Chapter 22 — Revised

"As usual, we’re going to war. We’ll take our revenge on those barbarians who kill them in the name of Asual.”

Mateo’s hand tightened on the pommel of his sword. “Calm down. Think this through. Consider the risks.”
“Asual,” Kamil said softly, “how old is she? What’s her name?”
Asual’s eyes were cold. “Age doesn’t matter.”

Far away, in the kingdom of Catalhöyük, Guard 0293 hurried through the marble halls. “My king! Arthen Vail has arrived.”
King Daryon, fifth of his line, rose from his throne. “I will meet him in person. Assemble every soldier available.”
At the gate Thalior reported breathlessly, “My king, there are four thousand soldiers ready.”
“That will do,” Daryon replied. “I will not let his ten thousand men march through my land again.”

In the royal pavilion, Arthen Vail smiled with the kind of calm that made men uneasy. Malrec, his second-in-command, leaned close. “Commander, why won’t they let us in? I thought they’d celebrate our victory. Ten thousand against millions, who could begrudge us that?”
The gates opened to reveal four thousand soldiers standing on the other side. King Daryon stepped forward. “Is it true you destroyed Qytherin yourself and captured the royal family?” he demanded. “You are sentenced to leave this country. Take your men and go.”

Arthen’s smile sharpened. “You forget how much we’ve done for your land.” He looked to his soldiers, then spoke low and steady. “Draw swords. We will take the king’s head if we must.”
Malrec drew his blade beside him. The tension thrummed through the crowd.

Thalior stepped forward. “My king, if you allow them to depart with ten thousand soldiers, they will be trouble elsewhere.”
King Daryon’s voice stayed cold. “Any man who raises a sword against his king will be removed from this country.”
Arthen and Malrec feigned compliance. Then Arthen’s eyes glittered with a cruel idea. “We must destroy the technology Malrec built,” he whispered. “Their tools will be the end of empires.”

Before Daryon could reply, a herald gasped and pointed out that the field beyond the gates was already aflame. Hundreds of incendiary mechanisms had been lost; arrows rained, soaked in some volatile oil. Explosions ripped through ranks. Chaos swallowed the square. In the smoke and screaming, Arthen Vail and Malrec used the confusion to break away but not as saviors. Their last command left a scar: the technology that had felled a nation was now marked, and both commanders would be exiled for crimes that could never be forgiven.

Elsewhere, in the quiet streets of Monte Verde, a ten‑year‑old boy named Enrae sat with his makeshift stall. He held up a battered can bottle remade into a crude sculpture. A woman numbered as if to hide her identity stopped. “What are you selling, boy?” she asked.
Enrae offered the piece shyly. The woman frowned, then brightened. “You turned trash into art ingenious. Give me the idea for this, and I’ll pay five thousand silver.”
Enrae imagined coins, warmth, belonging then felt a rough shove. He blinked. He had been dreaming.

Back in the Animus back in the world where war and whispers move like tides Mateo fixed Asual with a steady look. “Are you ready, boss?”
Asual’s voice was a blade. “We’ll kill every single one of them. The Fast Order will destroy the princess and her man.”

Mateo swallowed. Around them, the Fast Order’s plan tightened like a noose: swift, ordered, and deadly. The moment would come when nine shadows moved as one.

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