Dante walked through the centre of Dragospire's courtyard on a dawn of heavy rain, cold and thick as iron. His cloak clung to his body, but his steps were firm and silent. Iago followed close behind, as usual, his face half-hidden beneath his hood. Around them, under the relentless oversight of Lucien Darcos, groups of rebels trained in tense silence – dull swords clashed, bayonets clinked, and muffled voices giving orders were lost in the wind.
Further ahead, in the shadow of the eastern walls, Dante paused for a moment. There, a few metres away, he saw Elizaveta wrapped in her heavy coat, her hair tied back and soaked by the rain. Beside her, her lieutenants, Gregor and Dário, whispered to each other, gesturing with impatience. There was tension in the air, something sharper than the cold.
Yet, for now, Dante held in his possession the black monstrosity that was Dragospire, forged of stone and steel, a defensive marvel that, had Lucien not done what he did, they would possibly still be laying siege to, with little chance of taking it.
The Ferralians said it had not been built by human hands, but hammered into being over the will of the ancient kings, as if the very mountain had been bent under their iron command. Its towers, tall and sharp as spears pointing to the sky, disappeared into clouds of smoke and rain that rarely lifted. And within its depths, the constant sound of forges, chains, and hammers echoed night and day, like the beating of a metallic heart.
Dragospire was not merely a fortress – it was the iron knot that bound the entire kingdom. From there, roads led to the capital, Ferrumia, and to the fields of the north, east, and south; from there flowed provisions, weapons, and soldiers. Every route passed under the cold gaze of its towers. To control Dragospire was, in essence, to control the blood running through Ferralia's veins.
The walls, a near-oily black, were wide enough for the movement of soldiers and artillery, and their gates – double, reinforced with steel – were always guarded by sentinels wearing armour as dark as the stone. At night, torches and lit forges cast red reflections across the battlements, making the fortress appear like a living colossus, breathing fire and smoke.
– Tell me, Iago – Dante began, his gaze fixed on the men and women training in the rain. – How many do you think we have now, under our command?
Iago, his face always hardened by smoke and scars, crossed his arms and let out a faint sigh.
– We brought around two thousand from Rocciaguarda – he replied in a grave, almost resigned tone. – And there were about fifteen hundred already here when we took Dragospire. They joined us without much hesitation.
Dante nodded slowly, his gaze lost among the drenched courtyards and towers.
– And Elizaveta? – he finally asked.
– She still has her two thousand mercenaries – Iago said, adjusting his hood. – Hard people. They fight for gold, but, for now, the gold is on her side. And every day more arrive: from Ferrumia, Gelospire, Ferroporto, even Spadaguarda. Rebels like us, deserters, people who have nothing left to lose.
There was a brief silence between them, broken by the sound of rain dripping on the battlements and the distant roar of a forge.
– If this continues – Iago went on, – in a few days we could have double what we have now. But we'll need training, discipline. And we must know, in the name of Solarius, where the royal army is.
Dante turned slowly to him.
– Magno Ferroforte's army.
Iago nodded.
– Ten thousand, perhaps fifteen thousand soldiers, they say. They should be in the south, fighting the Silvanians, but no one has seen them, neither the dead nor the wounded, not even the smoke of their battles. It's as if they vanished from the face of the earth.
A thunderclap tore through the sky, and the sound echoed off Dragospire's walls, making the ground beneath their feet tremble. Dante looked again to the horizon, to the black vastness enveloping the fortress.
– No one disappears like that, Iago – he murmured. – Not an entire army. By the way, you said reinforcements arrive from Gelospire and Spadaguarda. Any news of Lady Lúcia Gelospira and her fortress?
– The Ice Lady remains firm within her walls – he said, frowning, his tone a mix of respect and caution. – Three thousand troops, well-armed, stocked with provisions for months. They have not moved, not a step beyond the gates.
– That worries me – Dante replied in a low voice. – When a woman like Lúcia stays silent so long, it is rarely from indecision.
Iago made a brief sound, almost a joyless laugh.
– You're not the only one who thinks so. But she has always been a patient player. She waits to see which way the wind blows before betting with her muskets.
Dante looked away, thoughtful.
– And Spadaguarda?
– Knight Enzo Spadascura remains in the fort with around four thousand – Iago replied, in a tone that betrayed exasperation. – Proud as ever, and stubborn as an ox. He hasn't lifted a finger yet as he's 'protecting the borders'.
– Protecting them from what? – Dante asked in a bitter murmur. – From us, or from those who should be in the south?
Iago shrugged, letting out a weary sigh.
– From everyone, perhaps. In this kingdom, no one knows for certain who is an ally and who is an enemy.
– Enzo Spadascura… – Dante murmured thoughtfully. – Still hiding behind the walls of his fort…
Iago let out a short laugh, almost a grumble.
– Ah, brave Enzo… the Royal Executive of Military Justice… isn't that what they still call him? – he said, with marked irony. – I heard a few soldiers talking about him these last few days. They swear they'd rather face the forges of the underworld than cross paths with the 'Executive'.
Dante raised an eyebrow. – They fear him that much?
– More than us, it seems – Iago replied, with a crooked smile. – They say the man never forgets a name, nor a face, that he executed his own cousin for desertion and a soldier's father for failing to answer the call. To some, he is a legend. To others, a nightmare in human form.
The distant sound of a chain striking a wall punctuated the following silence. Iago continued, leaning his shoulder against the cold stone.
– That is why many have come to our side. Many did not come for love of the cause, nor out of hatred for the High Lord… but out of fear of the Royal Executive. When the ghosts of the throne's justice are more feared than war, it is a sign the kingdom has already begun to rot.
Dante let out a sigh, watching the mist forming over the courtyard. – Fear is a powerful weapon – he said, in a grave tone. – But it is one that always turns against the hand that wields it.
– Indeed. And when Enzo finally leaves his walls, I don't know if he will come as a general… or as an executioner seeking more victims.
– And the other cities? Any news from Ferroporto or the other nearby fortresses?
– From Ferroporto, yes. A few people arrived this dawn: fishermen, labourers, simple folk. They say the port has been at a standstill for months. The markets almost dead, commerce halted.
– And the people? What do they say about the situation?
– They are fed up – Iago replied, in a dry tone, – fed up with waiting for the nobles to tell them when they may eat and when they must die. Some say Ferroporto is ready to join us, and that, if it is to change their fate, they would rather do so as rebels than as slaves of the Ferroforte.
– Rebels out of desperation… – Dante said, letting out a light sound, somewhere between laughter and a sigh. – There is no force more dangerous.
– That is what makes them unpredictable. Some of those who arrived tonight spoke with conviction. They say that if Dragospire holds firm, Ferroporto will follow. They say the tide is turning.
– Or perhaps only the wind – Dante replied, sombre. – And the wind changes quickly in Ferralia.
– Even so, Dante… it's a start. Ferroporto may be the first to join us willingly and stand on the right side.
A short smile passed over Dante's face – more a furtive gesture than joy – and for a moment, the rain seemed to still around him. The flash of a lightning bolt revealed, for a second, the hardened features of that smile; then, the shadow settled again over his eyes, heavy as his conviction.
– And… and Elias? Any news of him?
– From the reports we've received, he remains a prisoner in Silvania. There are accounts, torn letters, whispered conversations in taverns. No one has seen him yet, nor have they heard of him free.
Dante clenched his fists. His smile faded, turning into a promise of stone. Thoughts rushed to Elias' face – the face with which he had shared nights of hunger and stolen triumphs – and something inside him flared like an ancient ember.
– When I rip Magno Ferroforte's head off and make it roll – he murmured, in a low, cutting tone, – I will burn Bosco Antico to the roots. Let the forest burn, let the druids burn, and all their webs of secrets with them. I am done with their prophecies and their games in the shadows.
No sooner had Dante's words dissipated into the cold air than a distinct sound tore through the murmur of the rain – the hurried trot of a horse on the wet cobbles. The sentinels on the walls turned, and a cry echoed amidst the rumble of thunder:
– Messenger from the west!
Dante and Iago exchanged a brief glance and stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The rider entered the courtyard like a mud-streaked shadow, his uniform soaked, the horse steaming in the cold dawn. One of the guards ran to hold the reins as the man dismounted, trembling, his eyes wide as though bearing more weight than words could contain.
– For Commander Dante Ferroso! – he shouted, holding out a sealed scroll.
Dante snatched the message from his hands, broke the seal, and read. As his eyes ran over the lines, the colour seemed to drain from his face.
Iago stepped forward.
– What is it, Dante?
Dante raised his gaze, his eyes like embers ready to flare.
– They have found him – his voice sounded like the dragging of a blade. – The High Lord Magno Ferroforte.
Iago frowned. – Where?
– On his way here – Dante replied, each word heavier than the last. – He is on the road from Ferrumia, with fifteen thousand behind him.
Silence fell like a blow. The rain seemed to beat harder, as if the sky itself reacted to the news.
– But… – began Iago, incredulous, – the reports said the army was in the south, supposedly fighting the Silvanians…
Dante threw the scroll to the ground, his expression a mixture of anger and disdain. The commotion drew the curiosity of Lucien Darcos, Elizaveta, and her lieutenants, who now approached Dante and Iago, making Dragospire's courtyard seem to shrink around them.
– All false. All forged. Someone wanted us to believe that lie. And now the army marches on us.
– Fifteen thousand… – said Iago, hoarsely, – against fewer than five thousand of ours.
– Do we still have the ashes of the dead? – Dante asked, giving him a look that did not ask, but demanded.
Iago swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as he sought the answer. – Yes… – he murmured, hesitant, – we still have them. We stored them… reserved them for if the worst came. For… for a last card.
– To use them is to sign a treaty with things we cannot command afterwards – said Lucien, with the calm of a man who has seen too many cities cease to be cities. – There is always a price that cannot be erased.
– Prices were paid before us – replied Elizaveta, smiling briefly and without humour, her voice like ice breaking against rock. – If it is to save Ferralia from a rotten yoke, I would rather that price be my steel than the silence of cowards.
Dante looked, one by one, at the faces surrounding him: Iago's determination, Lucien's raw logic, Elizaveta's calculated coldness, her lieutenants' silent loyalty. The rain washed away dust and mud, but it could not cleanse the weight of that decision. He raised his hand, and the words came like a banner lifted against the wind.
– We have kept this last measure for days without hope. That day has come. I do not intend to use it for pleasure, nor out of blind hatred. I intend to use it to tear the old system from its roots, to end Ferroforte and all who sell the kingdom to fear and lies. Afterwards, if the gods allow, we shall cast the ashes to the wind and plant something new in this scorched ground: a new era.