The Royal Court drowns in tension.
Candles flicker beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Grand Assembly Hall, casting long, trembling shadows over the polished marble floor. Rows of velvet-lined seats are filled to capacity—nobles, generals, high-ranking clerics, and ministers, all clad in ceremonial black. Their expressions are sharp, drawn tight from sleepless nights and mounting unrest.
Even the air feels heavy, as if holding its breath.
At the far end of the hall, the bronze double doors groan open. A dozen soldiers enter, clad in obsidian-plated armor etched with the sigil of the Royal Aegis. Crimson capes trail behind them like rivulets of blood, and their boots strike the stone in rhythmic thunder.
Murmurs ripple through the court like a gathering storm.
"The Crimson Guard… they only march when—"
"Gods, it's true then…"
"Has the body been found?"
But before rumor can bloom into panic, the air tightens. A hush silences every voice like a sudden blade to the throat.
From the third seat left of the twin thrones, Caius Thorne, Minister of Finance, rises.
Draped in an ash-grey robe with silver-threaded trim, his sash bears the insignia of House Thorne: an obsidian coin encircled by thorns. He says nothing at first, but his very posture draws every eye. A man like Caius does not demand attention. He commands it—quietly, absolutely.
A soldier approaches with head bowed, bearing a silver tray. Upon it lies a scroll bound in royal wax—shimmering gold and green.
Caius breaks the seal without ceremony.
He reads the scroll, though it's clear he already knows the words. When he speaks, his voice cuts through the chamber like a whetted blade.
"I, Caius Thorne, appointed by the late sovereign to safeguard the arteries of this kingdom's lifeblood—its economy, and its future—stand before you not merely as a minister, but as witness to the crisis that festers in our very veins."
He lifts the scroll, letting it unfurl as his voice rises.
"Elaria bleeds.
Days ago, we stood beneath black banners for our fallen King and Queen.
Now, the heir—the Crown Prince—is gone. And with him, our nation trembles on the edge of collapse.
Our enemies know. Our neighbors smell blood. If we falter, even for a breath, they will strike—not with diplomacy, but with fire and ambition."
"But hear me now—we do not kneel to fear.
The line of Elaria does not wither in silence.
It roars.
We may not yet know where our prince is, or what force dares to hide him from our sight—but know this: the Crown is not missing.
We are the Crown.
And from this moment forward, every banner under this sun will fly in pursuit of our missing heir."
"Operation Phoenix Lance begins now."
He lets the scroll roll shut with a sharp snap, his voice dropping low—cold, commanding.
"Twelve of our finest will ride with the Royal Aegis.
A second unit will move under black seal through hostile lands.
All guilds, outposts, and territories of allegiance are hereby ordered to report any sighting, any whisper, any trace of the Prince.
Any soul found withholding information shall be deemed a traitor to the realm.
Elaria does not lose her future.
She claims it."
A tremor runs through the assembly. Not of fear—but of ignition.
The Crimson Guard salute in thunderous unison, fists to chest. Ministers exchange looks—some solemn, others calculating. A courier slips out the back, no doubt to spread the decree to the corners of the realm.
Caius returns to his seat with a slow exhale. He does not look at the soldier beside him—but the man understands. Trained in silence, he steps forward, scroll in hand, and approaches the one figure in the hall who looks like he belongs on a battlefield, not in a throne room.
He is a blade among daggers.
Draped in a storm-grey battlecoat embroidered with crimson thread, the man does not move. Iron-grey hair is tied in a high knot. His eyes—colder than steel—sweep the hall like they've memorized its shadows. A massive claymore, forged like a slab of obsidian, rests against his back.
He takes the scroll with a gloved hand. Then steps forward.
"I am High Commander Alaric Draeven of the Gravewind Vanguard—sworn blade to the Crown. Once named Breaker of the Stormfront.
I accept the charge.
Operation Phoenix Lance.
With me ride the twelve who will break mountains if commanded."
He unrolls the scroll, then lifts his gaze.
"First—Seraphina Vale, Blade Sister of Bellatrix."
Clad in silver-trimmed white armor, her mere presence quiets the room. Where Bellatrix leads armies, Seraphina leads executions. Glyphs etched into her gauntlets hum with restrained wind magic. A scar slashes over her left brow—a wound left by a traitor she buried without mercy.
"Second—Gorath Stonevein, Warden of the Deepsoil."
A giant of a man with bronze-tinted skin and jade eyes. He wears no armor, only gauntlets carved from volcanic stone. His power lies in Elaria's crust itself—shifting bedrock, cracking towers, collapsing siege lines. His fists do the talking.
"Third—Whisperling, of the Hollow Veil."
Five feet tall, mismatched eyes, and a face that refuses to stay in memory. She wears cloth dyed in shadow, and her steps make no sound. Born of the silent sects in the Eastern Isles, she is assassin and illusionist in one. She vanishes. Then bodies fall.
"Fourth—Thorne Aelius, the Aegisborn."
Young. Too young, some would say. Blonde, eyes full of wildfire. A shimmering sigil marks his throat—his gift, Kairon's Deflect, allows him to redirect damage and project force shields. A wild card, reckless. But Draeven sees potential in the chaos.
Alaric raises a hand in oath.
"The remaining eight—the Gravewind Blades—ride with us.
Elite operatives, forged under the doctrines of Winterreach and Veyren's Hold.
They do not speak unless spoken to.
They do not fail.
Their names need no record.
Their blades will write their worth on the battlefield."
Eight masked warriors step forward in perfect synchronization. Their armor gleams matte-black, trimmed in silver. Each bears a unique weapon—curved sabers, shadow-slick polearms, crossbows that gleam with alchemical poison. Their wolf-shaped helms stare forward, featureless and cold.
Alaric lowers his hand in a final gesture—not of subservience, but of sovereign intent.
"We ride at dawn."
The double doors open once more, this time to let in the wind.
The Gravewind Vanguard turns as one, their footsteps echoing like war drums in the marble hall. They disappear into the storm outside—ghosts of vengeance and flame, chasing the future of a kingdom teetering on the edge of war.