Chapter 144 (Part 1): The Solstice Gambit
Dawn of Iron
The Summer Solstice arrived cloaked in blades.
Commander Thack of the City Watch stood motionless at the crossroads, dawn's pale light glinting off the breastplates of a hundred Royal Guardsmen marching past. These were no ceremonial troops—their swords hung unsheathed, boots crunching with the rhythm of men expecting battle.
"By the Twelve Hells," Thack muttered, fingers tightening on his ceremonial baton. "Since when does festival security require live steel?"
His adjutant returned breathless from the military command, face ashen. "Sir! The Royal Guard has blockaded the eastern markets! They claim full authority under 'emergency orders'!"
Before Thack could spit a curse, his office door burst open. A Royal Guard captain—sharp-featured, eyes like frosted daggers—strode in flanked by two armored brutes. "Commander Thack," he announced, unfurling a scroll stamped with the High Command's crimson seal. "By decree of General Junk of the Second Royal Division, all city defenses—including your Watchmen—now answer to military jurisdiction. Patrols are restricted to the Mage Quarter. Resistance," his hand drifted to his sword hilt, "will be treated as insurrection."
Thack's knuckles whitened. The document bore Count Raymond's signature—his own brother-in-law's—yet reeked of illegality. Martial law without the Emperor's decree? This wasn't protocol—it was a dagger pressed to the capital's throat.
"And if I demand verification from the palace?" Thack growled.
Steel hissed as the captain's blade slid halfway from its scabbard. Outside, the clatter of armored boots confirmed Thack's dread: his headquarters were already surrounded.
Chains Beneath Festivity
By sunrise, the city's festive garlands hung limp beneath armored boots. Royal Guardsmen patrolled tavern districts and temple squares, their glares scattering flower vendors and children clutching solstice sweets. Gates meant for ceremonial processions now bore heavy chains, justified by whispers of "reactivating ancient wards"—though no神殿priests blessed the locks.
Thack, imprisoned at his own desk, stared at the blank patrol orders thrust before him. "Sign them," the captain sneered. "Or watch your men choke on their own blood."
A droplet of ink splattered the parchment like a tear. Thack's quill trembled—not from fear, but impotent rage. His Watchmen, the steadfast guardians who'd broken up drunken brawls and foiled pickpockets for decades, reduced to puppets dancing on military strings.
Outside, a fruit seller's daughter shrieked as a guardsman's halberd shattered her basket of apples. Laughter died. Even the temple bells seemed muted.
Nobles in Shadow
At the Roland estate, Bennett adjusted his ceremonial sash, the gold embroidery biting into his palms. His father's voice rang from the courtyard below, cold and precise as a whetstone.
"Squadrons to the southern gates! Archers concealed in the clocktower!"
Three hundred Roland knights stood at attention, their shortbows hidden beneath cloaks lined with spell-resistant silk. No festive plumes adorned their helms; every strap and buckle spoke of readiness for slaughter.
Count Raymond emerged, his midnight-blue uniform swallowing the dawn light. "You look pallid, boy," he remarked, tugging on leather gloves. "Second thoughts?"
Bennett met his father's gaze. The memory of their last conversation hung between them—a verbal duel of half-truths and veiled ultimatums. "You taught me to see the board three moves ahead. Today's game… fascinates me."
A flicker of approval crossed the Count's face. "Then observe closely. History favors—"
A shriek pierced the morning calm. Lady Roland's voice spiraled from an upper window: "Raymond! You dare cage me like some—"
"Silence her," the Count ordered Alphonse, his tone glacial. "For her own protection."
As they rode through streets strewn with wilting solstice blossoms, Bennett noted his younger brother's absence. Safe with Master Bluehaven, he realized. Another pawn shielded from the storm.
Festival's Razor Edge
The procession wound toward the Royal Plaza, where silk banners fluttered above crowds corralled by spearpoints. Bennett's mount sidestepped a puddle stained crimson with crushed petals—blood-red against gray cobblestones.
"Father," he murmured, nodding toward an alley. Royal Guardsmen were herding a cluster of robed figures into a cellar—mages, their staves snapped like kindling. "Your allies grow… overzealous."
Count Raymond didn't turn. "Stars must burn out so new constellations may rise."
Ahead loomed the plaza's grand archway, its carvings depicting Roland ancestors slaying frost drakes. Today, the stone beasts seemed to twist in agony, their jaws frozen mid-roar.
As noon approached, the air thickened with tension. Somewhere beyond the sealed gates, three thousand Royal Cavalry massed like storm clouds. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath—not for festival drums, but the scream of steel leaving sheathes.
Bennett's fingers brushed the Eclipse Bow concealed beneath his cloak. Its dormant magic pulsed, a caged beast scenting blood.
The solstice sun reached its zenith.
A lone hawk cried overhead.
The die was cast.
Chapter 144 (Part 2): The Crown's Eclipse
Bells of Omen
The Rowling family's cavalry advanced like gilded shadows, golden bells at their horses' throats tinkling a fragile melody that clashed with the tension thickening the capital's air. Bennett rode beside his father, Earl Raymond, flanked by three hundred of their house's most lethal warriors. Their path to the Central Plaza—a sprawling expanse of polished bluestone flanked by avenues wide enough for six carriages abreast—was lined with Royal Guards whose armored silence screamed louder than any festival cheer.
Bennett's calm was a mask. He had expected the soldiers, the whispers, the dread coiled beneath garlands of fireblossoms. What he hadn't anticipated was his father's hand gripping his wrist as they dismounted—a gesture neither affectionate nor commanding, but a shackle disguised as guidance.
Theater of Shadows
The plaza swarmed with citizens oblivious to the knife balanced above their revelry. Children clambered onto parents' shoulders to glimpse the imperial dais, where silken canopies shaded nobles whose forced smiles couldn't hide trembling hands. Bennett noted the absences: no grand marshals from the Mage Guild, no high priests of the Holy See. Only Earl Raymond's allies—and enemies—clustered in uneasy clusters, their eyes darting between the Rowling contingent and the sealed palace gates.
"They've been caged since dawn," a baroness murmured nearby, fan fluttering like a trapped bird. "Royal Guards encircled every noble quarter. Even Lord Harrick's protests vanished into the palace walls."
Earl Raymond ignored the stares, his posture defiantly rigid as the first trumpet blared. The crowd stilled.
Emperor's Requiem
Augustus VI emerged as a ghost from a golden tomb.
The emperor's crown—a monstrosity of platinum and prismatic stone—seemed to crush his skeletal frame. Bennett inhaled sharply. *The Prism Stone—*legend claimed it drank the souls of unworthy rulers. Now it adorned a monarch whose hands, hidden behind his back, trembled like autumn leaves.
Flanking him walked two nightmares: a crimson-robed archmage whose staff pulsed with forbidden runes, and a gaunt swordsman whose blade hummed with a hunger no scabbard could muffle. Twenty paces behind trailed Prince Chen, the younger royal, his smile a masterclass in detached amusement.
"Observe," Earl Raymond muttered as the emperor settled onto his throne. "A lion's roar reduced to a death rattle."
Bennett's gaze locked on the Prism Stone. Its inner light flickered—weak, erratic. Like his pulse.
Blade's Ultimatum
The procession unfolded with choreographed dread: infantry marching in lockstep, petals crushed beneath boots, citizens' cheers curdling into confusion as the first battalion drew swords in salute. Then came the thunder.
A thousand black-armored cavalry surged through the eastern avenue, their crimson cloaks bleeding across the bluestone. At their helm rode a knight gilded in gold, his visor raised to reveal a face carved from Augustus's likeness but warped by cruelty. Crown Prince Cassian's sword gleamed as he halted before the dais—a challenge, not a bow.
"Father!" His voice cleaved the silence. "Does my blade lack the edge to carve your legacy?"
The cavalry roared. "SHARP!"
Petals fell from frozen hands.
Cassian pressed on, steel ringing as he spurred his mount closer. "Do these warriors lack the strength to bear your empire?"
"MIGHTY!"
The Prism Stone dimmed. Augustus's lips peeled back in a snarl, but his retort died as Cassian's sword tip rose—a hairsbreadth from the imperial dais.
"Twenty years of your wavering have rusted this realm," the crown prince hissed. "Today, I forge its future."
Storm's Edge
Clouds swallowed the sun.
Bennett's fingers brushed the Eclipse Bow hidden beneath his cloak, its dormant magic stirring like a stalking beast. Behind him, General Junger—Second Royal Division's viper—materialized beside Earl Raymond, murmuring, "The gates are ours."
Prince Chen caught Bennett's eye and raised a wine cup in mock toast.
It happened in breaths:
The archmage's fingers twitched—a spell half-formed.
Cassian's cavalry shifted, blades angling not at the emperor, but the nobles.
Earl Raymond's grip tightened on Bennett's shoulder. "When the arrows fly, follow Junger. Trust no one else."
But Bennett was already calculating trajectories. The Prism Stone's glow surged once—violet, violent—as Cassian's sword fell.
"ANSWER ME!"
A crossbow bolt hissed toward the emperor.
The archmage's barrier flared.
Chaos, at last, was unchained.
Chapter 145 (Part 1): Gilded Stormfront
Veil of Loyalty
Lao Yan squinted at the brooding clouds swallowing the sun, his calloused hand shielding his brow. "A storm's brewing," he muttered, though the words tasted hollow. Around him, the Victory Square—a lesser sibling to the Central Plaza's grandeur—hummed with the metallic clatter of armor and murmured commands. His men, the Emperor's own Imperial Guards, stood like gilded statues in their ceremonial silver-plated armor, their helmets crowned with golden plumes that shimmered even in the muted light.
Twelve years, Lao Yan thought bitterly, adjusting his sash. Twelve years polishing boots and saluting nobles, and still just a captain. He glanced at the Royal Garrison troops ahead—a thousand soldiers in battle-worn steel, their faces grim beneath sweat-slicked helms. Unlike his own pristine unit, these men carried real weapons: shortbows, crossbows, blades still nicked from northern skirmishes.
"Fools," Lao Yan sneered under his breath. Dressing like they're marching to war on a festival day. His own armor, though dazzling, felt as substantial as tin. One thrust from a standard-issue blade would pierce it like parchment. But today wasn't about protection—it was about spectacle.
Behind him, the Soloman family's parade floats loomed like coffin-like monstrosities. No vibrant silks, no flower garlands—just crude wooden slabs on wheels. Even their humiliation is grand, he thought. The Solomans, once the crown jewel of the capital's merchant guilds, now reduced to leading the commoners' procession.
A distant roar rippled from the Central Plaza. Lao Yan stiffened. The sound wasn't celebration—it was chaos, raw and jagged.
Feathers and Fury
The wind carried a fragment of screams. Lao Yan's men exchanged uneasy glances, their golden plumes trembling. "Steady!" he barked, though his own pulse hammered. Across the square, Royal Garrison officers began shoving through the crowd, blades drawn.
"What in the Nine Hells—"
Before he could finish, the冲锋号 blared—two long notes, one short. Battle formation. Lao Yan's blood froze. This wasn't part of the ceremony.
"Traitors!" A merchant's shriek cut through the air. "The Garrison's turned!"
Pandemonium erupted. The Royal Garrison wheeled inward, their crossbows snapping up—not toward the crowd, but the Imperial Guards. Lao Yan's men, trained for parades not combat, fumbled for ceremonial swords as the first bolts flew.
"Shields!" Lao Yan roared, but the order drowned in the cacophony. A bolt glanced off his pauldron, sparking against the flimsy silver. He staggered, eyes locking on the Soloman floats.
The wooden coffins split open.
Coffins of Rebellion
Men poured out—not actors in gaudy costumes, but warriors clad in blackened mail, their faces masked. Soloman's sigil, once a golden scale, now blazed crimson on their banners. At their helm rode a figure Lao Yan recognized: Soloman's eldest son, his ceremonial robes discarded for a warlord's spiked pauldrons.
"For the true emperor!" the young noble bellowed, hefting a axe stained with fresh blood.
Lao Yan's mind raced. This isn't a coup—it's a damned symphony. The Royal Garrison's "overzealous" armor, the Solomans' strategic disgrace… all threads in a tapestry woven long before this cursed solstice.
A blade hissed toward his throat. Lao Yan parried clumsily, his ornamental sword shattering on impact. He stumbled back, the Central Plaza's distant screams merging with the slaughter around him.
"Fall back to the palace!" he cried, but the order was futile. The Imperial Guards—his Guards—were being butchered like festival lambs, their golden plumes trampled into the mud.
Ash of Allegiance
Lao Yan fled, not toward safety, but the Soloman floats. If he could reach the hidden compartments…
A crossbow bolt punched through his thigh. He collapsed, vision blurring as black-armored rebels closed in. The last thing he saw was the Soloman heir standing atop a wooden coffin, raising a severed head crowned with platinum hair.
Prince Cassian.
The rebel's laugh echoed across the square. "The lion's cub has fallen! Long live the—"
Thunder split the sky. Not storm clouds, but warhorses—thousands of them—charging from the northern gates. At their forefront rode a figure in midnight-blue, his banner a roaring frost drake.
Count Roland's voice boomed like judgment: "For the crown! Slaughter every traitor!"
Lao Yan's world went black, the taste of blood and betrayal thick on his tongue.