Chapter 132: The Rejection
Several Days Prior.
Anvil City, The Dwarven Realm.
King Barock of the Dwarves stood bare-chested, his torso a roadmap of jagged scars earned from centuries at the forge and on the front lines. He tilted his head back, draining a massive flagon of heavy ale in a single, sustained gulp.
He used his beard—braided into elaborate, gem-encrusted plaits—to wipe the foam from his mouth.
"Hahahaha! GAHAHAHA!"
Barock's laughter boomed through the gargantuan stone hall, the frequency high enough to make the greataxes hanging on the walls hum in resonance.
"Hupert! Oh, Hupert! I never thought I'd see the day the Great Pope of Gusteko came crawling to my mountain for a favor!"
He slammed the heavy gold chalice onto the stone table. Ale splashed across the surface, staining the maps laid out there. Below the dais, Pope Hupert stood in silent, dignified patience.
"Barock, this is not a war for a single human province," Hupert said softly. "This is a war for the living. When the last human city falls, do you truly believe Anvil City will remain an island of peace?"
Barock set his jaw, wobbling slightly as he stepped down from his throne, a thick cloud of alcohol following him. He leaned into Hupert's face, close enough for the Pope to count the crumbs of bread caught in his beard-braids.
"Then I'll weld the mountain gates shut myself! I'll let those bone-racks rot into dust in the wind before they scratch my doors!" Barock snarled. "Dwarves fight for Dwarves! We bleed for gold and steel—not for your 'Holy' crusade!"
Hupert stared into Barock's bloodshot eyes for a long, heavy minute. He showed no anger. No disappointment. Finally, the Pope turned and walked toward the exit of the subterranean fortress.
As Hupert's silhouette vanished into the darkness of the tunnels, the bravado on Barock's face slowly ebbed away. A white-bearded Elder stepped from behind a stone pillar.
"Majesty... was it wise to refuse him so bluntly? With the speed the Evernight Empire is expanding, our borders might be next."
Barock remained silent, his gaze fixed on the map where the black ink of Evernight was spreading. He knew. A rising empire was like a high-pressure furnace; it had to expand or explode. It didn't matter if the ruler was dead or alive—that was the instinct of power.
Perhaps, Barock thought, we are simply waiting our turn.
The Gale Plains, The Beastmen Union.
Inside the Great Chieftain's pavilion—the largest hide-tent in the alliance—Warchief Grom sat upon a throne of behemoth bone. Beneath his feet lay the pristine pelt of a Great Bear.
"...And so, I require the strength of the Orcs," Hupert's voice echoed through the tent.
Grom tore a massive strip of meat from a roasted leg, chewing with a rhythmic, wet sound. Fat dripped from his tusks and stained his chin. His gaze bypassed the Pope entirely, staring out at the rolling emerald sea of the plains through the tent flap.
"Strength?" Grom's voice was a low, guttural rumble that vibrated in the chest. "Hupert, do you remember what your people called us a century ago?"
"'Uncivilized beasts.'"
"Your 'Holy Light' bathes your stone cities in warmth while defining our ancestral home as a 'blighted wasteland.' Your 'Order' consists of capturing my kin and shipping them to the Capital's arenas for the entertainment of your soft-handed nobles."
Grom rose to his full, towering height, his shadow swallowing the light within the pavilion. He stepped toward Hupert, looking down with eyes like copper bells, filled with ancient mockery.
"Leave."
"When your 'civilization' and those bone-men have finished bleeding each other dry, the wolves of the plains will be more than happy to clean up the wreckage."
Hupert bowed his head in silence and exited the tent. Grom watched him go before tossing the bone into a nearby brazier. The fire hissed, sparks dancing into the smoke-hole.
"Warchief," an elderly Shaman whispered, emerging from the shadows. "You let him go just like that? The undead... they are the enemy of all who possess breath and blood."
Grom sat back down, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "I am aware."
"But the Old Era must end," Grom muttered, his eyes turning toward the west. "The New Era... it belongs to the strong."
The Imperial Capital, The Empire of Vollachia.
The newly crowned Queen Alice stood upon the terrace overlooking the city, her simple gown fluttering in the night wind. Her golden hair was a stark contrast against the dark sky. Hupert stood ten paces behind her.
"Your father, in his time, would never have looked away from such a threat," Hupert said.
Alice turned around. The innocence of a princess was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of a Monarch.
"Your Holiness... my father is dead."
"And currently, I am the ruler of this Empire."
She extended a hand, gesturing toward the myriad lights of the Capital below them.
"My responsibility is to protect every single flame you see down there. It is not my duty to chase a distant 'Justice' or a phantom 'Menace' by tossing my people and my soldiers into a meat-grinder that promises only a river of blood."
Alice looked Hupert in the eye with a resolve that defied her youth.
"The Empire shall remain Neutral. That is my decree."
Hupert studied the girl. In her eyes, he saw the ghost of Odri V—but he also saw a new, sharper edge that belonged to her alone. He knew that further words were a waste of breath.
Hupert offered a perfect, courtly bow. Then, he turned and departed.
Alice watched his back until he vanished into the shadows of the corridor. The hand she used to grip the stone railing began to tremble.
"Master..."
Altlais emerged from the shadows, dropping to one knee. "I am here, Your Majesty."
"Did I make the wrong choice?" Alice's voice held a tremor she couldn't hide from him.
Altlais did not lift his head. "Your Majesty, we shall follow whichever path you choose to walk. That is our oath."
Alice closed her eyes, falling silent.
A golden griffin cut through the cloud layer, hurtling across the plains toward the Eastern horizon. Hupert sat upon its back, the gale whipping his robes into a frantic rhythm.
Behind him lay the Dwarves who had mocked him. The Orcs who had spurned him. The Empire that had chosen its own skin over the world. The greatest powers on the continent had chosen to be spectators.
But his face showed no trace of despair. Hupert reached out his hand as if to grasp the rising sun.
"You do not understand," he whispered to the wind.
"You believe this is a war you can 'choose' to ignore. You think high walls can stop a plague, or that hiding in a corner will let the storm pass you by."
"But you are wrong." Hupert's gaze hardened into flint.
"This is not a war for land. It is not a war for gold. It is a war for the right to exist."
"Since you choose to watch... then I shall be the one."
"I shall be the spark that ignites the first fire. With my life. With my everything."
"I will tell that King of the Dead—and this numb, sleeping world—that the will of humanity has not yet been snuffed out!"
Hupert's gaze pierced the distance, looking toward the far horizon where a horrific slaughter was about to begin.
"Wait for me," he whispered.
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