Anger is not a lightning strike that flares once and fades.
It is an ember that burns slowly, gathering strength in silence, before exploding into a storm that cannot be undone.
Such was the fury carved into Azfaran's chest when the news reached him.
Betrayal had become truth.
Iskhalin had sent their elite soldiers in secret into Eirindale's lands—a move that openly disrespected the ultimatum sent by Eirindale before.
Their warning had not been a bluff. It was not an empty threat.
And now, blood had spilled on the prison walls because of such arrogance.
Azfaran stood at the northern tower's balcony, staring at the dark sky that promised no rain, but called forth a storm.
The wind tugged at his long cloak, colored like wet earth, and his black hair fluttered like fog lost without direction.
He spoke no words, but the tension around him hung heavy in the air.
He knew too well—one wrong move could fracture the entire alliance.
But silence could just as easily be its ruin.
"Call every elder. Call all commanders. And summon the advisers tonight.
We will not sleep until justice begins to take shape," he finally said.
His voice was not loud—but strong enough to chill the bones of every guard who heard it.
The Night Assembly in the Stone Hall
Hurried footsteps echoed through the long corridor.
Torches burned along the walls, but even their light seemed dim against the heavy silence that settled in the air.
Inside the Stone Hall, elders from Eirindale's tribes had gathered.
Commanders leaned quietly against the stone pillars.
Some who once resisted unity now sat side by side with their former rivals.
War had drawn them together, under the looming shadow of Iskhalin.
Azfaran entered.
No herald called his name.
But everyone stood.
He didn't ask for their respect.
With a raised hand, he signaled them to sit and walked to the center of the great circle.
"You all know," he said,
"This land carries wounds that should never have been reopened.
Iskhalin crossed our warning, sending elite soldiers into a neutral zone we all vowed to protect.
All under the name of rescuing the Princess."
Fists clenched.
Others bowed their heads, trying to contain their anger.
"One thing we must guard," Azfaran continued,
"is that we do not act like savages.
We will not respond like cowards,
but as a nation that knows the worth of honor."
He turned slowly, making eye contact with each of them—one by one.
His gaze was not accusing, but it left no room for weakness.
"What shall we do?" Azfaran asked.
An old commander stood—his grey beard thick, and his eyes as hard as steel forged through decades of war.
"King Azfaran," he said,
"This insult was not just against your letter—it was a wound to the dignity of all Eirindale.
They think we dare not strike.
Then let them learn that we can reach through walls... and take life."
A murmur of agreement rose from the hall.
Suddenly, a voice rose from the corner.
It was Maeron, who had been silent all this time.
"We must not strike directly," she said.
"That's what they want.
But... we can draw Sharrfan out."
"How?" asked one of the commanders.
Maeron turned to Azfaran, then slowly walked toward the center.
"Use their rage against them.
Send something that will boil Sharrfan's blood. Not an army.
A symbol.
Cut off a finger from one of the dead elite soldiers.
Send it to Iskhalin.
Tell them it belonged to Princess Reizha.
Say this is what happens when they mock Eirindale's warning."
Silence fell.
Azfaran didn't answer right away.
But in his eyes, the weight of thought was clear.
"That finger is not just a piece of flesh," Maeron continued.
"It is a message.
It is a letter not written in ink, but in the limit of our patience."
She turned slowly and looked at every face.
"We will send the finger," Azfaran finally said.
"We will say it is not a declaration of war.
But a sign.
One more mistake... and there will be no throne left for Sharrfan to sit on."
**
Preparing the Inkless Letter
The next night, the prison doors below were opened.
Three corpses from Iskhalin's elite troops—who had died from their injuries—were carried out.
They were given a proper burial.
But from one of them, a single finger was removed.
There was no joy in this act.
No vengeance.
It was done in silence, in prayer, and in the belief that this was the only way to prevent a greater war.
Azfaran himself wrote the letter that would be sent with the finger.
He wrote it in the ancient Iskhalin script, the one his grandmother once taught him—so that Sharrfan would know who had written it, and so the message would sting deeper.
"To King Sharrfan in the Great City Behind the Walls of Iskhalin,
We received your arrival, though it was not invited.
You sent swords into peaceful lands, even after we warned you with honor and words.
We now answer with this: a finger—not from any name, but claimed to be from Princess Reizha.
Consider this the price for soldiers sent without welcome.
One more bold step,
and we shall not send a finger.
We shall send a head.
– Eirindale"
The letter was rolled and placed inside a small wooden box.
The preserved finger was wrapped in linen and set inside.
The box was sealed with red wax—bearing the symbol of Eirindale.
**
The Silent Delivery
Three riders rode eastward.
They carried no royal sigils.
They were only couriers.
But their mission was more dangerous than bringing five hundred warriors.
At the border, they handed the box to a disguised informant from Iskhalin—posing as a merchant.
This was not official diplomacy.
This was silence, sharpened to a knife's edge.
Far ahead, dark clouds gathered in the eastern sky.
The wind from Iskhalin blew cold, carrying an unspoken warning.
And behind the towering walls of the ancient kingdom,
Sharrfan would soon receive a message that would test the limits of his sanity.
**
Between Threat and Conviction
The night hung silently over the rooftops of Eirindale, like an endless black cloth. The stars peeked shyly, as if unsure whether they should witness what was being planned by the humans below. In one corner of the watchtower, far from the passing of soldiers and advisors, Azfaran stood quietly. Beside him, soft footsteps were heard—Maeron had come without a sound, as always.
No greetings were exchanged. There was no need. Both of them looked eastward, where Iskhalin shimmered faintly behind distant mountains.
"Do you think he'll believe it belonged to Reizha?" Azfaran asked softly, his voice nearly blending with the whispering wind.
"Sharrfan won't stop to think. He will be furious before he even checks it," Maeron replied.
"And when he's furious, he'll make mistakes," Azfaran murmured.
Silence returned. But within that silence were waves of worry and calculation. Victory was not only about strength, but about knowing when to hold back and when to strike.
"Sharrfan was raised in a golden tower. He never knew what it felt like to lose," Maeron continued. "So he won't respond with honor—but with arrogance."
Azfaran nodded slowly. "And that arrogance can be turned into an opening."
But it wasn't only tactics that filled Azfaran's thoughts. Behind his eyes was something deeper—a belief in Eirindale, a land once seen as a place of exile, now standing as a force shaping history.
"You know, Maeron," he said, "I used to believe Eirindale was just a place to hide. But I was wrong. It's not a place of exile. It's the place where we rediscover what it means to be a nation."
Maeron looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"Here, no noble blood is holier than the blood of its people. No language is greater than the songs sung in the homes of the common folk. We build not from thrones, but from wounds. And every home we raise on this land is a declaration that honor doesn't have to be inherited—it can be created."
Maeron gave a small smile. "That's why Sharrfan is afraid. He sees us and sees a mirror—a mirror of the future that no longer needs Iskhalin."
Azfaran touched the stone wall of the tower. "I want our people to live—not just survive. I want them to say 'I'm from Eirindale' with pride, not because of some war victory, but because we never lied about who we are."
Maeron lowered her gaze, then said, "And tonight, we act not because we want war. We act so that we won't need war later."
Azfaran took a deep breath. The wind carried the scent of damp soil and old wood. "Sharrfan will strike back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a month from now. But when he steps outside his walls, he will find that Eirindale is not the same."
Maeron looked at Azfaran deeply. "And when that moment comes, we will not stand as people full of hatred—but as guardians of the future."
The sky remained dark, yet there was a sliver of light on the eastern horizon. Not dawn. Not fire. But something in between. As if a sign that history was writing itself.
Soon after, Maeron was about to return inside, but before her steps could fade, a sound was heard in the distance. A hum. Rhythmic. Soft yet steady. The sound grew, turning into a chorus of voices.
The soldiers of Eirindale were singing—a song not born from a palace, but from the homes and forests where they grew up. Their voices weren't perfect, sometimes off-key, but they were filled with spirit.
"This land is not a king's,
Nor does it belong to the sword,
But to those who fight,
Who know justice and honor, through every day..."
Azfaran and Maeron stood still, letting the song fill the air around them. No commands were given. No instructions needed. Only conviction, born from the awareness that they were defending something greater than themselves.
"Eirindale is singing," Maeron whispered.
Azfaran looked far to the east. "And the world will hear it."
**
Fire Wrapped in Cold
Azfaran once again stood on the northern tower's balcony.
But now, he wasn't just watching the sky.
He was watching a future yet to be written.
He knew this step was a gamble.
But silence was no longer an option.
Iskhalin must realize—the world had changed.
Eirindale was no longer just a land of outcasts and exiles.
It was now a new center of power.
And within that power...
burned a fury that should never be awakened.
That night, Maeron came beside him.
She spoke softly:
"You know... one small message can change history."
Azfaran nodded.
"Yes.
And tonight, we just wrote the next chapter."