The southern sun hung high and merciless over the white sand beach.
Antares stood near the waterline, arms crossed, watching as the latest cargo from *The Kraken's Grave* was led ashore. This time it was not grain or spices.
It was horses.
Nearly eight hundred Sand Steeds poured from the holds of the Redbeard vessels in a controlled thunder of hooves.
They were magnificent creatures—taller and broader than any common warhorse, their coats ranging from pale desert gold to deep iron grey, muscles coiled like living steel beneath sleek hides. Even at rest they radiated quiet power. Their eyes were sharp, intelligent, and completely unafraid of the massive Ashfang warriors who moved among them.
Antares's lips curved in genuine appreciation.
"Majestic indeed."
He gave an order to one of the largest Ashfang warriors—nine feet of crimson muscle and heavy bone—approached the nearest steed and, after a moment's hesitation, swung himself onto its back.
Every watching antman held their breath.
The Sand Steed did not collapse. It did not even stagger. Its dense bone structure and adaptive physiology absorbed the warrior's weight as if he were a normal rider. The Ashfang gave the reins a cautious tug. The horse walked. Then trotted. Then, at a signal, broke into a powerful, ground-eating canter along the wet sand.
After several full laps of the beach and the open clearing beyond, both horse and rider returned unharmed.
Almost.
The Ashfang warrior's balance was terrible. Twice he nearly toppled. On the third circuit he lost his seat completely and hit the sand with a heavy, undignified thud. A ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the watching ranks.
Antares dragged a hand down his face and sighed.
"I'll add horse riding to their training regimen," he muttered. "I will not have my elite cavalry falling off before the first charge."
The order was relayed. The Sand Steeds were led away toward the makeshift stables the antmen had constructed that morning—simple but sturdy enclosures of lashed timber and canvas, already being expanded to handle the unexpected size of the herd.
While the last of the horses were being settled, Prince Tayron approached. The two young men fell into step together along the edge of the surf, the formal distance of their first meetings already eroded by shared secrets and mutual need.
"You look almost impressed, Antares," Tayron said, a half-smile playing on his lips. "I was starting to think nothing on this continent could surprise you."
Antares glanced sideways at him. Being addressed by name still felt strange—only his closest circle used it, and usually in private—but he had told Tayron it was acceptable when they were alone. The pirate prince was not quite a friend, not yet, but the word no longer scraped against his instincts the way it once had.
"I am impressed indeed," Antares admitted. "Your stable masters chose well. These horses will carry Ashfang warriors without breaking. That alone is worth half the jewels I already paid you."
Tayron laughed, the sound light against the crash of waves.
"Only half? You drive a hard bargain even when you're complimenting me. Careful, or I'll start thinking you actually like having me around."
"I like useful allies," Antares replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Whether I like *you* is still under review."
"Cruel. And here I was about to offer you the better wine and beer next shipment."
"Keep the wine. Give more intelligence instead."
They traded a few more easy jabs—about the Ashfang's complete lack of riding skill, about the way Lady Sira still looked at Tayron as if deciding which bone to break first, about how the lion beastmen seemed personally offended by the smell of antmen.
For a short stretch of beach the weight of crowns and succession wars felt almost distant.
Then Antares's expression sobered. The smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes.
"That's all fun," he said, "but I think we have more important matters to discuss."
Tayron's amusement faded at once. He nodded.
They walked inland to a shaded canopy Lady Sira had prepared earlier—simple poles and canvas set far enough from the main activity that conversation would not carry. She was already waiting with two cups of chilled midnight flower juice. She served them in silence, gave Tayron one last cool glance, and withdrew to oversee the camp without a word.
The two rulers sat.
"So," Antares said, "tell me everything, Tayron."
Tayron turned the cup slowly in his hands. Using the Ant King's given name still felt slightly unnatural, but he pushed past it.
"I found out a great deal… Antares."
He drew a breath and began.
"The goblins are in the middle of a civil war as we speak and it has already lasted three years. It started when the goblin king was assassinated by one of his own generals. The kingdom shattered into three factions."
Antares listened without interrupting.
"Warlord Zaka, the assassin—seized the largest portion of the old royal army and declared himself the new king. Chief Vulga used the chaos to break away entirely and carve out his own domain. And the loyalists still rally around the infant prince, the last living descendant of the old goblin bloodline. Three factions. Three armies. Constant skirmishing. No clear victor....yet."
Antares stared out at the glittering ocean for a long moment. He had expected a unified enemy. Instead the goblins were already tearing themselves apart.
A win, of sorts—but a complicated one. Attacking now would mean facing three separate forces instead of one.
"That's quite the mess," he said at last.
"It gets worse," Tayron continued. "Warlord Zaka is not standing alone. He has external support."
Antares's eyes sharpened.
"Who?"
Tayron met his gaze directly.
"My sister. Lauryn. For the past two years she has been feeding him resources—weapons, coin, and a steady supply of female slaves used as breeding stock. Zaka is effectively sworn to her. She is the hidden hand behind his rise."
The words landed heavily. Antares let out a long, controlled breath and refilled his cup. He drank, wishing for something stronger than flower juice—something that could temporarily erase the weight of kingship.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Yeah," Tayron agreed quietly, drinking as well. "That's what I said when I confirmed it."
Antares rubbed his temples.
"How many goblins are on the other side of the Godwall?"
Tayron's voice dropped.
"Their territory runs from the far side of the Godwall all the way to the Bizanti Desert. The land is rich in resources, but their culture has never changed—pillaging, raping, whoring,raiding, endless internal wars. Best estimates put their total population under ten million. Personally, I believe the real number is higher."
The figure settled between them like a stone.
Antares closed his eyes briefly.
In the inherited memories of the original Antares, the last great goblin invasion had brought blight and mana poisoning to the antmen's lands.
King Alexis had ordered the Ashfang shamans to collapse the only viable path through the Godwall, ending the invasion at catastrophic cost. Most of the shamans died. Alexis himself, wounded and poisoned by the blight, followed them a month later. His body had been burned rather than entombed with the other ant kings, for fear of spreading the corruption.
Now the same enemy was fracturing—and one of Tayron's own siblings was actively feeding the strongest faction.
"How much time do we have before our little alliance becomes public knowledge?" Antares asked.
"Some time I'd wager," Tayron answered. "My siblings and I all keep spies on one another, but I have told no one about our arrangement. For now, it remains contained. That will not last forever."
Antares stood. The decision crystallized.
"Then we speed everything up. I had planned steady, careful development. It seems trouble is arriving faster than I hoped. Keep your eyes on the goblins and on your sister. Inform me the moment anything urgent surfaces. And prepare yourself for war."
Tayron rose as well.
"I'll do the same on my end. I still have a great deal of work, but I will be ready when the time comes."
They exchanged a few final, quieter words—confirmation of the next intelligence drop, a brief discussion of how the Sand Steeds would be transported north, a mutual acknowledgment that the quiet days on this beach were numbered.
Then Tayron returned to his waiting longboat and the two lion beastmen. The vessel pushed off into the surf and turned toward the distant silhouette of *The Kraken's Grave*.
Antares watched until the boat was only a dark speck.
Only then did he turn and walk back toward the plateau camp, mind already moving through the long list of things that now had to be accelerated: Queen candidates, surface agriculture, the newly unlocked floors of the Ant King's Tower, the training of both soldiers and Sand Steeds, and the inevitable bloodshed waiting beyond the Godwall.
The southern sun still shone bright, but the shadow of the coming war had already begun to stretch across the sand.