Chapter 15: The Weight of the South
South Aethermoor have usual morning like any other.
The plains stirred, gently and peaceful, wheat bending to a mild breeze.
Dark, rich soil beneath bare feet that had walked these fields since childhood.
Irrigation channels, like thin ribbons of glass, caught the dawn and carried water with infinite patience from far-off rivers to land that had fed the continent for generations.
Cattle meandered without the sense of urgency between posts. Smoke rose in thin, steady lines from widely set homesteads, each home given room to breathe.
It was peaceful, almost disarming to see.
Yet this calm fed the world.
South Aethermoor filled granaries far beyond its borders. Its harvests traveled north along frost-hard roads, and east into brittle lands where crops failed more often than they survived, scarred by old wars and slow recovery. In places where the earth cracked and hunger lingered, the South was spoken of with envy, sometimes with bitterness, often with quiet dependence.
The land itself was almost living.
The land rolled out in plains to distant horizon lines that blended because of extent rather than definition. Wheat fell in stalks that pushed to contain their own weight of promise, and the people who toiled there understood what was never stated in their songs. The gift of sustenance to the continent was never merely that. To keep others alive, the South first had to endure
That burden made it a target.
Nearly every road led outward from here. Caravans rolled north, grain packed tight against winter hunger. Wagons creaked east toward failing soils and uncertain rains. Westward, supplies crossed into lands still learning how to heal. The South did not feed Aethermoor out of generosity alone. It fed it because the continent depended on it. Aethermoor stood because its belly was full.
And that made the South worth taking.
Yet the plains remained quiet.
Not because they were undefended, but because they were prepared.
Villages were built with space between them, wide enough for wind to pass freely, for horses to turn, for watchful eyes to see far across open land. Homes were low and grounded, roofs sloped to endure storms, walls thick enough to hold against both heat and cold. People rose early. Work began without rush. Conversations were plain, practical, unburdened by fear.
They spoke little of danger, not because it did not exist, but because it was already accounted for.
Children learned which roads were safe and which were not before they learned the songs sung in taverns. Farmers read the land as carefully as others read omens. Every fence post, every watchtower, every mile of open field had a purpose.
The South endured because it understood something others forgot.
Abundance was not weakness. It was responsibility.
And responsibility, when carried with open eyes and steady hands, became a wall no enemy could easily break.
At the southern edge of the plains, stone rose from the earth like a second horizon.
Tinatus Wall stood against the Dark Sea, a structure so tall and thick that even the wind broke against it. Its surface bore scars from centuries of testing. Cracks filled and reinforced. Stone laid atop stone, layer after layer, not just to stop armies, but to deny the sky itself.
No airship passed it. No flying beast crossed it. The wall was not simply a barrier. It was a statement.
Beyond it, the sea churned dark and endless.
Within it, garrisons stood ready.
Always ready.
Always vigilant.
On this day, the Tinatus Wall was tested once more.
The Spire Empire arrived as the sun rises.
Their sky vessels did not announce themselves with horns or banners. They drifted above the Dark Sea like suspended geometry, plates of crystal and metal rotating slowly, held aloft by magic that bent the air around them. Light bled downward in narrow beams, pale and clinical, measuring the Tinatus Wall rather than threatening it.
Spire mages observed first. That was always their way.
Magic circles unfolded along the hulls, focusing on the Wall's height, its curvature, the heat signatures of the garrison within. Sigils bloomed and faded as calculations were made. The Spire had learned long ago that South Aethermoor did not respond to intimidation. It responded only when thresholds were crossed.
So the Empire tested thresholds.
A spell lattice descended like invisible rain. Pressure built along the upper battlements, not explosive, not dramatic, but precise. Stone screamed softly as stress spread through it. Wind patterns distorted. Birds fled. Nothing broke.
On the Wall, bells rang once.
Not alarms. Signals.
Iron Host protocol moved without urgency.
Dawn Sentinels were already mounted along the inner ramparts, bows unstrung but ready, eyes tracking movement rather than targets.
Ember Guard detachments sealed secondary gates and reinforced anchor points where the Wall met the bedrock. Shieldbearers cleared civilians from nearby trade roads with practiced calm. No shouting. No panic.
Above them, the Spire Empire advanced to the next phase.
Knights descended.
They wore armor lighter than steel, segmented and etched with sigils that pulsed faintly with levitation magic. They did not fall. They stepped down through the air as if descending invisible stairs, weapons humming with restrained enchantments. Behind them, mages maintained altitude control, weaving spells that hardened the air beneath their allies' feet.
The first Spire knight crossed the exclusion height.
That was the threshold.
Aura ignited along the Wall.
It did not flare like fire. It settled.
Iron Host knights stepped forward in unison, boots striking stone once, synchronized. Black steel, crimson trim, bronze and gold, dark red, silver blue. Different orders. Same movement. Aura bled through armor seams as heat shimmered, subtle but unmistakable.
The Knights of the Round Table took position at the central bastion. Not because the throne was present, but because doctrine demanded it.
The first clash occurred in silence.
A Spire knight struck downward, blade wrapped in force meant to shear through stone and flesh alike. An Iron Fist knight met it head-on, Aura flooding his arms, the impact detonating outward in a controlled shock that cracked the air. Both were thrown back. Only one rose immediately.
Night Talons appeared where Spire mages least expected them.
They did not leap or announce themselves. They were already there, clinging to the Wall's shadowed recesses, grappling hooks biting into enchanted hull plating. A mage began a casting sequence and stopped halfway through, fingers stiffening as a hair-thin strand of Aura severed the spell at its source. The mage fell without sound.
Above, Spire commanders adjusted tactics.
They escalated.
Gravity inverted along a narrow section of the Wall. Stone screamed again, this time louder. Iron Host knights were torn from their footing, bodies lifting as the world turned hostile. Before panic could take root, Dawnwatch Rangers fired signal flares, not to warn, but to mark coordinates.
Ember Guard hammers struck the Wall in precise locations, Aura driven downward, counter-resonating the spell lattice. Gravity snapped back into place. Several Spire knights did not adjust in time.
They fell.
The Spire Empire attempted aerial bombardment next. Focused beams of condensed magic, meant to melt armor and flesh simultaneously. Shieldbearers formed layered phalanxes, Aura interlocking, barriers overlapping just enough to bleed energy sideways rather than absorb it outright. The beams curved, dispersed, vanished into the sky.
Casualties mounted.
Not all Iron Host knights survived the engagement. Some burned from within, Aura pushed too far, too fast. Others fell from the Wall and did not rise. Their names were recorded later, not spoken then.
The Spire Empire realized something too late.
There was no central target.
No command figure to eliminate. No moment of collapse to force. The Iron Host did not fight like an army awaiting orders. It fought like a mechanism already in motion.
When the Spire fleet withdrew altitude to reassess, the Celestial Lancers rode out from concealed gates along the Wall's length, lances glowing faintly as Aura threaded through metal. They did not pursue far. Only enough to ensure retreat remained retreat.
By midday, the sky was empty.
The Wall stood.
Repairs began before the last echoes faded. Stones were replaced. Sigils re-etched. Blood washed from the battlements.
No victory declaration was issued.
South Aethermoor returned to routine.
Far above, in the drifting cities of the Spire Empire, records were amended. Projections recalculated. Assumptions revised.
The absence of the Knight King had been considered an opening.
It was, in fact, confirmation.