attempt such an assault, the enemy needed two things: overwhelming numbers and impossible mobility. Hamus had the numbers, but how had he moved an army from the Ashen Archipelago to the heart of the empire? And if he possessed such transport, why had he not brought other powerful mages? He knew for a fact that Alaric would never refuse such an invitation.
Stepping onto the familiar stones of the Wardstone Spire, his staff struck the floor with sharp, impatient cracks. He yanked the door open, not trusting his patience to wait for the handle to turn.
His Warden trailed silently, a hint of gold flashing across his eyes—the Arbiter. He took out the bronze coin with the third engraving and saw the engraving of an eye, on the scale tilting left, blink.
"He has seen the imbalance and tilts the scales in our favor," Arnius said, his voice subdued.
The words cut through the static in Quintus's head, visibly lighting his mood. The battle was almost won. The relief was a physical thing, a slight unclenching of his shoulders.
The War Chamber was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. A top-to-bottom window flooded the room with the light of the newly opened Arbiter's Eye, and a refreshing breeze that had not yet warmed up to the Arbiter's gaze, swept through open shunts.
At the head of the central table sat Baron Theron, the ruler of Aethergard. Currently, he looked like he was about to have a seizure. The man's entire position in the imperial court depended on this city remaining the unbreachable gateway to the Iron Valleys. He could not afford to lose it, nor could he endure a protracted siege. His strategy—to chop the enemy down as they emerged—had worked, thanks to the Archmage. But the baron was already out of his depth.
"We need more!" the Baron bellowed, his voice, stripped of any authority, strained against the room's tense calm.
"The Empire is prioritizing Solaris," Quintus replied, his voice flat, his energy too spent for him to emote.
"They cannot afford to lose the Iron Valleys!"
"Send a raven and tell them yourself."
"Maybe I will!" Theron shot back, the veins on his forehead bulging.
"How about you do!"
A calm, collected voice cut through the rising heat. "What are the weaknesses that we have, Quintus?" It was Zorvan, the city guard commander, a bastion of maturity in the childish storm.
"They control a Ley-line," Quintus stated, the revelation dropping like a stone. "And they have developed the ability to utilize it."
"That's not better!" the Baron countered, his voice rising again. "So, we will never be able to know when they are about to attack?"
Granted, if the Baron could hold, he would be hailed a hero. But he had better odds of becoming Emperor. His true goal was to do just well enough to merit a reassignment to more stable, prosperous lands. And the sound of control of a Ley-line was putting a wrench in his plans.
"The Spire is stable," Quintus continued, ignoring the Baron's outburst. "Your Arcanists did fine work on the Argent Wall. But it will need a major upgrade. Your forces require more drilling. I will send for an Imperial Army Reviewer to raise their standards. The Battlemages here are sufficient, but after ten more teams arrive from the capital, you should consider deploying them as a single battering ram."
Arnius watched in silent amazement. He had been at the Archmage's side every step of the way, yet Quintus had perceived details he had missed entirely. How do you even deduce that they control a Ley-line?
He let his gaze travel around the room that commanded the forces of the Eastern Front. The men here, save for the Baron and the Archmage, were not exceptional in any single aspect. What they possessed was grit and stubborn strength. He shifted his feet uncomfortably and clutched his staff a little bit tighter before he realized he was doing it.
The first battle was easy. But that was all it was—the first. How many more would there be? Would he survive them? Today, his services as a Warden had not been needed. But what if the city guard required them to dig in? What if they decided to shift to a desperate defence tactic? Would he manage to be the bastion that he would be asked to be?
All would be answered in due time.
For now, he listened. They were here to plan the defense of Aethergard. For now, the Empire still had the luxury of not being bogged down in the war for Solaris. But not for long.