Dust clouds signaled approaching riders along the paved highway long before Brak dragged a terrified Menual captain before the vanguard.

Tossing the man onto the road like a sack of grain, Brak crossed his burly arms and snorted.

"Found this one waving a white flag near the milestone, Lord Kane," Brak rumbled, kicking the envoy.

"Said he had a message for the man who broke the river. I figured you might want to hear him squeak before we toss him into the surf."

Wearing unblemished southern silk, the envoy struggled to keep his knees from visibly shaking.

He held up a wax-sealed parchment toward the towering gladiator, unable to maintain eye contact with the man who had just slaughtered an entire battalion of war elephants.

"Lord Kane!" the envoy stammered.

"His Imperial Majesty proposes a cessation of hostilities. I bring a formal invitation to a truce banquet inside the Marble Canopy to negotiate the surrender of the delta."

Thora leaned against her axe handle, laughing openly at the trembling man.

"A banquet? Chief, they just realized they lost their fleet before lunch, so they want to feed you a poisoned pigeon to save their own skins. Tell him we prefer our meals cooked over a campfire."

Stepping up beside her, Seraphine narrowed her silver eyes at the messenger.

"Palace truces always involve hidden crossbows and spiked wine. I spent twenty years navigating imperial courts, gladiators, and they never invite a conqueror to dinner unless they plan to bury him under the floorboards. Tell your Emperor we will negotiate when we break his gates."

Kane didn’t immediately dismiss the messenger.

Crossing his arms, he stared past the sweating captain toward the white-domed towers gleaming in the distance.

’Should I attend a dinner hosted by a cornered rat?’ Kane pondered, his mind spinning rapidly through the tactical board.

’He knows I wiped his armada. A truce just gives him a convenient stall tactic to position his royal guard behind the curtains while pretending to wave an olive branch. Skipping it means a drawn-out siege, which costs time and drains our stamina.’

’Breaking walls takes effort, and my rowers are already tired from the tsunami ride. If I walk right into his snare, I can crush his spirit in front of his entire court, audit the treasury I plan to steal, and spare my men a meaningless meat grinder at the outer walls.’

Unfolding his arms, Kane took a slow step forward.

The envoy flinched, shrinking back as the gladiator’s shadow fell over him.

"Tell your Emperor I accept," Kane rumbled, snatching the parchment from the man’s trembling fingers.

"Have the wine poured by sundown. If the food is cold, I will start breaking furniture."

"Y-yes, my Lord! Right away!"

The envoy scrambled to his feet, bowing awkwardly before rushing back toward his horse.

Once the rider became a speck on the horizon, Seraphine and Thora immediately stepped forward.

Both women checked their weapon straps with lethal intent, fully expecting to form his bodyguard detail.

Kane held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks.

"You two are staying with the column," Kane instructed smoothly.

"I am taking the Princess."

"Kane, you cannot walk into a trap without a vanguard!" Seraphine argued, her brow furrowing with concern.

"They will try to assassinate you the moment you sit down. I know how these southern nobles operate. They smile to your face and stab you in the kidneys when you reach for a bread roll."

"She is right, Chief," Thora added.

"Let us come along and carve up their royal guard. We can turn their fancy banquet into a proper Bloodfang tavern brawl. It builds character."

Before Kane could formulate a response, the command tent flap pushed open.

Misha stepped out into the midday sun, her golden eyes glowing calmly.

"He does not need a sword," Misha stated, her dual-tone voice echoing gently across the highway.

"He needs a deterrent."

"I reckon our little oracle understands the board perfectly," Kane explained, his voice laced with confident amusement.

"The Emperor thinks I’m just a mercenary warlord trying to extort him for coin. If he drops a chandelier on my head while I stand next to Milfheim royalty, the Northern Empress will burn his southern capital to ash."

Turning his gaze toward Seraphine, Kane winked at the paladin.

"Misha is the ultimate political shield. He cannot touch us without starting a global war, and he knows it. You two secure the perimeter and keep the men ready. When I give the signal, you breach the gates."

Thora sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Fine. But if they serve roasted boar, you’d better save me a plate."

Sundown painted the capital in vivid shades of orange by the time Kane reached the towering gates.

He didn’t bother changing into formal or polishing his gear to impress the aristocracy.

Wearing his battle-scarred leather harness, he kept Mjoldr strapped securely to his back while his boots remained crusted with dried river salt and dried blood.

Walking gracefully at his side, Misha looked like a descending angel in a clean white Milfheim gown Grieselda had salvaged from the flagship’s cargo.

Holding her chin high, the luminous rings of gold in her eyes radiated quiet authority.

As they walked up the grand staircase toward the brass doors, Kane glanced at the intricate carvings lining the walls.

"Nice stonework," Kane commented.

"I figure it took a century to build this place."

"Built on the backs of conquered tributaries, husband," Misha replied.

"The Menual empire takes from the weak to build monuments for the vain. It is a fragile ecosystem."

"Isn’t that what your mother is doing too?"

"That’s right."

"And?"

"I can be a hypocrite."

Tall brass doors swung open, revealing an opulent hall illuminated by dozens of crystal chandeliers.

Southern citizens and armored guards lined the entrance, parting nervously as the Bloodfang warlord strode into their sanctuary.

Perfumed nobles hid behind painted fans and jeweled goblets, whispering insults to one another as they analyzed the newcomers.

"Look at the state of him," a powdered duke muttered to his wife, loud enough to carry across the marble floor.

"The unwashed barbarian dares to track river water into our halls. Does he even know how to use a fork?"

"A savage from the borderlands," a countess sneered.

"His Majesty should have him whipped for lacking proper attire."

Kane ignored the sneers, letting his foot echo loudly against the polished floor.

Scanning the room, he mapped the exits, the guards stationed near the tapestries, and the elevated throne waiting at the far end of the banquet hall.

Leaning down slightly, Kane whispered to Misha without breaking his stride.

"Stay close to my left side, little oracle. If anyone offers you a drink, politely decline."

"I do not intend to eat their food, husband," Misha replied, her eyes tracking the hidden crossbowmen stationed in the upper balconies.

"They reek of fear."

Kane let out a low rumble of laughter, thoroughly enjoying her deadpan assessment.

"I guess you are right. Let us go meet this Emperor."