The king stood silently, his gaze fixed on the bronze-colored map stretched across the tall stone table. Around him, nineteen men had gathered—nobles and strategists, each carefully chosen for their expertise and loyalty. The meeting had shifted to his quarters, a place where the weight of countless decisions had been borne, and where the true planning for war would now unfold. Outside, the sounds of preparation hummed faintly in the air as other nobles saw to their duties, ensuring the kingdom's readiness. Inside, the room was thick with anticipation.
The stone table dominated the chamber, its cold surface etched with precision and purpose. On it lay a map bronze in color and marked with labels denoting key locations. Jargon Clement, the bald noble and military genius who had earlier pledged his readiness, stood at its head, his presence commanding attention. His hand rested confidently on the map, which depicted not just Leotus but the surrounding kingdoms—Miramontes, Rubies, Pascal, and Cleodor, their territories sprawling like veins of possibility and peril.
Jargon reached for a small stone figure and placed it firmly on the western side of the map, signifying Kelvin, the capital city of Leotus. The Red Mountains loomed north of Kelvin, a menacing natural barrier infamous for its deadly terrain. To bypass them, two distinct paths wound their way around the range—one to the left, leading to Highwood, and one to the right, toward Bliss Creek. Between these towns lay the Lyon Passage, a critical corridor that hugged the eastern mountains of Minrow on one side and the smaller Red Mountains on the other.
The passage was more than a shortcut. It was a lifeline, cherished by merchants and travelers for its serenity and efficiency. Legend spoke of the man for whom it was named, Lyon, who had discovered it long ago and described it as a place of calm and rejuvenation. Now, that same passage had become a focal point of peril, as disappearances and raids turned its tranquility into a shadowed memory.
Jargon moved his hand once more, elevating a finely carved stone piece and placing it near the foot of the Red Mountains, beside another marker. "This," he began, his voice steady but weighted, "is the town of Gold Ridge. From here, Bliss Creek is less than a day's march, while Highwood is a full day's travel if we take the shortcut. Our current forces number approximately 100,000 men." His words were measured, his tone sharpened by experience
He paused, letting the numbers settle in their minds before continuing. "I propose we split our army into four divisions of 25,000 men each. Tomorrow, we mobilize, sending 50,000 men to Gold Ridge. From there, they will divide and make a direct approach toward the Lyon Passage—one force for Highwood, the other for Bliss Creek."
Jargon's hand hovered over the map, guiding their attention to the critical points of his strategy. "I understand some may see this as an overextension, but I must remind you of the casualties we've already suffered. We cannot afford a misstep. A strong presence in the Lyon Passage will secure it and prevent further losses. We must agree on this serious approach."
The king leaned forward, his fingers lightly grazing the edge of the bronze map as he absorbed Jargon's words. His eyes flickered with a mix of intrigue and cautious optimism. The stakes were high, and the room buzzed with a silent tension, every noble present acutely aware of the gravity of the plan being laid before them.
"Before I answer any questions on this matter," Jargon continued, his tone steady and commanding, "allow me to pivot to another critical aspect of the strategy. There are only two roads that lead into Minrow, each one connecting to major Elven towns. The elves, as we all know, possess unparalleled speed in their communications. It is said they use messenger pigeons, or perhaps eagles, capable of carrying messages vast distances in the blink of an eye. The moment we strike one town or city, the neighboring settlements will be alerted, creating a chain reaction until the news reaches their capital, Eethermor."
He paused, letting the implications settle over the room. A few nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
"This means," Jargon pressed on, his voice rising slightly for emphasis, "that to prevent a counterattack, we must strike both towns simultaneously. A coordinated assault on these two towns is non-negotiable. Once secured, we will regroup and focus our forces on a larger objective—the city of Emphium. But before we execute this final strike, we must ensure that the 50,000 men traversing the Lyon Passage have successfully crossed into Minrow. Only with our full strength united can we mount the raid on Emphium."
The room grew silent, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Jargon's gaze swept across the nobles, gauging their reactions. "Once Emphium falls, it's a direct road to the capital, Eethermor. Apart from any smaller towns along the way, there should be no significant obstacles."
The king straightened in his seat, his piercing gaze locking onto Jargon. "Knowing the meticulous man you are, I trust you've delved deeper into the specifics of battle formations and the finer details of these raids?" His voice carried a subtle challenge, a test of Jargon's preparedness.
Jargon allowed a small, confident smile to cross his face. "You are correct, Your Majesty. If time permits, I could sit here all day and walk you through every tactic, every maneuver I've devised for this campaign. And if that does not suffice, I assure you my commanders could do the same."
The king raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "You've already explained this plan to them? I'm impressed, Jargon."
"You flatter me, Your Majesty," Jargon replied, bowing his head slightly in gratitude. "I aimed to please, but more importantly, to prepare. Every commander under my charge knows precisely what kind of war lies ahead. The tactics I've outlined are not just born of strategy but are made achievable thanks to a magnificent discovery—one I must credit to Fredrick and Henry. Their work has bolstered my confidence in our victory."
The room remained silent as the collective nods affirmed the plan. No voices of dissent arose, and though the king had every opportunity to interject, he merely observed, a faint gleam of approval in his eyes. His silence spoke volumes—he was impressed.
—
Out in the fields, the atmosphere was tense but purposeful. Soldiers swarmed like ants, not engaging in drills but meticulously preparing for the imminent campaign. News of the war had spread swiftly, igniting a frenzy of activity. Men inspected their armor for weaknesses, repaired damaged pieces, and fine-tuned their weapons. The urgency in their movements hinted at the truth—war was no longer a distant possibility; it loomed just over the horizon, set to begin within hours.
Henry and Fredrick stood at the center of a cleared area, surrounded by members of the Council of Bright Ones. They had positioned themselves before their prized creation—a sleek and imposing device referred to as the Propelled Projectile. The council members, dressed in robes adorned with sigils of knowledge and innovation, shared nervous glances. They were ready, or so they told themselves, to present their invention to the king.
The stillness was broken as the king approached, his retinue in tow. Beside him marched The Ten Farkin escorts, the elite warriors of the kingdom. The Farkin were more than mere bodyguards; they were a silent, ever-watchful shadow, a manifestation of the king's indomitable will. Their presence now, after their absence during the king's diplomatic efforts, was no mere formality—it was symbolic. Among them stood one Farkin in particular, whose role was not just protection but participation in the test of whatever the council had to offer.
The king's pace was measured, his gaze sweeping over the council and their contraption. When he finally reached the group, he clasped his hands behind his back and addressed them. "Evening, Council. Henry. Fredrick." His voice carried an edge of curiosity. "What am I looking at here?"
Henry bowed deeply, motioning for Fredrick to take the lead. Fredrick stepped forward, his confidence bolstered by the months of work leading to this moment.
"Your Majesty," Fredrick began, bowing in turn. "Allow us, the Council of Bright Ones, to introduce the Propelled Projectile."
The king's expression didn't change, though his interest was unmistakable. Fredrick gestured to the device as Henry stepped forward to demonstrate its mechanics.
"This, Your Majesty," Fredrick explained, "is a weapon inspired by the trebuchet, but it surpasses it in flexibility and precision. Observe."
Henry moved quickly, adjusting the weapon with ease. He demonstrated the swivel mechanism, the smooth locking joints, and its capacity for rapid repositioning. Every movement was precise, and the council members stood proudly as the weapon's ingenuity became evident.
"Unlike the trebuchet," Fredrick continued, "this weapon can be maneuvered with minimal effort, yet its potential power is unmatched. It is designed to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies and bring swift victory to our forces."
The king raised an eyebrow. "Impressive so far," he said. "And its effectiveness?"
Fredrick paused, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Allow us to show you, Your Majesty."
Henry nodded and began calibrating the device, aligning it toward a distant test target: a tall, sturdy stone tower. His calculations were deliberate, ensuring the trajectory was flawless. Once satisfied, he loaded the device and lit the fuse.
"Cover your ears!" Henry shouted.
An explosive roar filled the air, even muffled by the hands of those who heeded the warning. From the barrel, a projectile launched with such speed it was nearly invisible. The weapon's power was undeniable, the sound alone enough to startle even the stoic Farkin. The projectile tore through the air and struck the stone tower with devastating force. The structure didn't merely crumble—it erupted into a cloud of dust and rubble, obliterated in an instant.
As the echoes of the explosion faded, an awestruck silence fell over the group. The king's gaze lingered on the smoldering remains of the tower, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Fredrick and Henry exchanged a glance, their tension easing as the king spoke. "It seems you were not exaggerating, Fredrick. This weapon is indeed unlike anything we've seen."
The Farkin who had been briefed on the weapon beforehand stepped forward, her movements sharp and purposeful. She knelt on one knee before the king. "Your Majesty, if I may. Please allow me to compare these results with my bow," she requested, her voice calm but carrying the weight of pride.
"Naiella, proceed," the king granted with a slight nod, his tone measured.
Fredrick, standing nearby, stepped forward to interject. "Your Majesty, if I might interrupt. The Propelled Projectile is already prepared for another launch."
The king turned toward Fredrick, his brow lifting slightly in surprise. His awe, so carefully masked until now, threatened to break through. "That was quick," he thought. "I was trying my hardest not to show my amazement, but this... this changes everything. The sheer power of the device was impressive enough, but its speed—this reload time—redefines warfare."
"We have two more towers farther in the distance," Fredrick declared, his voice brimming with confidence. "Farkin Naiella, if you'd be so kind as to demonstrate your legendary skill."
Naiella stiffened at the remark, her eyes narrowing as a wave of irritation washed over her. "That insufferable nerd!" she thought, barely containing a snarl. "Does he seriously think he can order *me*, a Farkin, around? What a joke!" Her hands tightened around her bow, visions of stuffing Fredrick into one of his own contraptions flitting briefly through her mind. But then, her gaze drifted to the king—*her king*—standing there in all his regal perfection, the faintest hint of approval on his face. Her anger melted faster than snow in the sun. "No, no, focus, Naiella!" she chastised herself. "His Majesty is watching. I can't lose my composure! Not here, not now!"
Her heart raced, not from rage anymore but from the sheer pressure of performing flawlessly for the man she adored with the intensity of a bard's love ballad. She took a deep breath, letting her inner storm settle. "You're lucky today, nerd," she thought, her earlier fury now replaced by an almost religious devotion. "The king's divine presence has spared you from my wrath. I mustn't disgrace him with anything less than perfection!" Her thoughts quickly spiraled further. "What if he's impressed by me? What if I become his favorite Farkin? No—stay cool, Naiella. Just focus on the tower... and his radiant approval!"
Rising fluidly to her feet, Naiella reached for her bow, a weapon as breathtaking as it was formidable. Its design was intricate, decorated with delicate inlays of gold and silver, a testament to both artistry and luxury. Yet its beauty was secondary to its history—this was no ordinary bow. It was one of the Seventeen Dons of Leotus, ancient treasures of the kingdom, steeped in lore and forged with techniques long lost to time. At over 700 years old, the bow had seen more battles than any living soldier, its legend carried in hushed whispers across the land.
Naiella drew a heavy arrow from her quiver, its weight demanding respect. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, and whispered her first skill. "Heavy Arrow," she intoned, and the arrow began to glow with a fierce, fiery aura. It pulsed with latent energy, the skill enhancing its destructive power.
Next, she invoked her second. "Arrow Wind Glide," she said, her voice barely audible. The glow around the arrow shifted, its edges shimmering with a soft blue hue, as if the winds themselves now cradled its shaft. This skill extended its range, ensuring it would travel farther than any ordinary projectile.
With deliberate precision, Naiella knocked the arrow and drew the string back, her movements fluid and practiced. Her breathing slowed as she whispered a final skill. "Doubled Eye." Her vision sharpened, the distant towers seeming to draw closer, their every crack and imperfection etched into her mind.