Rothschild Territory
From the Rothschild port, three silhouettes lood on the horizon, vast, dark vessels anchored in the open sea, their hulking forms motionless yet undeniably nacing. They hovered far from land but close enough that anyone with decent eyesight could feel the weight of their presence pressing against the shore.
Rumors spread faster than the tide. Foreign ships had arrived, from a continent no one in Kaelindor had ever seen, crewed by beings no one could identify. The empire issued warnings imdiately, urging citizens to remain alert and stay away.
The emperor gave out a decree: "Do not interfere. Do not provoke. Do not approach."
No one knew who—or what—was coming. No one knew what these newcors wanted with their continent. And any reckless involvent from civilians could shatter the stability of the empire.
But Valdemar de Rothschild, head clouded with nothing but gambling addiction and the desperate hunger for quick profit, to earn more money, paid that decree as much mind as dust on a ledger. His thoughts spun with numbers, not caution. Gold, not danger.
He scoffed loudly at the imperial warnings, pacing the balcony of his manor that overlooked the distant ships. "The emperor worries too much," Valdemar muttered. "Foreign ships? Good! That ans foreign trade. Opportunity."
His aide, who had been anxiously shadowing him all morning, finally spoke up. "My lord, there is no record in our history of trading with another continent. None. Not even scraps of rumor."
"I know," Valdemar snapped. "I can read. And that ans we can be the first to do it."
The aide’s face paled. "But my lord... no history ans no knowledge. We don’t know their race, their language, their intentions, or their strength. You could endanger our people."
Valdemar rolled his eyes. "What’s stronger than us? You’ve seen our emperor."
"Yes, but—"
"And our knights? Our mages?" Valdemar cut him off, voice rising. "We’re the Borgia Empire. We don’t cower because of three ships floating politely in the distance."
The aide tried again, desperation creeping into his voice. "But my lord—"
"Enough," Valdemar declared with a sharp wave of his hand. "We’ll simply talk with them. If it goes poorly, we tell them to leave. Simple. Negotiation first, swords later."
"My lord—this is reckless!" The aide tried to talk to him.
But Valdemar is already striding toward the harbor, his decision locked in place by arrogance and greed. He didn’t understand the tension in the air, the unease that prickled the skin of every soldier on the dock, or the instinctive dread that ca from seeing three massive shadows waiting in unnatural silence.
He didn’t understand that the emperor’s decree was never fear, but it was sothing Roxanne had said to protect her empire and the citizens. But Valdemar chose to ignore it.
-
Valdemar stood at the edge of his port, boots planted on the old stonework as if he were a proud general surveying the approach of honored guests, rather than a reckless lord gambling with disaster. The three hulking silhouettes on the horizon barely shifted, but their presence lood like mountains of iron and bone.
From the distance, no one could tell what manner of beings commanded them. Valdemar, however, saw only opportunity.
"Prepare the flare sigils," he ordered, already imagining the profit margins he would negotiate. Silver. Exotic goods. Rare beasts. Perhaps even magical artifacts no other noble had ever touched.
His aide gaped at him. "My lord, magic flares are used to signal allies or warn the imperial army. It is not ant to be tossed at unknown foreign vessels!"
Valdemar waved a hand impatiently. "Then let them think it’s a greeting. A polite introduction. A way of saying, "Co talk."
"That’s not—my lord, please—!"
But the mages had already been gathered. Five stood at the ready, sigils burning under their boots. A hum of mana thickened the air as they raised their hands.
"On my command," Valdemar said, puffing his chest like he was orchestrating a grand alliance.
The aide could only bury his face in his hands. Valdemar thrust his arm forward. "Release!"
Five flares of pure arcane light burst into the sky, swirling ribbons of gold and blue that spiraled upward before exploding into massive luminous blossoms. They lit the horizon like the midday sun, each boom echoing across the sea. The crowd that had gathered at the port gasped, so in awe, others in trembling fear.
In the distance, the three vessels finally stirred. A low, resonant horn bellowed back across the waves. The sound crawled under the skin of everyone listening, deep and primal, almost like a beast’s roar.
Valdemar grinned. "See? They answered! It works!" His aide nearly fainted.
Across the sea, on the open sea, aboard the Calonian vessels. The orcs on the decks—gray-skinned, towering, their tusks curved like war-blades—lifted their heads at the sight of the flares painting the sky. Their eyes narrowed, confusion etched into their thick, heavy brows.
Magic. But this one isn’t Aerthysian magic or the powerful one they saw from afar that split the scout ship in half.
One of the elder orcs, scarred from jaw to collarbone, growled, "Signal. From the prey’s land."
Another responded, voice low. "They summon us."
"Should we go there?" one of the younger warriors asked, though the question ca out thin, almost brittle, as if he already feared the answer.
Silence followed, stretching heavy and suffocating across the deck of the Calonian vassal ship. No one truly wanted to voice it, but the mory pressed itself into every mind, about the scout ship.
The one that should have been untouchable. The one that carried two hundred of their elite warriors, each born of discipline and raised in the cradle of war. Warriors who had survived volcanic trenches, storms, and monsters birthed by the cursed earth of their holand.
Two hundred warriors, gone without the sound of a single blade clashing. Not even a fight.
They had watched it happen through the binocular lenses forged from volcanic crystal, their clarity sharper than any crafted by human hands. They saw the mont the ship began to tilt, the mont its armored fra split open like soft fruit, and the mont bodies fell apart mid-motion.
And above that massacre floated a single figure. Small. Delicate. A female. Most likely an oga, for only ogas bore fras that slight, movents that fluid, and a softness that belied fragility.
Yet that seemingly fragile creature had raised her hand and erased an entire vessel with one strike. Not a flurry of spells. Not a ritual. Not a war cry. Just a single, effortless gesture.
The sha of it seeped into their bones like slow rot. The Calonians worshipped strength with a devotion bordering on religion, strength of bone, and strength of will. Weakness was despised, and humiliation was a stain few ever survived.
What they saw before was worse than fear; that was disgrace and the kind of mory that entire clans buried generations deep. No one spoke of it, yet every warrior felt the burn of it on their skin. Every elder tasted the bitterness of defeat on their tongue.
Every young soldier trembled, not at the enemy, but at the knowledge that their strongest were nothing before her. Humiliation crept through them first, thick and choking. And in Calonia, where pride was sharper than any blade, humiliation always curdled into rage.
The eldest war chief stood at the bow, his broad shoulders tense beneath the weight of what he had just witnessed, his fingers gripping the railing until the wood groaned under his strength. His jaw tightened like stone grinding against stone, breath deep and slow, as though he were forcing his fury into submission before it consud the entire ship.
"That female was small," he finally said, voice low enough to rumble through the boards beneath their feet. "But the power she wields is not. That was no ordinary magic." His eyes narrowed, rembering the wind-blade that fell like judgnt from the heavens. "That was sothing that severed us before we even realized we had been struck."
The younger warriors flinched at the truth in them. The war chief exhaled, long and steady, his anger focusing into sothing colder and sharper than simple rage. Calonians never retreat. They didn’t cower. And they certainly didn’t turn back simply because they were outmatched.
His gaze drifted toward the distant shoreline, where that strange, powerful land waited, quiet, unknowable, and probably stronger than any of their adventurers had ever predicted. The humiliation still burned, but beneath it now simred a calculating dread.
Whoever ruled that land had allowed an oga to unleash a power that could level fleets. And if an oga could do that, then the alpha bound to her would be sothing far more terrifying.
Yet they had no choice but to move forward. Finally, the elder war chief lifted his arm, his voice rolling across the deck like a mountain shifting. "Dock."
Gasps rose among the younger ones. "Dock? With unknown enemies?"
The war chief slamd his fist on the railing. The iron dented beneath his knuckles. "Pride ans nothing if we return ho with tales of being wiped out before we even landed. Our people will think we fled like cowards. Better to approach, watch, and assess. If stronger foes live here... we must know."
And so, against every instinct in their blood, the vessels began their approach toward Rothschild territory. It took them half a day to begin approaching the unknown port.
By the ti the three Calonian ships neared the port, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows over the sea. People gathered along the docks and cliffs, sitting on rooftops, craning necks, and whispering prayers.
Then the ships ca into full view. And horror painted itself on every face.
Those didn’t look like Aerthysian ships, not even close. There were no sleek elven hulls carved from living wood, no elegant human craftsmanship reinforced with steel, and no graceful silhouettes that spoke of artistry or tradition.
What lood on the horizon were monstrosities, colossal constructs of dark iron and bone-like plating, rising from the sea like predators that had no business belonging to any civilized nation.
Their hulls towered unnaturally high, jagged in places where armored ridges jutted outward like exposed ribs. Massive plates wrapped around the vessels’ fras, overlapping like scales ant for a dragon rather than a ship ant to sail.
The prows were carved into snarling visages, great fanged beasts cast in tal, eyes hollow yet sohow watching, as if the ships themselves hungered for battle. Even from afar, the vessels radiated an aura of violence, the kind that felt less constructed and more bred.
They moved with heavy, ominous purpose, cutting through the waves not like ships riding the sea but like sothing ancient and slumbering forced awake, dragging itself toward shore.
There were no bright banners fluttering, no regal colors to signal diplomacy or identity. Only tattered black cloth and armored decks crowded with the silhouettes of towering gray figures, their forms motionless yet unmistakably alive.
The closer they drew, the more impossible their presence beca. Every beam of sunlight that struck their hulls warped into harsh reflections, as though the very tal sneered back at the world around it. No kingdom—at least none known in Aerthysia—would build sothing so grotesque unless war was its only language.
One mother grabbed her child and turned them away with a trembling hand.
The aide beside Valdemar whispered in terror, "My lord... these are not traders. These are conquerors."
Valdemar’s throat bobbed, but he forced a laugh. "Appearances can be deceiving."
But even he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The closer the ships ca, the more monstrous their features beca. The hulls bore scars from other battles, claw marks, scorch lines, and bloodstains that no ocean could wash away.
"They’re... enormous," soone murmured.
"No—unnatural."
"Look at the figures on deck... What are they?"
The orcs ca into view, towering forms, taller than any werewolves in humanoid form, their bodies bulging with muscle. Their skin is a muted gray, their eyes sharp and calculating. They didn’t look like mindless beasts.
A chill rippled over the crowd.
One of the elders aboard the Calonian ship muttered to his people, "Those are monsters stronger than ours, my lord! What have you done? Stronger than anything we know."
Valdemar heard none of this; he only heard the thunder of his own heart. This isn’t the trade opportunity he had imagined. This is a nightmare dressed in steel, drifting straight toward his gates.
Still, he forced himself to stand tall, stepping to the front of his gathered knights. "We greet them," he declared.
His aide was ghost-white. "My lord... we greet that?"
"Yes," Valdemar insisted, though his voice cracked. "If they answered our flares, they must be willing to talk." Behind him, several knights exchanged looks of shared dread.
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