The guards at the barracks straightened the moment Lord Elric walked in, though most of their eyes flickered with silent dread toward the two towering figures following him—Kalem, clad in his usual unassuming dark armor, and Garrick, who moved like a walking fortress.
"I hope the accommodations are to your liking," Elric said, gesturing toward a cleared chamber near the council hall. "We, of course, can prepare something more refined."
"It's fine," Kalem replied, seating himself cross-legged on the wooden floor. "Don't worry."
"I'd be worried even if you said 'everything's perfect'," Elric muttered under his breath.
Garrick chuckled and settled beside Kalem. "You do realize how much power you're holding in your hand, don't you?"
Kalem looked at his gloved palm and flexed it thoughtfully. "Enough to kill most things."
"Then why," Garrick leaned forward, voice lowering slightly, "are you roaming around like a rootless hedge mage? Sitting in squares, feeding street children, drawing circles in the dust?"
Kalem shrugged. "There's always a bigger beast."
"No, Kalem," Garrick said firmly. "You are the bigger beast. Right now, one-on-one, the only people in the world who could even stand a chance against you are the Lords of War."
Kalem tilted his head. "Who are they?"
"You don't know?" Garrick blinked. "Right. I forgot. You're politically disabled."
Kalem just looked blankly at him, utterly unaffected.
"Umm," Elric raised a cautious hand from the nearby bench where he and several knights had gathered. "If you don't mind… Could we listen? It would be good for… future reference."
Kalem waved lazily. "Sure."
Elric and his knights pulled out their parchments and charcoal sticks like eager scribes at a divine sermon.
Garrick stood, stretching, then turned toward them.
"The Lords of War," he began, "are not just warriors. They are living forces—part myth, part madness, part miracle. Elite individuals who have risen above the mortal din of battle and made war their language, their art, and in many cases, their divinity."
He began pacing slowly, the wood creaking under his weight.
"They are not appointed. They are not elected. They emerge—through conquest, through terror, through unmatched discipline. Some are chosen by their people. Others take power in blood and flame. Some… are simply fated."
One knight raised a timid hand. "And… what makes someone a Lord of War?"
"Fear," Garrick said. "And love. And inevitability. When you are so powerful that wars shift their course around your presence—then you might be considered worthy of the title."
Kalem yawned, reclining back slightly.
Garrick continued. "They often possess legendary artifacts, supernatural gifts, or symbols bound to their essence. They are worshipped, followed, studied. Some are tyrants. Others saints of the sword."
"And none of them," Garrick added dryly, "wander about feeding squirrels like you do."
A few knights chuckled before nervously silencing themselves.
Kalem sat up. "How do you know I'm of that rank?"
"Because," Garrick said, locking eyes with him, "Nara and Isolde are."
Kalem blinked, the memories surfacing like echoes beneath still water.
Isolde, the Frost Maiden, had been the academy's most disciplined student. Cold, composed, aloof—but fair. She trained alone, never showed off, but never lost. Kalem had once joked she was forged from snow and spite.
She and Garrick had fought Kalem in the finals of the academy tournament. Garrick had forfeited early—already bleeding from an earlier match—but Kalem and Isolde had gone blow for blow for what felt like hours, magic and martial prowess dancing in harmony. It ended in a draw. Neither could continue.
Assassins came for them weeks later. Isolde had fought like a winter storm, covering Kalem's blind side even while injured.
Now? She was Lord of Frost, wielder of her family's sacred blade, Frostmourn, and ruler of the Northern Glacium. Her reputation was one of mercy, wisdom, and absolute devastation in battle.
Then there was Nara—the Battle Queen. Fire given form. Hot-tempered, loud, fearless. She broke rules and bones with the same enthusiasm. Kalem once saw her headbutt a noble boy through a door for mocking a peasant girl.
A hand-to-hand master and fire elementalist, she was the hammer of their group. In the academy, she sparred with Kalem almost weekly. She never won, but never stopped trying.
Now? She wielded the Flame Spirit Heart, a rare elemental core she found—and bonded with. She commanded the Obsidian Castle, home to the strongest orc warriors, and was known as the "Lady of the Unburnt Banner." Few dared to challenge her.
Garrick slowed his pacing.
"Lyra?" Kalem asked.
"She revolutionized alchemy in the west," Garrick replied. "With the cauldron you gave her, no less. The Everwood family now leads one of the core seats on the Alchemical Council."
"Good for her," Kalem murmured, looking genuinely pleased.
"And Jhaeros?"
"Still hunting beasts. Avoiding politics like the plague. But he understands the game better than you. He's subtle. You?" Garrick gave a smirk. "You glow like a war beacon, Kalem. Even when you're being quiet."
Kalem sighed and scratched the back of his helmet.
Elric's hands trembled slightly as he scribbled down the names. "You're saying… we have a man who rivaled two current Lords of War, sitting in our city… eating sweetbread and doing knife tricks."
"Yes," Garrick said plainly.
"And I," Elric swallowed, "told him he should probably move on."
Kalem shrugged. "I'm not offended."
"You should be!" Elric half-yelled. "You're practically a mythical disaster with legs!"
"I just like walking."
There was silence.
Then Garrick chuckled, followed by a few uncertain laughs from the guards.
Kalem stood. "Anyway. I'm going to get more sweetbread."
"You… want a guard?" Elric asked hesitantly.
Kalem waved a hand. "If they can carry pastries."