The cart lurched forward along the dirt road, its wooden wheels grinding against loose gravel. Silence reigned, broken only by the rhythmic clink of armor and the steady clop of hooves. The men flanking him—mercenaries of the Solareye, sworn to the same code that now condemned him—rode in cold, wordless discipline, their dark sallet helmets obscuring their faces.

  Yirtin sat in the cart, wrists bound, shoulders heavy. His golden eyes flickered to his manacles—iron, simple, and absolute. There was no struggle left in him, only the dull ache of loss that throbbed deeper than the bruises beneath his battered armor. He closed his eyes, grasping for something—anything—to ground him, to hold onto hope.

  But all he could find was the sound of boots marching.

  Metal clashing.

  Screams.

  The crack of bones, the wet, gurgling breaths of dying men.

  The scent of blood.

  His throat tightened. He forced his eyes open again. Sleep would bring no peace tonight.

  His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the weight that settled in his soul. The weight of the fallen—the men he had led, fought beside, bled with—all dead. Their faces blurred in his memory, reduced to nothing but the echoes of their last cries.

  The convoy moved cautiously. They knew what lurked in the dark. No soldier rode at ease when traveling at night—least of all after what had happened to the Golden Dragoons. Even those who had not been there rode stiffly, gripping the hilts of their swords a little tighter, as if expecting something to rise from the treeline at any moment. As if expecting whatever had killed his men to come for them next.

  They did not speak of it.

  They did not have to.

  The sun began to rise two hours later, casting a dim golden glow across the land. But for Yirtin, it was not dawn—it was a revelation of his failure. A cruel illumination that stripped away the night’s uncertainty and left him bare, exposed.

  And then he saw it.

  The fortress of marble and gold.

  The Solareye Academy stood against the morning light like a monument to victory, to discipline, to the unbreakable will of mercenaries who had shaped their own legend in blood and coin. Dark stone walls, polished black marble streaked with veins of gold, rose high against the sky, their intricate carvings reflecting the heritage of the Solareye Clan. The banners along the ramparts bore the golden lion sigil, fluttering against the morning wind, as if staring down in silent judgment.

  Yirtin exhaled through his nose. He had bled for this place, fought for it, believed in it. Now, it was no longer his home—only the site of his reckoning.

  The cart came to a stop.

  The escort reined in their horses, the creak of leather and steel filling the heavy silence. As Yirtin sat still, hands bound, three knights approached from the front gates, their armor gleaming in the first light.

  The tallest among them stepped forward. Sergeant Varnan Doz. A veteran of the Solareye Army, broad-shouldered, his lower sallet lifted to reveal a face lined with age and battle-worn scars. A deep mark ran along his lower cheek—a wound that never quite healed. Despite all the healing spells that went into it

  His eyes flicked to Kogun.

  "Legate Major." His voice was firm, neither warm nor hostile.

  "Sergeant," Kogun acknowledged with a nod, his tone as measured as ever.

  Varnan’s eyes trailed toward Yirtin, narrowing slightly.

  "Who's the prisoner?"

  A pause.

  Then Kogun answered, a flick of hesitation in his voice.

  "Yirtin."

  For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling against the banners.

  Varnan exhaled slowly. He did not look surprised—only resigned.

  "Terrible misfortune," the Sergeant murmured at last, his gaze steady, unreadable.

  Kogun met his stare. "Very much so, Sergeant."

  Varnan straightened, adjusting his gauntlets. His next words were spoken not as a friend, not as a fellow soldier—but as a man of the code.

  Kogun did not hesitate.

  The words rang like iron against stone. Final. Unquestionable.

  Yirtin lowered his head slightly. He had always believed those words. Now, they felt like a noose tightening around his throat.

  He had once been among the triumphant.

  Now, he was merely a name waiting to be judged.

  The convoy pressed forward, hooves striking the frost-bitten ground in rhythmic procession. The soldiers spared long, measured glances toward Yirtin, their stares heavy with something between judgment and disbelief. It was rare—unthinkable, even—for one of their own to ride in chains, much less a Solareye.

  Yirtin did not return their gazes.

  They passed through the outer grounds, where rows of small wooden cabins housed the enlisted mercenaries—the footsoldiers, the hunters, the city guards—those who bore the Solareye sigil but not its prestige. The lower ranks. Their work was not glorious, but necessary. Some had already risen for morning drills, their breath misting in the cold air, while others huddled near the makeshift kitchen stands, warming their hands over iron pots as the morning cook banged against a ladle, calling them to eat.

  The smell of roasted oats, spiced broth, and hard bread filled the air, but it barely registered to Yirtin.

  The cart lurched to a halt before a secondary gate, one even more well-guarded than the first. Here stood a phalanx of leonine warriors, all taller than the human knights who had escorted him. White-maned, white-furred—kin, but not brethren.

  One among them stepped forward, his presence alone enough to command the respect of those behind him. Captain Heliondor. His shoulders were broad, his fur streaked with silver, a testament to age-earned wisdom.

  He raised a closed fist to his chest in salute. "Legate Solareye."

  "Captain Heliondor," Kogun returned evenly.

  Heliondor's piercing blue eyes flickered toward the prisoner. He did not speak Yirtin’s name, but his stare alone delivered the message.

  Yirtin looked at him but couldn't face his eyes, he had nothing to say to the uncle of the woman he loved.

  Instead it made his chest only tighten with the thought of her, only make him feel worse than he was already feeling.

  "Your father has ordered that the prisoner be brought straight to the council," Heliondor said, his tone firm but unreadable.

  Kogun’s ears flicked slightly. "Are you certain?"

  "Indeed, sir."

  Kogun exhaled through his nose. "I'll proceed as ordered."

  Heliondor nodded once. "Welcome back, Legate."

  "Yes, yes. Thank you, Captain." Kogun’s tone was clipped, his patience thinning. He turned away from the captain’s company as the convoy rolled through the final gate.

  The white-maned warriors did not move. They did not speak. But as Yirtin was led past them, they watched him.

  Scowls in their eyes.

  Kogun approached the cart, his gloved hand reaching out to help Yirtin down. He was firm, but not unkind.

  "I’m sorry for my men," he said, voice lowered. "Know that I take no satisfaction in being alive."

  Yirtin met his brother’s gaze, trying to find something beneath the cold exterior. Something human.

  "They gave you a gift, Yirtin," Kogun murmured. "Do not squander it."

  Yirtin did not answer.

  "What will be of me?"

  Kogun was silent for a moment. Then, simply, he said, "Only the Eternal Lion knows, Yirtin."

  Yirtin swallowed, but there was nothing left to say.

  Kogun held his arm, pulling him toward the marble stairs leading into the heart of the Academy. As they ascended, the heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a vast, cathedral-like hall.

  The Hall of Triumphs.

  Towering pillars stretched upward, adorned with intricate carvings of battle scenes, of Solareye victories long past. Massive oil paintings depicted the past deans and Grand Generals who had shaped the Academy’s legacy—including one that loomed larger than the rest:

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Ethos Solareye.

  Their father.

  The golden inlays on the walls gleamed under the flickering torchlight, but Yirtin’s gaze was drawn forward.

  To the end of the hall.

  There, men in ceremonial gold-plated armor stood in still formation, white, yellow, and black robes draped beneath their heavy cuirasses. They did not fidget. They did not glance at one another. They stood like statues, their lion-helmets polished to a fine gleam.

  The Gath Guard.

  Sentinels of the Academy. Executioners when necessary.

  One of them stepped forward. "The council awaits you, Kogun. And you, Yirtin."

  The wide darkwood doors creaked open, revealing the true chamber of judgment.

  Unlike the Hall of Triumphs, this chamber was not gold and firelight—it was silver and stone, cold and unforgiving.

  The Council Hall was built in the likeness of the old republics of the north, those long fallen, their ideals now reduced to relics beneath the weight of empire. Marble benches rose in ascending tiers, filled with commanders, strategists, scholars—all of whom had gathered to witness judgment.

  At the far end of the room, above the rest, stood a solitary mezzanine.

  Kogun guided Yirtin up toward the waiting figure standing atop it.

  Tall. Almost eight feet in height.

  His mane curled at the ends, but unlike Kogun’s, it was restrained beneath a full helm of dark steel.

  His right eye was scarred, the flesh marked by a wound that had long since healed but never faded.

  Iros.

  The eldest. The strongest.

  His voice cut the room like a blade.

  "Yirtin, ."

  Yirtin bristled, his ears flicking back. "I did not—"

  Iros turned his helm slightly. "Do not speak to me if you desire to keep your tongue, Captain."

  The title felt like an insult in his mouth.

  "I will only be here as long as Father requires me to be," Iros continued, his tone one of pure disinterest.

  Yirtin bit back his reply. There was no winning against Iros—not with words.

  Kogun exhaled slowly. "I understand that the council wants to see him now."

  "Well, almost, Legate," Iros interjected.

  "We are in the midst of an important deliberation," he said, his voice calm, impassive. "Regarding the fate of Yirtin’s mission."

  Kogun straightened. "How should I proceed, General?"

  General Iros Solareye did not move from his place, nor did his expression shift. His gaze never once fell upon Yirtin—as though he were already dismissed, a thing beneath notice.

  "Make the deserter comfortable," Iros said smoothly. "I would like him to have time to understand the implications of his deplorable defeat."

  Yirtin’s fists tightened within his manacles.

  The chamber was silent but for the flickering torches, their golden glow casting long shadows against the towering marble pillars. Yirtin sat beside Kogun, gazing down upon the council benches, where the fate of the Solareye—and his own—would be decided.

  At the center of the assembly, Ethos Solareye stood, his presence alone enough to command the chamber’s attention. A lion of war, a pillar of wisdom. He did not speak, not yet.

  To his right, Sorra Thundermoon, an elf of ageless grace and measured severity, stood with her hands folded. Her long silver hair cascaded like woven moonlight, her dark eyes like pools of endless thought, gathered from centuries of experience.

  To his left, Sargamri Flintfinger, a stout, broad-chested dwarf, his red beard thick as iron cord, though his balding head betrayed his years. His posture was rigid, his calloused hands resting against his belt, ever the warrior in council.

  Next was Coxnas, the Blue, a human of short, white beard and eyes that glimmered like the frost of dawn. A man of insight and calculated optimism.

  And beside him, Duvulnox Oleg, the most merchant-like of them all—thin, bespectacled, with a receding crown of thinning brown hair. His dark brown eyes held the weight of ledgers, balances, and the quiet, insidious power of coin.

  Before them all, Aldox Solareye stood—the brother of Ethos, uncle to Yirtin. His bearing was firm, his stance unshaken.

  "I plead that we continue with our efforts to execute the abomination that slaughtered the Golden Dragoons," Aldox declared, his voice even, unyielding. "In the name of honor, duty, and the vengeance owed to the fallen, I petition that the Iron Legion be granted the right to replace the Dragoons in fulfilling the contract. The crown demands immediate action or they will find someone else to fulfill the contract."

  Ethos leaned back in his seat, unreadable.

  But it was Sorra Thundermoon who spoke first, her voice flowing like silver through the air, smooth yet edged with iron.

  "A grievous course thou dost lay before us, Elder. Shall we chase specters in the dark and wade blindly into shadowed doom? Already hath the ground drunk deeply of Solareye blood, and yet thou dost bid us spill more?"

  Aldox turned his gaze toward her, his brow furrowing. "Councilwoman, with all due respect, this threat lingers too close to our gates. Too close to home. I will not stand idle while it festers."

  Coxnas, the Blue, inclined his head slightly. "The elder speaks wisely," he murmured. "We must not let fear stay our hand."

  Sorra’s dark eyes flicked toward Coxnas. "And what dost thou propose, Councilman Coxnas?"

  Coxnas folded his hands before him. "I propose we approach this through the gifts of the Entanglement."

  At this, Sargamri Flintfinger let out a sharp exhale, his beard bristling with impatience.

  "Bah! Magic is hardly the hammer fit to drive this nail!" the dwarf scoffed, voice like a hammer striking an anvil. "The only way to rid the world of a cursed thing is to track it to its den and burn it to cinders. Load the siege engines, raise the trebuchets, and bring the fire as is proper!"

  Sorra tilted her head slightly, considering.

  "Perchance I shall agree with thee, Councilman Coxnas," she said at last. "This thing we fight—this shadow-lurking fiend—is entwined with the dark workings of the Entanglement. A blade alone shall not suffice."

  "I second the motion," Coxnas nodded.

  But then, at last, Oleg stirred. He had remained silent until now, his hands resting on the polished table before him, listening, calculating. Now, he straightened, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  "Pardon me, councilmen, but have any among us counted the cost?" His voice was measured, precise. "Coin is our lifeblood. The reserves we maintain sustain not only our soldiers but the very land we hold. The amount required to employ multiple Entanglement practitioners, let alone the purchasing of materials required for sustained magical warfare, would prove… catastrophic."

  His sharp gaze flickered across the room.

  "An army marches on its belly. If we empty our coffers, what do we pay our farmers? And if we do not pay the farmers, who shall feed the warriors you would send to their deaths?"

  Sargamri let out a grunt. "Nonsense. What riches do we stand to find at this beast’s lair, eh? Gold beyond counting! We shall claim its hoard and let the wealth of our conquest feed our men and forge our war machines grander still."

  And then—Ethos Solareye raised his hand.

  Silence fell.

  The room hung in stillness, all waiting upon his word.

  His golden eyes swept across the chamber, weighing each man, each voice, each ambition.

  "I understand the concerns of all gathered here," Ethos said, his voice even, yet bearing the weight of command. "But we must not be blinded by vengeance. A mighty legion was lost. Shall we insist upon the same folly and march into another slaughter?"

  A slow nod from Oleg.

  "We will employ every tool at our disposal," Ethos continued. "Magic, steel, and flame—each shall play its role in a balanced strike. Yet this is all moot without knowledge. We know nothing of our enemy. If we act without wisdom, we waste coin, machines, and flesh alike."

  He let the words settle, watching them take root.

  "How then should we proceed, Grand General?" Aldox asked, his voice tempered.

  Ethos turned to Sorra Thundermoon.

  "Councilwoman, we require your spies. Every whisper in the night, every rumor from the lowliest peasant to the most learned scholar—we need them. We will speak with the villagers. Turn over every stone, search every ruin if necessary."

  Sorra bowed her head slightly. "I shall summon my agents at once, Grand General."

  "Our best hope lies not in brute force, but in shadows." Ethos leaned forward, hands clasped together. "Only when we have gathered intelligence shall we move. Only then shall we strike."

  A hush settled over the council as his words solidified into edict, into law.

  The Solareye would not march blindly into death again.

  This time, the war would be fought in the dark.

  And Yirtin, bound and silent, would be at the center of it.

  From the gallery above, a voice muttered low like a dagger drawn from its sheath.

  A hiss, laced with contempt and fury.

  "Pay the farmers? Hoard gold like misers? Bow to weak kings? Shame upon you all."

  Iros Solareye stood, his broad frame casting a long shadow over the mezzanine. His golden mane, long and curled, draped over his armored shoulders, but his scarred right eye burned with open disgust.

  "We are Solareye. We are warriors. Not merchants scraping at the dirt for coins like beggars. This is weakness. This is disgrace."

  Kogun merely shook his head, calm where his elder brother seethed.

  "It is not our way, Iros." His voice was measured, firm. "We rule by the contract, not the throne. Prosperity comes through service, not conquest."

  Iros scoffed, leaning forward, his armored hands gripping the railing.

  "Spoken like a servant of Libertas. Counting coin and calling it glory. What do we build with this?" His voice sharpened, mocking. "Where is our empire, Kogun? Where is the banner of Solareye raised in dominion? Do you not dream of a kingdom of our own?"

  Kogun exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "This has never been our creed. We serve, we profit, we endure."

  Iros' scowl deepened. "You would whore out our strength to lesser men?"

  "Brother."

  Iros' golden eyes flicked toward him.

  "You have spoken your piece, Legate. Press this matter no further."

  A pause. Then Kogun gave a slow, deliberate nod.

  "As you desire, General."

  But the fire in his gaze did not wane.

  Then, from the entryway to the gallery, a shadow moved.

  A figure stepped into the torchlight—a lioness, her fur white as the first snow, her piercing blue eyes colder still.

  Her movements were precise, her stride like a panther closing in for the kill. The spear slung across her back marked her rank, but Yirtin did not need to see it to know her.

  His heart ached before his body did.

  Kogun rose. "Sergeant Heliondor."

  She stopped before them, her chest rising and falling with quiet, controlled breath.

  "Legate," she said, her voice steady—too steady. "I must speak to him."

  Kogun hesitated, glancing at Yirtin. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Of course."

  Yirtin’s breath caught as she turned to face him.

  Arana.

  She was the only thing that had ever made war feel worth returning from.

  He opened his mouth—

  The blow came fast and merciless.

  Her fist crashed against his face, sharp knuckles splitting his lip, sending his head twisting to the side. Blood filled his mouth, metallic, warm.

  His vision blurred for a moment.

  Then her voice, raw and trembling with fury.

  "How could you, Yirtin!?"

  He didn’t answer. Because what could he say?

  "I loved you!"

  Yirtin swallowed, blinking blood from his lashes. "I'm sorry."

  Her ears pinned back, grief twisting in her gaze like a wound refusing to close.

  "My brother was there, Yirtin."

  His breath hitched.

  "My brother died in that field!"

  His chest clenched. "I'm sorry, Arana. I—"

  "There's no excuse."

  Her hand trembled before she clenched it into a fist.

  "Arana."

  But she had already closed the distance.

  Her lips met his, desperate, furious, a kiss that was not love but grief, a goodbye sharpened into a blade.

  Yirtin’s chains clinked as he leaned into it, despite himself, despite the ache, despite the shame.

  Then she tore away.

  Her blue eyes were cold, wet, furious.

  "I hope they execute you, Yirtin."

  She punched him again.

  He let her.

  The world blurred. His vision tilted. His jaw screamed in protest.

  And he did nothing.

  Because he had hurt her worse.

  Kogun stepped forward, catching her arm before she could strike again.

  "That’s enough, Sergeant."

  From the gallery, Iros laughed.

  Yirtin slowly lifted his gaze, blood dripping from his chin.

  Arana looked at him, breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling with barely-contained rage.

  His voice was hoarse. "I love you, Arana."

  Her ears flicked, her scowl deepening.

  She spit at his feet.

  "I hate you, Yirtin."

  Then she turned and without another word, she left him to his fate.

  The chamber hushed, the weight of judgment thick in the air. Then, a voice—deep as a war drum, unyielding as a fortress wall— thundered through the hall.

  "The council requests the immediate presence of the deserter Yirtin Solareye."

  The Grand General had spoken.

  Yirtin exhaled sharply. His legs felt like lead, his blood still warm on his lips, but he forced himself to move. He stepped toward the railing of the mezzanine, the polished marble cool beneath his paws.

  Ethos Solareye stood motionless, his powerful frame wreathed in the shadows of the great banners behind him. But it was his eyes that struck Yirtin the hardest.

  There was no fire in them. No rage, no words. Only the hollow, icy weight of disappointment.

  Yirtin clenched his fists within his shackles.

  Then, Kogun’s voice, calm but unwavering.

  "Come, deserter. It is time for your trial."

  The word deserter struck deeper than any blade.

  He had been called many things in his life—warrior, captain, commander. But never that.

  Yirtin hesitated for only a breath before stepping forward.

  Then, a sneer.

  Iros leaned over the railing, his golden mane cascading down his shoulders like a lion poised for the kill.

  "Go, rat," he spat, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "Before you stink up the galleries with the foul stench of cowardice."

  Yirtin’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once against the stone.

  He did not look at Iros.

  He did not speak.

  He only moved forward, descending toward the judgment that awaited him.