Confrontation Act of War [AE annexation of Badazza and ES annexation of Ali]

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

"By the will of God, Sparnia shall be united once again. The kingdoms of the West will become one, and His will shall deliver the faithful from the Abyss"

From the Holy Book of Saints​

Many had prophecised the coming of the End Times after the Revelation of the Divine over the Sparnish lands. As the peoples of Espada rejoiced to their new patron and ruler, revering him unlike any other past King of the land, the once exhausted warriors of the Sparnish grew renewed vigor to enact the will of their new master. One after the other, the lands of Sparnia, Valladille and other countries fell under the might of the new Empire on the rise. Those who had defied the will of Marcus Aumont, King of Espada, had either been crushed by the mighty Espadan armies, or grown reluctant to engage the steamrolling advance of his expanding realm, with many even considering to approach through diplomacy in hopes of securing a fair intergration of their lands to the soon to be Empire of Espada.

Alas, while the world of Day continued to have pockets of resistance, minor military action was sufficient to bring these "rebels" to heel without any real mobilization required, the world of Night had a will of its own, and many were the voices who stood a challenge to the King's dominion. An act far worse than a mortal's opposition; An act the King sought to make an example of himself...

Across the Straits, powers beyond had taken notice of the Espadan expansions. Powers ancient and mighty, choosing to act preemptivelly to challenge the path of Marcus Aumont to the South, and send a loud message as a warning. The Alurmanat Empire, and its Hobgoblin masters, brought forth an invasion of thousands upon the province of Badazza, bordering the newly intergraded Ali, of Espada. Although the mighty armies of the Empire were more than a match for any Badazzan noble to counter, the campaign bogged down when the major cities were put under siege...

Siege of Moranna Cruz

The day dawned without a sun over Badazza. Black clouds loomed over the grey shrouding of the smoke emitted from the vast siege camps that were split from the stout walls of Moranna Cruz only by five hundred paces of burned land and charred bodies, left overs from the past attempts of the Alurmanat horde against the city. Weeks it had been, ever since the last assault, post which the besiegers had changed their strategy, seeing the high casualties sustained.

Mighty armies the Alurmanat had fielded, yet they were not enough to cut off all the supply lines from and to Moranna Cruz, with the city being supplied by smugglers from both sea and land, allowing the defenders to stand for a little while longer, while the last resort attempt was made by the city's commander.
Under the cover of night, messengers were dispatched to Espada, begging the mighty King to assist them in their desperate stand against their ancestral foe, in exchange of willingly bowing to the Espadan rule afterwards... A wild gambit, which threatened to bring the two major powers of the region in a direct Confrontation...

The Defilement of Ali​

While Espada and the world of Day holds breath before the spiking crisis in Badazza, and the ever-increasing probability of war with the Hobgoblin Alurmanat Empire, the World of Night fights a war of their own, as the past sins of the Ashirra Vampires finally meets the divine wrath of Marcus Aumont in a brutal retaliation against their mighty powerbase in Ali. Far from the preying eyes of the world of Day, the Night Court bares its teeth and launches a brutal attack to make an example to all the scheming segments of the Night Court who yet consider standing up against the King of Vampires....!

 

[Marcus Aumont]

The Defilement of Ali​

From the moment Marcus stepped into Ali, the battle had been inevitable. Ahmad’s fury had been palpable, his attacks relentless, but Marcus had weathered storms far greater than this one. Each strike from the Ashirra leader was a display of mastery, sand and shadow coiling into deadly weapons, but Marcus matched every blow with cold, calculated precision. He had fought for centuries, and the lessons of countless wars had taught him one truth: emotion was a weakness, and Ahmad was drowning in it.

The Ashirra vampires came in waves, their resilience and strength undeniable. They fought with the discipline of warriors who had honed their skills over lifetimes. Marcus admired their ferocity, even as he cut them down. He could see why Ahmad had been able to inspire such loyalty; the Ashirra were noble in their ruthlessness, willing to die for a cause they believed was just. But Marcus’s authority was absolute, and their rebellion—no matter how honorable in their eyes—was a challenge that could not be ignored.

The duel with Ahmad raged through the halls of the palace, the sands themselves turned into weapons as Ahmad fought with the strength of a leader desperate to protect his people. Marcus could feel the weight of the hatred Ahmad bore for him, the festering wound of the pureblood he had killed long ago. Ahmad’s grief and anger fueled every strike, but Marcus was unyielding. He would not be swayed by sentiment or driven to anger. He fought with purpose, every blow designed to break Ahmad, to strip him of his defiance.

The tide of battle shifted with the arrival of the Night Court’s armies. From the palace steps, Marcus could see his forces flooding the city. Celeste, riding alongside the towering ogre champion, led the charge with devastating spells. Undead, ghouls, lower vampires, and cultists overwhelmed the Ashirra defenders, their numbers a stark reminder of the power Marcus commanded. The Ashirra fought valiantly, refusing to yield even as the city was consumed by chaos.

As the Night Court’s forces encircled Ali, the final moments of the battle played out atop the palace. Ahmad, battered and bloodied, still fought with the pride of a warrior. Marcus, his patience finally spent, disarmed him with a swift and brutal strike, sending his weapon clattering to the stone floor. Ahmad lunged in desperation, his form turning to sand once more, but Marcus was ready. With a surge of his power, he caught Ahmad mid-assault, gripping him with inhuman strength.

“This ends now,” Marcus said, his voice cold as the grave. With a single, decisive motion, he hurled Ahmad from the palace steps. The Ashirra leader crashed to the ground below, his body shattered and tethered by his defeat. Marcus watched as the surviving Ashirra vampires, still loyal to their leader, swarmed him in a futile attempt to defend their fallen master. Their attacks were frenzied, their loyalty unwavering even in the face of certain death.

“Undying loyalty to your dead patron, how noble… you would all die then to just simply submit, let it be known that you will in fact all die if you do not submit.”

The Night Court’s armies moved in, their presence overwhelming as they began to crush the last remnants of the rebellion. The city of Ali, once a bastion of the Ashirra’s pride and defiance, was now under siege. Marcus stood atop the steps, his figure imposing against the chaos below, as his armies demonstrated their dominance. This was not just a battle for control—it was a statement. The Ashirra’s rebellion would be stamped out, and the Night Court’s unity, under Marcus’s unchallenged rule, would be restored.

As the Ashirra rushed forward, Marcus would utter one word. “Begone.” The King commanded as those that rushed him would simply stop mid air and then be flung back forcefully out of his immediate area. This was the power of the Vampire King that stood above the Nighy court that secretly ruled over the world of day.

 

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

​

The scale-mail clanked against the leather, as the dust settled. Warriors beat their large shields or their chests with curled fists, embracing the thrill of the battle that unfolded. Inside the circular pit marked by the gathered warriors, the mighty Hobgoblin warlord knelt. His eyes fixated on the bruised Man who dragged himself away, his body too exhausted and battered to allow him to stand up for yet another round of combat against the much superior champion and arch-enemy.

Aa-Baan Shatih reached down the soil and picked the scimitar. The handle was still hot from the Man's grip. He stood up, and approached in menacing steps the man who had almost reached the limit of the circle. Warriors from the gathered spat and cursed to the Man, while others roared for him to stand and fight, for it was too much the coin they had placed on him on the betting table. Others smirked and grinned, rubbing their greenish hands in anticipation of the reward.

Aa-Baan himself had taken no part in the betting. His origins from the desert tribes had always made him much more susceptive to anger and violence when compared to the crimson-skinned royals of the Empire. The deep cut across his skull, once delivered so powerfully that it partially cracked the bone beneath, was a constant reminder of his masters' wrath to his ways. And yet, it was his gift of war that allowed him a chance of redemption. Unlike the noble generals of Maorkisharra, he was tasked with subjugating tribes and quenching revolts across the desert, never to walk in the gold-gilded halls of the Capital, or be blessed by the Holy Flame of the High Temple.

He had made his terms with his fate. He had accepted the warrior's path as it was offered to him, enforced with enough brutality for even him to respect the decree, never to challenge the line of Kishmen again. Loyalty and obedience were fundamental principles of the Empire which stood for many a century, after all.

He approached the Man. He had proven himself a skilled duelist. Although foreign to wielding a scimitar -These Bashar prefered straight-pointed blades instead of the Maorkisharran curved scimitars and jatagans; Too soft-skinned to embrace what was, to Aa-Baan's perspective, a much superior weapon of war- the Bashar was yet worthy of his rank as Captain. He had stood in defiance of Aa-Baan, being him who demanded death by duel instead of accepting the dishonourable beheading that was ordered for the entire crew of the "LaSol"; A smuggling ship caught breaking the seaborne blockade around the city.

Aa-Baan accepted; He had never backed down from a challenge. It was that the way he brought the desert tribes to his banner, adding to the regulars that were commissioned by the Kishmen.

He reached out with his hand, offering the scimitar to the man on the ground, to the latter's surprise. An act that caused silence to spread across the gathered warriors.

"You are brave. You are a Captain, Bashar." Aa-Baan nodded. His voice a clattering noise, heavy and low by the constant barking of orders and raging warcries over the years. A learned veteran and warrior of the blade, evident to each of his words.

The man reached and picked the scimitar. His confusion visible on his bleeding face.

"W.... What now?" he asked.

"Now, you leave, Bashar." Aa-Baan declared. "To the city, to die a warrior, or the fields, to die a coward. Your head sticks on your shoulders today, Bashar. I do not execute worthy warriors. You Bashar have left too few of those. And you will need them all, soon."

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

Siege of Moranna Cruz​

The situation outside the city of Ali was tense, with the nearby city of Badazza becoming the focal point of the growing conflict. Though not yet part of the Espada Empire, Badazza’s leaders recognized the looming threat posed by the advancing forces of the Alurmanat Empire. Hobgoblins, the backbone of Alurmanat’s military might, had begun moving directly into Badazza, preparing to challenge Espada’s influence in the region. Sensing the danger, the people of Badazza sent an emissary to the Espada army, pleading for aid against the hobgoblins.

The citizens of Badazza, harboring a deep hatred for the hobgoblins, were more than willing to submit to Espada’s rule. Stories of Marcus, the so-called walking god and defender of the faith, had reached their ears. Many believed that under Marcus’ divine leadership, Espada stood as a righteous force destined to destroy their enemies and unite the lands under a banner of faith and strength.

Unbeknownst to the Alurmanat Empire, Marcus had been preparing for this conflict for months, perhaps years. His foresight had ensured that much of Espada’sq armies were stationed along the borders of Ali, ready to act at a moment’s notice. The hobgoblins, confident in their might, underestimated both Marcus’ strategic acumen and the unwavering resolve of the Espadian forces.

The emissary’s request for aid quickly made its way to Commander Loren, who was leading Espada’s army on the frontlines. The missive was soon delivered to Espada’s War Master, Nepheli, who would oversee the war efforts alongside other key figures. The stage was set for a massive clash between two formidable powers, with the city of Badazza hanging in the balance. The question was not if Espada would act, but when—and with what level of ferocity.

Marcus’ faith-driven empire had no intention of backing down, and Badazza’s desperate plea would only fuel the fire of Espada’s righteous campaign.

 

[The Night Court]

The Defilement of Ali​

The streets of Ali ran crimson under the combined onslaught of the Night Court’s forces. Celeste led the charge, her crimson spells lighting the skies and turning the Ashirra defenders to ash. Beside her, the hulking ogre champion smashed through barricades and battalions alike, his earth-shaking blows unmatched. Caiden, commander of the blood-bound cultists, coordinated waves of zealots, their ritualistic fury overwhelming even the most disciplined Ashirra warriors. Agatha, ever the tactician and leader of the Red Mages, directed her subordinates—Bartholomew, Aamon, and Celeste—in creating magical barrages to decimate Ali’s defenses.

Undead zombies shuffled forward in unrelenting hordes, clawing at the Ashirra. Ghouls and regular vampires engaged in more tactical skirmishes, their ferocity matched only by the resolve of their Ashirra opponents. The elite guard of Marcus himself, clad in dark armor and wielding enchanted weapons, carved through the city’s defenses with ruthless precision. It was not the full might of the Night Court, but the force that Marcus had sent was devastating enough to leave no question of his intent.

The Ashirra, renowned for their strength and resilience, did not falter. Each warrior fought as though their last breath would determine the fate of their people. Ali itself became a battlefield drenched in both blood and sand, its defenders embodying the sect’s warrior spirit. Their tactics were precise, their will unbreakable, but the sheer power of the Night Court’s forces began to push them back inch by inch.

In the midst of the chaos, Agatha barked orders to her fellow mages. “Bartholomew, focus on their archers! Aamon, fortify our flanks with barriers. Celeste, with me—burn through their reinforcements!” Her voice carried the authority of a seasoned leader, and her Red Mages executed her commands flawlessly, raining fire and ice upon the Ashirra ranks.

Caiden strode through the battlefield, directing the blood-bound cultists with a maddened grin. “Spill your blood for the King!” he roared, his twin scimitars slicing through Ashirra warriors as his followers erupted into fervent chants, their own blood fueling powerful rituals. The streets of Ali seemed to quake with the fury of their magic.

The ogre champion waded into the fray, laughing gutturally as he swung his massive club, sending Ashirra warriors flying with every strike. His hulking form was a beacon of destruction, clearing a path for the rest of the Night Court’s army.

Despite their overwhelming power, the leaders of the Night Court conversed as they fought, their strategies adapting to the flow of the battle. Agatha called out, “We cannot afford to destroy them completely. Marcus desires unity, not annihilation. We must cripple them enough to force surrender.”

Celeste, casting a powerful firestorm to scatter an Ashirra counter-attack, nodded. “Their spirit is strong. They would be valuable allies if we can break their rebellion without shattering their pride.”

Caiden scoffed, cutting down another Ashirra. “Their pride will be their undoing. If they do not kneel, we will make them kneel—alive or undead.”

The ogre let out a booming laugh, his voice reverberating through the streets. “If Marcus wishes them to join, they’ll join. One way or another.”

Through it all, the Ashirra continued to fight valiantly. Their resistance was a testament to their strength as one of the most formidable sects of the Night Court, rivaled only by the Ulfbitenn. Marcus’s gamble was clear: if he could subjugate the Ashirra and bring them back into the fold, their combined might would make the Night Court nearly unstoppable.

The city burned as the Night Court pressed forward, a relentless tide of darkness against the proud defenders of Ali. Even as the leaders of the Night Court strategized amidst the battle, one truth became evident—this was no mere display of power. It was a declaration of Marcus’s dominance and his unyielding determination to unify the Night Court under his rule, no matter the cost.

 

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

The siege camp was vast. The Alurmanat besieging troops were numbering in thousands, an amalgam of goblins, Hobgoblins, desert tribes and corsairs from the Erovan Sea, all brought together under the promise of plunder and the threat of reprocussion. They all waited, for their general's master plan of taking Moranna Cruz. Every assault, to date, had been a failure, with successes small or neglectable. It was the damned privateers, the Sparnish swine, who kept breaking through the blockade by sea and providing the desperately needed supplies to the city to allow the defenders yet another day of defiance.

This had to stop. This WOULD stop.

Aa-Baan walked to the edge of the cliff, casting his gaze to the sea beyond. His lieutenant a mockery of a Man, flogged and wept enough for his back to become permanently hunched, and his face deformed by the timeless marks left by the slave collar and the iron rings passed once through his cheeks, causing wounds that even now, after decades, preserved a deep deformity that made his face that of a monster more than it did a Man's.

"Master..." the servant bowed his head, bringing the turban's fabric once again to cover his face, save for the eyes. "Ships are sighted. Man-ships. They are heading to the port, master..."

"Let them." Aa-Baan tilted his head. His gaze turned Northwards, towards the two tinny dots that were the Nau, heading for the port. To their surprise, the Alurmanat blockade ships had withdrawn this day, leaving a tinny window of opportunity for the brave enough to make a run for it. Ah... An obvious trap. Aa-Baan was no fool. Nor was he the one to lick the ears of his superiors. He had sent word to his masters back in Maorkisharra, reporting the situation in the field. "Without ships" he stated, "There can be no taking of Moranna Cruz."

The Hobgoblins were a cruel breed, and yet had a strange way to express their meritocracy. It was the Nobles who had funded and orchestrated this great of a campaign, with many workings still operating behind the scenes. To fail in this opening of an objective would be to expose themselves as weak, to the growing Espadan ruler. A statement had to be made... And so, the Bezir had arranged to ammend the situation in Moranna Cruz...

From far South, the Alurmanat Fleet, consisting of dozens of galleys and cogs and xebec warships journeyed to Badazza, this day finally arriving to their destination. Knowing this development from scouts deployed to the South, Aa-Baan had lifted the blockade to bait any daredevils in, hoping to sink supply ships close to the defenders' port to have them witness the event.

The two Nau sailed fast, approaching more and more the limits of the port. It was then when they adjusted their course, the activity on deck evidence of their discovery of the coming armada. The bait had worked. Now, Aa-Baan thought, he had only to wait for the fleet admiral to work his magicks.....

"Sound the trumphets... Prepare for an assault." Aa-Baan instructed.

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The Captain-Chaplain rode down the road, galloping towards the Espadan camp as head of a contingent of some thirty knights of the Black Wolf. Her hair caught and braided, dancing on her neck as the wind blew against her. Her black armour contrasting the sunlight washing hher from above, causing a strange feeling of discomfort she could not place the source of. On occasion, her gaze was distracted, looking up to the sun in taunting glare. A strange urge errupted within her, wanting to draw her blade and claw the infernal blazing orb from the sky to drown it under the mud of her stalion's hooves.

She shook her head, banishing such distractions from her mind, as she entered the camp. The banners flew over the barred entrance, which the sentries quickly openned for the Black Wolf to ride through. As soon as Adosinda reached the command tent, she dismounted, quick on her pace as she walked into the tent with intent.

"Commander." her demanding voice sounded as soon as she went through the entrance of the tent. "What is the army's status?" she unclipped the leather straps that held her gauntlets in place, removing them, to expose her bare hands.

The Black Wolf knights waited outside the tent, occupying enough space in their numbers to create movement within the contingent. Something was brewing... It was no routine inspection nor coincidental visit of the Captain-Chaplain to the camp. They had come with a quest, and that alone meant much, for the Captain-Chaplain received her orders exclusively from the King himself, making her among the most revered and powerful individuals in Espada, as far as the Day was concerned....

"There are developments in Badazza." Adosinda informed then. "The Alurmanat navy has passed the straits. They are heading to Moranna Cruz, as of three days ago. Is the army ready to march?"

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

As Adosinda entered the camp, her presence commanded immediate attention. The Black Wolf Company’s camp, shadowed by banners bearing their emblem, hummed with the disciplined efficiency of Espada’s finest soldiers. Loren, wasted no time addressing Adosinda’s questions, his tone carrying the weight of urgency yet tempered with confidence.

Loren’s gaze meeting Adosinda’s gaze directly. “The army is prepared to march at command. Supplies have been gathered, and the men are eager for the fight. They understand what is at stake.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “We’ve also received word that the Espadian navy will arrive soon, with War Master Nepheli at its head. Her fleet has made excellent time through the currents, and if all goes as planned, they’ll be at Moranna Cruz within a few hours. With Nepheli leading the charge at sea, the Alurmanat ships will find no quarter. I am not troubled by their movements; the Espadian Navy’s might is greater, and Marcus’ foresight has accounted for such challenges.”

Loren stepped back and folded his arms, his confidence evident. “If anything, this is the perfect opportunity to break their momentum. The Black Wolf Company’s role in this campaign is pivotal. I await your orders, Commander.”

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

"The King is ready for a clash with the Hobgoblins." Adosinda intoned. "We move to break the siege of Moranna Cruz, now. With the warmaster's ships, they will have no option but to break the blockade, or go to war with us. In either case, we will win."

The Captain-Chaplain wasted no words to flavour the situation. It was known that King Marcus was eager to clash with the Empire, with many plans already at the works for the coming carnage in the South. It was now her task to cast the first blow to the enemy in a pre-emptive strike that, if successful, would deny the Hobgoblins the entire Badazza province, while spiking the morale of the Men of the South.

"We march." she declared, pulling from the war table. "By dawn we must reach the port, Commander Loren. No stranglers."

The revelation of God was no short in bloodletting. An irony, Adosinda thought to herself. While the common minded view that reality as a divine wrath, perhaps punishing them more than they could possibly deserve, and others, heretics, believing that the conflicts were omens of the coming dark age the King was bound to bring, Adosinda knew the truth. She knew that while all-mighty, he was not alone. This was a dark world. A dark world full of horrors and unbelievers and monsters. It was the duty of the faithful to purge and cleanse the blight from the face of Terra, guided by their eternal God-Machine.

God-Machine....

The Iron Cult....

The Alurmanat Empire...

The Heretic....

Many were the foes surrounding the Sparnish. Many and mighty, yet Adosinda's faith did not weaver. She was trusting to her patron, trusting of victory and deliverance. It had been long since the people had stood idle, pawns of the corrupt defilers and usurpers. The Kingdom of Heaven was coming, and she was among the exalted heralds of that change...

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

Loren nodded firmly, his expression resolute. “Understood, Commander. I will ensure the ranks remain disciplined. No one will fall behind.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and exited the war tent, his stride purposeful.

Moving through the camp, Loren relayed Adosinda’s orders with precision, his voice cutting through the din of preparation. “The Black Wolf marches immediately! Ensure all units are ready—no delays, no stragglers. Anyone falling behind answers to me.”

He oversaw the preparations personally, pausing to inspect formations and ensure the soldiers were efficiently packing their gear. The banners of the Black Wolf were raised, and the camp began to stir with the energy of imminent battle.

Loren’s presence among the troops kept morale high and order intact. With the camp dismantling quickly and no stragglers in sight, he moved to the head of the ranks, marching alongside Adosinda and her company.

Tag: @Adosinda Castellanna

 

[The Night Court]

Ahmad, battered but unbroken, rose from where he had been cast, leaning heavily on his curved blade. His body, still tethered by the wounds Marcus had inflicted, pulsed with defiance. The sands of Ali swirled around him as if summoned by his very will, a reflection of his indomitable spirit. His voice, hoarse but filled with venom, echoed through the ruins of the palace steps.

“You think this victory is yours, Marcus?” Ahmad spat, his golden eyes blazing with righteous fury. “You march into my city, spill the blood of my kin, and dare to claim this as unification? You do not lead; you subjugate. You are no king. You are a tyrant, a parasite feeding off the strength of others to mask your hollow soul.”

He straightened, despite the agony rippling through his body, his warrior’s pride refusing to let him bow—even in defeat. “The Ashirra were never yours to command. We were warriors long before you and your Night Court claimed dominion over the shadows. We bleed, we burn, but we do not kneel. Not to you, not to anyone.”

Ahmad gestured toward the chaos in the streets below, where the Ashirra still fought valiantly against the encroaching Night Court forces. “Look at them, Marcus. Every single one of them will fight until their last breath. Not because I command it, but because they believe. In freedom. In strength. In a cause greater than one man’s ego.”

His lips curled into a grim smile as he took a faltering step forward. “You killed our pureblood, the one who dared to stand against you. Do you think I hate you for that? No, Marcus. I hate you because you represent everything the Ashirra stand against—oppression, arrogance, the corruption of power. You claim to be a god, but you are nothing more than a man desperate to chain the world to his will.”

Ahmad’s voice softened, but it lost none of its conviction. “You may break our bodies, but you will never break our spirit. Ali will remember. The Ashirra will remember. And one day, Marcus, your darkness will falter, and the empire you’ve built will crumble under its own weight. When that day comes, we will rise again.”

As he finished, Ahmad’s form wavered, the sands rising to envelop him once more. Though his strength was fading, his resolve remained unshaken. The warrior sect leader stood defiant, a symbol of resistance against Marcus’s dominion, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus stood over Ahmad, his imposing figure illuminated by the flickering flames consuming the city. He watched the Ashirra leader struggle to rise, the warrior’s pride refusing to let him remain on the ground. Marcus’s crimson eyes glowed with cold fury, his lips curling into a cruel smile as Ahmad’s defiance echoed in his ears. For a moment, Marcus said nothing, allowing the weight of his presence to press down on the broken leader before finally speaking.

“You mistake me, Ahmad,” Marcus began, his voice smooth yet laced with venom. “I do not care for your noble speeches or your hollow rebellion. You speak of freedom and strength as though they are absolutes, as though they exist outside of my will. But you, your Ashirra, even your precious purebloods—you all fall under my rule. Do not forget who I am. I am the first. The progenitor. The god you refuse to kneel to. And yet, everything you are flows from me.”

He descended a step, his towering form casting a shadow over Ahmad. “You speak of legacy, of history. But if you and your Ashirra do not yield, there will be no legacy. No history. I will erase you. Not just in body, but in memory. Your defiance will be forgotten. Your pureblood’s name, your sect’s traditions—all of it will vanish into the sands of time, lost forever.”

Marcus’s tone grew sharper, colder, as he leaned closer, his voice now a whisper that cut like a blade. “Do you think that I cannot end you? That your so-called strength will shield you from me? Your Ashirra fight valiantly, but I have seen greater armies fall. I have crushed empires, Ahmad, and I will crush you if that is what you choose.”

Gripping Ahmad by the collar, Marcus hoisted him to his feet with ease, forcing the battered leader to meet his piercing gaze. “You say the Ashirra will never break. Perhaps you are right. But they can still be destroyed. Their bodies burned, their memories wiped from eternity. Is that the fate you want for them? Is that the legacy you wish to leave?”

Marcus’s grip tightened before he released Ahmad, allowing him to stumble back. He stood tall, looming over his foe like a storm about to break. “I offer you this one chance, Ahmad. One chance to stop this before it is too late. Yield, and the Ashirra can remain a part of the Night Court. Their name, their history, their pride—they can all endure. Resist me further, and everything you hold dear will be obliterated. There will be no Ashirra, no warriors to remember your fight, no one to carry your banners. Only silence.”

He leaned in once more, his voice low and menacing. “Choose wisely. This is not just about you. This is about the future of your people. Do not let your pride destroy them.”

Marcus stepped back, his presence like a blackened weight on the air, awaiting Ahmad’s decision with an air of finality. The armies clashing in the city below seemed distant, their chaos overshadowed by the gravity of this moment.

 

[Aa-Baan Shatih "The Pale"]

The sails of the Alurmanat Xebec ships caused the first mate's eyes to widen, as he scanned the South with his spyglass by the nau's rails. The intelligence received by the time they set sails from the North was barely a dozen ships in blockade. Fredrico DeMalera, captain of the Swan, had estimated the breaking of the blockade would be a difficult task, yet achievable. But this...?

"Captain" called the first mate, Joseph. "You may want to see that..."

"What's the matter, Josh?"

It was too dire a situation for First Mate Joseph to remind DeMalera he hated; HATED; when they twisted his name... He only took a step back and nodded, part of him seeing the change of tides as a nemesis to DeMalera's overconfidence. Joseph gave the spyglass to him, pointing with his hand to the horison.
"There, next to the peninsula."

The captain fell in silence when he finally spotted the several xebec warships, a vanguard of a much larger fleet still partially hidden by the distant fog over the waves.

"We are by the locker now... Turn to starboard. Straighten the forecourse." DeMalera's voice quick to turn serious, deep and direct, recognizing the gravity of the situation. This wasn't the Alurmanat lifting their blockade, as he thought. This was them leading him and the Swan into a trap. And he had sailed right into it.

"These are Maorkisharran Xebecs, captain. We cannot outrun them!" Joseph protested.

"You have your orders, first mate!" DeMalera barked. Joseph nodded, begrudgingly hasting to see the orders through.

The Swan and her sister ship, the Levant, picked up speed as they approached the port. Alas, the heavy cargo carried, and their bulky build denied them the speed the Maorkisharran navy had pleanty of. Soon, the Xebecs caught up to them. The Swan would be the one to draw first blood, as the black powder cannons, those few she had, roared through the gunports against the closing ships. One of her pursuers was struck by a direct shot to the portside, cracking a hole under the oarslits that flooded the lower deck with squealing seawater. She quickly lost momentum and abandoned the chase, as her crew sough to salvage their craft.

The rest of the Alurmanat ships, however, had luck on their side. Their speed an advantage, two bypassed the two Nau, forming a blockade between them and the port, while two more held the chase, lowering their sails and extending their oars to the sea, as they approached the Levant. The corsairs from onboard the xebec ships fired volleys of archer and arquebus fire, which was answered promptly by the Levant's guns. But her defence was to no avail... The corsairs tossed grappling hooks and pulled themselves to the Levant, their blazing scimitars a promise of the brutal hand-to-hand battle to come...

Another Alurmanat ship, a galley, pressed her pursuit of the Swan. Seeing the blockade ahead, the Swan performed a zig-zag maneuver, trying to expose her broadside guns to the blockade ships. Thunderous shots sounded across the sea, with white pillars of foam rising where the cannonballs found the waves. Alas, her attempts seemed in vain, as no hits were scored to the enemy ships... And her pursuers closed in each passing moment...

"To the Peaks, you maggots!"

Three lines of spears and javelins and shields sprouted from the Alurmanat camp onward to the city's walls. The bells of churches and watchtowers rung the defenders awake, as the besiegers renewed their efforts. This time, the Hobgoblins had spent effort in making long parapets out of scrap wood and looted planks, to reduce the effectiveness of the defenders' ranged fire from atop the walls while they marched to the walls. Alas, there could be not enough timber to supply all his army with such luxuries.

Aa-Baan had instructed specific troops to carry ladders and hooks to the walls, granting them the parapets to ensure they would reach their destination, irrespective whether or not they would survive anything afterwards. Behind them, the long lines of troops awaited for them to reach the walls and deploy their siege equipment, before the rest rush onward, with shield formations employed to limit the casualties, which were expected to be significant.

Alas, taking the city by force was no longer part of Aa-Baan's strategy. It was merely now a pressure factor. After so many days against the walls, the city had been facing supply and sanitation problems, as any besieged settlement would. To launch a seemingly organized assault while the sole hope of the defenders, the foreign supply ships, are being sunk outside the port, was the hay that would break the camel's back...

After all, Aa-Baan's real challenge wasn't the local nobility, but the looming threat of the Espadan armies from the North. To spend his forces under a wall would be to make it easy for Espada to claim the province right after. Something which would be unacceptable, by Aa-Baan's masters...

 

[Adosinda Castellanna]

The marching over the mountain passages was indeed difficult. Three of the knights of the Black Wolf had to deliver the bitter killing strike to their own horse, for they had lost their footing and broken their legs sliding down the rocky slopes. Adosinda was there, when they bid farewell to their companions. Like many of the chivalric traditions across Erova, Sparnia too had preserved the bond between the knight and his horse. A bond painfully shred, when either fell to their wounds, worse so, when away of the battle's heat.

It is the will of the God-Machine

The Captain-Chaplain reassured her troops. No path of righteousness, she argued, is paved with gentle tiles, for if so, there would be no sacrifice to walk it. And without sacrifice, there may be no redemption.

Elements of the Black Wolf rode in the vanguard of the long column, behind the foreriders of the Espadan army. Priests of the growing Cult around Marcus Aumont, most of which converts from the Church, declared heretics by the weak centre of their old faith, walked along the army. Some occasionally stopped and preached from elevated parts of the path, speaking holy prayers and using the name of the Espadan king in stead of the God-Machine, further deepening the heresy conducted.

Adosinda rode forth, by the time the long line crossed the final passage through the hills, towards the besieged city. She could recognize many of the local folk who had flocked to the army, pilgrims, brigands and peasants alike, seeking to fight under the holy banners. On occasion, smoke columns were visible from distant settlements, hinting to the spike of violence as the Espadan heresy spread like wildfire...

And then, she saw it. The large clouds of dust and smoke from the Hobgoblin siege camp, beyond the high walls of Moranna Cruz.

"Commander Loren." she called out. "Have your scouts to secure a path to the city's Northern Gate. The Alurmanat are holding the Southern and Eastern parts. We won't be getting in without a fight through there. Cavalry to secure a path, alert if they come in contact with the enemy. We cannot win a battle in the open, as we are."

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

Loren nodded sharply, absorbing Adosinda’s instructions with focus. “Understood, Commander. Scouts will secure the Northern Gate immediately. I’ll have the cavalry sweep ahead and relay any contact with the enemy. We’ll ensure the path is clear for your advance.”

Without delay, Loren exited the tent, issuing commands to the scouts and cavalry. “You’ve heard the orders—scouts, move swiftly to the Northern Gate. Secure a path and report back the moment you encounter resistance. Cavalry, flank their positions and ensure no surprises from the enemy. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary; the priority is securing the route.”

The scouts departed at once, disappearing into the darkened landscape, while the cavalry prepared to sweep the flanking paths. Loren oversaw the preparations, ensuring each detail was executed with precision. “The Black Wolf does not falter,” he reminded the troops. “Let’s give the Commander the path she demands.”

 

[The Night Court]

The clash of steel and the roar of battle echoed through the streets of Ali as the Night Court pressed forward, their sheer might breaking through the Ashirra’s fierce resistance. The city burned under the weight of Marcus’s decree, every corner of Ali becoming a battleground where undead horrors and blood-bound zealots tore through the warrior sect’s defenses. The Ashirra, despite their tenacity, began to falter, their strength unmatched against the relentless tide of the Night Court’s forces.

Celeste, surrounded by a glowing aura of crimson energy, led a devastating assault through one of the city’s main avenues. Her fiery incantations swept through entire formations of Ashirra warriors, leaving charred remnants in their wake. “Hold the line!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos as her fellow Red Mages, Bartholomew and Aamon, unleashed their own deadly magic. Waves of fire, frost, and arcane energy tore through the Ashirra ranks, breaking their once-impenetrable defenses.

Nearby, Caiden drove his blood cultists forward with unrelenting fervor. His twin scimitars danced through the air, each strike fueled by the chants of his fanatics. Blood rituals enhanced their strength and speed, allowing them to overwhelm even the Ashirra’s most hardened warriors. “Do you see now?” Caiden bellowed, his voice thick with malice. “This is the power of the Night Court! Your defiance is meaningless!”

The massive ogre champion, a walking engine of destruction, tore through barricades and battalions alike. His great club swung in wide arcs, shattering stone walls and sending Ashirra fighters sprawling. His booming laughter echoed across the battlefield as he advanced, unchallenged by any who dared oppose him.

Amidst the carnage, Agatha, the Red Mage leader, directed the battle with cold precision. She stood atop a fallen pillar, surveying the battlefield as she barked orders. “Push them back to the palace gates! Do not let their reinforcements regroup!” Her tactical acumen turned every skirmish into a decisive victory for the Night Court, her Red Mages and undead forces maneuvering with unerring discipline.

The streets of Ali became a vision of terror as undead zombies shuffled forward in endless waves, their grotesque forms overwhelming the Ashirra’s rear lines. Ghouls, faster and more vicious, darted between the fray, ripping through the sect’s warriors with razor-sharp claws. Regular vampires, fighting with the elegance and ferocity befitting their kind, dominated the close-quarters battles, their strength and speed proving too much for the Ashirra to counter.

Even so, the Ashirra fought valiantly. Their warriors, trained for centuries in the art of combat, held their ground against impossible odds. Every fallen Ashirra warrior seemed to be replaced by another, their ranks replenished by sheer will and determination. Their leaders barked orders from the front lines, rallying their fighters to make their stand.

But the tide was against them. The combined forces of the Night Court were too overwhelming, their strategy too flawless. Slowly but surely, the Ashirra were pushed back toward the heart of the city.

At the palace gates, the Night Court’s forces converged, their combined power breaching the Ashirra’s final stronghold. The gates splintered under the combined assault of the ogre champion’s strength and Celeste’s fiery magic, the defenders inside scrambling to regroup.

Marcus’s elite guard marched forward, clad in blackened armor and wielding enchanted blades. They cut through the last vestiges of resistance with ruthless efficiency, their loyalty to their king unwavering. Their advance signaled the end of the Ashirra’s rebellion.

As the Night Court’s banners were raised over the city of Ali, the streets fell silent save for the moans of the dying and the crackle of flames. The Ashirra had fought with honor and strength, but the might of the Night Court was undeniable. Marcus’s forces had secured the city, their dominance now etched into the bloodied stones of Ali.

 

[The Night Court]

Ahmad knelt on one knee, his body battered and tethered by the wounds inflicted during the battle, but his spirit—though dimmed—was not broken. Around him, the sounds of Ali’s collapse reverberated: the cries of the dying, the roar of flames, and the thunderous advance of the Night Court’s armies. His golden eyes lifted to meet Marcus’s crimson gaze, no longer burning with defiance but with a weary resolve.

“You win, Marcus,” Ahmad said, his voice heavy with both grief and acceptance. “Ali falls. The Ashirra have given their blood, their strength, their very souls to defend this city, but even our might cannot stand against the storm you’ve unleashed. You have proven your power… and your claim.”

Ahmad took a labored breath, leaning heavily on his sword as he spoke again, softer this time. “But if you are truly the king you claim to be—the progenitor, the god-machine—then hear me now. The Ashirra are not your enemy. We never sought to break away from the Night Court, not entirely. We sought only to preserve our honor, our legacy, in the face of what we believed to be tyranny.”

He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “You offer us a chance to endure, to remain a part of the Night Court. I accept, but not as a broken sect to be discarded or forgotten. If we are to serve, then let us serve as we are meant to: as warriors. The Ashirra can be your sword, Marcus, your shield against the enemies who would dare oppose you. But do not take away the pride that makes us who we are. Do not reduce us to mere shadows of what we were.”

Ahmad shifted, lowering his head in a gesture of submission. “Let us remain as the Ashirra, not as relics, but as a force bound to the Night Court’s will. Allow us the autonomy to lead in your name, to fight as we always have, but under your banner. If we are to kneel, then let it be as your allies, not as your thralls.”

He raised his gaze once more, a flicker of hope breaking through the despair. “You said the Ashirra would never break. And you are right. We are not broken—we are forged in this fire. Use us, Marcus. Let us fight for you, for the Night Court, and for the future you seek to build. In return, we ask only that our honor remains intact, that our legacy does not wither under your rule but thrives within it.”

Ahmad’s hand tightened on his sword as he awaited Marcus’s response, the warrior leader laying everything he had left at the feet of the Vampire King.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus loomed over Ahmad, his expression cold and unreadable. The city of Ali burned around them, the cacophony of battle now reduced to distant echoes. He let the silence linger, letting the weight of Ahmad’s submission hang in the air. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but commanding, every word laced with authority.

“Understand this, Ahmad,” Marcus began, his tone unwavering. “Your defiance has cost you dearly. Ali is in ruins, your warriors lie broken, and your pride, though intact, teeters on the brink of oblivion. I could end this here and now. I could erase the Ashirra from existence, as I said I would, and none would dare question me.”

He stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he loomed over the kneeling leader. “But I am not without mercy. You and your Ashirra will have your place within the Night Court once more. You will serve, as you were always meant to. You will carry out my will and that of the Night Court without hesitation or question. Autonomy will be granted, but only within the framework of your loyalty to me. Your honor may remain intact, Ahmad, but only if it is wielded in service to your king.”

Marcus’s voice grew sharper, like a blade cutting through the air. “Know this: should rebellion rise again, there will be no negotiations, no mercy, no second chances. The Ashirra will be eradicated, their name struck from history, and their legacy reduced to ash. You have seen what I am capable of. Do not test me again.”

He straightened, his imposing form towering over the fallen warrior. “Here are the terms. The Ashirra will fall under my rule, returning to the fold of the Night Court. You will retain some autonomy to govern your sect and your traditions, but only so long as your actions align with my decrees. You will fight for the Night Court as its sword and shield, and you will answer my summons without delay or question.”

Marcus began to pace, his boots echoing on the bloodied stones. “Your first task will be to aid in repelling the hobgoblin incursions. The Night Court has more pressing goals than infighting, and you will prove your loyalty by carrying out this order. The Ashirra’s strength and resilience will serve well in this campaign, and your actions there will determine your standing within the Night Court moving forward. Prove yourselves worthy, and the Ashirra’s name may yet thrive under my rule.”

He stopped and turned, his gaze boring into Ahmad. “This is the only chance I will give you, Ahmad. Accept these terms, and you will have your place in the future of the Night Court. Refuse, and I will finish what I started here, leaving nothing of the Ashirra but forgotten ruins and bitter memories.”

Marcus leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Choose wisely, warrior. The fate of your people rests on your shoulders.”

He straightened again, waiting for Ahmad’s reply, the weight of his ultimatum hanging heavily in the air.

 

[The Night Court]

Ahmad bowed his head deeply, his golden eyes now fixed on Marcus with a mixture of respect and solemnity. Blood still dripped from his wounds, yet his voice rang clear and unwavering as he spoke.

“You have my loyalty, Marcus. The Ashirra will stand beneath your banner once more. No more will we defy the will of the Night Court. I will order my warriors to cease their assault and prepare to aid you in whatever task you deem worthy of us. Our strength is yours, as it always should have been.”

With a commanding gesture, Ahmad turned to the nearest surviving Ashirra warriors, his voice rising with authority. “Stand down! Lay down your arms and halt your attacks! The Ashirra now serve the Night Court, as is our duty and honor. Any who oppose this will face me!”

His words reverberated across the battlefield, spreading like a ripple through the chaos. One by one, Ashirra warriors lowered their weapons, their expressions a mixture of relief, defeat, and grim acceptance. The once-violent clash between the two forces came to an abrupt halt, the streets of Ali falling into a tense but quiet calm.

The armies of the Night Court, seeing the Ashirra stand down, came to heel as well. Ghouls slunk back into the shadows, undead hordes halted in their tracks, and the Red Mages ceased their fiery onslaught. Commanders like Celeste, Agatha, and Caiden regrouped their forces, their sharp gazes turning to Marcus for further instruction.

Ahmad stepped forward, bloodied but proud, and extended his arm to Marcus. “Let us put this conflict behind us, my king. The Ashirra are yours, and together, we will see to it that no force stands against the Night Court. Come, the palace is yours. We will welcome you and your generals to discuss the next steps.”

Marcus regarded him for a long moment before clasping Ahmad’s arm in a gesture that carried both finality and unity. The Vampire King’s crimson eyes swept over the ruined city, his expression a mixture of triumph and calculation. “Very well, Ahmad. Let this be the beginning of a stronger Night Court. Lead us to the palace, and we will plan the fall of the hobgoblins and the greater conquest to come.”

With Ahmad at his side, Marcus led his generals—Celeste, Agatha, Caiden, the towering ogre, and the other commanders—toward the palace steps. The night court banners fluttered in the wind as the army gathered in formation, their loyalty and might now bolstered by the Ashirra’s inclusion.

As they entered the palace, the weight of what had just transpired was clear. Ali had fallen, but the Night Court had risen stronger than ever, its fractured sects now united under Marcus’s rule. The rebellion was over, and a new chapter for the Night Court was about to begin.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Marcus strode into the grand hall of the palace, his crimson cloak billowing behind him, the echoes of his boots resonating against the marble floors. The air within the palace carried the faint scent of ash and blood, a lingering reminder of the battle that had raged outside. At the end of the hall stood the throne of Ali—ornate, carved with the motifs of the desert sands, and gleaming with the golden pride of the Ashirra. Marcus ascended the steps without hesitation, seating himself upon the throne as if it had always been his.

From this position of dominance, Marcus gazed down upon his generals and advisors—Celeste, Agatha, Caiden, Ahmad, the massive ogre champion, and the other assembled leaders of the Night Court. Their loyalty was evident in their postures, their eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and anticipation. Ahmad stood among them now, his submission complete, his Ashirra warriors ready to serve.

Marcus’s voice broke the silence, resonant and commanding. “Today, Ali falls under my rule, as it always should have. The Ashirra are returned to their rightful place within the Night Court. This city and its people now serve as an essential piece of our growing empire. But this is not the end—merely the beginning. We have more battles to fight and more victories to claim.”

His gaze swept across the room, landing briefly on each of his generals. “Here is the state of our world. To the west, the armies of Espada—my armies—stand vigilant at the borders, ready to engage the hobgoblin hordes that dare encroach upon our lands. To the south, however, lies a more pressing concern. The instability there must be addressed before it festers further. The south will be the primary focus of the Night Court’s might.”

Marcus leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Understand this: the armies of the day and the armies of the night cannot meet—not yet. To the Espada, I am a god, a being beyond mortal comprehension. To you, I am both a king and a pure-blood vampire. The day cannot know the truth of the night until the time is right. Until then, our operations must remain separate.”

He gestured toward Caiden. “Caiden, you and your blood-bound cult will join the warriors of the west to reinforce our borders against the hobgoblins. Their advance must be crushed, their forces driven back into the shadows from which they came.”

Marcus then turned to Celeste, Agatha, and Ahmad. “The rest of you—Red Mages, Ashirra, ghouls, vampires, undead, and the ogre champion—will turn your attention to the south. You will defend our lands, repel any threats, and bring order to the chaos that festers there. Do not fail me.”

His voice lowered, a hint of cunning entering his tone. “Meanwhile, Nepheli will soon engage from the sea. The introduction of the Night Court’s navy will change the balance of power across the world. With our forces pressing from land and sea, the hobgoblins—and any who stand against us—will know despair.”

Marcus leaned back against the throne, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the hall. “From here, in Ali, I will run our operations. This city is now the heart of our war efforts, perfectly positioned to command two fronts. You all have your orders. Go now, and see them carried out with the precision and ruthlessness that defines the Night Court. This is the beginning of our dominion over the world.”

The generals bowed deeply, each departing to rally their respective forces. Marcus watched them go, the weight of his empire resting on his shoulders but his confidence unshaken. The world was shifting, and soon, all would kneel before the Night Court.