In war, there was maybe nothing more important than information. But if there was one thing on the same level of importance, it was being able to pass on the information to his allies.

The fief war had been simple by comparison. It had played out in the Sylvan Enclave, and though the land stretched wide with forests, rivers, and cliffs, he had only needed to guard two cities and strike at a handful of forts. Messages could move quickly enough along the same roads he patrolled, and the men under his banner all knew the land like the lines on their palms.

But this was different. This was not one fief pulling at another—it was a civil war. A war that would drag in every corner of the realm, that would splinter loyalties and blur borders. He would be fighting three factions of nobles, each with their own allies and secrets, while trying to keep his own house steady in the storm. The scale alone made his stomach knot.

This war would not be won in a single valley or by taking a pair of stone gates. It would sprawl across open plains, through towns he had never marched in, and over rivers that bent toward other lords’ lands. In the Sylvan Enclave, a few Watchers had been enough to warn a city. Now, he needed dozens of them in every major city in the kingdom.

He knew one thing with certainty: if word did not pass cleanly and quickly, his men would stumble blind. Orders would come too late, allies would march into traps, and the war would grind on, bleeding them dry. Information was breath. To share it was to keep his side alive. Without it, they would not end this war soon—perhaps not at all.

Hence, he had already told Balen to make a messenger drone. Though if he was honest, what Kai truly wanted was to figure out mana messaging. In the distant future, entire kingdoms had run on it—a vast web of artificial mana currents carrying words instantly across thousands of miles. Messages leapt between towers, from one end of a realm to the other, in the span of a breath. For centuries it made war and trade easier than anyone could imagine. But that was knowledge Kai had not yet mastered here. He hadn’t had the time to unravel the spells himself, nor to teach other Mages how to weave them.

So for now, the drone would have to do.

The construct was right in front of him. He took a closer look.

The body of it was shaped of fine brass plates into the form of a bird and he could see the thin seals. The seams fitted so tightly it almost looked alive. It even had wings–wings that glistened and silver in color. The beak and eyes weren’t perfectly sculptured, but Kai had no complaints. His eyes moved toward the chest, where there was a small compartment, just big enough for a folded letter or a narrow strip of knotted cord. But deep inside, there was a shard of aethum stone. That’d let the enchantments run to let it fly.

Balen’s large hand reached out and patted the drone lightly, pride clear in his rough touch.

“As you can see, Lord Arzan, it’s delicate work to make, but small enough that I can put together dozens. Especially with the Sorcerer Tower Mages lending their hands.”

Balen paused, thumb against his chin. “The problem is the range,” he said. “It can’t fly far. The aethum shard we put in it gives it enough juice for a short run, but not for long hauls. Make it bigger and it needs more power—then it’s heavier and slower and everyone notices. I doubt you want that, Lord Arzan.”

“No.” He did not want the birds to be slow or clumsy. “It needs to be fast and small. How does it know where to go?”

“Mana signatures, mostly.” Balen tapped the little brass breastplate, where the runes hummed faintly. “If you can imprint a signature on it, it will follow that same sort of current. I’m sorry I haven’t found a better way to send them over long distances without someone guiding them by hand. Compared to the exploding drones, these are far more complex.”

Kai nodded and didn’t move away from the bench. He watched the bird like a man learning a new tool. In the silence he mapped possibilities in his head: mobile fuel depots tucked behind friendly lines, wagons with spare aethum shards, riders carrying extra stones to hand off. All of them took time he did not have.

Then an idea struck him so cleanly it felt like a blow. He turned to Balen. “We can have Watchers refuel them.”

Balen blinked. “How?”

“We’ve been recruiting more Watchers since the fief war,” Kai said. He kept his eyes on the drone. “Not all of them are field agents. Some are stationed, some move between towns. If we give them devices with the same mana signature as the drones, the birds will home to them. A Watcher can top one up and send it on to the next. It will have stops instead of a straight flight, but it keeps messages moving across the kingdom.”

Balen thought for a long beat, jaw working. He tilted his head side to side in thought. After a few solid seconds, he nodded. “That’s a good idea. I can do that. We’ll need to train the Watchers, but it should be simple enough. When do you want more of the messenger drones, Lord Arzan?”

“As soon as possible.” He kept his voice low. “We’ll hold a war meeting at Veyrin in a few days. Eldric’s coronation has been announced and Thalric is already taking forts. We can’t wait. The nobles who’ve pledged to me need to be there. Especially Duke Blackwood.” He paused, then looked straight at Balen. “I want you with me at the meeting.”

The minotaur looked at him squarely. “Me? Why?”

“You’ll explain the cannons, the mana guns, the golems, the drones—everything your workshops have been building. We’re going to act as a faction. I’ll lend them what they need to hold the princes back. Civil war will be messy; we can’t afford a lost front.”

Kai stared at him, expecting a response immediately, but the minotaur hesitated.

“What is it?” Kai pressed.

“I will take time out of my schedule to move with you,” he said. “But—are you sure it’s wise to give away so much? You know, Lord Arzan, these things can change a battle. Other than the Duke, I don’t think you trust anyone else.”

Kai nodded. Although not every noble with him was a traitor, he had no time to learn of their nature beyond a point. He couldn’t take risks. “No, I don’t. But if there are traitors in the faction, the equipment is how we will catch them. Let me explain…”

***

Killian looked down at the training ground where circles of men clashed against each other. The fighters had been given a weapon different from their opponents—a spear facing a sword, an axe meeting a shield, a staff against a dagger. His ears rang with the familiar sound of steel and the grunts of his men. Occasionally, an Enforcer or two barked commands, correcting a stance or shouting for a man to keep his guard up.

A few of the new Enforcers stood on the side, arms crossed, watching the drills with the kind of half-interest that came from believing their presence alone was enough to command respect. Killian’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before returning to the fighters. He hadn’t come just to look. These men—all of them—were new recruits, civilians until only weeks ago. Farmers, craftsmen, hunters, even a few clerks and laborers. They had thrown their lot in with Lord Arzan, not for coin but for belief. And that belief meant they had put their lives on the line.

Killian’s jaw tightened. It was his duty to make sure they came out of this war alive. In war, going up against a weapon you had never faced before was nothing short of a death sentence. He wouldn’t let these men march to their graves out of ignorance. Not while he was still breathing.

That was why they trained like this. Why he made them swap weapons, break rhythms, fight as if every duel was against something unfamiliar. The drills were brutal, but necessary. And once this stage was over, the real test would begin. He had already requested a cadre of Second-Circle Mages from the Sorcerer Tower to join the training.

Steel he could teach them to parry. Flesh he could harden with discipline. But Mages… Mages were another matter entirely.

They were the true variable in any war. A single Fire Mage or a Wind Mage could turn a skirmish into a slaughter. And none of these men would ever kill a trained Mage head-on. Killian knew that much. What he could teach them was how to survive. To move in formations that made it harder for a Mage to pin them down, to use terrain to disrupt, to escape. Because fighting a Mage is a lost battle. He had seen too many brave fools think themselves heroes, only to be burnt, frozen or ripped apart before even reaching striking distance.

Even the Enforcers, with their newly awakened strength, would be thrown into these drills. Killian had noticed the way many of them carried themselves—chests out, heads high, drunk on power they barely understood. They thought themselves invincible. They thought the leap from a common man to an Enforcer was enough to make them Mage-killers. But what they didn’t understand was the gulf between weeks of training and years of it. The gulf between raw strength and controlled mastery.

Killian’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He knew the truth better than most. Even after all his battles, even after countless clashes against Mages in the field, even after sparring with Lord Arzan himself, he wasn’t certain of taking one head-on. A Mage was never just the man in front of you—it was the storm he carried, the fire he commanded, the unseen tricks he had layered before you even realized you were stepping into a trap.

That was the lesson he needed these men to learn. Not fear but respect. Respect for the difference between flesh and sorcery. Respect enough to live through it.

And Killian would make sure they learned it. Even if it meant breaking them in training so the war itself wouldn’t.

As Killian stood and watched, his eyes picked out details the men themselves might never notice. Some of them had thick arms and heavy swings that made axes look like extensions of their own bodies, cleaving through the air with raw force. The others, they were men who would do well with swords. Then there were the leaner ones, fast on their feet, darting in and out, dodging blows that would have broken bones if they landed. Scouts, Killian thoughts. Some might sneer at running away from attacks, calling it cowardice, but he knew better. Dodging and waiting for the right opening was as deadly as brute strength—sometimes more. One clean strike after patience could change a fight entirely.

He would talk to those men later, the ones quick on their feet. He would recommend them to the Watchers. Glory-seekers or not, if they survived this war, they would find themselves with a place long after it ended.

He was still thinking it over when he heard footsteps coming from his left. He turned and saw a soldier making his way toward him, a letter clutched tight in one hand. The short man stopped in front of him and gave a small bow before holding it out.

“Knight Killian,” the soldier said. “this came for you, sir. I brought it as soon as I saw it.”

Killian took the letter, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Where did it come from?”

“Hermil, sir.”

At that, Killian’s body went a little stiff. There was only one person who would ever write to him from Hermil. He gave the man a short nod. “You can go now.”

The soldier saluted and turned away, leaving Killian alone to his thoughts.

And he stood there for a long moment without touching the letter. He just stared at the sealed paper in his hands. He unclenched his jaw when he realised how hard he’d been clenching it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, letting some of that frustration away and broke the seal.

When he unfolded it, his eyes moved over the first lines, and by the time he was halfway through, a frown had already crept across his face.

His father hadn’t changed at all.

The letter was written in his father’s sharp handwriting, written in a way that it told him exactly how the man was thinking during these tough times.

“The clouds of war are upon Lancephil, and I have heard about the Duke you serve gaining a chance to contest for the throne. But I write this letter to advise you still: come back to Hermil and pledge your allegiance to the First Prince, Eldric. Apparently, King Sullivan is already in support of him and will be at the coronation. I have spoken with a few old contacts of mine, and with your achievements in the fief war, you would surely gain access into the prince’s close circle and secure a noble title once the war ends in his favor. Please, listen to me and understand that this is the only way for our house to rise up and do something—”

Killian stopped there. His fingers tightened on the page, and he let out a long, frustrated scowl.

This was exactly why he hadn’t sought his father out when he was last in the capital. He knew this was what he would say. His father had always been firm—unyielding—that the firstborn must inherit. And so, he bent himself to Eldric’s cause, blind to all else.

Yes, his father had kept track of his steps—the battles he had fought, the victories he had earned. But even with that, he still didn’t see. He didn’t see that Killian was already in the place he had always pushed him toward. That without Lord Arzan’s banner, without his service, he might have already been left to die, his strength spent and forgotten.

His father didn’t see it. He might never see it.

And though some part of Killian still wanted his father to understand, to finally accept the path he had chosen, he wasn’t sure if such a thing was even possible anymore.

Did his father really think he would come crawling back to serve someone he hated because of a single letter? Killian didn’t know. He didn’t even want to think about it. With another slow exhale, he folded the parchment and tucked it away inside his coat. Writing back would be useless—his father wouldn’t understand, and no words on paper could change that.

His gaze drifted forward again to the sparring grounds. The practices carried out the same. His men were still doing the drills. The soldiers moved with sweat on their brows and fire in their eyes, while the Enforcers watched with pride and impatience.

For a moment, Killian let himself wonder—just for a moment—if the outcome of this war would change something in his father. If victory would finally make the old man see what he had become, and where he truly belonged.

He doubted it. Deep down, he knew his father’s stubbornness ran too deep, rooted into his very bones. But still, there was that thin silver of hope buried in Killian’s chest, fragile and small, yet impossible to kill.

One thing, however, he did not doubt. Lord Arzan would win this war. No matter the odds, no matter the factions that rose against them, Killian believed it as firmly as he believed in the rising of the sun or the turning of the seasons. To him, it was an absolute law of the world.

And he would play his part to make sure of it.

***

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