Peace never lasts, and Kael knew it.
From the east marched Lady Seriyah, a warlord-queen with a talent for bloodshed and a crown made of her enemies' melted swords. She believed in empire, and Kael's little paradise was inconveniently located in her path.
She sent a message: Bow or burn.
Kael responded by sending her a bottle of his stepmother's perfume and a note: Smell this and think of me.
War was declared.
The people of Avarin had never seen real battle. So Kael trained them his way:
Archers practiced by shooting fruit off drunk men's heads.
Swordplay lessons ended in dance-offs.
Siege drills were turned into comedy shows to lower fear.
The people grew strong—unorthodox, chaotic, but strong.
Then came the battle. Thunder rolled. Seriyah's elite charged down the cliffs.
Kael, dressed in rags with gold paint on his face, met her at the gates with a wild grin and a flaming chicken tied to a spear.
The battle was legend. The valley ran red, but Avarin held. Seriyah was captured, brought before Kael, and laughed when she saw him.
"You're mad," she said.
"I'm also winning," he replied.
She offered him a deal. Share the throne. She ruled war, he ruled madness.
He kissed her. She didn't slap him.
A week later, they were married.