The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 25
Admiral Loryn Elmstad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice, as always, held quiet command, carrying the slow confidence of a man accustomed to the weight of authority.
‘Their ships eluded our navy for days at sea. If my fleet had been positioned in the Sea of Thewthyri, this would not have happened.’ There was no arrogance in his tone, only the calm certainty of a commander who knew his craft. ‘The fort’s weakness was no secret, and now the West holds it. The question is, what do we do about it?’
He paused, his brow furrowing as he recalled the reports. ‘From what I gather, the sea came alive with vessels I’ve never encountered—massive ships, siege platforms by the looks of them. Such a fleet should not have gone unnoticed, yet it did.’ He shook his head, his frustration clear. ‘I know of no such thing in our waters.’
Vintara’s voice cut through the chamber. ‘And how many will we send to die to fix this mess, Rhaelmar?’ Her tone was unsavory, blunt, but it carried the frustration of a strategist forced to account for unnecessary losses.
‘Enough!’ the Chancellor roared, his voice a thunderclap in the vast chamber. ‘This was unforeseen! No one could have predicted this unless they had word from within our own walls. Did they? Did they?!’ His gaze swept the table, lingering on each face, searching for the faintest flicker of guilt. The silence that followed was suffocating.
His hands slammed against the table. ‘We will need to send a force to their deaths,’ he said. ‘A larger one. A decisive one. And for what? So you can continue your indulgences in the brothels of the citadel?’ His voice dripped with disgust.
He knew. Somehow, somewhere, the whispers had slipped from behind closed doors. More than likely from one of these very people before him. The thought simmered beneath his skin, rage curling like smoke in his chest. He entertained the idea of removing them all, purging the council of its complacency, but he knew such a move would only raise further suspicion.
A quiet voice broke the tension.
Magister Sidra Vyrion, ever the tactician, ever the weaver of unseen threads, spoke softly. ‘Perhaps this is not a loss, Chancellor. Perhaps this is an opportunity. We now have the West at our doorstep. The Eastern Union will have no choice but to beg for our aid. This could buy us time. Much more time.’
Rhaelmar’s fury dimmed, a calculating gleam replacing it. Sidra continued, ‘Let the West hold the fort for now. Let them draw their armies deeper. We will strike when it serves us best, when both the West and the East are at their weakest. This war was always coming—it has simply arrived sooner than expected. And that... may work in our favor.’
Silence once again gripped the Hall of Arms, but this time, it was not from shock. It was from realization. The Chancellor leaned forward slowly, his fingers tapping the table in thought.
‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I believe it might. But unless you know where the Thrirlessians are, I don’t think we are going to have much choice. The wheels of the cart have already rolled.’ He sighed, his gaze sweeping the council. ‘It is only time now. Time.’
Rhaelmar exhaled slowly, letting the weight of his words settle over the chamber. The firelight flickered against the polished table, reflecting the solemn faces of the Silver Assembly. It was Vintara Tynavor who spoke next, her tone even, though laced with the strain of careful diplomacy.
‘Then we prepare our forces to go south, to attack the fort alongside the Gainfolds and Verdathisa. We can only assume they are aware of the situation themselves.’
General Thalrice Arondar, the General of the Armies, finally spoke. His voice was firm, yet laced with unease. ‘We can’t spare even a hundred soldiers. We need them all.’
‘But the East expects our commitment to the treaty,’ Captain Orwyn Kelthar, the Master of the Chancellor’s Guard, countered. ‘We cannot forgo this so early. We need the treaty to hold, at least for now, or we risk being overrun.’
Vintara Tynavor folded her hands, speaking with precision. ‘The East expects us to uphold the minimum commitment of twenty percent. But Gusia is too far away to respond in time. They will expect us and Verdathisa to support the first defense. If we knew they already had forces on the way, then we could factor them in.
The West will know this—they will be planning their next move. First, they will take the farms and villages to the south, then eventually push north toward Melivelisha. If we hold the line there, we might avert disaster.’
‘No,’ Rhaelmar interrupted. His voice was sharp, final. ‘We will send six hundred soldiers to head the fort off from the north. Jonika will match the number. This will be our commitment while we wait for the Gainfolds to act.’
A beat of silence.
‘The West will move quickly now,’ he continued. ‘They will be preparing to take Melivelisha—if they haven’t already. We can head them off quickly, push them back toward the fort, and wait for reinforcements.’
He paused, scanning the table. His piercing gaze lingered on each council member, measuring them.
‘Vintara,’ he said, his tone calm yet commanding. ‘See to it that supplies are ready before first light. We have no time to waste.
Thalrice, assemble six hundred strong. No Syllanian, no Tripolists, none.
Sidra, increase training for the Tripolists—all of them. The East must see that we are preparing for war.
Loryn, ensure the ships sail by sunrise for Jonika, carrying our soldiers. Jonika’s decision is irrelevant. If we move first, we buy ourselves time.’
A tense silence followed. Then General Thalrice Arondar cleared his throat, his discontent barely veiled. ‘My lord, we cannot spare six hundred soldiers. This is madness.’
Rhaelmar slowly turned his head, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow smirk formed.
‘Then I suppose you can not spare your cock the use of a woman in a brothel either.’ His voice was quiet, sharp as a blade. ‘You do not get to decide, Thalrice. If we do not send them now, we will all be crushed. It is better to make a small sacrifice now than to lose an empire in the future.’
‘See that the army marches north of the fort at once. They must not fail. They must not allow the West to advance beyond the fort and deeper into Verdathisa. If we hold them there until the Thrirlessians arrive, the West’s attack will be nothing more than a fading memory.’
Rhaelmar’s expression remained unreadable, but his mind moved faster than the war itself. The gears of deceit turned with precision, and this time he would share nothing further with the Silver Assembly. Not again.
The last time he had allowed his council full access to his plans, whispers had slipped where they shouldn’t. This time, there would be no pillow talk, no idle boasts over wine. This time, they would move blind.
He would watch. He would wait. And when the time was right, he would play the hand that war had dealt him.
The Silver Assembly departed the Hall of Arms under the cover of night, the sun’s last embers long extinguished, leaving a warm stillness behind. There was no rest to be found, no respite for any of them. Vintara Tynavor, ever meticulous, felt a rare thrill coursing through her veins. Planning was her strength, and tonight, she would prove her worth to the Chancellor. None of the Assembly would sleep. Each would move the pieces of this great game, aligning them to fit the Chancellor’s grand vision.
For Admiral Loryn Elmstad, the task was simple. His ships, vessels of transport rather than war, would carry the doomed force south. He would have the soldiers in Jonika by day’s end. The logistics were clean and efficient, almost too clean given the grim truth behind their mission.
But for General Thalrice Arondar, the weight of the Chancellor’s decree pressed heavily upon his shoulders. He knew what he was doing. He was handpicking six hundred lives to offer to the Essence, sending them into the void with no return. Each name he chose felt like a mark upon his own soul. And yet, he could not defy the Chancellor. Not now. Not with suspicion already brushing against his reputation like the sharp edge of a blade. He worked with mechanical precision, his heart silent under the mounting dread.
The barracks buzzed with quiet urgency. Soldiers moved with the efficiency of long-drilled routines, their armor clinking softly as they donned their gear. The faint glow of distant lanterns illuminated the organized chaos, with officers barking orders, quartermasters hauling crates of supplies, and smiths making final adjustments to weapons. Sleep was a luxury no one could afford tonight.
As the hours crept toward dawn, the Aliztarian port stirred to life. Two ships, their hulls glinting faintly under the stars, were already bound for Jonika, cutting through the black waters with an eerie calm. Their decks groaned under the weight of soldiers standing ready, their faces a study in stoic determination, though none among them could guess the fate that awaited them.
By mid-morning, the remaining ships would follow, their decks packed with the final detachments of the six hundred chosen for Verdathisa. Supplies were loaded under the watchful eyes of Strategist Vintara Tynavor, whose precise instructions ensured no delays. She moved among the men and officers like a storm contained, correcting inefficiencies with sharp words and colder glances. Every detail had to be perfect; this was her moment and her worth was being proven.
Above the port, the sun had begun to rise, casting long shadows over the stone walls of Aliztar. From his vantage point in the Hall of Arms, General Thalrice Arondar watched the preparations unfold with trepidation. He had done as the Chancellor commanded, selecting the six hundred. Each name felt like a weight upon his shoulders, a ghost he would carry long after this day. The men had been chosen with care, not for their skill, but because their absence would weaken the army least. He hated himself for that calculus, but there was no alternative. The Chancellor’s will was iron, and to disobey was to risk the end of his own career or worse.
The docks were alive with movement, soldiers boarding the ships in staggered waves. Armor gleamed dully in the growing light, their swords and shields meticulously aligned. To them, it was just another mission, a routine defense of Verdathisa’s southern flank. They had no way of knowing the grim truth: they were lambs, sent not to hold the line but to buy time for a greater game.
By midday, the last ship would set sail, carrying its human cargo toward the storm gathering on the southern horizon. The Essence watched, silent and uncaring, as destiny prepared to claim them all.
Far to the south, Maerwyn and the three soldiers pressed on, their march unbroken through the faint moonlight cast by Nyx and Astra, their long shadows stretching across the empty road. As they walked, the stars slowly faded, retreating beneath the weight of a rising sun. The heavens above stretched vast and uncaring, and with each step into the growing light, Maerwyn felt the weight of guilt settle deeper into her chest.
It should have been her. She was meant to be there.
She did not know why the Essence had spared her. Gratitude did nothing to dull the guilt; it only sharpened it. Her survival felt like a cruel jest at fate’s hands, a weight she could not shake.
By the time the sun had fully broken over the horizon, sweat gathered at the back of her neck, her armor stifling under the weight of the morning heat. The golden plains stretched far and open before them, offering no shelter, no reprieve. Melivelisha Farm was still distant, but she knew they would reach it by midday.
Defend Melivelisha Farm at all costs. That was her charge. But how? Sixty men. Sixty soldiers who had shirked their duty as much as she had. They had been meant for the fort’s defense, but had lingered too long at outposts along the way, losing themselves in wine, women, and reckless indulgence. Now, their sins had caught up to them, just as hers had. If this was to be their penance, they would see it through together. They would hold the farm, or they would fall with it.
The road stretched ahead through golden farmlands, the early light brushing the fields in warm hues. Crops rippled in the breeze, their rustling soft beneath the iron rhythm of marching boots of Maerwyn and her men. A lone crow called in the distance, its cry sharp in the quiet. They had a full day’s march to Melivelisha Farm, and the weight of that distance pressed into their limbs, laced through the silence. They were not marching toward safety. The enemy would come. Whether they’d be ready when it did was another matter entirely.
Maerwyn let her gaze roam over the land as she walked. This was familiar country. She had grown up near to here, knew these fields, these winding paths, these scattered farmsteads where life had once been simple. Now, those same places felt vulnerable. Every barn and byre might soon be reduced to ash, every stacked bale of hay trampled beneath boots of men who had never belonged here.
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her blade. There would be no walls to shield them, no towering fort to absorb the first blows of battle. The land itself would have to serve as their defense. The narrow dirt roads, the uneven fields, and the low stone walls meant to keep livestock penned in would have to slow the enemy. If the West underestimated them, surprise might be their only advantage.
The sky lightened as the hours stretched on, but Maerwyn paid it little mind. The day would be long, and the path ahead longer. For now, she focused on moving forward, on keeping the ember of resolve burning in her chest. Because before the sun set again, war would no longer be a distant whisper. It would be at their doorstep.
CHAPTER 16 – The Angel of the Night
None of the Silver Assembly had closed their eyes that night, their exhaustion barely concealed under the urgency that charged the air. Beneath the towering shadow of the Citadel of Aliztar, the docks pulsed with frantic energy, the cries of sailors and the clipped commands of officers clashing like the discordant notes of a war horn. The Ihrlime Sea stretched beyond, its surface shifting with the first light of dawn, the rolling waves tinged in gold. The southern waters were eerily clear, their depths visible like shifting panes of blue glass, revealing everything yet reflecting nothing. Unlike the open secrets of the sea, the men who ruled these lands concealed theirs well. This natural channel, both a barrier and a lifeline, separated the prosperous lands of Lirioneth from the sprawling, agrarian plains of Verdathisa, a region politically tied to the Gainfolds but with no true autonomy of its own.
On the wharves, soldiers were being herded onto creaking ships, their armoured boots thudding against the weathered planks. These were the last boats leaving Aliztar, bound for the mouth of Kard’s River. Their mission: to bolster the defenses of Southern Verdathisa before the Western forces could claim another foothold. Chancellor Rhaelmar had dispatched urgent messages on the wings of albatrosses and riders alike, their destinations scattered across the Eastern Union. Jonika, the jewel of Verdathisa, with its bustling docks and fertile hinterlands, would likely receive word by midday. But whether the Verdathisian soldiers could muster themselves in time to join the fight was a question that gnawed at him.
Jonika’s seclusion and abundance had made it complacent, a city more concerned with grain stores and livestock yields than war. Its leaders operated with an autonomy that had long irked the Chancellor, their decisions confined to matters of trade and civil governance. Verdathisa was not an equal, merely a breadbasket. Its fields fed the armies of the East, yet its voice was less heard in their councils. The Gainfolds dictated its politics, while Lirioneth controlled the inland sea. For generations, this arrangement had been enough. Verdathisa had enjoyed many years of peace, its people believing that the rocky cliffs and churning waters of the South Sea of Thewthyri rendered it untouchable from the West.
That illusion had been shattered two nights ago.
Now, as Chancellor Rhaelmar watched the last of the boats push off into the inlet, his thoughts turned inward. The West’s assault on Garette Fort had been too precise, too well-timed. Someone within the Silver Assembly had betrayed them, their loose tongue spreading whispers of a weakened fort, undermanned farms, and armories stocked with nothing more than ordinary steel. He suspected General Thalrice Arondar, whose indiscretions with women of the night had long been whispered about, and whose carelessness could no longer be ignored. The Chancellor’s grip tightened on the iron rail of the pier. Verdathisa’s internal squabbles, its strained loyalties to Lirioneth, would have to wait. If Lirioneth was to survive this war, there could be no more leaks, no more loose ends.
Chancellor Rhaelmar leaned close, his voice a low murmur in Orwyn Kelthar’s ear. The Captain of the Chancellor’s Guard remained still, a marble statue of composure. Orwyn was Rhaelmar’s most trusted blade, a man who embodied loyalty in its purest, most unshakable form. His oath to uphold the law was absolute, a vow as unyielding as the steel he wore. He had declared chastity upon his induction into the Guard, an act that left his peers astounded and envious. In just two years from now, tradition dictated he would be granted a ceremonial retirement, a plot of land, a bride chosen for him, and a life of ease. But everyone who knew Orwyn knew he would refuse. Comfort was not his desire; duty was.
If anyone had ever tried to unearth a stain on his record, they would have found nothing but the glow of unattainable perfection. This, more than anything, infuriated the powerful. To manipulate a man, you needed leverage: greed, vice, secrets, or shame. Orwyn had none. To the schemers of the Silver Assembly, he was an immovable mountain. To Chancellor Rhaelmar, he was the foundation upon which trust could be built.
Some, out of spite or jealousy, whispered the name ‘Rhaelmar’s little dog’—but only behind closed doors. None were foolish enough to say it to his face. Orwyn was no ‘little’ anything. Standing nearly six foot four, he was a colossus, his broad shoulders and sinewy frame a testament to a lifetime of unrelenting discipline. His face, rugged and scarred, carried the quiet dignity of a man who had endured much and complained of nothing. His pale eyes were unnervingly sharp, as though he could dissect a man’s soul with a single glance. Beneath the hardened exterior, though, lay a mind as strategic as it was disciplined. Orwyn was no mere brute; he was a tactician, a thinker, and a man who understood the weight of every decision he made.
