Morning light streamed through the two tall, slightly tinted windows, cutting through the dim room like sunbeams into a cave.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, the slim young man—Solas—laced up his brown leather boots, steady and deliberate. He stood, adjusted his tunic, and without hesitation, opened the door and stepped out of the guest room.
***
Outside the manor's grand entrance, the sun's warmth caressed his pale skin. He closed his eyes, lifting a hand into the air as if to feel the breath of the world itself.
A deep, content sigh escaped his lips.
"It seems an era has only just begun."
Opening his eyes, he saw the carriage waiting—sleek, dark, and familiar. Its door stood open. Inside, Vargra sat poised, waiting.
He didn't make her wait long.
Approaching the carriage, Solas stepped in with silent grace. Immediately, the scent of freshly brewed tea greeted him, warm and fragrant. He sat across from Vargra, who cradled a glass cup in her hand, mid-sip.
With a graceful gesture, she motioned to a cup tucked into a mounted holder on the wall beside him. Solas blinked—he didn't recall it being there before. Still, he retrieved the cup, brought it to his lips, and tasted.
Smooth, Earthy, and Refined.
It pleased him.
Moments later, the carriage door closed with a soft thud, and the wheels began to roll.
Vargra watched him for a few seconds before speaking. "Is it to your liking?"
Solas lowered the cup, gave a small nod. "It is."
She smiled faintly. "Good. You'll need the energy today." She took another sip, her voice like velvet. "I've taken your words to heart—and acted on them. I believe you'll be quite pleased with what awaits you."
His curiosity stirred, but he gave no sign—only another slow sip from his cup.
If her words were true, then they were to be there.
And so he sat, calm and unreadable, while the world moved beneath the carriage wheels—toward something unknown, but inevitable.
***
The carriage came to a slow halt. Solas placed his empty teacup back into the mounted holder, the gentle clink echoing in the quiet.
"We're here," Vargra said, rising with grace. Her long tail slid behind her as she opened the door and stepped out into the light.
Solas followed.
As he emerged, the sunlight greeted him like an eagle descending from the sky—sharp and radiant. What met his eyes brought a flicker of surprise.
A full military encampment sprawled across the grassy field. Tents with peaked silver tops, tethered by black ropes, bore the banner of the Serpent-Tower. Over fifty knights moved in purposeful coordination—hauling wooden poles, hammering stakes, securing tarps, and assembling supply lines.
A field of steel and discipline.
Solas stood still for a moment, quietly observing the movement. He felt something stir inside him—not awe, but a simmering satisfaction.
This was happening because of his words.
Or was it? Did Vargra truly place that much faith in him? Had his presence alone sparked this mobilization?
A part of him was flattered. Another part was wary.
Vargra turned, her voice calm and measured. "Come. They await you in the command post."
He caught up quickly, falling into step beside her as they passed rows of assembling tents and armored figures. The rhythmic clang of weapons and the bark of orders filled the air.
He finally broke the silence. "How did you gather so many troops overnight?"
A soft smirk curved her lips. "When one holds power as I do, such things can be arranged. Especially when it concerns goblins."
They kept walking, nearing the command post—a larger tent at the center of the camp.
"But," she continued, "as you may know, most have long given up on wiping them out. Goblins always slip through our nets, vanish into the caves, rebuild. Four years of evasion and terror."
She paused, then glanced at him with something unreadable in her gaze.
"I believe, however, that with your particular talents… we may finally put an end to them."
Solas gave a faint smile, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "'Believe' implies doubt." He glanced at her from the side. "You didn't raise an army overnight because you believed in me. You did it because you saw no better option."
His gaze turned forward, fixed on the looming command tent. "And you were right to."
Vargra didn't respond immediately.
Instead, her gaze lingered on Solas—studying him as if reassessing a rare gem whose true value had only just begun to reveal itself. There was no offense in her expression—only quiet intrigue.
A soft chuckle escaped her lips, low and elegant. "My, my. You certainly have a way with words."
She turned her eyes forward, her expression unreadable now, save for the faintest smirk. "Let us hope your actions carry the same weight."
But deep down, she felt the weight that his words held.
Soon, they stood before the command tent—a long rectangular structure of silver cloth with a pointed top, its entrance flanked by two guards.
Vargra halted. "Let's not waste any more time. They await our presence."
Without hesitation, they stepped inside.
The air within was thick with tension and the faint scent of steel and parchment. A large square table dominated the center, a detailed map of the surrounding region laid across it. Around the tent's interior stood barrels, racks lined with swords, armor stands, and weaponry prepped for war.
To the right of the table stood familiar figures.
Vaelira leaned over the map, arms crossed, her expression focused. Beside her, Lyssa stifled a yawn, ears drooping slightly in visible boredom. Elira stood sharp and stoic, ready for orders. Nyra looked like a coiled spring, eager to be unleashed. Selin stood calmly at Vaelira's flank, posture firm. And Mirell—cool, unreadable as ever—rested one hand on her hip, eyes scanning the map.
Then, there was Rowena.
Dressed in standard silver armor, she stood awkwardly at the edge of the circle, visibly anxious amidst the mounting tension. Her gaze wandered the tent—until it landed on him.
The moment she saw Solas, her posture eased. His presence alone brought her a sense of calm.
One by one, the others turned. And when they saw him, their faces lit up in quiet relief.
He had returned. And despite the rising tension, that simple fact seemed to anchor them.
"Now we can begin," came a firm, composed voice from behind the war table.
The speaker stood tall, leaning forward with both gloved hands pressed against the wood. A striking blonde woman with short hair just above the shoulders, soft bangs framed her forehead and loose strands. while two long, loosely braided strands flowed past her waist like golden banners. Her gaze—deep ocean blue and razor-focused—remained locked on the map before drifting up to meet Vargra and Solas.
She wore silver steel plate armor that fit her form with disciplined elegance—neither overly ornate nor brutish, but dignified, like something a seasoned high commander would wear. Over her breastplate hung a short, high-collared mantle of silvery fabric, sleeveless and fastened at the shoulders with engraved golden clasps bearing the ancient emblem of the Serpent-Tower. It draped just past her knees, swaying only slightly—a half-cloak that refused to flutter without purpose.
Her lower body was less armored, instead clad in sleek black stockings that rose high up her thighs, leaving only a sliver of soft, pale skin exposed at the top—just enough to suggest confidence, not concession.
Raising a hand, she pointed to a cave marked on the map.
"According to our scouts, this is where the goblins were last sighted."
She looked up, her expression sharp yet curious. "I do hope he lives up to my expectations."
Vargra, ever poised, tilted her head slightly and offered a knowing smile. "Oh, he will." She gestured toward Solas. "Why don't you introduce yourself."
Solas stepped forward, his presence calm, calculated—lips parting, words soon to follow…