Chapter 202: TWENTY DAYS
Twenty days before the war.
Morning in Iron Hearth arrived with a different sound. It was no longer the rhythmic cadence of drills, but the roar of heavy machinery warming up—the rumble of tanks shifting into position, the hum of Sky-Hunters being loaded onto mobile platforms, and the steady march of thousands of boots against the cold asphalt.
On the balcony of the Alpha Building, Rianor Sudrath stood with his hands resting on the cold iron railing. Below, a convoy of military vehicles moved slowly toward the southern gate—a steel serpent whose end was nowhere in sight. Wolf-Tusk and Titan MK-1 tanks marched in neat rows, their cannons angled toward the grey sky. Infantry marched along the roadsides, rucksacks on their backs and Sudrath Spears in their hands.
The Mana Laser prototype was finished. Three sleepless days, dozens of failed trials, and one volcanic glass lens that finally refused to melt—it had all paid off. The weapon was now secured in steel-reinforced wooden crates, ready to be deployed with the troops. Raveena was asleep in a corner of the laboratory, exhausted after helping her brother perfect the crystal frequency. Rianor didn’t wake her. Let her rest, he thought. Soon, there will be no time for it.
"Are you ready?" Elara’s voice came from behind him.
Rianor turned. His wife sat in her wheelchair, a crystal tablet on her lap displaying a map of Oakhaven and its surroundings. Her red hair was tied back, and her eyes—though still weary—now burned with the same resolve Rianor had first seen in an Oakhaven inn years ago.
"Not yet," Rianor answered honestly. "But we have no choice."
Elara rolled her wheelchair closer, stopping beside her husband. "I’ve calculated the probabilities. With the number of tanks and infantry we’re bringing, our chance of holding Alistair at Oakhaven is roughly sixty-eight percent. That’s before accounting for the Mana Laser."
"And after?"
"It jumps to seventy-nine." Elara offered a thin smile. "Still not a guarantee. But it’s better than a coin toss."
Rianor almost smiled. Almost.
On the other side of the castle, at the South Paddock, Raphael Sudrath stood among the ranks of infantry. He was no longer the exhausted trainee collapsing onto the dirt, but a young soldier who had completed his fundamental training. His uniform was brand new—dark grey magitech-nylon fabric with the Sudrath Wolf insignia on the sleeve. A Sudrath Spear was slung across his back, and at his waist hung the short blade given to him by Riven.
Thorne stood before the line, his gaze sweeping over each soldier’s face. When he reached Raphael, he paused for a second. No words were exchanged. Just a small nod—enough to make Raphael pull his shoulders back and stand taller.
"You all know where we are going," Thorne’s voice echoed across the silent field. "Torshavn. Our job isn’t just to fight. Our job is to ensure they never have to suffer through that again."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"I won’t lie. Our enemy this time isn’t a monster. They aren’t bandits. They are the royal army—trained soldiers raised with swords in their hands. They have mages. They have Church Paladins. And they believe we are enemies that must be purged."
Thorne looked at his ranks once more.
"But we have something they don’t. We have a reason to fight. Not for a king. Not for a throne. But for our home. For our families. For the people waiting for us to return."
He raised his Sudrath Spear high.
"Northreach will not fall. Understood?"
"UNDERSTOOD!" The collective roar shook the grounds.
Raphael shouted with them. His throat was raspy, but his chest felt full.
In Lucian’s study, Roland entered without knocking. His face—usually calm and filled with a diplomatic smile—was grim. In his hand, a crystal pager was still glowing.
"Father. A report from the Khulafa team."
Lucian, seated behind his desk, looked up. "Speak."
"The royal forces have begun moving from Sol-Regis. Massive numbers. Infantry, cavalry, and Church forces. They carry the banners of the Goddess of Light. Paladin Alexander is with them." Roland took a breath. "Totaling roughly forty-five thousand. Led personally by Prince Leonardo."
Lucian showed no reaction. His eyes remained steady. "Alistair?"
"Moving separately. Five thousand cavalry. His route is to the east, toward Oakhaven. He isn’t joining the main force." Roland placed the pager on the desk. "He wants to cut our lines. Strike fast, burn, and vanish."
Lucian stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the convoy was still moving—the endless steel serpent. "Call Rianor and Riven."
A few minutes later, the two brothers stood in the same room. Rianor brought his crystal tablet, the screen displaying a map of the southern regions. Riven arrived in full combat gear—black magitech-nylon armor, an engine-axe on his back.
Rianor spoke first. "Alistair is bringing five thousand cavalry. That isn’t a force for trench warfare. He wants to move fast—like Genghis Khan on the steppes. Hit, burn, and disappear before the enemy can even turn around."
Lucian turned. "You’re sure?"
"I’ve studied his strategy. He hates defending. He likes to strike from unexpected directions, destroy logistics, and leave before we can retaliate." Rianor pointed to the map on his tablet. "We cannot face them under a single command. The terrains are too different."
He looked at Riven. "You go to Torshavn. Face Leonardo. A fortress city—perfect for defensive warfare. Use the tanks and infantry. Do not let them set foot inside."
Riven nodded. "What do I need?"
"Three hundred tanks. Five thousand infantry. Twenty-five Sky-Hunters."
"Understood."
Rianor looked at Lucian. "I’ll go to Oakhaven. Face Alistair. Open terrain—perfect for guerrilla warfare. I’ll need more tanks. Four hundred. Five thousand infantry. Twenty-five Sky-Hunters. Khulafa and his team are already in the south, acting as our eyes."
Lucian looked at both his sons. "Are you certain about this division?"
Riven and Rianor exchanged a glance, then nodded in unison.
"Very well." Lucian turned back to the window. "Prepare your units. Depart at dawn."
That night, Rianor stood before the mirror in his room, buttoning his grey shirt. Behind him, Elara sat in her wheelchair, watching her husband’s back.
"Are you sure I should come?" she asked softly.
Rianor turned, walked over, and knelt before Elara’s wheelchair. "I won’t force you. But if you’re asking if I want you there... yes. I do."
Elara grasped his hand. "I won’t stay in Iron Hearth while you’re in Oakhaven. I can’t fight, but I can think. I can help you read the battlefield, calculate the odds."
Rianor kissed her forehead. "I know. You always can. If I don’t come back—"
Elara placed her finger on Rianor’s lips, silencing him. "Don’t. Never say that."
Rianor looked into her eyes. "I will come back."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
They stayed silent for a moment, foreheads touching, feeling each other’s warmth one last time before the storm.
The following dawn, the sky was still dark when two massive convoys gathered at the southern gate of Iron Hearth.
On the left, Riven Sudrath stood atop his command tank. Behind him, three hundred Wolf-Tusks and Titan MK-1s were lined up, their engines humming low. Five thousand infantry stood in formation, Sudrath Spears in hand. Twenty-five Sky-Hunters had been loaded onto mobile platforms, ready for transport. Thorne stood beside Riven, his face as calm as ever.
On the right, Rianor Sudrath sat inside his command vehicle. Behind him, four hundred tanks were lined up—more than Riven’s contingent. Five thousand infantry stood with the same discipline. Khulafa and his Ghost Squad had already departed for the south, acting as invisible eyes. And inside the same vehicle, Elara sat in her wheelchair, her crystal tablet displaying the map of Oakhaven.
Lucian stood at the gate, accompanied by Aurelia. The Duke of Northreach wore a dark grey military suit with the Sudrath Wolf insignia. His wife stood beside him, their hands clasped together.
Lucian looked at both his sons—one atop a tank, one inside a vehicle—and nodded.
"You know what must be done." His voice was heavy, but devoid of doubt. "Don’t die."
Riven raised his hand in a salute. Rianor did the same from inside his vehicle.
Aurelia didn’t speak. She only watched her sons, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her free hand rose in a small wave—a mother letting her children go to war.
The convoy began to move.
Inside his vehicle, Rianor stared straight ahead. The road was still dark, lit only by the vehicles’ headlights. Beside him, Elara squeezed his hand.
"Whatever happens," she whispered, "I am here."
Rianor squeezed back. "I know."
The convoy rolled on, leaving Iron Hearth behind, leaving the warmth, and heading south. Toward the war.
In the distance, dawn began to break on the eastern horizon. Orange blended with grey, creating a view that was as beautiful as it was grim.
The war was about to begin.
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