Dezo was huddled in his war room with his tight-knit crew—his "inside circle," if you will—laying down strategy like chessmasters on Red Bull. The "neutral" thing? That was just good branding. These guys hadn't been neutral since before the last solar eclipse. They were plotting, always.
"Hennekas is slipping," Dezo was saying, pacing around the frosted map table like a wolf ready to pounce. "Geza? Practically limping. Dalab? Too damn sentimental to make moves. I'm telling you, boys—this is our moment."
And just as he was about to drop his next power play, gong—gong—gong. The gatekeeper's bell went off, echoing through the ice walls like drama knocking at the door.
"Shit," Dezo muttered, snapping his head up. Either trouble had arrived, or company had. Same thing, really. He stormed out of the room and climbed up the frosted stairwell to the gate tower. Steza was all ice and wind—cold enough to turn egos brittle—and from the top, the view was clean and unforgiving. Down below, cutting through the snowy mist like a fever dream, came a red horse—fast, bold, and unmistakable. On it sat her. "Fien," Dezo said under his breath.
Behind her, thirty Denefremim warriors rode black battle bears like they were born to conquer. But what got Dezo's attention—really got his suspicion going—was the figure on a white horse. Not Denefremim. Not any of the usual players. That aura? That quiet, heavy confidence? That was Zela business.
And if that wasn't shady enough, the guy rode with a sword. Not just any sword—Jim's sword. The blade that whispered night rider in every shimmer.
Dezo narrowed his eyes.
"Fien," he called down, loud and steady. "Former Queen of Dalab. What brings you to this freeze? Peace or war?"
"Peace," Fien shouted back, her voice wrapped in the kind of chill that didn't come from the weather.
Dezo gave a small nod. "Open the gates."
His people hesitated, but the order was out. Giant gears groaned as the icy doors of Steza cracked open like a beast waking up. The troop rode in, their presence unsettling as hell. Even the bears looked like they were ready to fight somebody's ancestors. Still, Dezo couldn't stop staring at the guy on the white horse. Something about him wasn't adding up.
What he didn't know—what nobody knew—was that it wasn't Jim at all. It was a one-winged Miteon, armored up like a ghost and keeping his wing hidden tight under a black chestplate. And the sword? Shæz had handed it to him on purpose. She knew the legend. A night rider in your squad? Automatic street cred. People didn't ask questions. They followed.
Inside the throne room of ice and steel, Fien, Shæz, Gulutel, and their silent "night rider" were finally face-to-face with Dezo the Hunter.
The room was tense, all sharp breath and political poker faces. Dezo sat back in his throne made of jagged frozen bones, eyes flicking over them like a scanner.
"Nice sword," he said to the one-winged warrior.
The fake night rider didn't respond. Just stared back. Cool, unreadable. Honestly? Perfectly spooky. Fien stepped forward.
"We need to talk," she said.
Dezo leaned in. "You always do."
Shæz had already done the math—several times, in fact—and all the equations pointed to the same miserable outcome: they were going to lose the Steza campaign. Straight-up suicide mission. Dezo's army wasn't just "good"—it was disciplined, armored-up, and trained to the teeth. Charging in with thirty half-starved warriors and a guy cosplaying Jim wasn't strategy, it was stand-up comedy.
So she sat Fien down and talked her into switching lanes. Time to negotiate. Time to put that charm to work. Now here they were—Fien and her inner trio facing off with Dezo and his not-so-friendly circle of seven generals. The tension? You could slice it and serve it for lunch. Fien didn't waste time.
"Dezo, I need an army," she said, cool and casual, like she was asking for a favor at brunch.
Dezo blinked. Then laughed. Loudly. The kind of laugh that said absolutely not without needing the words.
"Fien, I think Gulutel must've skipped a few lines," he said, smirking. "My army isn't for rent. We exist to protect Denefremim women and kids. Not to get caught up in your... Senedro drama."
Fien held her breath for a second, nodded. Then went in.
"With your neutrality? Hennekas is going to eat up Senedro piece by piece. And when he's done chewing, guess whose name comes next?" she snapped. "You. And when he shows up at your gates, he's not gonna negotiate. He's gonna delete you all. Just like that. Gone."
Dezo's smirk cracked just a little—but not enough. He straightened up.
"No," he said, firmer this time. "I'm not putting my people into this war. It's not our fight."
"We're not asking you to fight," Shæz jumped in smoothly, sidestepping Fien's fire and taking the wheel. "We're asking to borrow your army." That made Dezo pause. Now she had his attention.
"And what's in it for me?" he asked, raising a brow. One of his generals nodded slowly behind him like a hype man in a debate.
"Peace," Shæz replied instantly. "And if there's ever a day you need help—we'll return the favor."
Dezo's eyes narrowed. "And how do I know you'll even survive this? You're talking about going up against Gideon." Silence.
Fien felt it hit her chest. No good answer. Not yet. She thought about reaching for the nuclear card—telling him she was holding the scepter of the end—but it felt premature. Too much too soon. Before she could open her mouth, Shæz came to the rescue—again.
"We have a night rider."
Boom. Mic drop. You could hear Dezo blink from across the room.
"That's a plus," he admitted, now looking toward the silent, armored figure in the corner—Miteon wing tucked, sword gleaming faintly. "But I don't decide for the army. Not entirely. You want Steza's support? You'll need to speak to the soldiers. Convince them." There was a beat.
"Fair enough," Fien said, composing herself again. "When?"
Dezo stood up and gave a nod. "Tonight. Campfire speech. Just like the old days."
They agreed. And just like that, Fien found herself not preparing for a battle—but a pitch.
Because sometimes war isn't won with swords. Sometimes it's all about who can talk better fire in the freezing cold.