The war hall stood quiet now. Only Nyzekh and Bruga remained with Altan. The great banners no longer swayed, and the echoes of command had faded, leaving only breath and stone.
Altan stepped forward to the central war table. Instead of unrolling a parchment, he pressed his palm against a carved glyph at the table's center. A soft pulse answered him. Light bloomed from the stone, and a glowing projection of the realm emerged-mountains, valleys, and forests suspended in luminous air.
Outlined in pale blue and ember-red were two distant regions: the frost-cracked highlands of the Cliffvale Reaches, home of the Skarnulf Clans, and the volcanic badlands and cavernous forests of the Virak'tai, the dark elves.
He looked first to Bruga. "If the Dazhum Empire and the Zhong exiles head north, they'll pass through your mountains. Might just march through. Or they might try to burn everything down."
Bruga nodded slowly. "They'll try. My clan won't run."
Altan shifted his gaze to Nyzekh. "Same with your people. No way to know how the Virak'tai will be treated. The enemy might want them as allies, or just see them as something in the way. You planning to warn them or get them involved?"
Nyzekh shrugged lightly. "They'll listen. Some of them. Maybe not all. But I'll speak to them."
Altan tapped the glowing map twice-once on the jagged peaks of Bruga's homeland, and once again on the shadowed lands beyond. "Alright. We go together. First the Cliffvale, then the Blackroot Vale. I'd send messengers, but this needs to be face-to-face."
He turned toward the steward waiting by the inner arch.
"Ready the Stormrider cohort. We'll ride at first light."
The steward bowed and moved quickly down the hall.
Nyzekh glanced at the map, his voice quieter. "It's been eighty years since I last came home."
Bruga exhaled through his nose. "I hate my siblings. But I'm still scared of my father."
Altan gave a tired smile. "We'll face them together," he said quietly.
His eyes stayed fixed on the map as the light shimmered over the wild lands.
Time to move. No more planning.
Just the ride ahead.
Later that night, Altan descended with the steward into the lower halls of the Gale Citadel. Past stone vaults and rune-sealed gates, they arrived at the entrance to the forge.
The massive doors hissed open. Heat poured out in waves.
Within, the expanded forge complex was alive with motion. The sound of hammers, metal grinding against stone, steam vents exhaling in rhythm-it was like standing inside the heart of a storm. Dozens of worker avatars moved in unison, each identical in frame, white-eyed and tireless, operating machines and casting molds with mechanical precision.
Daalo, the Citadel's chief engineer, stood atop a platform, hands blackened with soot, coat half-buttoned, goggles pushed up to his forehead. He turned at their approach, grease-streaked face lighting up in disbelief.
"My lord," he shouted over the clamor. "They've worked for a month straight. No rest. I-I've never seen output like this. They're working faster than ten of my best smiths. We've cleared the old sections, expanded five new forge chambers. We even reinforced the subfloors-twice. The elemental channels nearly overloaded twice last week!"
Altan walked beside him through the gantries overlooking the inner forges. "Are the new chambers operational?"
"Fully active as of yesterday," Daalo said, still half in awe. "But the main stores are running low. We're burning through material faster than ever."
Altan handed him a sealed scroll.
Daalo broke the seal and unfurled the pages. His brows furrowed. Then lifted. Then furrowed again. "What… What is this? These armor sets-this isn't just refinement. This is a full redesign."
"New plate lattice," Altan said. "Layered alloys infused with defensive glyphs. Shoulder plates etched with clan markings, but light enough for long marches. Helmets with internal echo-runes for command relays. Modular armguards, back-slot attachment for heavy weapon stowage."
Daalo blinked. "You want these for… how many?"
"Twenty legions," Altan said. "Two months."
The engineer gaped. "That's over a hundred thousand suits!"
"Stormguard elite division," Altan replied evenly. "We'll need every one."
Daalo looked down at the designs again, overwhelmed. "That can't be done. Not even with-"
Altan turned to the steward. "Double the avatar workforce. Effective tonight."
The steward bowed. "Understood. New worker cohorts will be deployed within the hour."
Daalo still looked uncertain. "The materials-this much alloy? Rune-gold for the inlays alone would bankrupt a lesser city-state."
"I'll provide the materials by tomorrow," the steward said. "And the new avatar fabricators arrive with the northern convoy at dawn. You'll have more than you need."
Daalo slowly nodded, exhaling through his teeth. "Fine. I'll reassign all human smiths to oversight. Avatars can do the shaping. We'll handle the finishing touches."
"One more thing," Altan added.
He handed Daalo a leather-bound satchel. Unfolded, it revealed a compact, rugged design-military, but elegant. Reinforced seams, runic latches, internal glyphwork.
"A new kit for the stormguard. Every soldier will carry one. It straps across the back and shoulders, secure even while riding. Built to last a week on the march."
Daalo ran a hand over the surface. "Preservation glyphs?"
"Layered inside. Food stays fresh. Water stays cool. Interior divided-three sections. One for dried rations. One for water flasks. The last for essential gear. Include flint, salve packs, weather wraps, whetstones, binding rope, and a scroll tube. Everything must fit inside."
Daalo raised a brow. "You're planning to reduce the supply trains."
"I'm planning to stop depending on them," Altan said. "The Zhong will target our rear lines first. I want every soldier capable of surviving independently for a week."
Daalo looked up. "It'll be done."
Altan gave a faint nod. "I'll return in three days. I want the first prototypes ready by then."
The heat of the forge swelled behind him as he turned to leave. The silhouettes of avatar workers gleamed against the molten light-silent, relentless.
War was coming.
And Gale would be ready.