Dusk crept slowly over Siracusa, staining the sky in muted copper and ash.

  Within the Royal Army encampment, tension hummed beneath the surface. Soldiers lingered near supply wagons and watch posts, voices low, glancing often toward the command pavilion where Serena De Vainilla had taken residence.

  Rumours spread faster than orders.

  They spoke of closed caravans and stalled trade. Of nobles howling at the Governor’s gates. Of a prisoner murdered under the Army’s watch. And, most of all, of the children—rescued, then taken again.

  Not all the men in camp wore the same colours.

  Although Serena was the highest-ranking officer present, many of the stationed soldiers did not answer directly to her. The former commander of the Siracusa garrison still remained: Major Lamberto De Salinas

  He made no effort to hide his satisfaction.

  “I’m telling you,” one captain muttered to his fellows, keeping his voice just low enough, “this whole affair is a disgrace. Lockdowns, curfews, no results—and now she won’t even show her face at the Governor’s manor.”

  Another scoffed. “Hiding behind the camp while the nobles tear her family apart. Proud Army of Ansara, my ass.”

  A third leaned closer. “Careful. Her people are listening.”

  “They can listen all they want,” the first replied bitterly. “Doesn’t change the facts. That prisoner slipped right through our fingers.”

  Similar conversations echoed throughout the camp—never loud, never outright insubordinate, but persistent. Poisonous. Designed to linger.

  And yet—

  Those who had served under Serena before noticed something strange. She was too calm.

  No sharp commands. No visible frustration. No attempts to defend herself. She moved through the camp with measured steps, issuing routine orders, listening more than she spoke.

  Waiting.

  The men who knew her well felt it like pressure before a storm.

  The answer arrived without warning.

  A sudden blaze of white light erupted from within the command pavilion, forcing nearby soldiers to shield their eyes. The air thrummed, runes flaring briefly before dimming.

  The Transmission Plate

  One of the most expensive and tightly controlled artefacts in the Kingdom—a pinnacle of Ansaran alchemy, capable of instantaneous document transfer across thousands of kilometres. Its use cost a fortune in mana-crystals; its activation meant the Throne was speaking.

  Silence fell across the camp.

  Moments later, Serena stepped out. She was smiling. Not with relief, nor triumph. With certainty.

  Major Lamberto emerged from his quarters at once, irritation already forming into a sneer—until he saw her expression. The smile did not belong to a woman cornered.

  It belonged to someone who had just received confirmation.

  Before he could speak, a flash of emerald streaked from the darkening sky.

  “A Magical Beast!” a soldier shouted. “Loose arrows—!”

  “HOLD.”

  Serena’s voice cut cleanly through the noise.

  The bird slowed, circling once before settling near her. Its feathers glimmered faintly, unnatural in their sheen. A small parchment was tied to its leg.

  Serena raised her arm, revealing a metal badge etched with a runic insignia.

  The bird chirped once, landed, and allowed the message to be taken. Then it vanished in a blur of green, faster than any mundane creature.

  Serena read the note.

  Her smile deepened, cold enough to cut the grass. “Major Lamberto. Men. To the Governor’s Manor. It is time to provide the Council with the answers they deserve.”

  Murmurs rippled through the camp.

  Major Lamberto stepped forward, jaw tight. “Brigadier De Vainilla,” he said coldly, “with respect, you do not command me or my men in this matter. What you’ve done so far borders on recklessness. Until the High Command clarifies your authority, we will not involve ourselves in noble disputes.”

  The camp went still.

  Serena turned to him. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, she reached into her cloak and produced a metal plate, raising it high.

  The symbol upon it caught the fading light.

  Lamberto froze. His face drained of colour, and he dropped to one knee instantly.

  The rest of the soldiers followed without hesitation, their armours ringing in unison as they knelt.

  “HONOUR BE TO THE KINGDOM!” they roared.

  Serena lowered the plate.

  “Move,” she said simply.

  Steel rang. Helmets were donned. Cavalry mounted.

  Moments later, the ground thundered beneath disciplined boots and hooves as the Army surged toward the city.

  Inside the Governor’s manor, chaos reigned.

  The City Council chamber was packed. Voices clashed across the hall, accusations flying unchecked. The air was thick with outrage and fear.

  At the centre of it all stood Rodolfo De Salinas

  “My fellow citizens,” he declared, spreading his hands with practised solemnity, “this pains me deeply. Not only because of the heinous kidnappings, but because of the utter failure in how they were handled.”

  He gestured broadly. “The economy is strangled. The people are terrified. And after all this, our children are gone once more.”

  Murmurs of agreement swelled.

  “I see no alternative,” Rodolfo continued smoothly, “but to call for the repeal of this government and the immediate lifting of these disastrous measures—before irreparable harm is done.”

  Saras De Vainilla’s face had gone ashen.

  Oliverio said nothing.

  A councilman called for the vote.

  Then—

  Thunder. Hooves. Steel. Voices.

  The heavy oak doors of the Hall burst open.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Serena De Vainilla strode in, her cloak billowing like a storm cloud. Major Lamberto followed three steps behind, his head bowed in a way that made Rodolfo’s heart stop.

  “Ma’am Brigadier,” Rodolfo recovered, his voice shrill. “This is a Hall of Lords, not a barracks. You have no standing here—everything is already decided.”

  Rodolfo was doing his best to stop Serena from even talking.

  Alas, Serena didn't stop until she reached the centre of the floor and raised the heavy metal plate. It was gold-leafed, shaped like a soaring eagle with rubies for eyes. The emblem blazed under the hall lamps.

  Silence fell like a blade, Rodolfo’s pupils contracted, a subtle tremor betraying him.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," Serena began calmly, smug edge glinting. "Apologies for the intrusion—and my prior absence. Prior orders bound me; I raced preparations for tonight's operation. Your understanding is appreciated."

  She surveyed the stunned hall.

  "Many recognise this plate—as Marquis Rodolfo has just demonstrated by ceasing his... commentary. The

  "From this moment, my command is the King's own. You will render your full support. Objections?"

  Eerie silence blanketed the chamber.

  Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon—last light fading as authority shifted irrevocably.

  The Highest Call of the Royal Eagle

  It was a permit granted by the King himself to a select few: his most trusted Generals, and the Dragon Generals above them. In times of extraordinary crisis, the bearer of the Sigil could deploy any military personnelany encampmentas if the order had come directly from the Throne.

  Its authority did not stop with the Army.

  All nobles and officials below the rank of Prince were required to comply fully, to offer resources, manpower, and even their personal troops

  Refusal was not dissent. It was rebellion.

  The Sigil was not given lightly.

  Each was recorded. Each could be used only once

  There were no more than five such Sigils

  That Serena De Vainilla held one was not merely surprising. It was alarming, especially for those who were waiting for her fall.

  Rodolfo De Salinas recovered first, forcing steadiness into his voice.

  “Brigadier Serena,” he said carefully, “even with the Highest Call, you cannot simply erase the negligence of House Vainilla. Royal authority does not turn black into white.”

  It was a delay tactic. A gamble.

  Serena answered without raising her voice.

  “I am not asking for your support,” she said. “I am commanding it.”

  She lifted the plate slightly higher.

  “As bearer of the Royal Sigil, I act with the King’s Authority. Continued obstruction will leave me no choice but to declare you in open rebellion.”

  Her gaze fixed on Rodolfo. “So I will ask only once.”

  A pause.

  “Are you rebelling against His Majesty?”

  The colour drained from Rodolfo’s face.

  He knew the charge might not hold in court. He also knew the King despised corruption, delay, and officials who mistook influence for immunity. If the Throne chose to act, there would be no appeal. Slowly, Rodolfo lowered his head.

  “It will be as you command, Brigadier,” he said stiffly. “I only hope that what you intend truly justifies such measures. Otherwise, the consequences will extend far beyond a County governorship.”

  He dropped to one knee. The rest of the nobles followed at once.

  “HONOUR BE TO THE KINGDOM!” the chamber thundered.

  “Good,” Serena said.

  She did not soften.

  “I want your most capable and trusted men assembled within ten minutes. You will accompany me to apprehend the kidnappers and recover every captured child.”

  Her eyes swept the hall. “Your troops will secure the perimeter. No escapes. Any failure will be treated as dereliction of duty.”

  She looked directly at Rodolfo. “You will join the main assault.”

  Rodolfo’s hand trembled.

  He saw it now—clearly. The escape. The second abduction. The patience. The pressure. Serena had allowed it all to happen to draw every conspirator into the open.

  She had even invoked a .

  The realisation spread through the room. Saras and Oliverio understood as well. Several nobles did too, though many privately wondered whether such force was excessive merely to save commoners and capture criminals.

  They did not yet understand what was truly at stake. If they had, the Army would not have been the only force mobilised.

  Templo would have moved in full.

  As the nobles turned to leave, Serena spoke once more. “One final matter.”

  They froze.

  “I have ordered a complete lockdown of Siracusa. No one enters. No one leaves. All communications are suspended.”

  Her tone was polite. Final.

  “Any messenger bird departing the city, or any unauthorised communication rune activating, will be treated as treason.” She inclined her head slightly. “This is not a matter of trust, my lords. It is a matter of necessity.”

  None objected. They bowed once more and departed in haste.

  Rodolfo De Salinas was the last to leave. His face was dark as coal.

  The ten minutes passed faster than anyone expected.

  Personal guards assembled in disciplined haste, armour hastily donned, weapons drawn not for ceremony but for war. Serena led them out through Siracusa’s eastern gate, banners furled, torches unlit. They moved hard and fast, nobles riding alongside soldiers, heading northeast toward land most citizens pretended did not exist.

  Any lingering hope that Serena did not know the destination died quickly.

  The ruins of the old Duchy of Ashdod rose ahead under the dying sun—solitary, broken, and wrong. Crumbling arches jutted like ribs from the earth. Moss-choked stone swallowed the light. Mercenaries patrolled the perimeter, blades ready, eyes sharp. One wore the sigil of House Cortina openly.

  Inside the ruins, Milos De Cortina stood with Sombra and another man.

  Aran Salinas.

  He was broad-shouldered, handsome in a severe way, with sideburns framing a sharp jaw. Rodolfo’s bastard son—cast aside by the main family, hardened by rejection, sharpened by talent. Too capable to be ignored. Too inconvenient to acknowledge.

  Rodolfo had given him the shadows.

  Aran intended to use them to claim everything else.

  They were finalising preparations when the noise reached them—booted feet, armoured movement, too disciplined to be mercenaries.

  Sombra turned at once. “They’re here.”

  Milos swore under his breath.

  They split instantly. Sombra vanished toward the dungeon. Milos and Aran moved toward the ruined entrance.

  They emerged into open ground just as Serena’s force crested the rise.

  Five hundred meters. Less than a minute.

  Men appeared everywhere—encircling, silent, weapons levelled. Escape routes sealed before anyone thought to run.

  The mercenaries knew it at once.

  Oliverio reined in first, eyes gleaming triumph on Milos and Aran.

  "Well now, Milos De Cortina," he said, voice carrying cool mockery. "Caught up in these kidnappings after all? I'd thought better of you, noble blood and everything. And Rodolfo's bastard here, too. Care to explain yourselves, you old stag?"

  Milos straightened, forcing calm. "Oliverio, watch your words. I haven't the slightest idea what you're on about. This is just a temporary camp for my mercenary company—we're on a legitimate contract. Hurling accusations like this? It's beneath you. Kidnappings? Show me these children you're talking about."

  He needed time, praying Sombra or Alastor scrubbed the evidence. Tricky, but with Sombra's means... It was not impossible.

  Rodolfo stepped forward at once. “Ma’am Brigadier, I must object—Milos and Aran’s presence here proves nothing. There is no evidence of wrongdoing.”

  Serena raised a hand. “They are violating curfew and conducting armed operations outside city limits.” Her gaze never left Milos. “That alone warrants investigation.”

  Milos bristled indignantly. "A warrior can die, Brigadier, but he won't swallow insult. I've done nothing shameful here. Accusing a noble without proof—it's disgraceful."

  He played the honour card, eyes flicking to surrounding nobles for support. Searching a lord's affairs without cause? Unthinkable.

  Serena raised the Royal Eagle plate calmly.

  Milos’ pupils shrank.

  At the same time, deep below the ruins—

  Sombra reached the dungeon.

  Alastor paced frantically, sweat beading, limbs trembling. Discovery meant oblivion. His family would immediately cut ties, likely executing him themselves to save face. They knew nothing of his complicity.

  Alastor stood trembling, sweat soaking his collar. “What do we do?” he whispered. “If they find the children—”

  “Useless,” Sombra spat.

  He assessed the situation instantly. Escape was possible—for him. would carry him through the encirclement before they reacted. But that would mean failure.

  “There are two options,” he said flatly. “We perform the ritual now. Incomplete. Power diminished—but Dagon’s manifestation would kill everyone outside. Or we kill the children and erase all traces.”

  He said it like discussing the weather.

  Alastor swallowed hard.

  “We need to choose now,” Sombra added.

  He was already leaning towards the ritual. But someone had already chosen for them.

  BOOM.

  A cell door exploded inward.

  A small blue-white wolf burst through, frost pouring from its jaws in a violent cone of icy breath.

  Sombra vanished into shadow an instant before impact.

  He reappeared behind the beast, dagger flashing—purple venom shimmering along its edge—

  —and was met by a crushing kick from nowhere.

  BAAAM.

  The force hurled him backwards.

  Sombra flipped midair, barely stabilising as needles flew from his sleeve.

  Nerion spun, Qi surging, wind spiralling into a tight vortex that shredded the poisoned projectiles.

  They stared at each other.

  Too young. Too fast. Too strong.

  Sombra’s grin sharpened beneath the mask.

  Nearby, Alastor roared, Qi flaring as he resisted the direwolf’s assault, arms frosting over. Then emerald light struck him from the side—Little Green diving hard, forcing him to draw steel.

  “I thought you said you could handle the noble idiot,” Nerion said calmly, not looking away from Sombra.

  A cell door creaked open.

  Evelin stepped out.

  “It’s not that easy, he’s a Praetorian, after all,” she said lightly. “But I’ve got him.” Her eyes gleamed, dark and endless. Natural Energy surged around her, overly anxious to follow her command, hair lifting as if touched by unseen currents. A TIMBER Grand-Adept. Unmistakable.

  She glanced at Sombra. “Just watch for that shadow guy; he feels pretty strong. You sure you don't need help?"

  Nerion smiled.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Then let the Big Net Operation

  His true debut—six years forged in shadow and sweat—unleashed at last.

  The night had arrived. And so had judgment.