The essence wars an envi.., p.8
The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 8
The rain thickened. Kaedryn’s sharp gaze drifted toward the winding road ahead. Orders had arrived without explanation. Nearly four hundred swords marched toward Haithe, yet none among them knew why.
The Order of Aurenvia Tollitch convened in the grand hall of Haithe, twelve figures seated around a vast oak table etched with the crest of Aurenvia. The polished grain bore curling vines, twisting like roots binding history. High-backed chairs lined its edges, each bearing the insignia of a ruling region, their blue and crimson velvet draped in heavy folds, golden tassels swaying with every shift.
Murmurs wove through the air, hushed yet weighted. Politics was always quiet before the storm.
The twelve envoys of the West had been chosen for their strength, cunning, or sheer influence, but they did not rule alone. At the head of the table sat Lord Paramount Marcius Saylong, the thirteenth among them, no king, yet something dangerously close. The Order of Aurenvia Tollitch was the backbone of the West, and for all its power, it remained an imperfect thing, a council bound not by unity, but by necessity. Pragmatists clashed with zealots, ambition ground against duty, and beneath every debate lurked unspoken betrayals.
Tonight, those tensions pressed heavier than ever.
From Zerthys came Oran, one of the eldest of the envoys. A man of sixty-seven, untested in battle yet sharpened by years in court, he wielded words like a careful blade. His loyalty to King Yuspe made him an anchor in the Order, his patience a steadying force, though his caution often chafed against the council’s more aggressive voices.
Lewisear of Armekalia sat in stark contrast. A warrior first, politician second, he had earned his scars in countless eastern skirmishes and saw diplomacy as a battlefield of wasted breath. Broad-shouldered, barely past forty, his sharp tongue cut deeper than his sword at times. And yet, for all his disdain, no one could deny his knowledge of war made him indispensable.
Then there was Erastus of Talill, a spymaster draped in age and mystery. Eighty years had not softened him, only refined his craft. His beard spilled to his belly, his eyes lingered too long, and his secrets ran deeper than even his allies knew. Whispers of his informants stretched far beyond the borders of the West, reaching places the rest of the Order dared not tread. No one truly knew the extent of his reach, a fact that unsettled even his peers.
If Erastus was the shadow of the past, then Xania of Hawn’s Keep embodied its modern, ruthless evolution. Elegant, calculating, and utterly without scruples, she had built a network of spies that rivaled even Erastus’. Her brothels in the West and East alike were more than places of pleasure; they were hunting grounds for secrets. Fortunes and fates had been unraveled within her halls, and none could say just how deep her influence ran.
While Erastus worked in silence and Xania’s whispers ruined reputations, others wielded more direct power. Lady Raellyn of Lenne, the youngest among them at just thirty, was a blade of conviction, sharp in purpose, unwavering in belief, and sometimes reckless in action. Her devotion to the divine often pushed the council toward confrontation, her faith a force as unyielding as steel. Opposing her was Ganflide of Roydne, who had no time for such passions. A merchant before a politician, his only god was coin, and his only loyalty lay in profit. To him, wars were not won with ideals but with careful investments, and he ensured Roydne remained prosperous no matter the tides of conflict.
This was the Order, or at least part of it. A council of uneasy alliances, bitter rivalries, and ambitions too large to contain. Together, they shaped the future of the West, their decisions threading the fate of nations. And tonight, the weight of that duty loomed heavier than ever.
The chamber filled with the muted scrape of chairs as the envoys of the West took their seats. Some moved with practiced ease, others with less grace, but all carried the same unspoken tension. Maps of Teloshka lay before them, unfurled across the polished oak, boundaries marked in ink and fates decided with quills. Beside each map sat a fresh scroll for notes, though few reached for them.
The long table bore bowls of southern spring fruits and dark red wine, their aroma a contrast to the weight in the air. A pointed display of hospitality, though it did little to mask the severity of the meeting. The serving staff had been dismissed. There would be no ears to carry whispers beyond these walls.
At the head of the table sat Lord Paramount Saylong, his fingers steepled before him. He did not move. Did not speak. He only watched. The unreadable gray eyes that had weighed a hundred battlefields now tracked something far more volatile, fixed on the men and women before him.
When the last chair was drawn in, and the murmurs had faded into expectant silence, Saylong broke it.
‘Zerthys.’ His voice was calm. Composed. Yet it carried the weight of command.
Oran shifted in his chair, his gnarled hands resting on the edges of the map. ‘Nothing new to report, sir,’ he said, his voice rough but steady. ‘Zerthys will send two hundred warriors. They will arrive within ten days.’
A ripple of discontent passed through the room, marked by a quiet scoff, a shake of the head, and the subtle flick of a quill against parchment. Two hundred was a token force. A gesture, not a commitment. And yet, none in the room truly understood what Saylong was assembling them for.
The lord paramount, however, did not stir. His expression did not shift. His gaze remained steady, gray and unreadable, as if the number was neither more nor less than he had expected.
‘Good,’ he said. A single word, flat and dispassionate.
His eyes moved next to Lady Gray of Jolda.
She sat forward, her posture cutting through the quiet like a drawn blade. ‘Six hundred from Jolda, sir. Another four hundred from the surrounding towns and hamlets.’
A murmur of approval rolled through the room. A proper force.
Saylong’s lips pressed together, not quite a smile. When he spoke again, the word was the same, but the weight behind it had changed.
‘Good.’
One by one, the envoys gave their counts. With each tally, the gathering force swelled. By the time the last was recorded, over three thousand swords would converge on Haithe, Hawn’s Keep, and Lucarion. A reasonable force by the standards of the time, bolstered by the thousand already stationed within Haithe’s walls.
The weight of that number settled over the room. The tension shifted, no longer simple anticipation but something sharper, laced with curiosity, unease, and for some, outright doubt.
It was Lewisear of Armekalia who finally broke the silence, his voice rough, unyielding. He leaned forward, broad shoulders squared, dark eyes smoldering with frustration.
‘Our men march north to Hawn’s Keep. The West gathers in Haithe. The southern lords rally in Lucarion.’ His words landed like a hammer against steel. ‘This isn’t defense. This is war.’
A murmur rippled through the chamber, louder now, heavier. Lewisear paid it no mind. His gaze remained locked on Saylong, unwavering.
‘I have no objection to war,’ he said, his tone shifting slightly, wry and edged with something dangerously close to amusement. ‘If my warriors of Armekalia, those blessed by Tvaris, are to march, I will know why.’
The demand hung in the air.
Saylong’s expression remained unreadable. For a moment, it seemed he would not answer.
Then, at last, he leaned forward, hands resting on the polished table.
Around him, the other eleven envoys exchanged glances, many of them silently echoing Lewisear’s demand.
Saylong’s explanation was calm and deliberate. The assault on Garette Fort, a southern Verdathisan stronghold that had guarded the peninsula’s fertile lands for centuries, would be the first move in a campaign that could redefine the balance of power between East and West.
The plan was bold, even audacious, yet Saylong outlined some steps with unwavering confidence.
Garette Fort sat at the base of the peninsula, nearly impenetrable by land. Saylong’s strategy wasn’t a prolonged siege. It was a strike. From the Sea of Thewthyri, newly developed weapons far beyond anything the West had wielded before would weaken its defenses. Once taken, the fort would serve as the first step in severing Verdathisa’s supply lines, setting the stage for what was to come.
But Saylong did not reveal everything.
He spoke of fractures within the Eastern Union, suggesting that the Accord of Lirioneth had already weakened Verdathisa. Their once-powerful Syllanian weapons had been stripped away, replaced with lesser arms. Troops stationed at the fort would be recalled, redirected to the Citadel of Aliztar for reasons unknown. The Eastern Union was distracted. Vulnerable. The time to strike was now.
The timing was everything. Saylong warned that the Chancellor of Lirioneth himself would soon visit Garette Fort, overseeing the transport of both weapons and personnel. Once he left, the fort would be weakened. By orchestrating this in secret, the Chancellor was acting outside the authority of the Eastern Union’s High Steward, Arlen Velthar, moving Lirioneth’s forces as though they answered to him alone.
It would take weeks before the region of Verdathisa could reinforce its position.
The window was narrow. But the opportunity was absolute.
Saylong delivered his strategy with precision, his tone calm and exacting. Yet, conspicuously, some details remained unsaid. Among them were the nature of the siege weapons, the logistics of the naval assault, and the finer points of execution.
Perhaps he deemed these unnecessary for the council to know.
Perhaps he simply didn’t intend to share them.
As his final words settled, silence stretched across the chamber. Some envoys sat in uneasy contemplation, others judiciously analyzed the weight of his words with careful thought. Saylong remained impassive, his gray eyes scanning for the first sign of resistance.
It was Lewisear of Armekalia who broke the silence, his voice rough, unyielding.
‘So, we have ships at Hawn’s Keep, and we strike within the month?’ His impatience cut through the room like a blade.
Saylong turned to him, his expression unchanged.
‘The window is slim,’ he confirmed. ‘Once the Chancellor departs, we have until Astra is full before the Gainfolds or Verdathisa can move. Verdathisa will not reinforce the fort alone, nor will they act in time. The Chancellor has ensured that much, though he did so by stepping beyond his authority.’
Lewisear frowned, arms crossing over his chest. ‘This makes no sense. None. You’re sending us into a trap.’
The murmurs returned, louder now. It was Uterra of the Citadel of Jemyne who spoke next, his voice level, yet edged with doubt.
‘The Chancellor isn’t a fool, my lord. Neither is the Eastern Union. There’s no way they would allow this vulnerability—unless there’s something we can’t see.’
A stillness fell over the room.
All eyes turned to Erastus.
The spymaster had remained silent, watching, weighing, his sunken eyes unreadable. Now, as he shifted in his chair, adjusting the folds of his heavy robes, the anticipation thickened.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper of rusted iron.
‘I assure you,’ he murmured, ‘the cracks in the East have been forming for years. Treachery does not appear overnight—it brews, slow, quiet, like a storm on the horizon.’
His gnarled fingers traced an invisible thread in the air.
‘And now, it has come to bear.’
A brief silence followed his words before Lady Raellyn of Lenne leaned forward, her presence sharp as ever.
‘Can we trust the old man’s whispers?’ she demanded. ‘Can we trust his spies?’
Her gaze snapped to Saylong.
‘If you are leading us into a trap, my lord, then Lenne and Cassarish will no longer serve this council. And I suspect Jolda and Alrece will follow.’
Her voice hardened.
‘We cannot risk thousands of swords on fragile intelligence.’
The room stirred at Lady Raellyn’s words, but before the murmurs could swell, Xania of Hawn’s Keep cut through the noise.
‘It is confirmed.’
She sat straighter, her sharp gaze scanning the council. ‘My ladies of Aliztar are loyal to the West. I handpicked them myself.’ Her voice was smooth, assured. ‘Men sworn to the Sliver Assembly of Lirioneth whisper of fortifications—Lirionethian soldiers are abandoning their posts, recalled to the Citadel of Aliztar.’
She let the weight of her words settle before continuing, her tone colder now.
‘Some claim it is to defend against an eastern threat.’ Her lips curled slightly. ‘But what threat? Beyond the deserts, there is nothing but myths and endless sands.’
Her gaze hardened as it turned to Saylong. ‘This is no defensive maneuver. It reeks of abandonment. Lirioneth is leaving Verdathisa and the Gainfolds to fend for themselves.’
A murmur rippled through the council. Lady Raellyn’s frustration burned through it.
‘How can you be sure this isn’t a trap? If Lirioneth is strengthening its position, what guarantees do we have that the Gainfolds won’t move to protect Verdathisa? They’d be fools not to. And if we march on Garette Fort, we’ll be isolated, exposed at the southernmost point, surrounded by hostile waters.’
Her voice sharpened. ‘If we fail, this crusade will cripple us. We cannot afford that defeat.’
The tension swelled. Then—
‘Enough.’
Saylong’s words rose above the gathering murmur, sharp enough to silence the room without force.
He leaned forward, his piercing eyes sweeping the council, weighing them. ‘The intelligence is solid.’ His voice dropped slightly, yet no less forcefully. ‘Lirioneth has already begun its withdrawal. The Chancellor’s arrogance has left Verdathisa vulnerable. Its soldiers have been pulled to the Citadel, and its weapons seized for reforging.’
His fingers tapped once against the polished oak table.
‘The Gainfolds have not yet been approached by the Silver Assembly, but they will soon hear the same whispers we have. They will see the cracks forming.’
He straightened, his voice gaining momentum.
‘And when they do, they will turn inward, fortifying their borders, hesitating, watching. That leaves Garette Fort exposed far longer than it otherwise would be.’
His next words landed like an ultimatum.
‘If we strike now, we take the fort before reinforcements arrive. We hold the peninsula, cut off the East’s supply lines, and seize the initiative before the Gainfolds can even respond.’
He paused. Letting the weight settle.
‘If we hesitate, the Gainfolds will act, Verdathisa will fortify, and this opportunity will be lost. The Chancellor’s betrayal will fracture the East, but only if we make the first move.’
Silence pooled around the oak table, the envoys holding their breath until Erastus finally spoke. His voice scraped like rusted iron in the wind. ‘The storm is breaking.’ His fingers moved slowly above the table, shaping something only he could see. ‘The Gainfolds are exposed. Verdathisa won’t recover in time. If we hesitate, the East will seal its wounds.’
His gaze flickered to Saylong. ‘Strike now, or lose the advantage forever.’
The council sat frozen, the weight of the decision pressing on every shoulder.
Across the table, Ramcino, a scarred warrior of the northern tribes, watched quietly, his usual discomfort masked by a rare flicker of confidence.
A small, knowing smile ghosted across his lips.
What the others did not yet know, and what Saylong himself had kept close, was that the northern tribes had already struck a covert deal with Aurenvia Tollitch.
A deal to build something new.
A siege weapon unlike anything the West had ever seen.
For the first time, it would be tested against the walls of Garette Fort.
◇ ◇ ◇
Maerwyn stepped out of Stormer Theers’ workshop, her thoughts as tangled as the coastal streets of Jonika. The warmth of spring wrapped around the bustling town, where colorful banners fluttered in the sea breeze, celebrating the dignitaries in attendance. Yet beneath the vibrant insignias, a subtle unease rippled through the air, one she had seen in Stormer’s darting eyes and unfinished sentences.
What was Chancellor Rhaelmar thinking? Taking Plocetol and Syllanian weapons, leaving armories half-empty. It defied reason. Was he truly preparing Lirioneth for some threat beyond the Great Desert? Pharcy had claimed as much. Creatures that breathed fire and smoke? Ridiculous. Or it should have been. And yet, the rumors refused to fade. The Chancellor had promised iron for the forges. Nothing had come. Verdathisa had been left exposed. What game was he playing?
Maerwyn moved through the cobbled streets, the weight of unanswered questions pressing heavier than the spring air. Orders would send her back to Gusia soon, but leaving Jonika without understanding the Chancellor’s motives gnawed at her. After years of service to the Eastern Union, why was she being kept in the dark? Why hadn’t her command been informed of these decisions?
She let out a breath, louder than she intended. Perhaps it was because her soldiers hailed from the Gainfolds, a region whose people were viewed as outsiders in Lirioneth, uninterested in the Accord’s endless maneuvering. And truthfully, so was she. Politics had always felt like a distraction; war was simpler, its rules clearer. Yet Verdathisa, her home, had powered the East for centuries. It had fueled both the Gainfolds and Lirioneth alike. If those ties unraveled now, the consequences would stretch far beyond the borders of the South.
‘What is Rhaelmar planning?’ she muttered. Beside her, Braegor’s ears twitched, his steady presence grounding her as she moved through the shifting crowd.
A group of four heavily armed soldiers caught her eye, their strides resolute as they veered toward Jonika’s living quarters. The Sigil of Aliztar gleamed on their chest plates, the unmistakable mark of the Chancellor’s Guard. Maerwyn slowed, eyes narrowing.
