Chapter 23: The Call to Ride

The grand bells tolled across the marble towers of Aeldenmarch’s royal palace — deep and urgent, a sound reserved only for matters of utmost gravity.

In the throne hall, beneath its vaulted ceiling and hanging banners, the kingdom’s highest stood assembled. Cloaks still drawn from the wind, swords at their sides, expressions sharp with unease.

Raye Blazeborne stood among them — silent, still, watchful.

Beside him, Kael Virelan hovered near the hilt of his axe, brow furrowed as the tension in the chamber thickened. Theron Auric, royal advisor and the King’s closest confidant, stood near the dais — unreadable, but alert.

Then, the double doors opened.

King Caelan V. Eirwyn entered with purpose.

His cloak flowed like a winter tide, the letter in his hand sealed with the snowflake crest of Caelrhime — now broken, the parchment still damp with ink and urgency.

He stepped forward. The room fell into hushed expectation.

“I have summoned you,” Caelan began, his voice steady, “because Caelrhime stands on the edge of collapse.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall.

He raised the letter. “Princess Aurette Rhimehart sent this herself. Vaerond’s army marches again. They’ve held the frontlines, but their strength fades. She hasn’t begged us for war—only for help. To rescue her people.”

Silence followed. Then—

High Marshal Cedric Varn, commander of Aeldenmarch’s war battalions, stepped forward, his tone like a drawn blade.

“And you intend to give it?”

Caelan nodded. “Yes.”

“But not to wage war. Not yet. This is not a call to arms — it’s a call to compassion. Caelrhime’s people are cornered. If we do nothing, we’ll witness another kingdom fall to the same darkness.”

Chancellor Marik Dalewin, Minister of Resource and Supply, spoke next, voice lined with calculation.

“If we help, we invite more refugees. We already strain under the weight of those fleeing Aurellian. How long before we can no longer feed them?”

Caelan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Logically? We’re near the edge. Rations are tight. But this is war. And in war... perfection is a luxury.”

He descended from the dais, moving among his people — not as a distant monarch, but a man among equals.

“If we stand idle,” he said, softer now, “then what separates us from the enemy we condemn? We may lack resources. But we still have resolve.”

He turned back toward the gathered hall, his voice rising like thunder.

“I am Caelan V. Eirwyn — King of Aeldenmarch. I have not abandoned my own in our darkest hours. I will not abandon others who resist the same enemy that looms over all of Velaria.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room.

“We’ll worry about the aftermath later. Our priority now is saving lives.”

A beat of silence — heavy, but stirring.

“It will be difficult. It may cost us. But if we still believe in honour, if we still believe in fighting for the living, then we must ride.”

Theron stepped forward, voice quiet but urgent. “If we save their people, we may gain more than we lose. We may gain allies — warriors, brothers, sisters — who will stand with us when the time comes.”

Caelan gave a single nod. “Exactly.”

He turned to Raye and Kael.

“Raye. Kael. Ride with me.”

Without hesitation, they stepped forward.

Raye bowed his head. “Until the last flame dies.”

Caelan looked to another.

“Sir Alric Fenmoor — gather your best.”

Alric bowed, hand over heart. “My blade is yours, Your Majesty.”

Then — a protest.

Theron stepped forward, fists clenched.

“My lord… let me come. You’ll need more than blades. You’ll need a mind at your side.”

Caelan’s voice was calm, but final. “Which is why you must stay.”

Theron flinched, his expression hardening.

“You’re needed here. If Aeldenmarch is struck while I’m gone, no one is better suited to lead in my stead.” He glanced toward Raye and Kael, a flicker of humour in his voice. “Besides — I have fire and fury at my side.”

Theron bowed his head. “Then may the force carry you home safely.”

Raye stepped forward. “Even if it costs my life to protect him… I will not hesitate.”

Kael smirked. “And if he dies, I’ll drag him back from the afterlife myself.”

A faint smile touched Caelan’s lips.

“Then it’s settled.”

He turned toward the chamber doors.

“We ride at dawn.”

The stars still clung to the sky when the gates of Aeldenmarch creaked open.

The wind was sharp. The cold, bitter.

Raye and Kael mounted their steeds beside Caelan, flanked by Sir Alric and the Silver Frost Guard. Behind them, Ember Knights rode beneath banners bearing the mark of a fallen flame — crimson cloaks rippling like fire in the dark.

Not a word was spoken.

None were needed.

Their mission was clear.

And as hooves thundered against frost-bound stone, the storm ahead stirred.

A kingdom had called for help.

And Aeldenmarch would answer.

Most of the fortress slept — exhausted from the day’s brutal clash against the northern tribes. The silence was welcome. Too welcome.

Then — hurried boots on ice-slick stone.

A guard burst through the doorway, breath clouding in the cold. Behind him, a scout stumbled in — snow and sweat clinging to his cloak, his eyes wild.

“Lady Seralyne,” the guard announced, “he’s from the northern ridge.”

The scout dropped to one knee. His voice trembled — not with exhaustion, but fear.

“They’re moving,” he rasped. “The army of Vaerond. They’re marching.”

The room stirred like waking steel.

Seralyne rose at once, her hand already at her blade. Aurette stood beside her, breath caught in her throat.

“How many?” Aurette asked.

The scout swallowed hard.

“Thousands. Five thousand or more. Marching from the southern ridge.”

Gasps. Mutters. Cold dread crawling up the walls.

“And that’s not all,” he added. “I saw their banners — purple and black. Drakhenwald rides with them. Their mages march too.”

Aurette’s expression tightened.

“Spellcasters.”

“And more. Serena’s colours among their ranks.”

The chamber fell silent.

Seralyne’s fingers clenched around the war table. Even in her years of battle, she had never seen this — multiple powers, unified under one banner.

“So,” she murmured, “it begins.”

The scout looked up, urgency burning in his gaze.

“My lady — this isn’t a raid. It’s a siege force. Engines. Beasts. Battalions. They’re coming to break us.”

The flames in the sconces crackled, suddenly too loud.

Aelric, pale and grim, whispered, “They’ll surround us.”

Aurette stepped forward, her voice sharp. “How long?”

“By morning — maybe sooner. The storm slowed them, but it’s cleared. They’re advancing fast. There’s no time.”

Seralyne exhaled — one breath — and nodded.

“Wake the captains. Gather the bloodlines. Prepare the walls. No one sleeps.”

Aurette turned to the scout. “You’ve done well. Get food. Water. Then report to the wall commander.”

The scout saluted and vanished down the corridor.

The war hall came alive — not with dawn’s peace, but with war’s breath.