The fog clung low to the rolling fields of Rivemount as Claude rode at the front of a black-cloaked column, Samson at his side and their elite unit of forty handpicked soldiers trailing behind.
They advanced quietly with no banners, no horns, only the soft rumble of hooves and their smile of excitement.
After all, Raven gives him information about how messy the council become.
How they were now in panic and couldn't think straight and the gossip about the king being mad and the church brainwashing him.
Hyparia was crumbling inside and out.
Claude's eyes turned to the city gates that were shut but unguarded. Most of the town's defenders had been sent east two nights ago, fearing an illusionary invasion at Windbarrow. Claude's gambit had worked perfectly.
Arrows flew from the watchtower as they approached.
"Huh, seemed like they will attack anyone closer," he said as the lead horse bucked and whinnied as a shaft grazed its flank.
"Shields," Samson barked.
The front line lifted their enchanted kite shields, deflecting the second volley. Claude raised his hand, and in response, a squad of mages broke formation, chanting a brief incantation.
Dark flame lanced from their palms and struck the tower—stone cracked, and screams rang out as the wooden upper level exploded in flame.
"Attack! There is an attack! Tell our commander!"
The screams of panic could be heard as their formation was destroyed.
A moment later, the city's local lord and his knights, armored in a gold-trimmed cuirass, charged from the gates with thirty retainers.
"This land belongs to Hyparia!" he roared. "Surrender or all of you will die in my hands!"
Claude sighed. "Well, now it is mine."
Without even being ordered, Samson surged forward, sword igniting with searing dark light. He met the lord mid-charge, their blades clashing with a thunderous crash.
Samson's second strike shattered the noble's defense, and his third split the man's shoulder from neck to sternum. The retainers fled within seconds.
The local lord's knights were trembling as now they knew their enemy was daemon. It wasn't a normal attack led by bandit. It was an attack from Elysium!
Without words, Samson strikes all of them in less than five minutes with his sword alone. He didn't even need to use his magic, they were just too easy for someone like him.
"As expected, they were so weak." Claude muttered, "Good job Samson."
Samson bowed slightly from not far away, his armor now covered by blood so did his smiling face.
After that, they continue moving. They swept through Rivemount in under an hour. No need for reinforcements, no cavalry.
Just terrified townsfolk who cowered as Claude's men took control of the purification towers near the spring.
Inside the stone aqueduct control center, engineers were dragged from their beds and thrown to their knees.
"Where does the water go first?" Claude asked.
One man spat. Another trembled and gave a stammered answer: "T-The inner capital cistern. It flows by pressure from the hill, then branches into upper wards, the barracks… and the palace."
"Good," Claude said. "Mark the valves, Samson."
Red glyphs shimmered into existence as the elite mages began channeling venomous spells—liquid curses that carried no scent, no color, but a lethal consequence.
The water shimmered for a moment as the venom slipped into its current. Though, Marienne and the church could heal people who contact with it, in the middle of the war with limited priests and clerics?
It would be the death of them and the rest of the Hyparia civilians.
"War isn't won by blade alone," Claude said, a smirk on his face as he knew that the war would cut short and he could finally come back to Elysium.
Moments later, Sun appeared at his side.
"Vulture sent a message: the palace sent troops to Tirenhall. While Marienne is stuck in the war council."
Claude smiled. "They're guarding their coffins."
He turned back toward the poisoned spring. "And we've already poisoned the well."
Saintess Marienne paced in silence inside her room, mind looping over Claude's three threats—Windbarrow, Tirenhall, Fairholt.
Her hands were ink-stained from pouring over reports, her eyes bloodshot. Every hour, new updates arrived.
Her soul screamed that something was wrong. But each crisis consumed her time, her men, and her authority.
A knock came. Then a priest burst into the room with a pale face.
"Saintess! Field reports come in! The soldiers stationed near the capital's border hospital are falling ill. The water—they think it's cursed."
Marienne froze. "Water? Aren't the spring flow from the Rivemont?" she echoed.
The priest nodded. "Yes. And… the city has gone silent... Though, I don't think it is a bad thing. Maybe nothing happened."
Marienne's breath hitched. Her knees nearly gave way. "No, no, no, in this crisis, every local lord is in panic and given many reports of suspicious movement!"
"Silent means something bad really happens." Ifyou'renoton*,you'reviewingacopy.
She stumbled to her desk and yanked open the city registry. Rivemount's function was plain and damning—its aquifers supplied fresh water to nearly half of the capital, including three military hospitals.
Claude hadn't mentioned Rivemount at all.
He never intended to.
"That bastard," she whispered, shaking. "We watched burning branches while he poisoned the roots."
A surge of fury ripped through her chest. Her vision blurred with rage—not just at Claude, but at the nobles, the ministers, and at herself.
She swept her desk clear with one furious motion, papers scattering like leaves. "Enough. I've had enough of being fooled!"
With no guards and no page, she marched straight to the war chamber.
Inside, the council was already mid-chaos. Raised voices, accusations. Barthold was shouting, a general was demanding to reroute troops, and a dozen noblemen were arguing over which grain route to protect.
The doors slammed open and every eye turned to her.
Saintess Marienne entered, white robes flowing like a storm, her face a mask of fury.
"SILENCE." The chamber froze.
"You bicker over phantom fires while the enemy poisons our veins. You ignored my warnings because of your foolish ego! I'm not just a woman! I'm a saintess, I know how to strategize in war!" her breath ragged as she paused.
But then, scream again in a more condemning tone, "And now Rivemount is silent, and soldiers are vomiting blood in their tents!"
Barthold tried to speak. "We had no reports from—"
"Because you were too busy chasing shadows! While I begged for restraint, you threw away our forces to ghosts. Now, the capital drinks from a poisoned spring!"
Whispers broke out. Someone stepped forward. "Saintess, we—"
"No. You will listen. You will obey. From this moment, I command all defensive movements. I want barriers at every aqueduct leading from Rivemount. No one drinks untested water. I will mobilize the priest and cleric for cleansing rituals."
"Now, all of you move!"
The room was stunned into stillness. Then, slowly, people began to move.
Even Barthold bowed his head. "As you command, Saintess."
No one has a choice. As the king turned into madness and the prince wasn't by their side as now he was gone... The only solution was hearing the Saintess that held immense power.
Marienne didn't relax. She pointed to a general. "Send a flight of wyverns. I want aerial confirmation of the city's state within the hour."
"Recall our southern troops. Rivemount is the heart—without it, the capital dies."
They moved faster now as if her fury had cracked the spell of confusion hanging over them. For the first time in days, they saw her not just as the church's mouthpiece—but as a commander.
And she would lead them.
Prince Lorian stood atop the grassy hill, his cloak rustling faintly in the mountain wind. Below, the town of Rivemount lay in eerie silence.
Yet when he lifted the scope of his enchanted monocle and gazed down with enhanced vision, the illusion broke.
The streets were empty.No carts, no children, no morning bustle. Only broken walls from what looked like a recent skirmish.
"Your Highness," said Kyle, one of his commanders, riding up beside him.
"Scouts confirm—no visible traps, no enemy signatures. But…" He hesitated, eyes narrowing.
"Something doesn't feel right."
"We move," Lorian said. "Stay sharp."
He turned to the twenty knights behind him, the Dawn Force—his personal elite. Clad in tempered armor etched with the rising sun insignia, each of them had faced death more than once and made it blink first.
"Even if it looks clear, do not drop your guard," he said, voice calm but hard. "We're not chasing rebels or beasts this time. The one we face is the Lord of Calamity—and he plays the long game. He's already two steps ahead."
With a silent salute, the force descended the hillside, moving swiftly down the winding path. But as they neared the outskirts of Rivemount, their pace slowed.
They passed empty market stalls, and overturned baskets of dried fruit. It felt like walking through a graveyard.
When they finally reached the water purification tower—its runes still pulsing with magical energy—Lorian held up a hand.
"Kyle," he said quietly, "check the interior. If there's anyone inside, bring them out."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Kyle dismounted and approached cautiously. The door was unlocked. He vanished inside.
A few minutes later, he emerged, pale-faced, leading a small group of engineers in soiled uniforms. Their faces were sunken, their hands shaking—not from battle wounds, but guilt.
They dropped to their knees before Lorian, heads bowed.
"We have sinned…" one of them whispered.
"Please…" another choked out. "Please kill us, Your Highness… we—we didn't stop them…"
Lorian's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, his shadow falling over them.
"What did you allow?" he asked, voice low. "What did they do here?"