Chapter 187: WARNING FROM THE SOUTH
In a hidden chamber within Sol-Regis—neither a palace nor a lavish estate, but a strictly guarded neutral ground—Alistair Solari and Queen Eleanor sat facing each other.
The room was modest by the standards of high nobility. Dark wood floors, bare stone walls. Yet, an air of luxury remained—a thick carpet beneath the table, two plush crimson chairs, and a silver teapot filled with warm tea that remained untouched.
Two guards stood in each corner of the room. They were statues of iron, hands resting on sword hilts, gazes fixed forward. They did not move. They did not blink. They were simply... there.
Alistair leaned back in his chair, his expression as cold as ever. In his hand, he held a delicate porcelain cup of tea that had long since stopped steaming. He didn’t sip it; he merely held it.
Eleanor sat opposite him. Her black robe, intricately embroidered with gold thread, was immaculate. Her silvering hair was swept back neatly. Her ice-blue eyes regarded Alistair with a faint smile—a smile that failed to reach her eyes.
"The King has agreed," Eleanor said. Her voice was soft but firm. There was no room for doubt.
Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Without resistance?"
"He had no choice." Eleanor took her teacup, took a slow sip, and set it back down. The click of ceramic meeting wood sounded sharp in the silent room. "Leonardo and Cedric kept the pressure on him. Even Alexander from the Church spoke up. They are all fed up with the Sudraths."
"And Queen Marianne?"
Eleanor smiled. "Marianne remains silent. Her daughters followed suit after I reminded them of the Kingdom’s future." She paused, her gaze piercing Alistair. "They will not interfere."
Alistair nodded slowly. "Good."
He placed his cup on the table. The sound was louder than before, echoing slightly. Or perhaps it was just Eleanor’s perception.
"So, when?" Alistair asked.
"The Royal Army will be ready in three months." Eleanor counted on her fingers. "The Church will also send their forces; Alexander has given his word. And Duke Solari..." She looked at Alistair. "You already know."
Alistair smirked. "I have already dispatched ten of my finest knights to Torshavn as a beginning."
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. "Ten?"
"As a warning."
"A warning?"
"The Sudraths will not surrender easily." Alistair looked at her with chilling confidence. "They need to understand that we are serious. Ten men are enough to incite panic—especially while their city is being ravaged by a monster."
Eleanor fell silent, watching Alistair’s every move. "Are you certain you don’t require more?"
"It is enough." Alistair turned to face her. "I have faith in my knights. Besides, this is only the beginning. The true storm arrives after the Royal Army is mobilized. Three months from now."
Eleanor nodded slowly. She rose from her chair, smoothing her pristine robe, and gave Alistair one final look.
"We shall see how long they can endure," she said.
Alistair didn’t reply. He merely nodded.
Eleanor walked toward the door. The two guards held it open for her. She stepped out without looking back, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alistair remained by the window. His gaze was fixed toward the north—toward Northreach, toward Torshavn, toward the chaos he had meticulously crafted.
"Lucian," he whispered. "You are in for a struggle."
In Torshavn, the gray sky above the city was choked with smoke and debris.
Nine Sky-Hunter units flew low, unleashing barrages of rockets at the monster from multiple angles. The rockets streaked through the air, leaving white trails in their wake before detonating against the monster’s icy hide. Explosion after explosion rocked the ground. The thunderous booms shattered the remaining windows of the city, sending the civilians currently being evacuated into a deeper state of panic.
Yet, the monster remained standing.
The ice encasing its body cracked. It shattered. Each rocket hit sent white shards flying into the air, but within seconds, the fissures closed. New ice grew over the old wounds.
The Sky-Hunters swerved left and right, searching for a weak point. They found none.
Leofric stood on the hatch of his command tank, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the devastation. He peered through his binoculars, tracking the monster’s movements. Around him, twenty Wolf-Tusk tanks were lined up on the open ground outside the city walls. Their cannons roared in a rhythmic, deafening rotation.
"Keep firing!" Leofric roared. "Don’t stop!"
A soldier in the adjacent tank shouted something, but his voice was swallowed by the explosions. Leofric could only see his lips moving—perhaps an ammo report, perhaps a warning.
But the monster did not fall.
It turned its head slowly, staring at the tanks that continued to pelt it. Those pale blue eyes, devoid of pupils, felt like they were piercing through steel.
Then, it swung its arm.
A light tank that had pushed too far forward was swatted by the creature’s limb. The screech of buckling metal was horrific. The tank flipped over, its treads still spinning uselessly in the air before it slammed into the earth. The ground shuddered.
Smoke billowed from the gaps in its mangled armor.
Leofric clenched his fist, the veins in his neck bulging. "Fall back! Everyone fall back! Maintain distance!"
The other tanks immediately reversed. Their iron treads ground against the stony earth with a harsh, grating sound. Several tanks emitted plumes of white exhaust, a sign that their engines were overheating from the continuous barrage.
The monster didn’t give chase. It simply stood there, staring at the city with expressionless, pale blue eyes. Occasionally, it tilted its head, as if counting how many enemies remained.
Inside the city, the remaining infantry retreated into narrow alleyways. They ran through the ruins of homes, leaping over rubble and dodging flames from burning buildings. Their faces were grimy, smeared with dust and blood. Some carried wounded comrades on their shoulders.
A sergeant screamed, "To the rear! Everyone to the rear! Do not attempt to engage!"
A young soldier raised his Sudrath Spear, aiming at the monster from behind a collapsed wall. He pulled the trigger. The projectile streaked out, striking the monster’s arm. The ice cracked slightly, then instantly healed.
"It’s useless," the soldier muttered, dropping his weapon in despair. "It’s all useless..."
Nightshade units continued to move among the citizens. A young woman sobbed on the shoulder of a Nightshade operative. "My husband... my husband is still inside..."
"We will find him," the operative replied. His voice was calm, but his eyes were filled with unease.
A small child sat on the curb, crying alone. His clothes were soaked, his cheeks filthy. A Nightshade operative approached, scooped him up, and ran.
"To the North Gate! Everyone to the North Gate!" a Nightshade officer bellowed. "Don’t stop! Don’t look back!"
Count Eddard stood on the watchtower. His hand gripped his crystal pager so tightly his knuckles were white. His face was a mask of tension. His eyes flitted between the monster outside, the retreating tank line, the smoke rising from destroyed homes, and the fleeing citizens below.
The Sky-Hunters were here. Leofric’s tanks were engaged.
And yet, the monster still stood.
"Hold," he whispered to himself. "We must hold."
From the south, ten figures walked slowly toward Torshavn.
They did not hide. They did not whisper. They made no effort to remain unseen. They walked openly, with an arrogance that suggested they had nothing to fear.
The Highgarden uniforms—dark green with an embroidered shield and two crossed swords—were clearly visible on their chests. Under the dim sunlight, the embroidery glinted. Their weapons were varied—longswords, battleaxes, short spears. But the most striking among them was their leader.
Sir Romeni walked without haste.
He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. His eyes were fixed ahead—on the city that was beginning to come into view. A massive greatsword was strapped to his back, its hilt rising above his right shoulder. His steel armor gleamed despite the long journey.
His face was a blank slate. No expression. No smile. No frown.
He simply walked.
Behind him, nine knights followed in a loose formation. they didn’t need a rigid march. They didn’t need a commander barking orders. They had fought together for years. A single glance, a simple nod, and they knew exactly what to do.
A younger knight in the rear murmured, "That city is nearly in ruins."
Sir Romeni did not answer.
Another knight, older, chimed in, "Not our concern. We are here to deliver a message."
Sir Romeni kept walking. His eyes tracked the smoke billowing from behind the walls of Torshavn. The thunder of cannons echoed from the distance, punctuated by the monster’s roars that shook the very earth.
He did not stop.
He kept walking.
From behind, the young knight asked a casual question, "Will we help them against the monster?"
Sir Romeni didn’t even turn his head. "No."
On the watchtower, an infantryman scrambled up the stairs. He was gasping for air, his face pale with dread.
"Count Eddard! A report from the southern scouts!"
Count Eddard turned, his gaze sharp. "What is it?"
"Highgarden forces... about ten men. Approaching from the south. They are moving slowly, but their aura is incredibly powerful." The soldier paused, swallowing hard. "They aren’t hiding. They are walking right out in the open."
Count Eddard froze.
One threat was already more than enough. The monster at the gates. Leofric’s retreating tanks. The exhausted infantry. The Nightshades struggling with the evacuation. The destroyed homes. The panicked citizens. Smoke everywhere.
And now, Highgarden forces from the south.
"Highgarden uniforms?" Count Eddard asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, My Lord. Quite unmistakable."
Count Eddard didn’t respond. He simply stood there, staring toward the south, toward the force that was approaching slowly but inevitably.
He just gripped his pager tighter.
"Dismissed," he said softly.
The soldier nodded and scurried away.
Count Eddard remained on the tower. His eyes searched the southern horizon. His face was ash-gray. His hands were trembling.
In the distance, through the mist and smoke, ten black dots moved steadily closer.
In Sol-Regis, in her private quarters, Queen Eleanor stood by the window. Her eyes were fixed on the north—on Northreach, on Torshavn, on the unfolding chaos.
A thin smile played on her lips.
"Sudrath," she whispered softly. "You shall taste true destruction."
She said nothing more. She only smiled.