​Evening in Iron Hearth crept down with an orange sky that slowly faded, replaced by a cold sweep of deep violet. Before the castle gates, two silhouettes stood frozen—Seraphina and her guardian, Zarkhan. The gray-scaled dragon, still in his human form, waited with a stout posture a few paces behind the princess, his arms folded stiffly.

​Roland stood directly before them. His fingers were restless; he adjusted his jacket collar repeatedly, even though it was already perfectly symmetrical. He didn’t want this meeting to happen now. Not this soon. Yet, he also knew he had no right to hold back the princess’s steps.

​"Hmm, your journey is long," Roland’s voice came out slightly hoarse; he cleared his throat softly. "At least rest first. One night... one night won’t change anything."

​Seraphina smiled—a bitter curve of the lips. Her eyes appeared dim, far from the sparkle Roland used to see. "I am a dragon, Roland. I am strong. This journey is nothing to me."

​"Tsk, it’s alright not to be strong once in a while."

​Seraphina’s smile instantly withered. Her eyelids trembled, and a clear shimmer pooled there, but she forced it back. She stared deep into Roland’s eyes, as if capturing his face in her memory for the very last time. "I must go. Every hour I spend here... will only make this parting more agonizing."

​Roland wanted to reply. He wanted to promise that he would wait, that he would unearth the rot in Draconia, that he would not let this alliance end at the hands of cowards. But the words stuck in his throat. Seraphina had drawn her line. And Roland—though his heart felt as if it were being crushed—chose to respect it.

​"I understand."

​Seraphina gave a faint nod, barely perceptible. She turned, giving a brief signal to her guardian. They took several paces away before the fading light flared and their bodies expanded. Whoosh! A violent wind suddenly howled, kicking up dust and disheveling Roland’s hair as two majestic dragons ascended into the air. One was white with silver wings that refracted the twilight, the other a solid, dark gray.

​Flap! Flap!

​The sound of their wings was heavy and authoritative. Roland stood like stone, staring at the eastern sky until the two small specks vanished completely into the bank of clouds. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He took a long breath and released it slowly. His heart still ached, but a new fire was beginning to kindle there. He was no longer just heartbroken; he was ready for war.

​Night fell completely over Iron Hearth. The crystal lamps in the castle corridors began to glow, casting long, swaying shadows against the cold stone walls.

​In his room, Roland sat on the edge of a bed that creaked softly. A leather bag lay open on the table, half-filled with clothes and stacks of diplomatic documents. Beside it, the black folder containing the Project Legion data looked menacing. Three more days. Luminara. He would be stepping into the den of bloodthirsty saints.

​Creak...

​The door opened without a knock. Rianor entered with footsteps that made almost no sound, his eyes fixed on the crystal tablet in his hand. "What are you doing?"

​"A bit of preparation for later."

​Rianor pulled out a wooden chair, sitting down with a soft clack as he set his tablet down. "I will refine the encryption for the Project Legion data. Three days is enough time to ensure everything is sabotage-proof."

​"Are you sure?"

​"I am always sure. It is my greatest curse." Rianor adjusted his glasses. "But listen, Roland. I cannot guarantee the elders in Luminara will be willing to listen. There, faith is everything. And faith often blinds one to facts."

​Roland sighed, leaning his back against the bedpost. "Father already warned me about that. But silence is no longer an option."

​"Indeed." Rianor paused for a moment, his fingers tapping the table surface rhythmically. Then, his voice dropped lower. "About Seraphina... I’ve thought about it carefully."

​Roland turned sharply. "What?"

​"There is something rotten in Draconia. Something larger than just the feelings between the two of you. She didn’t reject you because her heart changed."

​Roland stared at his brother with narrowed eyes. "Then what should I do?"

​"For now? Focus on Luminara. Don’t let your head split thinking about two enemies at once." Rianor looked Roland straight in the eye. "Once this business is settled, I will help you find out what is truly happening in Draconia. I promise."

​Roland fell silent. The silence enveloped the room for a moment before the corner of his lips tilted upward. "Hah, since when did you become so caring?"

​"Because you are my brother. And because I hate seeing my calculations fail because you lost."

​"A very selfish reason."

​"I am selfish. I am a scientist, remember?" Rianor stood up, grabbing his crystal tablet. "Three days until we depart. Make sure you don’t leave your brain behind."

​At the threshold, Rianor stopped briefly without turning around. "And Roland—you aren’t alone. That isn’t a comforting platitude. It is a technical fact."

​Brak. The door closed. Roland stared at it for a long time, then looked back at the black folder on the table. Rianor was right. He had never fought alone.

​In another part of the castle, in a meeting room stifling with the smell of ink and candles, Rumina Sudrath stood before a long oval table.

​"The kingdom’s revenue this month is up eight percent thanks to the Emerald Union. The Maglev Rails are beginning to bear fruit," Rumina reported, her voice sharp and rapid. "But our military spending is leaking everywhere—tank unit maintenance, soldier salaries, even ammunition production. We need efficiency, not just throwing gold into a black hole."

​An old noble sitting at the end of the table cleared his throat loudly. "Does that mean we have to cut the soldiers’ food budget?"

​"Not cut, but delay." Rumina stared at the man with a gaze that could freeze water. "Some non-urgent infrastructure projects can wait. War is the priority, but war requires healthy logistics. I cannot conjure gold out of thin air."

​"You are the treasurer; find a way!" another noble grumbled.

​"I have given you a way. Stop wasting gold pieces on lavish dinner parties in your homes." Rumina snapped her notebook shut with a loud thud. She sat back down with a flat expression.

​Lucian Sudrath, who had been silent with his hands clasped in front of his face, signaled Lord Halden to speak.

​The old man with a white beard and stooped shoulders stood slowly. "The harvest in Hollowford is secure for the winter. However, irrigation in the south is on the verge of collapse. If not repaired now, we will face famine next year. I brought this up three months ago, but you were all too busy debating tanks."

​"I will review it," Lucian cut in curtly. "Send the detailed proposal to my desk tomorrow morning."

​Halden nodded obediently and sat. Next was Lord Corvin, a thin man who looked restless. "Mana crystal exports to Draconia remain stable, Your Majesty. But the merchants are terrified. The southern route is no longer safe. They say there are agents lurking—not bandits, but Solari agents."

​The name "Solari" made the atmosphere in the room instantly turn cold. Several nobles glanced at each other, real fear beginning to creep across their faces.

​Lucian turned toward a dark corner of the room. "Ember."

​Ember stepped forward. Her gray dress contrasted sharply with the cold aura she radiated. "In the last three months, Nightshade has thwarted seven large-scale sabotage attempts."

​She paused for a moment, letting the number sink into the ears of those present.

​"Two at the central ammunition depot. One on the rail line toward Northveil—the tracks were nearly severed. And another..." Ember stared at the nobles one by one. "...near the Seruni School. Someone tried to poison the water tanks."

​Total silence. Rumina even put down her pen, her fingers clenching beneath the table.

​"All are linked to the remnants of the Solari agent network," Ember continued emotionlessly. "They haven’t given up. They are waiting for us to lower our guard."

​Baron Aldric Varn couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed his fist onto the table. Brak! "That is exactly what I mean! We cannot keep playing defense like a turtle! They are targeting our children’s schools! Are we going to wait until an entire city lies dead in the streets?!"

​"Exactly! How much longer must we restrain ourselves?!" chimed in a young noble beside him. "Must we wait for Highgarden to send a bomb into the heart of this castle before we act?"

​A skeptical noble shook his head. "Are you mad? Attacking Highgarden requires a massive budget! Our forces haven’t fully recovered from the war against Aethelgard!"

​"Better to sacrifice now than die like a fool later!" Varn shot back, his face flushing red.

​The room turned chaotic. Shouting voices began to overlap, cursing one another, creating an endless din. Riven Sudrath, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded, finally stepped forward.

​"Enough."

​Only one word, but his heavy voice made the room go suddenly silent. Riven looked at them with his predator’s eyes. "Our forces are eighty percent recovered. Their morale is high. If you want me to level Highgarden now, I can do it. But do not cry later when many of you have to lose sons on the battlefield. Alistair is no amateur."

​"Then what is your suggestion, General?" Varn asked challengingly.

​"I’m not suggesting. I’m simply stating facts." Riven leaned back again. "The decision remains with the King."

​All eyes were now on Lucian. The King of Northreach slowly unclasped his hands. His eyes stared at the large map hanging on the wall, but his thoughts seemed much deeper than that.

​"We will not conduct a siege like fools," Lucian said softly, yet every word carried absolute authority. "I will not send the lives of my soldiers just for an exhausting open war."

​Varn was about to protest, but Lucian raised his hand.

​"However, I am also tired of being patient."

​Lucian turned toward Riven. "Prepare Garrick’s Fury."

​An even denser silence enveloped the room. That name was not just the name of a weapon; it was a symbol of total destruction. The missile that had once pulverized the Rudigor fleet.

​"We will give Alistair a warning," Lucian continued coldly. "One day. Tell him to evacuate his castle if he still values his life."

​"And if he is stubborn?" Varn asked with a trembling voice.

​Lucian did not answer. He simply rose from his chair. "This meeting is adjourned."

​Night grew late in Roland’s room. He sat by the window, staring at the pale moon above the factory chimneys of Iron Hearth. On the table, the diplomatic notes for Luminara were neatly arranged.

​Three days. The Holy City. He thought of Seraphina; perhaps she was currently flying through the clouds toward the east.

​"One problem at a time," he whispered to himself while closing the window curtains. "Luminara. After that... Draconia."

​Behind the wound that still felt raw, a resolve of steel began to harden. Rianor was right. Seraphina hadn’t stopped loving him. And Roland Sudrath swore he would not stop until he dragged down whoever had made her cry.