Ah, invasion—the fine art of redecoration through fire and blood. Nothing quite says "Welcome to the Empire" like a city skyline set against the flickering glow of siege fires and the distant echoes of screaming. The Scoia'tael, Dol Blathanna's forces, and our ever-so-charming Iota-02 "Dark Knights Brigade" descended upon Kaedwen like a particularly unpleasant storm cloud, the kind that didn't just bring rain but erased entire settlements from the map.
Oh, but this wasn't some barbaric, mindless conquest. No, no. The Netherward Empire didn't operate like your average warlord with delusions of grandeur. We were artists, sculptors of destiny, craftsmen of power. And what better tool to shape a kingdom's future than my delightful little brigade of eldritch death machines?
Iota-02 "Dark Knights Brigade"
Sovereign: Grand Duke Mhelfrancovince
Brigade Commander: Yours truly, Brigadier General Benetton May Korallensburg Netherward
Composition: Two-Brigade Strength Task Force, fully equipped with 7-foot-tall, necromantically engineered Dark Knights. The expendable, unkillable, and utterly terrifying solution to all our strategic dilemmas.
The Dark Knights weren't just an army; they were a force of nature, a walking nightmare wrapped in dark titanium and eldritch mythril. Created through a blend of alchemy, dark magic, and Mhelfrancovince's particularly twisted sense of efficiency, they functioned like an obedient plague—silent, relentless, and immune to such trivial inconveniences as arrows, swords, or existential dread. Where they marched, resistance crumbled, not because they killed with impunity (though they certainly did that), but because the mere sight of them sapped the will to fight from all but the most suicidal of warriors.
Mhelfrancovince, of course, found this all terribly amusing. As we stood overlooking the grand offensive, he leaned against his throne-like chair aboard our command airship, a glass of brandy in one hand and a look of casual boredom on his face.
"They should be thanking us," he murmured, watching as the first fortifications of Kaedwen began to collapse under our well-coordinated assault. "We are bringing them into an era of prosperity. Their ancestors will sing our praises."
I flicked my tail in mild amusement. "Ah, yes. In hushed whispers, while praying we don't hear them."
Nikkimae, ever the sharp-witted viper that she was, let out a small chuckle. "An illusion of independence is always more powerful than true freedom. Let them believe they are the masters of their fate while we draft the ending to their story."
"Oh, I do love a good narrative twist," I purred, stretching luxuriously on my cushioned perch. "It's like watching a mouse believe it has outsmarted the cat. Adorable, but ultimately futile."
Mhelfrancovince swirled his drink, watching the embers rise over Kaedwen's cities. "Benetton, you do have a way with words."
"Well, someone has to make this bloodshed sound poetic," I mused. "Otherwise, what's the point of conquest if we can't enjoy the artistry of it?"
A loud explosion punctuated our conversation, followed by the distant, panicked ringing of warning bells from another doomed Kaedweni garrison.
"Ah," I sighed, ears twitching at the symphony of chaos below. "Music to my ears."
It was almost amusing how quickly some cities folded, like a poorly dealt hand in a rigged game of cards. Ban Gleán, Fort Leyda, and Daevon practically threw open their gates before our banners even reached the outskirts, as if we were long-lost cousins bringing festival wine instead of an invasion force bristling with shadow-forged warriors. The mayors, magistrates, and whatever self-important bureaucrats remained standing after Kaedwen's incompetence had run its course practically tripped over themselves to swear allegiance to the Netherward Empire. A wise choice. Nothing ruins a city's architectural appeal quite like an extended siege, and nothing wrecks a local economy faster than a prolonged war—well, except maybe a drunk dragon with poor depth perception.
The truth of the matter was simple: most of these towns were already halfway out of Kaedwen's grasp before we even arrived. The merchants—ever pragmatic, ever hungry for profit—had long since realized that doing business under the Netherward banner meant access to superior trade networks, technological marvels, and financial stability that the so-called Unicorn Dynasty of Kaedwen could never hope to provide. Gold, after all, had no loyalty, and neither did those who traded in it.
But the real key to our bloodless victories lay with the demi-humans. Ban Gleán, Fort Leyda, Daevon—these cities were teeming with gnomes, dwarves, elves, and a delightful variety of other folk whom Kaedwen had, shall we say, politely oppressed over the centuries. The Scoia'tael didn't need to force their way in; they were welcomed like long-lost heroes, liberators, saviors—though I suspected that if liberation hadn't been on the table, the idea of not getting set on fire was an equally persuasive argument. The elves marched in, weapons high, but the fight had already been won before a single arrow was loosed.
One could almost admire Kaedwen's breathtaking lack of self-awareness. After centuries of mistreatment, did they truly believe the demi-humans would remain loyal? Did they think oppression was a sustainable business model? Ah, but such foolishness was why empires crumbled. Ours, however, was built to last.
Mhelfrancovince, ever the grand architect of destiny, merely observed these easy victories with mild amusement. Nikkimae was already drafting integration policies before the ink had even dried on the surrender documents, and I? Well, I was mostly preoccupied with ensuring my fur remained un-singed amid all this diplomatic brilliance.
"Benetton," Mhelfrancovince mused, sipping his ever-present brandy. "Would you say this is a promising start?"
I flicked my tail, glancing down at the surrendered cities. "Oh, undoubtedly. It's refreshing when an invasion feels more like an extended housewarming party."
Nikkimae smirked. "Let them drink their victory wine. They'll realize soon enough that their freedom comes with fine print."
Airanikka let out a soft chuckle, adjusting her gloves. "I do enjoy a well-orchestrated takeover. It's like watching a game of chess where the opponent doesn't even know they're losing."
And losing they were. The Unicorn Dynasty was bleeding territory, and the real war hadn't even begun.
Others, however, clung stubbornly to their misguided notions of patriotism, as if dying for a kingdom that had long since abandoned them was some grand and noble endeavor. Buina, Gwenllech, and Hertch did not roll out the welcome banners. No, they had to be persuaded—with fire, steel, and the kind of screaming that makes a bard compose tragic ballads. It was almost admirable, really. Like watching a drunk man insist he can take on a minotaur in a fistfight.
And so, persuasion came in the form of the Dark Knights. They did not march like an ordinary army, nor did they bother with the tedious formalities of siege warfare. No, these creatures moved as if the shadows themselves had risen up to claim what was rightfully ours. Seven feet of death, wrapped in dark titanium and laced with eldritch magic, their presence alone was enough to strip lesser men of their courage. They did not simply breach walls; they ignored them, walking through stone as if it were mist. The moment a defender blinked, a Dark Knight was already behind him, his mythril longsword carving through flesh and steel alike.
The streets ran slick with the blood of the foolish. Bodies, once soldiers, now lay in twisted heaps, their expressions frozen in the realization that they had been utterly, hopelessly outmatched. The garrisons of Kaedwen fought with desperation, but desperation was a poor substitute for actual strategy. By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, the outcome was already carved into the cobblestone streets in a lovely new shade of crimson. The Kaedweni defenders either surrendered, fled into the wilds like rats abandoning a burning ship, or, in their more stubborn cases, became artistic additions to the city's walls.
While we surveyed the aftermath, the Scoia'tael and Dol Blathanna's forces—who had been watching the Dark Knights with equal parts awe and unease—gathered around to exchange hushed, tense words.
One of the Scoia'tael commanders, a sharp-eyed elf with scars lining his cheek, muttered, "These… things. What are they?"
A Dol Blathanna captain, a woman who had likely slit more throats than I had lives, exhaled sharply. "They fight like wraiths. No hesitation, no mercy."
"Not wraiths," another elf corrected. "More like… demons given armor."
I, of course, took this moment to insert myself into the conversation, because where would the world be without a cat's invaluable commentary?
"Oh, they're something far worse than demons," I purred, flicking my tail as I perched atop a ruined parapet. "Demons are predictable. They have wants, desires, rules. These?" I gestured to a Dark Knight standing motionless, his armor dripping with the remnants of his latest victim. "They exist for one purpose and one purpose only. And trust me, you do not want to be on the receiving end of that purpose."
The elf commander narrowed his eyes. "And if they turn on us?"
I gave him a slow, knowing grin, exposing my sharp feline teeth. "Then I suggest you run very, very fast. Not that it will help."
A thick silence settled over the assembled soldiers. The Dark Knights remained still, silent sentinels of death, awaiting only Mhelfrancovince's command. The Scoia'tael and Dol Blathanna forces, hardened warriors though they were, exchanged uneasy glances. It seemed they had won their battles today—but they had also glimpsed what true war looked like. And they weren't sure if they liked it.
Lixela, Pontar, and Badger Ravine fought with a tenacity that could almost be described as endearing—if only it weren't so thoroughly doomed. They held their walls with the stubbornness of cornered beasts, hurling insults, arrows, and the occasional desperate javelin from their battlements. Admirable, yes. Effective? Not in the slightest. One does not stop a tide by shouting at the waves, and our tide came armed with siege weapons, eldritch knights, and a complete lack of patience for prolonged resistance.
The day belonged to fire and steel. Catapults sang, hurling their deadly payloads in elegant arcs that painted the sky with trails of smoke before landing with the thunderous certainty of doom. Arrows darkened the heavens like a murder of particularly well-armed crows, their descent writing the final verses of defiant souls below. By midday, the city gates resembled little more than splinters clinging to the last vestiges of their former grandeur. The walls? A tragic testament to engineering's limitations when faced with the might of an empire.
Dusk brought with it the inevitable. The defenders, once so eager to stand against us, now stood slumped, faces streaked with soot and exhaustion, their weapons suddenly too heavy to lift. Their leaders, having seen enough fire and death to extinguish whatever foolish pride they once carried, staggered forward with haunted eyes, weapons slipping from limp fingers. Some were dragged by their own men, their legs too weak to carry them toward the only choice that remained. Surrender.
It was a good decision. A smart decision. Far better to bend the knee than to end up as yet another cautionary tale scribbled into the Empire's ever-expanding history books—those tend to be written in blood, and the ink never quite dries.
As I surveyed the wreckage, perched elegantly atop the remains of what had once been an archer's nest (before it inconveniently became a flaming pile of rubble), the generals of the Scoia'tael and Dol Blathanna gathered below, casting uneasy glances at the aftermath.
One of the elves, a sharp-eyed commander with a scar that suggested an intimate history with a particularly unfriendly blade, exhaled sharply. "They fought harder than the others."
"Not hard enough," another muttered, nudging a fallen shield with the tip of his boot. "Nothing ever is, when they fight against the Netherwards."
"They were brave," a Dol Blathanna officer added, though the words sounded more like an epitaph than praise.
I stretched luxuriously, my tail flicking as I surveyed them with a lazy, knowing grin. "Bravery," I mused, "is simply the polite term for poor decision-making."
The scarred commander shot me a look. "And what would you call what we did today?"
"Oh, that?" I purred, leaping down to land gracefully atop a pile of discarded weapons. "That was strategy. And a rather effective one at that."
The elf chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd see the day when a talking cat lectures us on warfare."
"Ah, my dear general," I said, batting an arrow away with one paw, "the fact that you didn't expect it is precisely why I'm here, and you're standing in the ruins of what was once a perfectly respectable fortress."
A few of the soldiers laughed, though it was the weary, half-mad laughter of men who had seen too much in too little time. The battle was over, the city was ours, and the empire marched ever forward. The generals knew it. The soldiers knew it. Even the wind, carrying the scent of charred wood and shattered pride, seemed to whisper the inevitable truth:
This was only the beginning.
Barefield, Caingorn, Lormark, and Malleore—four names that would soon be spoken in hushed tones, if spoken at all. Each city played its part in the grand, tragic opera of conquest. They fought, they bled, they surrendered. The script remained unchanged, the actors merely switching costumes as they repeated the same doomed performance. Some of the more pragmatic commanders, the ones who still valued the warmth of their own skin over the cold embrace of stubborn pride, took one look at the encroaching Netherward forces and promptly decided that patriotism was best expressed through immediate capitulation. A wise decision, really—no one likes being the cautionary tale parents use to scare their children into obedience.
Still, there were always a few who fancied themselves the heroes of a romantic ballad. The kind who believed that one final, defiant stand against overwhelming power would somehow be remembered as noble rather than idiotic. I admired their enthusiasm, truly. It takes a special kind of delusion to believe you can hold back the tide when the tide happens to be made of fire-breathing war machines and Dark Knights who consider armor more of a formality than an actual necessity.
As I lounged atop a rather comfortable windowsill in what had once been a mayor's office—before its previous occupant realized that stubbornness was a poor substitute for common sense—Mhelfrancovince, Nikkimae, and Airanikka gathered around a makeshift war table. Maps were spread across the polished wood, dotted with figurines representing cities that had already fallen and those that were in the process of realizing that resisting was a poor life choice.
Mhelfrancovince tapped a finger against Lormark, his expression unreadable. "That one gave us more trouble than expected."
Nikkimae smirked, adjusting the cuff of her embroidered sleeve. "Trouble is such a subjective term. If you mean they lasted an extra six hours before crumbling like a wet parchment, then yes, I suppose it was troublesome."
Airanikka crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as a freshly honed blade. "Their commander thought he could rally the people against us. Righteous fury and all that."
I yawned, stretching lazily. "Ah, yes. The classic if we all band together, we can win delusion. Adorable. Like kittens trying to take down a lion." I glanced at Mhelfrancovince. "Tell me, did he at least give a rousing speech before we turned his city into a very expensive bonfire?"
Mhelfrancovince arched a brow. "He tried."
"And?" I prompted, ears flicking with interest.
Nikkimae chuckled. "And then the Dark Knights walked through their barricades like they were made of twigs, the Scoia'tael filled their streets with enough arrows to blot out the sun, and by nightfall, their glorious revolution had turned into a series of rather desperate surrender negotiations."
Airanikka sighed, rubbing her temple. "Honestly, I don't know why they even bother."
I purred, my tail swishing lazily. "Because hope is the most dangerous kind of stupidity, my dear Airanikka. It makes men believe they can outrun the inevitable. And yet, here we are." I gestured grandly to the map. "One city after another, falling into place like dominoes in a very well-orchestrated game."
Mhelfrancovince gave a small nod. "And soon, the rest will follow."
Ah, inevitability. The finest weapon in our arsenal.
Ah, but the real prize still stood—Ard Carraigh and Ban Ard, Kaedwen's heart and mind, their walls standing tall, their banners fluttering in defiance, as if mere fabric could ward off the inevitable. Stubborn things, these Kaedweni. Like an old dog that refuses to admit it's been bested, growling at the encroaching hand even as its strength wanes. Their siege was ongoing, a slow and deliberate tightening of the noose, and while patience was a virtue, I could already hear Mhelfrancovince's sighs of irritation at their persistence. He wasn't the sort of man to be kept waiting—not without consequences.
The thing about Kaedwen was that it wasn't just another petty kingdom in the Northern Realms. It was the Northern Realms' hammer, a land of warriors tempered by cruel winters and even crueler rulers. Unlike their more civilized southern neighbors, these people did not fold at the first sight of a superior force. No, they fought. They dug their boots into the frozen ground and threw themselves at death with the kind of reckless determination that only the desperate and the doomed could muster.
Mhelfrancovince, ever the meticulous strategist, had spent the past hour absorbing every scrap of information he could find on them. Books, war records, even reviews from those Witcher games—whatever the hell those were. He sat at the long, oak table in our war tent, flipping through a particularly dense tome, his fingers drumming idly against the pages.
"Like many other countries in the Northern Realms, the Kingdom of Kaedwen maintains a large and well-trained royal army, full of valorous commanders and brave soldiers capable of enduring the harshest of winters." He read aloud, his tone somewhere between amused and unimpressed. "Though their swordsmen are not the best in the North, they are undoubtedly the finest when it comes to siege weaponry and cavalry tactics. The crème de la crème of their forces is the Dun Banner—a cavalry unit renowned for their beaver cloaks and caps."
I flicked an ear, lazily sprawled across a silk-draped chair. "Beaver cloaks and caps?" I mused, tail curling with interest. "Well, that explains why they're so desperate to fight. I'd be rather ill-tempered too if my greatest military achievement was being fashionably dressed for a rodent-themed winter festival."
Nikkimae, standing by the map table, smirked. "Mock them all you want, but those cavalry units have torn through more armies than we'd like to admit." She tapped a finger against Ban Ard's location. "If we let them drag this out, we're giving them the advantage. Their forces are best in prolonged sieges."
Airanikka, ever the pragmatist, folded her arms. "Then we starve them out."
Mhelfrancovince turned another page, his eyes flicking over the text. "That is the plan, but they're not complete fools. They've stockpiled food, reinforced their walls, and their morale hasn't cracked yet. If we want to break them before winter sets in, we'll need to be... creative."
I stretched luxuriously, yawning. "Creative is a delightful way of saying 'horrifyingly efficient in psychological warfare.' A specialty of ours, wouldn't you say?"
Mhelfrancovince merely smiled, that slow, calculating smile that usually preceded some particularly unspeakable atrocity masquerading as a necessary evil.
Ah, Kaedwen. How long would they hold out before they, too, learned the fundamental truth of our little empire?
The only thing colder than a Kaedweni winter was a Netherward siege.
Boredom is a dangerous thing in the hands of those who possess power. And Mhelfrancovince, Nikkimae, Airanikka, and I? Oh, we were the absolute worst kind of people to leave with nothing to do. Siege warfare was a patient man's game—starve them out, break their morale, let winter gnaw at their resolve. But patience had never been our strongest virtue.
And so, like misbehaving children looking for entertainment, we sauntered down to the front lines. The generals and officers tried to protest, of course—Your Grace, this is too dangerous!—but they may as well have been talking to a storm. We were already walking towards Ban Ard, where Kaedwen's so-called mighty sorcerers sat in their towers, twiddling their fingers over their chaos magic like they were the gods' gift to warfare.
Chaos magic. What a name. It was as if they thought branding alone would make it sound more intimidating. The moment we arrived, their archmages gathered on the walls, chanting, weaving their incantations, probably muttering some nonsense about how we would "burn in the abyss." It was almost endearing.
Mhelfrancovince didn't even humor them with a speech. He simply lifted a hand. And the first sorcerer? He was gone. Not in a glorious burst of flames or some dazzling explosion—no, he just ceased to be. One second, he was a proud practitioner of the mystical arts, and the next, he was a fine mist of bone and regret, decorating the stonework.
The others panicked. Some tried to cast barriers. Others flung fireballs, lightning, and whatever else their precious little chaos magic could muster. It was adorable, really. The Dark Knights stormed forward, their titanic, shadow-clad forms moving with unnatural speed. They didn't just fight the enemy; they waded through them like a butcher through livestock. Mythril longswords sliced through robes, chainmail, flesh, and dignity alike.
Nikkimae, ever the artist in her destruction, raised a hand, and the earth answered. Great spires of rock tore through the battlefield, impaling mages mid-chant, sending their broken bodies flailing through the air. When she got bored of the theatrics, she switched to something more efficient—granite bullets. No time for slow deaths, just sharp, stone projectiles that cracked skulls and pulped organs with each shot.
Airanikka, meanwhile, had taken a different approach. Where Nikkimae made the battlefield groan, Airanikka made it sing. The air itself became her weapon, carving through enemy lines like an executioner's blade. Her wind cutters sliced limbs clean off, sending spellcasters tumbling down from the walls like ragdolls. And when she really wanted to make a point? She raised her air pistol and let compressed shots of wind explode their ribcages from within.
I, of course, contributed in my own way—perched atop Mhelfrancovince's shoulder, watching it all unfold like a particularly thrilling stage play. "I do believe they were expecting a fight," I mused, flicking an ear as yet another mage exploded into a fine, red mist. "This is just... embarrassing."
Mhelfrancovince, unfazed as ever, caught a fireball mid-air with a flick of his wrist, crushed it in his palm like an errant spark, and sent the remnants flying back into the face of its conjurer. There was a brief, agonizing scream before silence.
"We should have done this earlier," Nikkimae remarked, casually stepping over a fresh corpse.
"I know," Airanikka sighed. "I was hoping for a challenge."
The Dark Knights continued their work, silent and methodical. The sorcerers of Ban Ard had spent their lives mastering their craft, perfecting their spells, and studying the arcane. And yet, here they were—dying like cattle before the storm.
And the storm had only just begun.
As the last of the so-called sorcerers collapsed into ruin, we stood atop the bloodied steps of Ban Ard, surveying the carnage. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying with it the scent of burning wood, flesh, and shattered dreams. The surviving Kaedwenian soldiers—those wise enough to surrender—had thrown down their weapons and were now on their knees, waiting for judgment.
Mhelfrancovince stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders as if we had just finished a mild workout rather than a one-sided slaughter. "Well, that was disappointing," he muttered. "I was expecting something more from the most revered mages of Kaedwen."
"You did erase their leader from existence before he could finish his first sentence," I pointed out, leaping onto his shoulder with the effortless grace only a cat could manage. "Rather rude, honestly. They probably spent decades preparing those pompous speeches about 'defiance' and 'the will of the gods'—and you didn't even let them monologue."
"Oh, I hate monologues," Airanikka cut in, wiping blood off her air pistol with an elegant flick of her wrist. "They're always the same. 'You'll never take our city,' 'We will stand until the last man,' 'For Kaedwen!'" She waved her hands in exaggerated gestures, mimicking their doomed defiance. "And then—splat." She gestured at the remnants of a particularly ambitious battle mage, whose torso was now separated from his legs in a rather unnatural fashion.
"I do believe that one tried to summon a firestorm," Nikkimae added, stepping over a disemboweled sorcerer with barely a glance. "I appreciate the effort, but did he really think a campfire spell would stop us?"
Mhelfrancovince sighed. "I was hoping for at least one decent opponent. Someone I could enjoy crushing." He looked over at the Dark Knights, who stood motionless, their black armor glistening with the blood of the fallen. "Did any of them put up a fight?"
One of the Dark Knights, a towering figure that could have been a nightmare given form, simply shook his head. "No, Sovereign. They fell like wheat before the scythe." His voice, hollow and reverberating, held no satisfaction. Only cold, unwavering efficiency.
"Shame," I said, licking a paw as if the battlefield around us were of no consequence. "We should send a letter of complaint to Kaedwen's military academy. Dear esteemed instructors, kindly inform your students that flailing one's arms and screeching about magic is not a valid combat strategy."
"Perhaps they could include a section on not standing in a straight line when facing an opponent who can summon flying boulders," Nikkimae added.
Airanikka laughed, twirling her air pistol before holstering it. "We should be nice. They did try. Poor things. They really thought they had a chance."
Mhelfrancovince sighed again, rubbing his temples as if their incompetence physically pained him. "Let's move on to Ard Carraigh. If this was their best effort, I don't expect much from their capital."
"Perhaps they'll surprise us," I mused. "Or, at the very least, provide better last words."
And with that, we left the broken city behind, stepping over the remnants of its once-proud defenders. Another conquest. Another step toward the inevitable. The storm was far from over.
Ard Carraigh: The Stubborn Corpse That Refused to Die
Ah, Ard Carraigh, the so-called jewel of Kaedwen, now little more than a besieged husk trembling beneath the weight of inevitability. Outside its mighty stone walls, the combined forces of the Scoia'tael, Dol Blathanna, and our ever-efficient Dark Knights had set up camp, their banners fluttering in the cold northern wind like a murder of crows waiting for the feast to begin. Fires flickered in the darkness, casting eerie shadows upon steel and armor, while the scent of roasting meat and war mixed into something oddly poetic—like a banquet held in the halls of the damned.
The Dun Banner, Kaedwen's famed cavalry, had already been torn asunder. Their once-proud formations now lay scattered like broken toy soldiers, their once-mighty charges reduced to desperate retreats. The remnants, bloodied and disillusioned, had scurried back behind Ard Carraigh's walls, hoping against all reason that stone and duty would save them from the fate that awaited.
Inside the city, King Henselt—Kaedwen's grizzled old war dog—stood surrounded by what remained of his royal court. A collection of noblemen and commanders, their once-grand silks now dusted with the sweat of fear and stale wine, huddled around a great wooden table, a map of Kaedwen sprawled before them, littered with pieces that once held meaning. Now, they were just the figurines of a game they had already lost.
The Last Council of a Dying King
"Your Majesty, we must hold. We must." Duke Reinholt, an aging warrior whose best days were at least two decades behind him, leaned heavily on the table, his voice thick with desperation. "Ard Carraigh is the heart of Kaedwen. If we fall, we will be naught but a memory in some bastard's history book!"
King Henselt exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Duke Reinholt, tell me, do you think I don't know that?" His voice carried the exhaustion of a man who had fought too many battles and seen too many dreams shattered. "The Dun Banner was the best we had. They were slaughtered like pigs at a butcher's festival. And you expect me to believe that whatever ragged bands of recruits we have left will fare any better?"
"We still have the walls!" Lord Godefrey, a high-ranking noble with more gold than brains, pointed to the map with an urgency that reeked of delusion. "Walls that have held for centuries! They will break themselves upon our defenses!"
A slow, cruel chuckle escaped General Eadric, a veteran of more wars than he could count. His armor was dented, his sword chipped, but his eyes gleamed with bitter amusement. "They? Who, exactly? The Netherwards, who command forces that can rip stone apart with mere thought? The Dark Knights, who move like shadows and carve through men like wheat? The Elves, who fight with the fury of centuries of vengeance?" He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Yes, my lord, I'm sure they'll be very impressed by our walls."
Henselt's gauntleted fist slammed onto the table, sending goblets and candlewax tumbling. "Damn you all. Damn this war. Damn the Netherwards and their cursed magic." He turned to his Royal Mage, Archwizard Theremund, whose robes were stained with spilled ink and sleepless nights. "Tell me. Can you turn the tide? Do we have any sorcery left that can stop them?"
Theremund hesitated. His fingers twitched, his lips parted—he was calculating, measuring, weighing the words he was about to speak. And then, with a long sigh, he gave his answer.
"No, Your Majesty. We do not."
Silence fell upon the chamber. Heavy, suffocating, final. It was the kind of silence that preceded surrender, the moment before a dying man accepted the inevitability of the abyss.
Henselt took a long, deep breath, his eyes flickering toward the map one last time. His kingdom, his legacy, his life—all laid out in ink and parchment, crumbling before his very eyes. He could already hear the distant laughter of the Netherward commanders, the quiet purring of that damnable black cat as it watched his empire fall apart with smug satisfaction.
"Then it is only a matter of time," Henselt muttered. And for the first time in his long, battle-hardened life, he understood what it meant to be truly cornered.
The Fall of Ard Carraigh
The walls of Ard Carraigh, once proud and unyielding, now bore a wound that would never heal. Mhelfrancovince's Telekinetic Blast had shattered the city's ramparts in a magnificent display of controlled destruction—stone and iron crumbling like a child's sandcastle beneath the force of his power. The impact sent shockwaves through the streets, the echoes of crumbling masonry mixing with the screams of those unfortunate enough to be standing too close. The gates hadn't just been breached; they had been erased.
And then the floodgates opened.
The Scoia'tael, fueled by generations of Elven vengeance, surged forward like wolves descending upon wounded prey. Dol Blathanna's soldiers, regal and methodical, struck with a precision that made slaughter look like an art form. The Dark Knights, relentless as death itself, moved through the streets like wraiths clad in black steel, their mythril blades drinking deeply from the bodies of any fool still foolish enough to fight.
For every Kaedweni soldier who threw down their weapons, mercy was given. For every one who clutched their sword with defiance, a grave was made.
And in the midst of it all, we stood—four figures in the heart of the storm, watching the inevitable unfold.
---
A Conversation Amidst Ruin
I stretched lazily atop the remains of what was once a particularly elaborate balcony, licking my paw with a level of nonchalance that only a cat of my intellectual caliber could maintain in a battlefield. Below me, Mhelfrancovince, Nikkimae, and Airanikka stood amidst the wreckage, surveying their work with the detached satisfaction of artisans admiring a finished masterpiece.
"Well," I yawned, my tail flicking as I watched a Scoia'tael archer turn a fleeing Kaedweni officer into an excellent example of why one should never run in a straight line. "That was a rather efficient entrance. Very… theatrical."
Mhelfrancovince, still watching the city burn, smirked. "They build these walls thinking they'll last forever. But everything breaks with enough force."
"Yes, well," I mused, hopping down to land gracefully on his shoulder, "as an advocate of self-preservation, I'd like to point out that charging into a city full of angry, desperate men isn't always the wisest decision. But then again, what do I know? I'm just a talking cat."
"Benetton, we literally just wiped out their defenses in ten seconds," Airanikka said, adjusting the wind pistol in her grasp. "There's not much left for them to do except cry or die."
"Both are acceptable outcomes," Nikkimae added with a shrug, idly floating a chunk of granite in her palm before sending it flying into a retreating crossbowman's head. The crack that followed was deeply satisfying. "I'll admit, I expected more of a fight. But I suppose we did just crush their will to live in under a minute."
Airanikka dusted off her cloak, then smirked. "They were boasting about their 'legendary fortifications' just yesterday. Now look at them." She gestured toward the Kaedweni soldiers kneeling in surrender, stripped of their weapons, their heads bowed in silent defeat. "Pride is such a funny thing."
"Pride," I purred, curling my tail around Mhelfrancovince's neck, "is the last luxury of the dying."
Just then, a particularly brave (read: stupid) Kaedweni knight charged at us, his warhammer raised, screaming something about Kaedwen never falling. A commendable sentiment, truly.
Mhelfrancovince didn't even turn his head—he just flicked his wrist, and the knight was lifted off his feet, flung violently through the air, and slammed into a nearby stone wall with the force of a carriage crash. His armor crumpled like tinfoil. The only sound he made was a very undignified wheeze before slumping over.
Airanikka whistled. "Well, he lasted longer than the others."
"Tragic," I sighed dramatically. "I was almost rooting for him."
"Liar," Nikkimae smirked.
"You wound me, Nikkimae. I am a cat of profound sympathy," I said, landing delicately atop the body of the crushed knight. "It's not my fault your enemies have the lifespan of a fruit fly."
Mhelfrancovince finally exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Alright. Enough talking. We have a king to dethrone."
I stretched luxuriously, watching as the smoke of Ard Carraigh's ruin rose into the night sky. "Yes, yes, let's go make history. Again."
The Death of a King & The Fall of Kaedwen
The great King Henselt of Kaedwen, renowned for his belligerence and an ego so inflated it could probably float a warship, lay sprawled across the blood-soaked cobblestones of Ard Carraigh, struggling to breathe through the jagged hole in his chest. His once-pristine armor, the polished steel that had so often gleamed under the northern sun, was now a twisted mess of crimson-drenched ruin.
His mistake?
He had charged.
Like an absolute imbecile, he had taken one look at Nikkimae—the woman who had single-handedly turned Kaedwenian knights into a modern art exhibit of crushed bones and shattered plate—and decided, yes, this is someone I should fight head-on.
The result?
A gruesome, splattery mess.
Nikkimae, utterly unimpressed, had simply raised a hand, and before the fool could even complete his war cry, a spike of solid granite had erupted from the ground and impaled him like a pig on a spit.
Now he lay before us, his crown knocked askew, his breathing ragged. His once-commanding presence had withered into the pitiful wheezes of a dying man who had finally realized just how deeply he had miscalculated.
---
A Conversation Over a Corpse
"Well," I sighed dramatically, perched atop a toppled Kaedweni standard, "that was... underwhelming. I was expecting at least a dramatic final stand or some vengeful last words—but no, just a stupid charge and an even stupider death."
"I actually hoped he'd last a little longer," Nikkimae mused, shaking bits of stone dust off her gloves. "I barely even exerted myself. That was disappointing."
"You did impale him like a kebab," Airanikka pointed out, twirling a dagger in one hand. "Doesn't leave much room for theatrics."
Mhelfrancovince sighed, stepping forward to kneel beside the dying king. "This could've been avoided, Henselt." His voice was almost pitying—almost. "You should've surrendered while you had the chance."
Henselt let out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling at his lips. "Kaedwen... will never... bow..."
Nikkimae arched a brow, then looked meaningfully at the horde of kneeling Kaedweni generals and nobles behind us, all of whom had thrown down their weapons the moment their king got impaled like a festival skewer.
"Are you sure about that?" she asked dryly.
Henselt's dimmed eyes flickered toward his remaining Royal Retinue, the proud lords and knights of Kaedwen's nobility, now reduced to shaking, sweat-drenched wrecks, their once-grand tabards drenched in the blood of their fallen comrades.
Duke Roderick of Gwent, his face pale as death, was the first to break the silence. "W-we surrender."
"Speak for yourself—" one of the other nobles started, but Roderick turned and punched him square in the face, sending the fool crumpling to the ground.
"*WE. SURRENDER.**" He turned back to us, his voice desperate but firm. "Kaedwen belongs to the Netherwards now."
Airanikka smirked. "Now, see? That's a man who values breathing."
Henselt let out something that might have been a laugh—or a death rattle. "Traitors..." he rasped, but the light in his eyes had already begun to fade.
Mhelfrancovince stood, dusting off his cloak. "Call it what you will, Henselt. But you lost. And the living don't much care for the opinions of the dead."
The Kaedweni king exhaled one last, rattling breath. His fingers twitched once—then stilled. His reign had ended.
---
The Crown Changes Hands
"So... what now?" Nikkimae asked, watching as the Kaedweni nobles bowed their heads in submission.
Mhelfrancovince sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Now, we govern."
I let out a long yawn, stretching luxuriously atop my perch. "Hoo-boy. That sounds tedious. But on the plus side, I suppose we now own an entire kingdom. Anyone fancy redecorating? These Kaedweni castles are dreadfully gloomy."
Airanikka laughed, twirling her dagger. "Benetton, all castles are gloomy. That's kind of their thing."
"*Then it's time for some Netherward renovations," I declared, my tail flicking. "*Starting with throwing out all the old furniture—including the corpses."
Mhelfrancovince gave me an amused look before turning back to the kneeling nobles, his voice steady.
"Kaedwen belongs to the Netherwards now."* Serve well, and you will prosper. Resist..." He gestured meaningfully to Henselt's still-warm corpse, "...and you'll join your king.*"
The lords of Kaedwen bowed low, their voices unanimous:
"We serve."
And with that, Kaedwen was ours.