The great vaulted throne hall of the human capital had served as the realm's central war council chamber for years, its rough stone walls lined with tattered soil survey maps, ore deposit reports, and agricultural yield ledgers. Torches burned in iron sconces along the columns, casting warm golden light over the long oak table at the room's heart, where the six clan leaders had gathered at Laia's summons. She stood on the raised stone dais at the far end, her expression grave, and let the weight of her warning settle over the room.
"The native tribes and beasts of the border realms are nothing like the void wraiths or abyssal spawn you have fought before," she said, slow and steady, making sure every word landed. "They are born from shattered, fully formed divine realms, bound by complete and unbroken world laws. They do not dissolve into smoke after a skirmish. They do not respawn when the battle ends. If you fall out there, you stay fallen. There are no second chances."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over every face at the table.
"Fifth tier is a true, uncrossable threshold in those lands. There are slumbering warlords, half-broken old gods, and ancient guardian spirits sleeping in the ruins. You are strong—strong for your tier, stronger than most. But this is not a tournament. This is not a training drill. One wrong step, and we lose people. Permanently."
Silence settled over the hall.
Laia waited for the hesitation, for the nervous questions, for the cautious arguments that the risk was too high, that they were fine with what they already had. She'd braced herself to argue, to lay out every cost and benefit, to talk them into even considering the venture.
Instead, Vorath lifted his great scaled head, golden eyes glinting like molten coin, and rumbled, "So these border realms. They have proper topsoil? Real grain? The kind that makes actual cream, not that thin, bitter stuff we squeeze out of deep-wheat?"
Laia blinked.
That was not the first question she had expected.
"Most unclaimed fragments have far richer soil than ours," she said, slowly. "Full growth laws. No thin veil stunting every seed that gets planted. Normal crops. Normal trees."
Vorath's tail thumped once against the stone floor, hard enough to rattle the inkwells and crystal vials lined up along the table edge.
"Then we're going," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "No debate. Risk or no risk. You think I want to spend the next three hundred years eating bitter bread and dreaming about frosting? If there's proper baking ingredients out there, we're taking them."
Gromm the Demon Lord chuckled, a low, rumbling sound like bubbling magma deep in a volcano.
"I am with the old lizard. What good is a tiny magma pool when you have no mountain range to feed it? I want proper volcanoes. Real forges. Not these sad little lava pits we tend to now."
The Shadow Lord's voice drifted from the dark corner at the far end of the table, low and rough as grinding basalt.
"I want a real sun. Not the faint, sickly glow off those fire trees. Actual sunlight. I will go."
Elowen tilted her head, running a slender finger along the edge of a dried bluebell bloom tucked into her sleeve.
"Normal plants," she said, soft but unshakable. "Flowers that do not exude toxic mist. Trees that do not try to eat anyone who walks past. If there is land where things grow gentle instead of vicious, it is worth the risk."
Gimli Stonefist stroked his braided iron-gray beard, his eyes already gleaming with the thought of untapped mineral veins.
"Border realm fragments always have unmined deposits. Deep iron. Star-silver. All the good stuff, just sitting in the rock waiting for someone with half a brain to dig it out. Count me in. A few risks for proper ore? Worth every scrap of it."
King Theron had been quiet this entire time, leaning forward over the table, his fingers steepled, staring at the blank stretch of worn oak in front of him like he was already drafting settlement maps in his head. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, practical, already three steps into the logistics.
"How large are the typical unclaimed fragments?" he asked. "What is the standard native population density? Do we have any record of the average tier of local warlords?"
Laia stared at him.
She'd come here ready to argue, ready to talk them down from reckless excitement, ready to lay out every danger in graphic detail. Instead, every single one of them had already decided to go before she'd even finished listing the risks.
Of course they had.
She thought about their realm—scoured by constant wind, thin-soiled, full of predatory trees and venomous mist and scaled cattle that could shatter a stone wall with one kick. She thought about the endless workarounds, the grafting experiments, the soil refinement projects, the constant, grinding fight to pull enough food out of barren ground to feed everyone.
Of course they'd jump at the chance for real, normal, fertile land. Of course a little danger wasn't going to stop them. They'd been surviving on a half-broken realm since the day she'd found them. Risk was nothing new.
"Most unclaimed fragments are roughly the size of our western farmlands," she said, pulling herself back together. "Native tribes vary wildly. Most are third tier, with fourth tier chieftains. The deeper you go into the border realms, the stronger they get. Old broken god remnants are rare, but they exist. Fifth tier, usually dormant, usually guarding something valuable."
Theron nodded, already tracing faint lines in the thin layer of dust on the tabletop.
"Then we do this slow. No bold charges. No reckless raids. First wave: a small scouting party, fast, quiet, to map the nearest fragment and mark all native encampments. Second wave: engineering corps, to build a fortified bridgehead, curtain walls, supply depots. We expand one mile at a time. We do not overextend. We do not pick fights we cannot win."
He looked up, his gaze sharp and steady.
"If we do this right, we double our arable land within six months. Triple it, if we claim two fragments. The population cap goes up by a factor of four. The Box of Avarice output scales directly with population. Your daily crystal income quadruples. We stop scraping by. We stop surviving. We start thriving."
Vorath rumbled his deep agreement. "I'll lead the first scouting run. Fastest thing in the realm. If there's trouble, I can outrun it. And if there are fruit trees? I'll be the first to know."
Gimli thumped his forge hammer against the stone floor. "I'll have the smiths forge new rune-reinforced siege gear. Proper plate for the scouting party. No cutting corners."
"Poisoned arrowheads," Elowen added, calm as ever. "Warding tinctures for the mist. We will be ready."
"Flame support," Gromm rumbled. "Anything tries to breach the walls, it burns to ash."
"Night patrols," the Shadow Lord said, low and grim. "They will not sneak up on us in the dark."
One by one, they fell into place, dividing responsibilities, debating supply routes, arguing over scouting rotations like they'd been preparing for this campaign for years.
Laia leaned back against the stone throne behind her, watching them, and let out a quiet, amused huff.
She'd been worried they'd be too cautious. She'd been worried she'd have to talk them into it.
Instead, they were already three steps ahead of her, building an entire settlement strategy around the promise of real soil, real sun, real food.
She shouldn't have been surprised. When you'd spent your whole life making do with scraps, the chance at something better was worth every risk.
She pushed off the throne and stepped down to the table, tapping a finger on the blank stone map Theron had been sketching on.
"Alright," she said, when the noise died down a little. "We leave two days after the academy gala. Get everything ready. And for the record? If any of you runs off chasing cake trees or ore veins and gets yourselves killed, I am not coming to rescue you."
Vorath huffed, already mentally packing his favorite treasure hoard snacks for the trip.
"Please. I'm not going to get killed over cake. I'm going to get cake. There's a difference."