Before the sun even dares to rise over Aliase, before the guards switch shifts and before the navy horns echo across the eastern docks, there is a sound that does not belong to ordinary birds or ordinary mornings, a sound so ancient that even the mountains pause to listen, and that sound belongs to the mythic sky-creature the elders call Avarenth, the Dawn Sovereign, a bird not born from egg but from ash and lightning, whose wings stretch wide enough to cut through clouds like silk curtains and whose feathers shimmer between gold and violent crimson as if sunrise itself borrowed color from its body.
It never perches on rooftops like a common creature, no, it circles once—only once—above the capital, and when it opens its beak the sound that comes out is not chirping but something dangerously close to a hymn, something layered with forgotten dialects and war-prayers and lullabies sung to soldiers who never returned, and as that melody spreads across the walls and towers and naval harbors of Aliase, the entire city wakes up not gently but with pride, because this is not some fragile kingdom that fears storms or invaders, this is Aliase, the capital of Lancelot, and if arrogance had a heartbeat it would echo inside these walls.
Now understand something very clearly, Aliase is not just built, it is engineered with obsession, like the architects sat down and said, "Fine, let's make something even the ocean will apologize to," because the outer walls are layered with a rare pink-hued granite mixed with metallic reinforcement veins that run through them like arteries, absorbing impact instead of cracking, reflecting heat instead of melting, and the structure curves slightly outward so siege towers struggle to latch on properly, and above those walls stand fortified bastions spaced so mathematically precise that no blind angle exists, not even for a master archer hiding in fog.
Behind those walls lies a secondary defense ring, not visible from a distance but deadly if breached, layered with tunnel networks beneath the streets, war-passages carved inside the earth itself so that if an enemy somehow crosses the gates, Aliase soldiers do not panic, they disappear underground and reappear behind you like the city itself decided to bite back, and these tunnels are not crude escape holes, they are supply lines, ambush routes, reinforcement arteries designed by minds that thought ten battles ahead.
To the north stands Mount Virelith, jagged and brutal, acting like a permanent middle finger to anyone foolish enough to attempt a climbing assault, and to the east the navy commands the sea with ironclad fleets that gleam under morning light like sharpened teeth.
Aliase has survived monsoons that swallowed villages whole, tidal surges that erased coastlines elsewhere, and earthquakes that made other capitals kneel, but here the city stands, stubborn, unbroken, almost smug.
And why wouldn't it be?
It has been fighting a five-cornered war and still breathing like it enjoys the challenge.
To the south lies Dravethar, hungry for trade dominance and naval routes.
To the west broods Kaelthorn, desert-born and resource-starved.
To the northeast lurks Velmora, politically smiling but militarily venomous.
Beyond the highlands waits Orrenvale, iron-rich and expansionist their spies are more dangerous than it's swords .
And across fractured borderlands — Karuva tribes Opportunists. No loyalty. They attack whenever supply lines look weak. They are known for their black magics and their inhuman rituals can practically make any healthy person into something monster and use our own army against us.
Five neighbors. Five grudges. Five resource conflicts.
And Aliase sits at the center like, "Come try."
From a distance the capital almost resembles those ancient fortified legends people romanticize in scrolls, massive tiered structures rising inward from the walls, towers embedded into fortifications rather than separate from them, wide stone bridges connecting elevated districts, banners flowing crimson and gold in the wind, and the main citadel rising above all of it not like decoration but like a statement, an architectural declaration that says we are not here to survive, we are here to dominate.
And yet, beneath all that glory, in the training grounds where metal clashes against metal and soldiers sweat out loyalty in the gravel, tension hangs thick because war doesn't care how pretty your walls are.
Inside the Great Hall, beyond the armored guards and ceremonial spears, past the banners and polished floors reflecting chandelier light, there exists a smaller war room, almost unimpressive at first glance, because real decisions don't need grand ceilings, they need doors that close properly.
Two figures rush through the corridor toward it.
One walking like she just woke up from a nap and somehow still made it on time.
The other adjusting his collar like he's about to attend a banquet instead of a crisis meeting.
Claire Leonhart pushes the door open with her shoulder because one of her hands is busy holding an apple and the other lazily adjusting the shield strapped to her back, a shield not ornamental but scarred with usage, etched with a sigil marking her rank among the elite guard, and she takes a bite mid-step, juice sliding down her thumb as she speaks before even sitting down.
"You feel it too, right?" she says casually while chewing, like they're discussing weather and not potential annihilation.
Christian Cole—who absolutely takes the extra second to smooth his hair even in war-time—leans against the table instead of sitting because he likes angles that make him look taller, more dramatic, more infuriatingly composed.
"You mean the five nations circling us like vultures," he replies, and yes, he winks at a passing female aide who rolls her eyes but still blushes because unfortunately the idiot is charming, "or the treasury bleeding like it caught a sword to the ribs?"
Claire yawns.
Not cute. Not small. Full, unapologetic yawn like the war bored her personally.
"I mean the Pandemonium signatures south of the outer villages," she says after swallowing another bite, and that changes the air immediately.
Now listen carefully.
Pandemonium Knights are not bedtime horror stories, they are one of the Sixteen Lokas that scholars whisper about but never confirm publicly, realms layered behind existence like overlapping reflections, and Pandemonium is the militant one, the oath-bound one, the one that does not rush but calculates, and lately their presence has been pressing against Aliase's southern perimeter like a gauntlet testing glass.
Christian stops smiling.
For once.
"I saw scouts' reports," he mutters, quieter now, "villages wiped, treasury caravans missing, not raided… erased."
Claire takes another bite.
"You think relics are real?" she asks mid-chew, completely switching topic but not really.
Christian exhales through his nose.
"You're seriously doing this now?"
She shrugs lazily.
"I'm just saying, the king's dumping half the remaining budget into chasing shiny ancient toys while we're in a five-sided war and the navy already swallowed the other half because of that sea plague that magically vanished overnight," she says, licking apple juice from her finger without shame, "maybe instead of fairy hunts we should invest in actual warriors."
Christian tilts his head slightly, studying her the way he does when he's about to suggest something morally questionable but tactically brilliant.
"I'm not saying we recruit random street thugs," he says slowly, leaning closer, lowering his voice, "but I know someone."
Claire squints at him.
"That tone means illegal."
He grins.
Winks.
Of course he winks.
"Relax, Leonhart, don't look at me like I suggested burning the orphanage," he smirks, "there's a man I met years ago, brilliant mind, ethically questionable, yes, but brilliant, he experiments on… assets."
"Assets," Claire repeats flatly.
"Slaves," he clarifies casually.
She stops chewing.
"Slaves?" she echoes, eyes narrowing, shield glinting slightly as she shifts her posture.
"Before you start preaching," he says quickly, holding up his hands, "these aren't broken farmers in chains, these are modified combat bodies, trained, enhanced, loyal because they've been conditioned to be, my own bodyguard Bella came from him and you know she could snap three elite guards in half before breakfast."
Claire yawns again, almost mockingly.
"I'm against it," she says, then takes another bite like the conversation is mildly inconvenient, "and slaves can break."
Christian leans closer, voice dropping.
"These ones don't."
Silence stretches between them, not dramatic but heavy.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the mountain shield and naval fleets, something shifts in the southern fog, something armored and patient, something from Pandemonium that does not attack impulsively but waits for cracks in strategy, cracks in morality, cracks in pride.
Claire finishes her apple and tosses the core into a bin without looking.
"You better be right," she mutters, grabbing another apple from the table because of course she does, "because if those Knights step fully into this realm and we're busy arguing about budgets and borrowed slaves, I swear I'll use your pretty face as shield practice."
Christian laughs softly.
"If I die, half this city's women will mourn."
She snorts.
"Delusional."
He winks again.
She is adored
And outside, above Aliase's unbreakable pink walls, the mythic bird has already vanished from the sky, leaving behind a morning too bright for the kind of war that is quietly preparing to arrive..