Drosmere – Palace of the White Sovereign
The plan… had fallen apart before it ever began.
Despite her advisors' murmurs and the nobles' delusions of glory, the White Sovereign never moved against Lucas. And for good reason.
Mobilizing an army from the snow-covered heights of Drosmere to the distant Kustoria Duchy was a fool's errand. The journey alone would take nearly two weeks, perhaps more if they attempted to conceal their movements. The sheer scale of it — transporting supplies, soldiers, horses, siege engines — would light up every border like a beacon.
And even if — if — she managed to cross into enemy territory unnoticed, there was no certainty she could defeat Lucas… much less his elite army, forged in war and baptized in fire.
In the solitude of her throne room, Ilvane, the White Sovereign, sat in silence. Her heart weighed the odds against her people's pride. Was this a trap? Has the Iron duke and Winter Sovereign set me up?
The thought burned her.
Pride… was it worth annihilation?
The noble houses of Drosmere were restless. As always, it was the ones who had never held a dying comrade, never heard the death rattle of war, who cried loudest for battle. Old lords clinging to faded glories. Young heirs desperate to forge their names in blood. They saw war as a game.
But Ilvane had seen enough blood.
So, she made a decision — she hid the truth. She kept the plan locked within her own mind. Not a word to her vassals. Not a whisper to her court.
And in time, her caution was vindicated.
The Iron Duke… dead.
The Winter Sovereign… executed.
One by one, the pillars that once stood tall against the Empire crumbled. The purge had begun. And Drosmere, untouched for now, stood at a crossroads.
Should she intervene? Or remain in the shadows?
Ilvane rose from her throne, her silken robes trailing behind her like snowfall. Her expression was calm, but her mind was a storm.
She needed counsel. She needed clarity.
There was only one man whose wisdom she trusted in these times — Andreas, the King of Seravia.
She turned to her attendant.
"Prepare a call with King Andres of Seravia. Immediately."
The attendant bowed and vanished. Moments later, court mages entered the chamber, their hands glowing with runes as they carried in a large mirror-like device. Crafted years ago by a Master of the Red Magic Tower of Dracia, the enchanted mirror allowed rulers to speak across vast distances, channeling aura or mana to form a link between two minds.
As the mirror shimmered to life, Ilvane stood before it, her reflection flickering like a ghost in snow.
Soon, the King would answer — and with him, perhaps, her next move.
..............................…..
The mirror flared to life, shimmering with silver light. A face emerged from the swirling glow — stern, cold, calculating.
King Andreas of Seravia.
"Is it urgent?" he asked, voice blunt as steel.
Ilvane did not answer immediately. She weighed her words like a blade in hand.
"I want your opinion… on the war."
A small, knowing smile crept across Andreas's face. As if he had been waiting for this moment all along.
"There is no kingdom on this continent that can defeat the Empire," he said smoothly. "Unless—"
He left the word hanging in the air, a hook baited with silence.
Ilvane narrowed her eyes.
"Unless?"
Andreas leaned forward slightly, the smirk never leaving his face.
"Unless we ally ourselves with something beyond human. Something like—"
"Demons," Ilvane finished, her voice sharp. She knew exactly where this path led.
A pause followed. The air between them grew heavy with unspoken truths.
That single word had tested both of them. He was probing. So was she.
Andreas finally broke the silence with a shrug and a sardonic grin.
"Regardless, I intend to surrender to the Empire. No throne is worth dying over. If they wish to reduce me from king to lord… so be it."
He said it with ease, but Ilvane heard the message beneath it. Support me, or watch as I kneel alone — and you face the flames next.
She said nothing. Her expression remained unreadable.
And then, without another word, she ended the call.
The mirror faded, leaving only her reflection — alone, silent, thoughtful.
She understood now.
Andreas had chosen his path. He would either bend the knee or consort with monsters. And he was hoping she would do the same.
But Ilvane… Ilvane was still undecided.
She turned away from the dying light of the mirror and spoke to her attendant, her voice calm, but resolute.
"Summon the nobles. All of them. We convene at once."
A storm was gathering — not of snow, but of politics, betrayal, and the weight of legacy.
And Ilvane, Queen of Drosmere, would face it head-on.