A week had passed since the court had given its answer—a firm, unyielding refusal. The moment the envoy rode from the capital, the lines were drawn, and civil war was no longer a distant specter but an undeniable reality. The nobles had received their reply, and with it, the sword had been unsheathed. There would be no more negotiations, no more veiled threats. The time for words had ended.
Now, only blood and steel would decide the victor.
Alpheo, ever the pragmatist, had not wasted a single moment. The enemy would not wait, and neither would he.
He moved swiftly, calling his forces to assemble before the capital's gates. By the end of the week, his standing army had arrived, swelling with two hundred eager recruits—young men from the city streets, driven by duty, desperation, or the simple thrill of battle.
What mattered however was the fire in their eyes.
