The echo of explosions rolled like distant thunder through the high-vaulted halls of the Clares royal palace. Dust trickled from the stonework above as tremors rumbled beneath the floors.
Bootsteps clapped rapidly across polished marble.
Andra, advisor to the crown, burst into the royal chamber. His robes were stained with ash, one sleeve torn. Behind him, guards shouted and scrambled through the corridors—but in the chamber, only stillness remained.
King Oden, seated upon the great elven throne carved from moonwood and silverleaf, looked distant. His hands rested lightly on the arms of the throne, posture unnervingly calm.
Andra dropped to one knee.
"Your Majesty," he said, breathless, "Clares is under assault. Orc armies have breached the city using rift portals. They've bypassed the outer defenses. We estimate more than fifteen thousand troops already inside the capital."
A nearby blast shook the stained-glass windows. The colored panes rattled in their iron frames.
Andra raised his voice. "This isn't a border raid. They're inside the city walls—teleporting entire squads through rifts. Civilians are trapped. Sections of the Noble Quarter are already burning."
Still, the king did not respond.
"Your Majesty," Andra pressed, "we must deploy reinforcements now. We can still push them back—but I need your command to mobilize the Royal Guard!"
Oden didn't move. His eyes were half-lidded, his face blank.
Andra stepped forward, voice rising. "Majesty, I need your approval! Every second—"
A slow, amused voice interrupted him.
"Yes, yes, Andra. I heard you... You may go."
Andra turned, startled. The voice had come from behind the throne.
A shimmer peeled open the air behind the throne—like fabric torn through space itself. A swirling rift widened, pulsing with unstable magic.
From its center, a figure stepped out.
He was tall, with an almost otherworldly grace. Pointed ears, and a perfectly sculpted face—handsome to the point of unnatural. His green eyes were sharp, narrow, glinting with amusement.
He wore a long green cloak, hood down, revealing every detail of his elegant features. There was something theatrical in the way he moved, like a man stepping onto a stage.
Andra tensed.
"Who are you?" Andra demanded, drawing a dagger from beneath his sleeve. "You're not one of ours."
The man smiled. Too wide. Too calm. "Oh, come now, Andra. Don't tell me you've forgotten me already?"
Andra took a step back, gaze narrowing. "I don't know you."
"Oh? That hurts." The figure tilted his head. "I thought perhaps you'd recognize the face. Doesn't it match the description? An elf… green eyes… charming smile?" He tapped his temple mockingly.
Andra's eyes widened.
"…Silas?"
The man's expression shifted—dark amusement stretching his grin. "Getting warmer."
Then the magic flickered.
The warmth drained from the face. The voice deepened—still playful, but now laced with venom.
"I'm not Silas," he whispered, "but I do appreciate his looks."
Andra's hand trembled. "You… You're Lodach."
The man gave a slight bow.
Andra's face twisted into fury. "Lodach," he spat. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The smile widened.
"Scheming? Me? That's your game, dear Andra. Twisting court politics, whispering poison into the King's ear. Weren't you the one who had the princess taken? All so you could climb your way to the top, like a leech on a dying beast."
Andra stepped forward, fists clenched. "You bastard."
Lodach gave a theatrical shrug. "I simply want to restore the glory of Elf magic—before it rots in the hands of these… bureaucrats. And for that…" His gaze slid toward the throne. "I'll be borrowing His Majesty's head."
Andra's eyes widened. "No—!"
A flick of his hand tore open another rift. Before Andra could move, the rift pulsed—then snapped shut with a violent crack, taking King Oden's head with it.
There was no blood. No scream. Just the cold, surgical precision of rift magic.
Andra stood frozen, breathing hard. Lodach turned to him with a grin that cut deeper than any blade.
"Cheer up, Andra. You built the perfect stage. I merely played my part."
Then Lodach stepped backward into the rift and vanished.
Andra stood in the silence of the royal hall, surrounded by death.
"…All this preparation," he whispered, "and it all turns to shit."
Hours later, the chaos in Clares began to settle. The orcs had vanished—retreating the same way they'd arrived, through dying rift portals that cracked the sky and left nothing but broken stone and scorched streets behind.
Ash rained like snow.
Through the ruined gate rode a single horse at full gallop, its rider bloodstained, eyes hard.
Sir Eldwin.
Behind him slumped the unconscious form of Princess Lilia, barely clinging to life.
As the horse charged through what was once the center plaza, Eldwin spotted a familiar figure leaning on a broken Staff—Jogg, barely standing, covered in blood and dirt.
"Sir Jogg!" Eldwin called out, reining in. "What in the gods' name happened here?!"
Jogg coughed. "The capital was hit. A massive orc battalion. They appeared in the center of the city—used rifts. We were overwhelmed. Barely survived."
Eldwin looked around in disbelief. Entire blocks were rubble. Statues shattered. Corpses lined the street.
"Impossible," he muttered. "No one should be able to cast portal rift that big…"
He looked back at Jogg. "And your charges? Are the accusations against you lifted?"
Jogg gave a tired laugh. "After this? I don't think anyone cares."
Eldwin nodded grimly. "Help me. The princess needs immediate care."
Without a word, Jogg took Lilia's upper body and helped Eldwin carry her toward the palace.
What they found inside stopped them cold.
The royal chamber was ringed with guards. Inside, dozens stood in stunned silence.
At the center of the throne room sat King Oden's body, his head severed cleanly, no blood. At his side, Andra, slumped against the steps of the throne, face hollow.
Eldwin stepped forward, shocked.
"Someone help the princess!" he shouted.
Assistants rushed forward, carrying Lilia away for healing.
Then Eldwin turned back to Andra. "What… happened?"
No answer.
"You didn't even send search parties after us. The princess disappears and no one goes looking?"
Andra's voice cracked. "What the hell do you expect me to do while the city burns?!"
Eldwin's glare sharpened. "You don't even look relieved that we made it back alive."
Andra said nothing.
"Someone attacked us. Ambushed us. You wouldn't happen to know who… would you?"
Andra looked away. "I said… nothing."
Eldwin stared at him for a long moment, then turned on his heel. "We'll speak later."
He walked back toward Jogg. "I need you to guard the princess. Don't leave her side."
Jogg nodded. "Where are you going?"
"To the ambush site," Eldwin said. "There's something I need to confirm."
Before leaving, Eldwin issued a string of commands to the soldiers—lock down the city, protect the Council, secure the inner walls. Then he mounted again and vanished down the broken streets.
Night fell on the forest. Wind whispered through blackened branches.
Eldwin arrived at the crash site alone. The remnants of the destroyed carriage lay half-buried in mud and leaves.
But someone was already there.
A man knelt by the wreckage, inspecting the broken axle.
Eldwin drew his sword. "Who goes there?!"
The man stood slowly.
Evan.
The two locked eyes. Evan's posture was tense.
"…Are you here for me?" he asked.
Eldwin hesitated. "Captain Evan? Why are you here?"
Relief. Confusion. Suspicion. All of it flickered across Eldwin's face.
They both lowered their weapons.
"Where's the princess?" Evan asked.
"She's alive. Barely. We got out—after the ambush."
"I thought as much," Evan said quietly. "Everything was staged. Both sides were manipulated."
Eldwin nodded slowly. "Someone wanted us dead. Wanted a war."
The two exchanged information—what they saw, what they heard. The attack on the city. The timing. The disappearance. The death of the king.
When Eldwin finished, Evan simply stared at the forest floor.
"This could have started a war," Evan said.
"It still might," Eldwin replied. "Unless we stop it."
Eldwin looked at the shattered carriage. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing useful," Evan said. "No markings. No documents. Just ashes."
A long silence followed.
"Go," Eldwin said at last. "Return to Kubu Fort. Let your people know the truth."
"And the kingdom?"
"We'll send an envoy. Clares owes you far more than an apology."
Evan gave a slow nod. "Thank you."
Eldwin held out the reins. "Take my horse. Get out of here before someone less reasonable finds you."
Evan mounted, silent.
As he disappeared through the trees, Eldwin stood among the ashes and broken wood, the smell of smoke still lingering in the wind.
The surface war was over.
But the real war had only just begun.