This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2023 by L. Cyrus Whelchel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: lcyruswhelchel@gmail.com.

  Cover Design by Lesia T.

  Map by Thiago Liuth

  ISBN 979-8-9895166-0-5 (paperback)

  ISBN 979-8-9895166-1-2 (ebook)

  www.lcyruswhelchel.com

  Many thanks to the ladies of Hololive Myth: Ninomae Ina’nis, Takanashi Kiara, Gawr Gura, Calliope Mori, and Watson Amelia.

  You taught me the importance of chasing your dreams. Without your inspiration, this book would have remained a drop in the vast sea of my imagination.

  Chapter I

  Despite standing in a pristine mansion, the scent of death filled the air.

  Vizent Doulterre had seen many strange and disturbing things in his long life, the last 15 of which he spent serving the Livorian Royal Navy. This room, however, was beyond anything he ever encountered. His eyes shifted back and forth, even as his body stood rigid in a neatly pressed uniform. He found nothing overtly suspicious. The entire space looked like any noble’s study should. Why, then, did an aura of decay permeate the room like a suffocating miasma?

  Sparse decorations lay scattered throughout the room. Behind a heavy wooden desk, the back wall was lined with bookshelves containing hundreds of organized tomes. The carpet was thick, made of ox hair if his guess was right, with flowing symbols woven across the surface. The symbols reminded him of a language he once saw but couldn’t remember the name of, from the times before Centric took over as Alezon’s primary trading language. The desk itself was the sole messy object in the room, with piles of parchment and baubles leaving little space. Inkwells and feather quills sat near the smallest piles, possibly documents under review.

  Vizent’s lips curved upward as he gazed at the quills. The feathers were much too long for any normal bird. Without a doubt, they were Aerivolk feathers. The rank stench of blood, however, was everywhere. The only light came from an oil lamp on the desk, leaving shadows to cover the room’s outer rim. The brass stars signifying his general’s rank glimmered every so often in the flame’s glow. He needed to get used to being called a general rather than admiral.

  The crinkle of parchment and scratch of a quill drew Vizent’s eyes to the man sitting behind the desk. While he kept a hood up concealing the upper half of his face, the old soldier could still make out two distinct features: a faint red mark circling half of the man’s neck and a neatly trimmed beard. His deep black cloak’s shoulder was embroidered with purple filigree. The crest of the local forger’s guild was emblazoned on the breast in the same violet shade. The lamplight flickered and exposed a pair of tinted spectacles resting on the man’s nose, which Vizent found intriguing.

  Are his eyes sensitive to light? he wondered. It would certainly explain the lack of lighting.

  The man’s hands were calloused and scarred. Backbreaking labor was common enough in the forges and storage houses that littered the Corlati Federation, and Vizent knew of the man’s position as master of the largest iron forge and weapons company in the realm. In Vizent’s opinion, it made the scars more impressive. It suggested he rose to his current position through merit rather than connections. Vizent’s musings stalled when the man set his quill down, steepling his fingers. Though unable to see his face, Vizent detected a strange aura around him.

  “I must admit, General Doulterre, I’m curious about your purpose here. I don’t often entertain visitors from Livoria. Considering the present difficulties, I feel it’s in my best interest to know your goals,” the man said slowly, his voice smoother than silk yet carrying a harsh tone mixed with amusement.

  Vizent blinked. If he didn’t already know the man’s identity, his voice alone would have made the general believe he was speaking to a senator or nobleman rather than a craftsman. “Master Razarr, I shouldn’t be surprised you know of the troubles facing my country. Livoria’s fracturing is the biggest crisis our continent has seen in over seventy years. The Livorian Liberation Army is in dire need of equipment for the upcoming war. We received glowing recommendations of your reputation as a weapons dealer and-” Vizent’s impassioned speech was interrupted when Razarr slammed a fist on the desk, jabbing a gnarled finger towards the officer.

  “Do not take me for a fool, General,“ he snapped. “I know your army is ill-equipped and lacking in discipline, despite your impressive numbers. It’s unfortunate since your primary sources of manpower are volunteers, conscripts, and those brave enough to desert the Royalist Navy. Your equipment consists of anything looted from storehouses in towns under your control. This, of course, assumes my scouts are correct, which they are.

  “For it to be worth expending the effort to supply you, I want to know what you plan to do against the Royalists. Going into battle without a plan is certain to bring defeat, and I have no desire to aid a losing side. My businesses would be crippled otherwise,” Razarr drawled, rapping a pointed nail against the wood.

  Vizent gathered his satchel from the floor. “Sir, I was authorized to discuss our initial objectives for your review. The man who referred us mentioned your experience with military dossiers. However, if you require clarification, don’t hesitate to ask. Here is a copy for your perusal.” He pulled a small ream of parchment and held it forward. Razarr took the stack and silently read.

  Several minutes passed by with no sound from either man. Vizent gave a silent prayer this would work. Without equipment, any hope they had of winning the war would be lost.

  Finally, Razarr laid the parchment down, matching the general’s eyes. Vizent caught a brief glimpse of the man’s sharp gaze beneath the spectacles. “This is rather ambitious. At first glance, it looks like a fool’s errand. I’m most curious about your path of attack. I agree an early offensive will offer the best chance for victory, but why take such a long route to the capital’s eastern side? Would it not be easier to march through the forest and strike Whistlevale from the west or south?”

  Vizent chortled, leaning back to stare at the hanging tapestries. “Sir, I’m not sure what you know of Livoria’s inner conflicts, but no strategist with an army of novices would be stupid enough to attack the capital by way of the Videring Forest. Especially novices that follow our more ‘traditional’ beliefs. Do you know why?”

  “I have a theory. However, I’d like you to humor me and assume I’m an ignorant buffoon.”

  Vizent grimaced. His former colleagues liked to think him reckless, but not even he was crazy enough to think of calling Razarr an ignorant buffoon to his face. He held up two fingers. “First, the main road through the Videring passes close to Duskmarsh. As you mentioned, my men are nowhere near disciplined enough. They wouldn’t be able to restrain themselves from attacking it. You know our side’s stance on those beasts and the target would be too tempting.” Vizent’s lips thinned. His hand tightened into a fist thinking about Duskmarsh. In his opinion, the entire swamp-based city and its inhabitants needed to be wiped off the map.

  Razarr nodded. “And the other reason...?”

  The general’s fist clenched. “I refuse to put my men too close to Havenfall before they are ready. Even taking the merchant roads north of Duskmarsh would keep us within a few days trek of that village, and the risk is too great.” Vizent could see a sliver of a smirk beneath Razarr’s hood and held back a shudder. This man knew more than expected, but Vizent was suspicious of how he obtained his information.

  Razarr tapped a finger on the desk in a rhythmic pattern. “You provide sound, logical reasons to avoid the Videring. Despite its small size, Havenfall would be a difficult opponent, and there is no doubt they would strike without orders if they suspected the Grand Duchess was in danger. But you already know this. Do you have plans in case they move against you early?”

  Vizent let out a sigh of relief. Razarr asking for details was a good sign. He already had his own ideas to handle Havenfall, though he would keep those in reserve. Dealing with the Hunter village was his personal mission. “We have several plans in place, organized within the dossier. Our goal is that, with a surprise strike from the east, Whistlevale will fall before Havenfall ever becomes a nuisance. If you are willing to equip our army and help put down the Royalists, I’m certain my superiors within the Conclave would be willing to provide opportunities to expand your forge operations within Livoria.”

  Vizent felt his offer gave adequate incentive for Razarr to reach a deal. No merchant worth their salt would pass up an easy chance to improve their profits, with Livoria’s lower taxes and renowned craftsmen making an enticing motivator. The deal would let Razarr rake in higher profits after establishing operations.

  Razarr’s fingers continued tapping, the steady sound filling the silence. A thin smile stretched across Razarr’s face. He leaned back with a heavy sigh.

  “I have one final question: Do you have officers capable of molding your soldiers into a respectable army?” A deep chuckle escaped his lips as he gave Vizent a sly smile. “After all, having hordes of men does no good if they don’t know which end of the sword to hold.”

  Vizent gave his first true g