King Sharrfan sat brooding in his cold throne room, surrounded by stone walls and the howling wind seeping through tall windows. Behind his sharp, dark eyes, a disturbing realization crept into his mind: Eirindale was no longer a scattered cluster of tribes that could be ignored. Their recent victories in skirmishes, their success in defending their lands from sudden assaults, and above all, the emergence of a young man named Azfaran had redrawn the balance of power in central Isvalon.
"He's no ordinary boy," Sharrfan muttered under his breath, words meant only for himself. "He reminds me of Saleem... but with a different fire."
In the strategy room, his advisors gathered. A map lay sprawled, with red lines and tiny flags marking the last known positions of Sharrfan's troops. One advisor proposed a new tactic—sending an envoy of peace. But Sharrfan knew too well, there was no such thing as genuine peace. It was merely a game of time, and if played right, Eirindale could be tamed once more.
The chosen envoy was a young nobleman named Zahill, known for his eloquence and a face that never betrayed his true intent. He was sent not only to bear a message of peace, but also a veiled threat: submit, or war shall scorch your soil.
Zahill rode a black horse as he entered the borderlands of Eirindale. He was met with wariness. There were no musical welcomes, no warm smiles—only cold stares from fully armed guards. He was escorted to Annvled, the administrative center of the tribes, now slowly organizing under a single influence: Azfaran.
Annvled was no great city, but it was brimming with spirit and discipline. Streets once muddy were now paved, wells had been built across the land, and the fields boasted proud harvests. Zahill noted everything in his mind. This was no longer a wild land.
In the main council chamber, Azfaran sat among the tribal elders. His presence was no longer foreign—the young man now stood as their equal, not by blood, but by deeds. He welcomed Zahill with calm yet unyielding demeanor.
"Greetings from King Sharrfan of Iskhalin," said Zahill, with a thin smile. "He wishes to end this misunderstanding and rebuild the old bridges between brothers."
Azfaran responded with steady, unblinking eyes. "And what form would that bridge take? We see no river in need of crossing—except blood."
The dialogue went long. Zahill offered alliances, trade, and protection from other threats he claimed were rising in the north. Yet all was delivered in tones too smooth. The seasoned elders could smell the threat behind every word.
"And if we refuse?" Azfaran finally asked.
Zahill's face remained composed, but his voice grew slightly firmer. "Then we shall consider you have closed the doors to peace. And our king does not knock twice."
Zahill was given a place to stay that night, but strict guards surrounded him. In the quiet of night, the elders reconvened. Some considered the offer; others recalled past betrayals by Iskhalin.
Azfaran remained silent for a long time before finally speaking: "We will not let history repeat itself. We do not need protection from those who once burned our homes."
The next morning, Zahill was escorted back to the border. He was given no definite answer—only the words: "We will consider your offer." But Sharrfan was no fool. When Zahill reported the expressions and demeanor he had encountered, the king already knew the answer.
Zahill stood before King Sharrfan, his posture as composed as ever despite the exhaustion that clung to him like the dust of the journey. The air in the throne room was heavy, as if awaiting the inevitable storm. Sharrfan's gaze was unyielding, piercing Zahill with its intensity. Zahill did not flinch.
"I bring the report, my king," Zahill said, his voice measured, yet carrying a certain weight of knowledge.
Sharrfan nodded, eyes never leaving his envoy. "Speak, Zahill. What did you see?"
Zahill unrolled a map and placed it before the king. "Eirindale is not what it once was. The land is no longer scattered, disorganized. It is as if they are preparing for something greater." His finger traced the lines of the map, stopping at key locations. "In Annvled, the streets are no longer muddy but paved with stones. Wells have been dug across the land—across the whole of the border. This is a people preparing for the long-term. They have no fear of famine, no fear of the elements. They have taken the land and turned it into something... disciplined."
Sharrfan's jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.
Zahill continued, his tone growing more urgent. "Azfaran has forged an order from chaos. The tribes are no longer fractured but united. They answer to him, not by birth, but by the power of his deeds. And in their eyes, there is no submission; only defiance. He... he commands their respect, their loyalty. It is a different kind of fire than we saw before."
Sharrfan's fist clenched around the armrest of his throne. "And the people? The common folk?"
Zahill's eyes narrowed slightly, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice. "They are not as fearful as they once were. They no longer cower. They hold their heads high. I saw children playing in the streets, their faces free from the weight of hunger. I saw farmers working their fields, their backs straight with pride. They are not the starving, wild people of old. They are organized, prepared... and they have forgotten their fear."
The room fell silent for a long moment. Sharrfan's eyes flickered with something dark, something that could not quite be hidden.
"And what of the negotiations? What was their response?" Sharrfan asked, though it was clear from his voice he already knew.
"They refused your offer outright," Zahill said, his voice cold now. "Not with words, but with their silence. Their message was clear. They do not seek peace under your terms. Azfaran will not bend to Iskhalin. And I... I do not believe they will ever bend again."
Sharrfan rose from his throne, his movements deliberate. The room seemed to grow colder, darker, as his anger simmered beneath the surface. He paced slowly, his thoughts churning.
"So they have chosen war," Sharrfan muttered, more to himself than to Zahill. "They believe they are ready. They believe they can stand against Iskhalin."
Zahill nodded. "They will stand. But it will not be for long."
Sharrfan turned sharply to face his envoy, his eyes burning with a fierce resolve. "Then we shall meet them with fire. If they choose to stand, they will burn in the light of our wrath."
And Sharrfan responded with fire.
In the eastern skies, smoke rose once again. A small village on Eirindale's border, home to cart builders, was torched by cavalry during the night. Flames devoured freshly grown fields, and children's cries mingled with the screams. Sharrfan's message was painfully clear: rejection is the beginning of ruin.
In Annvled, the news arrived before the sun rose high. Azfaran clutched the scout's report tightly. His face showed no panic, but the elders understood: this was the call to prepare.
"Negotiations are over," he said. "They have chosen fire. Then we shall answer with a brighter light."
The skies above Eirindale turned red, not only from fire, but from the great decision taking root in a land once silent. In that stillness, Eirindale rose toward the inevitable: war.