Having something to do helped to assuage Leon’s frayed patience somewhat; unfortunately, the ‘something’ that Clear brought to him involved sitting and waiting for longer than he liked.

His fingers drummed into the armrest of his throne now instead of his thigh, though he’d at least managed to still his tapping foot. He didn’t bother dressing up too fancily, choosing instead to wear a simple silver tunic with blue trousers, both made of silkgrass, and eschewing shoes. The others around him, meanwhile, were dressed to the nines, with the five commanders of the expedition wearing their dress uniforms, Anzu in a more elaborate version of Leon’s ensemble, and Anshu and Red both in robes—silver and blue for the former and bright fire red for the latter. Marcus and Clear both wore a plain black suit, showing nothing but pure professionalism as their guests were finally, finally, let into the throne room.

The gilded thunder wood doors creaked open, and eleven men and two women were shown in, flanked by Tempest Knights. Behind them marched five attendants for each of the thirteen guests, though Leon paid them little mind. Storm Herald’s throne room was relatively small considering the limited space aboard Void-capable arks, but it was still more than large enough to let Leon use giant knights for effect, too—the weakest three of the thirteen guests, all sixth-tier, seemed to shrink in on themselves as they entered the room with giants twice their height staring down at them, their faceplates intimidatingly impassive. The rest of their group were seventh and eighth-tiers, and Leon could sense some hesitation in their footsteps as they walked further into a room occupied by a twelfth-tier, two eleventh-tier mages, and multiple tenth-tier mages.

Their footsteps were padded by thick blue carpets that led them past silver columns shining with light murals depicting the Thunderbird’s many glories. Leon’s courtiers watched them like hawks—fitting, since some of them were Hawks—but even under such social and magical pressure, most of them kept their backs straight and their eyes fixed on Leon.

Leon himself watched with almost exaggerated dispassion as they were brought before his thunder wood throne—the original one in Storm Herald’s throne room had been made of silvery Aurichalcum and studded with sapphires, but Leon had it moved into the vaults in Westmount palace. Once brought before him, Clear saw fit to introduce them.

“King Leon, thirteen monarchs of Prachtor now come before to offer submission and fealty. The first among their number is Lemnis, King of Thujura, Sikol, South Nazira, and Usgraf, Master of the Gleaming Field, Archon of…” Titles and titles and more titles followed, but the only thing that Leon found impressive about them was that Clear Day not only remembered each one of them but the tau didn’t once stumble in listing them off. King Lemnis himself had taken a few steps forward to stand ahead of the group and practically preened in front of Leon’s court despite his rather lacking aura in comparison to many of Leon’s people, let alone Leon himself. He held himself with noble dignity, his chest forward and shoulders back, his pale aristocratic skin gleaming in the throne room’s light—perhaps a bit because of sweat now that Leon looked closer—yet he didn’t make eye contact with anyone as far as Leon could tell.

At some point, Clear finished listing Lemnis’ titles and followed up with the list by drily stating, “King Lemnis, this is King Leon Raime.”

It felt a little anticlimactic that Leon’s introduction lasted all of a single truncated sentence, but that was how Leon liked it. He liked it even more when he saw Lemnis pale slightly in light of the contrast in introductions.

Stepping forward again, King Lemnis took an audible breath before coming to a knee, a golden diadem appearing about his brow, conjured from his soul realm. In heavily-accented Nexus common speech, he said, “I pledge myself to you, King Leon…” He raised a hand and lifted the diadem from his head and laid it on the ground before Leon.

Leon rose from his throne and strode over in only a few short steps. With his elementless magic, he lifted the diadem from the floor and laid it back upon Lemnis’ brow. “I accept your fealty, Prince Lemnis,” Leon stated before returning to his throne. Lemnis rose with a nod from Clear, now a Prince instead of a King, but what he lost in title he gained in protection under Leon’s aegis.

With Lemnis, the strongest both politically and magically of those that Clear had brought him, now done, Clear announced the next ruler who’d come before him to swear themselves into his service.

“King Leon, I present before you King Iolchis of Moreia…” More titles followed, more even than Lemnis had despite Lemnis being the stronger of the two. Leon sighed as inconspicuously as he could, settling himself in at least for the next half hour, quietly pondering just how he was going to have to reform this process if he ever ruled hundreds or even thousands of planes, each with possibly dozens or hundreds of subordinate rulers.

—

A great sigh escaped Leon’s lips as he finally allowed himself to relax outside of the public eye. He flopped into an armchair with little Kingly dignity, which prompted Clear to ask, “Surely this hasn’t been that trying?”

Leon glared balefully at him. Following the swearing ceremony, Leon held a feast for his new vassals that lasted several hours. He’d spoken with each of them one-on-one a little bit, but not much of substance had been discussed. Clear had ensured that each of their vassal contracts had been put in writing so that each of them knew how much tribute was expected of them and that they had to support Leon’s armies while they were on Prachtor, and aside from that, Leon wasn’t that keen on schmoozing with them for too long.

Still, his commanders and other bureaucrats and officers interacted with his new vassals quite a bit more, with Marcus in particular striking up a long conversation with Princess Uohili of Suohili, a refined woman of darker complexion than the others—she was the only monarch of the northwestern continent that had sworn herself to him, though her lands were relatively small compared to some of the other new vassals—and one of the most melodic laughs that Leon had ever heard, which Leon heard quite often while she spoke with his Chief Inspector.

“It’s done. It’s over. For now, at least,” Leon groaned. He stretched out in the armchair for a long moment, relishing the relative solitude he now found himself with, joined only by Clear Day, Anshu, Anzu, and Marcus. The former smiled at him, amusement written in every line of his face, while the latter three poured over maps that Clear had provided them with.

“… and that gives us Valhethramiri,” Anzu said as he pointed out what seemed to be a large city in the southern continent. “With that, almost a third of the continent has already fallen, even if the Thirty Archons have yet to submit.”

“These cities are of little consequence, though they’ll be a pain to take by siege,” Marcus remarked. “Each of them is fortified, and though we could get through them without too much trouble, it’ll slow us down and tarnish the prestige of the campaign if it takes too long.”

“They’ll surrender,” Anshu declared. “Once they see the size of this fleet compared to their own forces, they’ll make the right call.”

“I hope your confidence isn’t misplaced,” Marcus responded.

“I’m more concerned about the northeast,” Anzu said. “Most of the new vassals were from there, but much of the continent is rough mountains or deserts; the people who live there won’t easily submit even if we show off our power. Stubbornness runs deep in those who live in such inhospitable places…”

“The south is the richest continent,” Anshu stated. “We should focus our attention there first. Once it’s in hand, we can worry about the northeast.”

“We can deal with both,” Marcus argued. “Five fleets make up our armada—send Rear Admiral Ian to the northwest and Vice Admiral Diomedes to the northeast. They have the power to deal with anything they come across.”

The debate about how to handle their new situation continued, but Leon’s attention returned to Clear Day. “What do you make of our standing?” he asked.

“With your new vassals,” Clear replied, “almost a quarter of Prachtor has already fallen into your hands, and you haven’t even set foot on the plane yet. If that’s not an auspicious sign of what’s to come, then I don’t know what is.”

“Those rulers… were not exactly staggeringly powerful,” Leon stated as he gave Clear a meaningful look.

“What do you mean?” Clear asked, though the way he smiled gave Leon the impression that the question was only a formality; the tau had at least some idea of what he meant already.

“How many of the monarchs on Prachtor did you visit?” Leon asked.

“All of those worth visiting and most of those that aren’t. In total, the rulers of almost four-fifths of the plane.”

“In that context, I suppose this result was damn good,” Leon muttered. A little more loudly, he inquired, “I’d guess the ones who immediately acquiesced to vassalization were those facing tenuous or otherwise unstable conditions back home and were looking for security guarantees from someone strong. Those who aren’t facing those same security concerns are going to be less willing to give up their sovereignty and will put up resistance even in the face of overwhelming power. Or they need to see that overwhelming power before they capitulate. Some others will put up token resistance for the sake of their pride before bowing, while still others will fight to the bitter end. It’s these in the last category that I’m most concerned with. In your opinion, how many of them should we expect?”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

As Leon spoke, despite the intensity of their strategy conversation, the other three in the room quieted down to listen both to him and to Clear’s answer.

“Some come to mind,” Clear stated as he walked over to the map, his dark red eyes quickly scanning the document. “Tisinoni is ruled by a religious order that believes it has a divine mandate to unite the plane and has utilized its army quite liberally in attempting to fulfill that mandate. Grand Prelate Qib’Ethir will not bow easily unless he’s made to understand that he does not have his gods on his side.”

Tisinoni lay on the northwestern continent, perfectly positioned to dominate the grasslands that covered nearly a quarter of the continent’s landmass as well as the relatively narrow sea that separated it from the northeastern continent. It was easily the largest state on the continent and had neighbors large enough to threaten it by Leon’s admittedly basic reckoning.

“Only one other ruler received my offer with more vitriol and had the power to present even a slight threat,” Clear continued as his finger moved to the northeast. “King Imak is a proud warrior-King who has recently launched a campaign against the Sylphians—the pirates that we fought were mostly made up of these Sylphians.”

Leon nodded, remembering well that threat that first brought these planes to his attention.

“His army is mobilized, they’re experienced, and they’re riding the high of recently winning a decisive battle against an enemy that had long oppressed them. He has access to arks—not many, but enough to make him the most powerful King on the continent.

“Aside from them, I see no true threats, or even obstacles, to dominating Prachtor within the year.”

A smile graced Leon’s lips. The year ended in less than six months. That would leave more than a year and a half to secure the rest of the cluster before the Belicenian Games. His smile, however, didn’t last long.

“Any word on survivors from our missing arks?” Leon asked. It had been a century and a half since two frigates and a destroyer had gone missing during his first move to the Nexus. A pirate that Leon had interrogated claimed that one of his frigates had been found heavily damaged, and the Sylphians had captured or killed the entire crew.

“None that I could find,” Clear responded. “Few I spoke with had even heard that one of our frigates had even been captured. The Lord Reaver didn’t exactly keep his tributaries well-informed of his actions—I believe it took most of the cluster years to realize the man was dead and that the Sylphian reign was over, and that concerns them personally.”

Leon rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. “All right, then. We’ll keep our eyes open. At this point, assuming they’re still alive would be hopelessly optimistic, but let’s keep our eyes open, just in case.”

His words were not just for Clear but for the entire room, and he made eye contact with each of them to underscore his seriousness. Once they’d acknowledged his order, he let them return to strategizing how exactly Prachtor would be taken while he merely observed.

—

Laughing filled the camp as soldiers celebrated their victory. Few casualties had been taken as the Sylphians hadn’t put up much resistance—after Daryun’s stunning victory over the Ark Lord, the will to resist Imak’s invasion simply wasn’t there.

‘Easy to forget that most of these people aren’t Sylphians,’ Daryun mused as he glanced over the walls of the camp at the city in the distance.

The army’s destination was the city of Cabrionus, a storied city that had birthed many a legend in its time. In the hills to the north were the mausolea of figures like King Mithraba, the Slayer of the Telemalian Giant; Stilbricht of Cantrious, Terror of the East; and Lugo Marshoheir, who ended the line of Hastomerian Kings, a saga told and retold so often on Prachtor that few could remember the true history of the act.

The city itself was wealthy enough, centered as it was on a temperate plain with fertile, well-cultivated fields surrounding it and a wide and calm river connecting it to the eastern ocean on its southern side. Given that the army was now encamped out in those fields and Daryun could see with his own eyes how much grain, barley, grapes, olives, and livestock were being grown and raised, he could well imagine how wealthy the city magnates could be, if only they didn’t have to pay extortionate tributes to the Sylphians to fund their revanchist war.

The Etrunites, the natives of this land that included more than just Cabrionus, were certainly numerous and rich enough to have fielded an army to contest Imak’s advance, but the only resistance they’d received since entering the Etrunus plain was a fort that now lay in ruins, manned by several thousand Sylphians and several thousand more Etrunite slave soldiers. The slaves revolted almost as soon as Imak’s army of fifty thousand appeared, driving the Sylphians from the fort and into the plain, where Daryun’s cavalry charge made short work of them.

It was gratifying, to see the end of the people that had terrorized his lands and citizens for so long. Daryun knew that he shouldn’t relish their destruction, but he simply couldn’t help it. His hatred for the Sylphians was exceeded only by his gratitude to King Imak, for finally giving him the forces he’d needed to bring an end to the Ark Lord, and by extension, any dreams the Sylphians still had of reconquering the Kesken Cluster.

Daryun made his way through the camp until he reached the King’s tent. As soon as he appeared, the guards parted, allowing him entrance into the palatial tent, filled not only with Daryun’s fellow commanders but also with nearly two hundred Etrunite magnates, the strongest of whom was an aged seventh-tier who now knelt before King Imak, offering his submission.

The King himself cut an imposing figure—he was about a century older than Daryun, making him old enough to remember the depravities of the Sylphians at the height of their power. He wore his shining armor well, and his ninth-tier aura was almost as radiant as the sun itself. He was classically handsome with his long black hair tied back and a trimmed black beard clinging to his jaw. His silver eyes gleamed with ambition as his strong fingers clung tightly to the hilt of the sword at his waist, despite the welcoming smile on his face.

“… will remember this for ages, and for that, we pledge our city to you,” the seventh-tier Etrunite stated.

Imak glanced up long enough to notice Daryun’s entrance—not that it was difficult given that almost everyone noticed his entrance, too—and gave him a respectful nod before turning back to the magnate.

“I welcome the fealty of your city,” Imak warmly stated. He looked to the other magnates and added, “All of your cities! As we are brothers born of mighty Prachtor, we will finally throw off the last fetters placed upon us by the avaricious and hateful Sylphians, regaining our liberty!”

Cheers went up throughout the tent, though some of the magnates Daryun noticed were less than enthusiastic. Their attitude quickly changed as Imak continued, however.

“You all have my pledge to protect you and your ancient freedoms! I recognize the rule of your boule councils over your cities, as your councils have recognized me as their King! Let us walk into our new future together, hand-in-hand!”

Another cheer went up, this time with more enthusiasm from the Etrunites. However, Daryun’s smile faltered when he saw the serious look that Imak briefly shot his way.

“Drink!” Imak declared rambunctiously. “Dance! Celebrate the permanent end to Sylphian rule and embrace each other as brothers and sisters!”

A third cheer went up as Imak’s voice resounded in Daryun’s head, ‘Follow me, we need to talk.’

Daryun’s blood ran cold as he recognized the grave tone in his King’s voice. It took five minutes for Imak to disentangle himself, but when he disappeared into the more private sections of his personal tent, Daryun followed.

In an adjacent room, protected by powerful privacy wards, Daryun found Imak sitting with two others—Tessan, his Master of Foot, and Leydis, his Master of the Treasury, two of his most trusted advisors.

“Lord Daryun,” Imak said with a welcoming smile, “come in, come in.”

Daryun complied, noting the almost despairing look on Leydis, and even the rock-solidly stoic Tessan seemed disturbed.

“What’s happened?” he directly asked.

Imak countered with a question of his own. “Do I have your lance?”

Without hesitation, Daryun replied, “Were it not for your support, Kaarahi would’ve fallen to the Ark Lord. You have my lance, my King. Do not doubt that.”

“Good…” Imak replied. “Such honor is to be prized, and I will prize it. Now, do you remember three weeks ago when I told you that I had been visited by a bird in my dreams who warned me of the coming of a powerful extraplanar King?”

Daryun’s eyes narrowed. “In your dreams? You told me that he visited you in person…”

“He did,” Imak confirmed. “The very next day, he intercepted me only a day before our forces linked up and advised me to surrender to his King.”

“Arrogant avian,” Tessan growled, his scarred visage contorting with a vicious frown.

“With a good reason for arrogance given its power,” Leydis pointed out.

“Tenth-tier or higher, I don’t care,” Imak stated. “I will not forsake my Kingdom, my father’s Kingdom, so soon after destroying our greatest enemy! Not for all the gold in the Hills of Juma, not for all the Titanstone in the Mountain of Light! And yet… this King has arrived much sooner than I expected…”

“He’s here?” Daryun asked, surprised and disturbed. He projected his magic senses, and though his ninth-tier power was enough to cover most of the continent, he couldn’t immediately detect any major disturbances.

“Apparently, that creature took many into the Void to meet with his King,” Leydis explained. “They have yet to return and their King hasn’t yet made landfall, but I received word from Merchant-Lord Uoliken—his ark detected the arrival of an ark armada more than five hundred strong close to Prachtor. They’ll have boots on the ground within a couple of days.”

“Such numbers…” Daryun whispered, his mind reeling with thoughts of five hundred arks. If they were comparable in size to most arks he knew of, that meant at least twenty-five thousand soldiers—hardly an insurmountable army, but with such heavy ark support, it may be too much for Imak to stand against alone.

“I will require your lance, my friend,” Imak stated. “We must defeat the Sylphians for good and then turn back southward. We have another foe to defeat, one more powerful than any we have ever faced before…”

Daryun breathed deeply. He knew that Imak had fifty arks of his own at least, and with those of his vassals, they might double that number. With the rest of the Lords of the continent, they might be able to scrape together as many arks as their new enemy had, but he doubted that was possible. Unfortunately, he didn’t think there were even five Void-capable arks among them, which severely limited their operating capacity. In this, they remained at a severe disadvantage.

“I will be ready,” Daryun vowed. “I will not bow my head to a foreign tyrant. Prachtor will remain free!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep