The earth trembled beneath the weight of seventy thousand hooves.
A black tide of cavalry surged across the plains, their armor gleaming like onyx beneath the overcast sky. Standards snapped in the wind... banners of Narzan, soaked in blood and history. But none drew more eyes, nor more fear, than the lone rider at the front.
Veythor.
Cloak billowing, gaze like ice, he rode atop Nimshin, the horse of nightmares... hooves forged in thunder, mane trailing smoke. The beast was said to have drunk from the rivers of the underworld and emerged hungrier than death itself.
Not a word escaped Veythor's lips. He didn't need to speak. The rhythm of war beat through the air like a drum of inevitability, and every soldier behind him knew: they followed not a man, but a storm wearing human skin.
From the hills, villagers watched the procession in reverent terror. Children whispered legends. Elders fell to their knees. Some called it the coming of Narzan's last war. Others called it justice.
But only Veythor knew the truth.
The destination was one and only.Kranel... Southern borders
After nearly twelve grueling hours, the black wave of Narzan's cavalry reached the fortified gates of Dushan, one of the empire's most strategic southern states. As Veythor approached with his seventy-thousand-strong force, the guards atop the walls panicked for a moment... then recognized the rider at the vanguard.
"The Supreme Commander!" someone shouted.
"He's here! It's over for those Firhanian bastards!" another cried, laughter echoing from the walls.
The gates opened without hesitation.
Dushan was already under red alert. The Firhanian armies had been spotted closing in, and the Southern Borders stood vulnerable. To reach them, Veythor's army had to pass through Dushan swiftly. There was no time for rest, no time for words.
One of Veythor's lieutenants rode forward Karman Jessph, a bulky man in his early thirties, grizzled and proud, his armor smeared with old blood and fresh ambition.
"Lord Veythor..." he said.
"Yes, Lieutenant Karman Jessph?" Veythor replied, his voice cold as the mountain winds of the north.
Jessph hesitated for a heartbeat. This man... he didn't even blink when he heard the Firhanians were coming. He acts like death is beneath him.
If only he died in battle... I'd rise. General Jessph. Has a ring to it. Damn him.
But aloud, he said, "Scout reports say the Firhanian army will arrive at the border in"
"Two hours," Veythor cut in, his tone absolute, his interruption like thunder cracking a tree in half. Jessph felt himself recoil as if struck.
"Wha... What? How do you know that?" he asked, visibly shaken.
Veythor only smiled... and offered no answer.
Jessph bit his tongue and fell back into formation.
Despite the massive force behind him, Veythor's presence dominated the entire road like a stormcloud. The path to the Southern Borders was usually crowded with traders, peasants, and patrols... but under red alert, it was empty. Nothing stood between them and war.
They would make it in two hours and thirty minutes.
Already one hour and forty-five had passed.
Veythor's black steed Nimshin galloped ahead like a shadow ripping through space, hooves striking the earth like hammers of fate. Soldiers behind him pushed their mounts harder, not wanting to fall behind the commander who rode like death was on his heels... or worse, like he was chasing it.
Then, finally... the towering gates of the Southern Borders. Massive barricades of steel and stone lined the frontier. Archers stood ready on watchtowers. The silence was tense, broken only by wind and the whistle of distant horns.
A soldier on the watchtower paled as he scanned the horizon.
"They're here! They're here!" he screamed. "Ring the bell! I repeat, ring the bell! The Firhanian dogs have arrived!"
The bells clanged violently.
But then a shift.
The guards turned away from the enemy lines and looked behind them, toward the storm that was Veythor.
"Lord Veythor!it's the Supreme Commander!" they shouted, part joy, part fear. Not reverence... relief. For they knew: when Veythor was on the field, fewer enemies dared to step forward. He was worth an army of ghosts and demons.
Hands moved instinctively. The gates of the barricade wall creaked open... the one and only path into Narzan. It was not tradition that moved them.
It was terror.
Veythor and his cavalry crossed the Southern Borders, their black banners cracking in the wind. Beyond lay the Neutral Gap... a dead land, neither Narzan's nor Firhan's, stained by years of uncertain peace.
Dust rose behind the hooves. The sun hung low, blood-orange.
A scout galloped forward. His breath caught in his throat.
"Lord Veythor. The Firhanians have arrived. Should we prepare to strike? We have fifty-six thousand stationed in Dushan. In total, our forces number one hundred twenty-six thousand. Their army... one hundred forty-seven thousand."
Veythor did not answer at once.
He studied the horizon. His black eyes narrowed. Something felt off.
"The Firhanians wouldn't cross this far without cause," he said, voice cold.
"But sir... 147,000 men? Why else but to invade?"
Veythor turned to him slowly. The wind paused. The world thinned.
"You're hiding something," Veythor said.
The scout's name was Casier Arfhan. He chuckled nervously, but his spine was stiff.
"N-no, sir. I wouldn't dare. I wouldn't dare."
Veythor's stare crushed him.
Without another word, Veythor raised his arm and commanded:
"March forward. The enemy is near. We protect our Fatherland."
Seventy thousand followed.
On the Firhanian side, a pair of scouts peered through long spyglass lenses.
"He's here," one whispered. "Veythor. Supreme Commander of Narzan. Cavalry... seventy thousand. Most mounted."
They fled to report.
Inside a Firhanian tent stood an old man dressed in armor shaped like a coiled serpent. His name: Josephine Langford, one of Firhan's greatest generals. His golden eyes gleamed like fire in coal.
"So the boy's come," Langford said. "Good."
He mounted a pale warhorse and rode out, the earth shaking with the march of Firhan's legion.
Soon, the two armies faced each other across the Neutral Gap.
Langford's pale horse screamed when it saw Nimshin, Veythor's black mount... the silver-armored beast snarling like a myth reborn.
Langford smiled, all teeth.
Veythor smirked back, eyes like razors.
A silence fell. And then Langford spoke, his voice both ancient and mocking:
"Long time, Commander Veythor."
"I greet you, Commander Langford," Veythor said, tone sharpened. "But I must ask... what reason have you to bring 147,000 men to a Neutral Zone?"
Langford's eyes flared.
"You truly know nothing? Or are you playing games?"
Veythor caught the shift. His eyes narrowed. That scout lied to me.
Langford snapped, "Withdraw. This matter does not concern you."
"I could say the same," Veythor replied. "Withdraw, or explain your presence. Else this land will know only ash and blood."
Langford scoffed. "You're outnumbered."
"And yet I'm still here," Veythor said with a soft laugh. "I've never lost a war against Firhan. Do you wish to test that record?"
Langford sighed. "I had hoped it would not come to this."
He paused. Then looked Veythor in the eye.
"My daughter. Liyana Langford. She was kidnapped."
Veythor didn't blink. "Your daughter?"
"Yes. She was traveling near the Neutral Gap. Scouts say she was seized. Her guard slain. The trail leads to your side."
"What was she doing near our borders?"
"That is none of your concern. Return her... unharmed... or I swear on my name, by tomorrow, Dushan will burn. Narzan will weep."
Veythor's gaze was stone.
"You claim justice," he said. "Yet march with an army. If your cause is true, you would come with words, not weapons."
Langford's voice dropped. "You know nothing of loss."
Veythor's voice was ice.
"Then teach me."
Langford unsheathed his sword. So did Veythor.
Across the neutral gap, both armies stilled, eager... thirsting for the taste of steel and blood.
Langford stepped forward and drew a line across his palm. Blood welled, thick and red.
"This is a blood vow, Commander Veythor," he said, voice low and wrathful. "If my daughter is not returned unharmed, your Fatherland shall witness the fury of Firhan."
Veythor did not flinch. He stood as if carved from obsidian, cold and eternal.
"I swear on Narzan itself," he said, his voice like stone cracking, "by midnight, you shall have your daughter
or your war."
A silence hung.
Then, in the same breath, both men uttered one word, not as request but decree:
"Withdraw."
Above them, an eagle soared... its talons clenched around a writhing snake, blood trailing from its beak like falling prophecy. As the armies withdrew, neither side noticed that war had already begun in the sky.