Altan approached the sealed chamber, flanked by two sentinels—white ghosts in gleaming armor. They stood silent on either side of the door, their design echoing the Stormguard pattern, but sleeker, older. These were not men. They were avatar guardians—crafted forms animated by ancient bindings, forged to stand eternal watch.
He raised his hand.
His palm pressed against a sigil etched into the wall—an old mark, a master key from a forgotten age. Lines of light spread like veins. Glowing runes ignited in a slow ripple across the archway.
With a soft, grinding sound, the door shifted and opened.
Altan stepped into silence.
Crystalline walls pulsed with faint script and unseen breath, the old veins of the Citadel humming with power. This was not a war room, but something stranger—a chamber of compression, where time itself bent beneath anchored ley-marks and flow sigils.
He stood before the steward—a knowledge keeper, ancient and bound to the archives buried in the Chasm. Formless yet present, its shape flickered like layered light and carved stone, echoing the memories of a thousand wars.
"Bring me all the data we compiled on the Dazhun Empire," Altan said. "Every treaty broken, every movement tracked, every port whispered in."
The steward bowed wordlessly and raised a hand.
A sea of light flared to life.
Altan moved to the central desk and set down the scroll. As the system interfaced with it, projections of marching routes, intercepted orders, sigil-flags, and fleet silhouettes emerged in the air.
Three days passed in the world outside. But within this chamber, a full year unfolded.
In that time, Altan studied.
The Zhong royal houses had allied with Dazhun—a grim empire where obedience was law and silence was power. The royal exiles, cast out after the First and Second War, had turned west. Dazhun had welcomed them not out of sympathy, but for opportunity. They had promised the Zhong restoration, vengeance, and legacy. In truth, Dazhun's emperor sought to reshape the continent under his own silent dominion.
Fifteen legions of Dazhun, supported by auxiliaries, were crossing the northern tundra overland. Their path would take them through two hostile regions—the Cliffvale Reaches of the Skarnulf Clans and the shadowed territory of the Virak'tai Dark Elves. If they succeeded, they would link with the scattered Zhong loyalist cities still standing in the North. Once unified, their combined force could swell to ten additional legions, bound by old banners and fresh hatred.
If they joined, the weight would be immense. A continental spearhead.
The Free Cities would not withstand it.
The coastal assault was mere noise. Five legions by sea, deployed across triremes and dromons, designed to pin and distract, strike key ports, stretch the defenders. Tidescar was the first. But it was a feint. The true danger marched beneath snow and stone.
Altan saw the deeper play: misdirection by sea, conquest by land. A strategy of pressure and collapse.
The exiles believed they were reclaiming their birthright. The Dazhun believed they were guiding history. The Empress Dowager of Zhong, once sovereign, had become a puppet—her lineage waved like a banner, her voice long silenced.
And behind it all, the Emperor of Dazhun moved without proclamation. Without declaration.
This was not conquest. It was erasure.
He turned toward the northern front, the projected map now glowing with ley-laced lines of possible maneuvers. The route of the Dazhun legions curved through mountain passes, river scars, and dead valleys.
There—before they could reach the Zhong loyalist cities—they would pass through the darkened territories of two proud and perilous peoples:
The Virak'tai, called Dark Elves by outsiders. Shadow-born survivors, feared for ancient sins. Rangers, poisoners, ambush masters who haunted the frozen canyons and obsidian caves of the North.
The Skarnulf Clans, the Wolfblood Tribes. Berserkers bound to frost and flame, carved from cliff and storm, living in mountain fortresses. They remembered grudges longer than dynasties, and spilled blood with reverence.
Skarnulf berserkers could serve as mountain flanks.
Virak'tai shadows as scouts, guides, or hidden bowmasters.
If won to their side—not bought, but bound by honor—those two peoples could stall or bleed the Dazhun advance long enough for Gale to counterstrike.
But what if it wasn't just stalling?
Altan's fingers tapped the table.
What if they became more?
He could see it now—a force not merely allied, but trained. Refined. The raw ferocity of Skarnulf war-kin tempered by Stormguard command. The silent lethality of Virak'tai precision fused with open-field tactics. A new legion. One born not of bloodlines, but of purpose.
Not tools. Not auxiliaries. Brothers-in-arms.
The idea was mad. Dangerous. But so was the world they faced.
And perhaps, in the crucible of this war, the old divides could be reforged into something new. Something terrifying to their enemies.
Inspired by the disciples' last stand, Altan began sketching a vision—not a copy of the old Stormguard, but an evolution. One bound by unity, fluidity, and purpose. One forged from the model of his own—disciples who moved as one, blending elemental intent with martial instinct.
He didn't plan alone.
"Steward," he said, "oppose me."
The knowledge keeper shimmered.
"Oppose, my lord?"
"Challenge the concept. Assume I'm wrong. Break the plan."
A pause. Then its form sharpened.
"Very well. Constructing counter-model."
Light reassembled across the map.
Counter-Model One: Loyalty Breakdown
Scenario: Skarnulf berserkers refuse to take orders from non-clan leaders. Mid-battle disobedience fractures the center, exposing command staff. Estimated casualty increase: 240%.
Counter-Model Two: Virak'tai Subversion
Scenario: A rogue Virak'tai cell distrusts the alliance and assassinates key officers during a night raid. Morale collapse and chain-of-command failure. Estimated outcome: total rout.
Counter-Model Three: Cultural Clash
Scenario: Honor codes between mountain clans and shadow kin lead to infighting. Recruits reject joint command structures. Result: ineffective cohesion in siege warfare.
Counter-Model Four: Training Window
Scenario: Insufficient time to establish cross-discipline tactics. Miscommunications during pincer maneuvers lead to encirclement and loss of field units.
Counter-Model Five: Betrayal Contingency
Scenario: Skarnulf emissaries feign alliance, only to signal Dazhun legions. Surprise flank attack from mountain pass. High-value leaders lost. Catastrophic failure.
The knowledge keeper fell silent.
Altan studied the failures.
Then he gave his answer.
"We counter each scenario. Reinforce trust with oaths, honor duels, and shared trials. Embed command liaisons within their ranks. Shared food, shared drills, shared tents."
He stepped closer to the glowing map.
"Every man and woman in that company will live together before they ever fight together. Start with one company. One symbol. One name."
The steward processed his command.
"Accepted. Adjusting projections."
After a moment, the simulations flickered. Probabilities shifted. Success rates rose.
Altan's voice was low, final.
"Train them together. Not as enemies. Not as tools. As brothers. Sisters. Scars against the empire."
"Call the Stormguard wardens. Engineers. Stormwake. And my disciples," he said. "We have a war to prepare for."
The steward bowed once more and vanished.
Alone, Altan faced the final diagram of the map.
A storm surged westward.
And Gale would meet it in kind.
The Loom of War had begun.