Duke Roan Raktor felt as if he were standing in front of a wall that kept inching closer, slowly crushing him. A war that had begun with clean victories—and with their banners sweeping across the western lands—had now ground to a stop. And in his mind, none of it was his fault.

He had followed every rule of war he had ever learned. He had built the army up, kept their supply lines steady, rationed food properly, captured fort after fort and city after city. He had made sure they had enough grain stored to fight for months, long enough for the conscripts to at least become half-decent with a spear. Everything had been moving toward one final push: break Eden City, kill Eldric—who now dared call himself king, even though he clearly wasn’t—and then march on the capital. Once the capital fell, the kingdom would be in Thalric’s hands. Simple.

For a while, the path had looked perfect.

Then the bad news began to pour in like rain during a storm.

First came the report that Aldrin—weak, useless Aldrin—had surrendered to Duke Arzan. That alone had made Raktor want to tear the map off the wall. He had spent weeks searching for a way to corner Arzan and kill him, and yet Aldrin had thrown away the chance he’d been given with the Alparcan forces. Raktor had counted on Aldrin doing at least one thing right. Instead the boy had folded.

Then came the next blow. Somehow, Eldric’s forces had grown stronger overnight. Raktor had not been afraid of their Mages—Veridia was gone, one way or another—but suddenly Eldric’s soldiers fought like they had tapped into some hidden strength. His own Mages and kraels had been pushed back again and again…. Two third circle ones had even died the same day.

Even the common soldiers had begun to show a strange, newfound zeal, and Duke Raktor still had no idea what had sparked it. As if that wasn’t enough, reports of barbarians taking forts and towns kept pouring in. He knew they had been stationed in Matilla City and had already ordered Baron Harrod to pressure the city with guerrilla attacks using the kraels, but that had failed miserably. Now the Lombards were tearing through the west, clearing out territories he couldn’t afford to reinforce. And truthfully, even if he could send more men, Raktor suspected the barbarians would still crush them, especially with the disturbing news that many of them were becoming those “Enforcers.”

For the first time in years, he felt boxed in.

He knew the solution. Kill Arzan. Cut off the head, and the whole army would lose direction. After that, he would only have Eldric left to deal with.

But knowing the solution and reaching it were different things. Arzan was the strongest Mage in the kingdom. Even Duke Raktor’s own mount, the alpha krael—a monster feared across the west—might not be enough. Arzan had survived too much. Broken too many expectations. If the kingdom didn’t have wards around major cities, Arzan might have already slaughtered every noble and taken the crown by now.

And Thalric… Thalric grew more furious by the day. Every report seemed to pour oil into his temper.

Duke Raktor tapped the stack of papers in front of him, mind racing for any angle, any weakness, any path forward.

Just then, a knock on the door disturbed him.

A voice called from the other side.

“Lord Raktor, there’s a man outside the fort asking to meet you and sent something.”

“Come in and explain the situation,” he said aloud, a bit frustrated.

The door opened, and a soldier stepped inside, bowing before speaking. “My lord, the man outside asked me to give you this note. He claims he has information that could turn the tide of the war in King Thalric’s favour. I didn’t want to turn him away in case it was true, so I brought it straight to you.”

Duke Raktor frowned. He wasn’t expecting much. There were always desperate villagers who thought they could earn favour by sharing rumours or useless scraps of information. Most of the time it was nonsense, and he doubted this would be any different.

Still… there was always a small chance.

He took the note and unfolded it. There were only a few short lines on the paper, but the moment he read them, his eyes widened. His fingers tightened on the edge of the note as he slowly looked up at the soldier.

“There is only one man?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier said. “He arrived alone on a horse. He carries a sword, but the horse looked exhausted. Should I bring him to you?”

Duke Raktor nodded immediately. “Yes. Bring him in. And make sure no one mentions this to anyone in the fort.”

A flicker of confusion crossed the soldier’s face. His eyes darted toward the note, as if tempted to ask more, but he quickly bowed and left the room.

When the door closed, Duke Raktor leaned back in his seat, staring down at the note again. If what was written on it was true—truly true—then this could change everything. The frozen stalemate with Eldric. The pressure from the barbarians. The slow collapse of their advantage.

Even Thalric would be pleased. They might finally be a step closer to the throne.

Minutes passed. Duke Raktor waited, tapping a finger slowly against the table, the rhythm steady but tight with tension.

Then the door opened again, and the soldier returned with another man following behind him.

Duke Raktor studied the man brought before him. The stranger looked disheveled—mud caked on his armor, hair tied back in a messy knot, and a faint odor of sweat and horse clinging to him—but he walked with a straight back, the kind that belonged to someone who believed in every step he took. Confidence, or act. Raktor couldn’t tell yet.

He flicked his eyes at the soldier beside him. “You may leave.”

The soldier bowed and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Silence settled over the room.

Raktor folded his arms. “Give me your name. And tell me how you obtained this information. Is it true?”

The man bowed stiffly. “My name is Palman, my lord. And I wouldn’t dare lie after coming all the way here. It would be suicide.” He paused to steady his breathing and continued, “As for how I learned what I wrote, I… was part of Duke Arzan’s army.”

One of Raktor’s eyebrows lifted. “A deserter?”

Palman nodded, jaw tight. “Yes, my lord. I was forced out by my own comrades. They hated my accomplishments and dragged my name through the mud. My superiors ignored it. In the end, they made it impossible for me to stay.”

A bitter smile touched his lips. “I know King Thalric rewards merit. So I came here, offering information that could turn the tide of this war. All I ask is a position worthy of what I’ve brought.”

Raktor didn’t speak at first. He simply stared at the man, weighing every word. Deserters weren’t rare in war, and he had seen plenty try to run to the winning side, yet usually they fled when their army was failing, not thriving.

Arzan’s forces were doing well. Too well. So why had this man abandoned him? Raktor tapped the note on his table with one finger, eyes narrowing.

If Palman was telling the truth… this could change everything.

And it wouldn’t be hard to verify the story. Duke Raktor did have men hidden in Arzan’s army. They weren’t close enough to know any deep secrets, but they could at least confirm whether Palman had truly been one of Arzan’s soldiers. So Duke Raktor asked, “Why did the other soldiers hate you?”

Palman lowered his eyes and didn’t speak for a few seconds as if carefully choosing his words. Then he spoke, “Because I was once corrupted… almost turned into a mana weaver.”

Duke Raktor’s eyebrows shot up. “A mana weaver? You look… normal. Don’t lie to me, I don’t appreciate it. Not one bit.”

“I was healed, my lord,” Palman said quickly. “Duke Arzan had a method to cure me. After that, I returned to my old life. But the soldiers… they never forgot what I almost became. They treated me like a monster. One of them even spat on my wife.” His jaw tightened. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran away with my family.”

Duke Raktor nodded slowly. Though he had no idea how Arzan might have healed him, at this point, he was willing to accept things. He was no normal Mage after all. He could always verify it later. And he also noticed that the man had come alone, meaning he had hidden his family somewhere safe. But one thing still didn’t sit well with him.

“If Arzan healed you,” he asked, “why betray him?”

Palman’s face twisted, torn between guilt and bitterness. “I already repaid my debt to him. I served against the beast wave, in the fief war, in every battle he ordered. But even after everything, he never listened to my problems. He was always too busy. In the end, I care about survival more than loyalty, and you already know what happened to him if you read the note, my lord.”

“Yes,” Duke Raktor said, tapping the note. “You wrote that Arzan is injured and can’t use his magic properly.”

Palman nodded firmly. “Yes, my lord. Duke Arzan was harmed while fighting the Alparcan Prince Vhailor. He’s bedridden now. That’s why the Lombards are raiding forts and towns, because he can’t lead.”

That… that wasn’t believable. After all, Duke Raktor had seen what Arzan could do, and he also knew Prince Vhailor’s strength, and it was nowhere near Arzan’s. The story simply didn’t add up at first.

Palman must have noticed the confusion on his face, because he quickly continued, “Prince Vhailor didn’t fight him alone, my lord. He had a Mage array around him, one that let him borrow the power of four other Mages. It’s an Alparcan royal secret. I was there when the battle happened. Duke Arzan managed to kill Prince Vhailor, but he took heavy backlash because of the array.” He paused to breathe, then added, “It was only after Prince Aldrin surrendered that Duke Arzan revealed that a part of his Mana heart was broken in the fight. I only know because I was close to one of his Enforcers named Feroy.”

Duke Raktor tapped the table, thinking hard. One part of him wanted to cling to this news—it was the first hopeful thing he’d heard in weeks. Another part of him was cautious. The information could easily be a trap. He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Are you certain about this? The ruse will fall apart the moment Arzan shows himself.”

“I’m confident, my lord,” Palman said firmly. “He won’t appear until he repairs his Mana mana heart. And even though he knows how to fix it, the method takes time—a month at least.”

Duke Raktor tilted his head. “He can fix Mana hearts? Did he fix Princess Amara’s as well?”

Palman nodded. “Yes, my lord. But her recovery took a few months and a great number of resources.”

Duke Raktor fell silent at that. As a high noble, he knew Princess Amara’s condition very well. Her sudden recovery had shocked every influential family in the kingdom. Now, hearing this, he felt the pieces fit together.

He, the other nobles, and even the Mages from the Archine Tower had long suspected Arzan was involved in Princess Amara’s sudden recovery, but hearing it confirmed made Duke Raktor pause. A month… It wasn’t a long time, but it was long enough. If Arzan truly couldn’t fight at full strength until then, they could crush him before he rose back up.

He lowered the note, studying Palman again. “I’m sure you have more information.”

Palman’s lips curled into a small, confident smile. “I do, my lord. But like I said, I need promises before I give the rest. Sharing this already marks me a traitor to Duke Arzan. If I’m risking my life, I need something in return.”

Duke Raktor felt irritation rise. He disliked demands, especially from a commoner. He could easily capture the man for information and it had already crossed his mind, but it could also go wrong, and if this information was real, he needed Palman compliant, not terrified. So he forced the frustration down and said evenly.

“Fine. If what you’ve told me proves true, I will make you a Knight under me. And depending on how useful your future contributions are, you will receive a baron’s seat as well. Is that enough?”

Palman nodded immediately. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Duke Raktor stood, the weight of strategy already returning to his mind. “Since you have your guarantee, I want answers—starting with how I can procure more mana cannons. We need as many as we can get.”

***

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