The sun dipped behind Albion’s forest canopy, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose. The capital square glowed with lanterns shaped like flowers, their lights flickering with each gentle breeze.

  Tonight was a night of preparation—

  not with swords,

  not with armor,

  but with warmth.

  Dael, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back, stood before a cauldron so large it could drown a fully grown boar.

  “LISTEN UP!” he bellowed, brandishing a ladle the size of a shovel. “If anyone dies tomorrow, I’ll find your corpse and beat you with this ladle!”

  The soldiers blinked.

  Dael grinned.

  “That’s encouragement.”

  The long wooden tables were filled with steaming dishes:

  ? herbal bone stew thick with nutrients

  ? roasted beast ribs glazed with sweetroot honey

  ? stamina bread infused with energizing runes

  ? soldier-cut vegetables tossed with volcanic salt

  ? and Dael’s legendary hardtack—crispy on the outside, soft within

  The aroma drifted through the city like a gentle blessing.

  Hungry soldiers approached timidly.

  Dael slammed the ladle on the table.

  “EAT!”

  They obeyed instantly.

  The first soldier took a bite of the stew—

  froze—

  and tears poured down his face.

  “This—this tastes like home.”

  Another soldier cried loudly into his bread.

  A beastfolk warrior slammed her bowl onto the table.

  “I HAVE NEVER TASTED ANYTHING THIS GOOD!”

  Then she wept.

  Dael nodded proudly.

  “Good. Let it fill your heart. Fear cannot stay where warmth resides. I will cook for all of you when the war ends.”

  There are a big cheer coming from the feast area.

  Lyssandra watched him from afar, arms folded.

  “…He truly is a divine,” she murmured.

  Eryn scribbled notes on ingredients.

  Kael devoured five bowls.

  Borgas carried trays twice his size and somehow ate between deliveries.

  Even the druids, normally stoic, shared smiles under lanternlight.

  For a moment, Albion was not a battleground.

  It was a home preparing to defend itself.

  When the feast settled and the fires mellowed, the trio slipped away to the quiet cliffs overlooking the valley—one of the highest points in the capital.

  Albion’s lanterns glittered below like fallen stars.

  Kael rested his elbows on the railing.

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  “Tomorrow… it begins.”

  Eryn adjusted his glasses, voice trembling.

  “There will be casualties. Even with divines on our side… this isn’t a simple fight.”

  Borgas sat cross-legged, staring at the sky.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I don’t want Albion to fall either.”

  The silence that followed was heavy—

  but honest.

  For the first time, the trio allowed themselves to be afraid.

  Footsteps approached.

  Dael arrived with a tray of freshly roasted skewers.

  “Here. Last snacks before we risk our necks.”

  Kael grabbed three instantly.

  Dael sat beside them, the warm glow of the city reflecting in his eyes.

  “You know,” he began, “the first time Yava, Serath, and I fought together, we nearly died.”

  Eryn choked on his skewer.

  “What?!”

  Dael huffed.

  “Yava forgot to warn us about exploding frogs. We were blown halfway across the marsh.”

  Borgas gasped.

  “Exploding… frogs?”

  “Oh yes. Boom frogs. Very dangerous. Yava didn’t think it was relevant.”

  Kael laughed for the first time that evening.

  Dael’s voice softened.

  “You’re scared. Good. Only fools go into war without fear.”

  He leaned back.

  “Being afraid means you’re still human… still alive.”

  The trio absorbed his words quietly.

  A faint shimmer pulsed behind them.

  Space folded gently, like fabric drawn together by unseen hands.

  A soft white glow spread across the cliff.

  Yava stepped out.

  His robes were dusty.

  His sleeves slightly torn.

  His expression calm.

  But what caught Dael’s eye was—

  “Is that… white fur?”

  A long white strand clung to Yava’s shoulder, glowing faintly like moonlight.

  Dael covered his face.

  “Oh gods. Fox… what did you pick this time?.”

  Yava looked away.

  “They owed me a favor.”

  Kael leaned toward Eryn.

  “Who owed him a favor?”

  Eryn whispered back, “I think… something big.”

  Yava gently brushed it off.

  “It’s… complicated.”

  The trio turned to him—

  fear, excitement, and awe mingling in their expressions.

  Yava sat beside them, looking up at the star-scattered sky.

  “Serath Valen,” he murmured, “is the strongest storm this world will ever see.”

  Kael swallowed hard.

  “Is he cruel?”

  “No,” Yava said, “but he is relentless. If the world throws him into war, he becomes war itself.”

  Eryn whispered,

  “Is he merciful?”

  “He can be,” Yava answered. “When he remembers he has a heart.”

  “What about… you?” Borgas asked quietly.

  “Were you friends?”

  Yava smiled faintly.

  “We were more than that. We saved each other’s lives. Broke each other’s bones. Drank in foreign kingdoms.”

  “And now…?” Kael asked.

  Yava closed his eyes.

  “…Now the world has placed us on opposite sides.”

  The trio fell silent.

  Then Borgas asked the final question:

  “Is there anything Serath fears?”

  Yava hesitated.

  Dael burst out laughing.

  “Oh, he fears something alright.”

  Yava sighed.

  “…Cats.”

  The trio stared.

  “...You’re joking,” Kael whispered.

  “No,” Dael said. “He’s deathly allergic. One sneeze and BOOM—tsunami.”

  "Real tsunami?" Asked Eryn.

  "Of course not, kid. If he sneezed a tsunami, the Kingdom of Eryndor would be wiped out from the map." Told Dael to them while smirking.

  Yava rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “This is why he hates visiting the Southern Isles.”

  A breeze rustled the leaves.

  Far below, Albion’s lanterns flickered—brave stars refusing to be swallowed by the dark.

  Yava rose, brushing dust from his robe.

  “Fear is not your enemy,” he told the trio.

  “Losing who you are… that is what destroys men.”

  He looked over the sleeping city.

  “Rest. Tomorrow, the roots of Albion will be tested.”

  Dael stood beside him, gripping his cooking knife.

  “And if the Kingdom of Eryndor wants to break us, they’ll have to get through me first.”

  The trio exchanged glances—

  fear still in their chests—

  but replaced now with something stronger.

  Resolve.

  Far to the north, beneath the cold moonlight, Eryndor’s army marched.

  Tens of thousands.

  Armored in steel and storm colors.

  Their torches formed a river of fire in the night.

  At the front rode Malrik, mustache gleaming with wicked excitement.

  Behind him marched Droskar, gauntlets humming with wind-pressure power.

  And at the very tip of the formation…

  Serath Valen.

  The Storm General.

  His iron boots echoed like thunder.

  His cloak snapped like lightning.

  And somewhere in the distant forest,

  a white tiger spirit rumbled in anticipation.

  Tomorrow, the storm would arrive.

  End of Chapter 12