Girou limped through the darkness, propped up by his surviving men. His Iron Skin—his pride—had cracked, and every breath felt like an accusation.
But the humiliation was nothing compared to the dread awaiting him ahead.
Black banners snapped in the wind, embroidered with a golden sunburst, symbol of the Kingdom of Eryndor. Torches cast long shadows over armored soldiers arranged in disciplined rows.
And at their head—
A man dismounted from a tall warhorse, cloak of crimson-and-gold fluttering behind him like a burning storm.
Lord Malrik Veynar, High Noble of Eryndor
Left Hand of General Serath Valen
Authority Holder
—And owner of the most infamous mustache in the western continents.
Waxed into upward-curving horns, Malrik’s golden mustache vibrated sharply—like blades hungry for blood. That was how one knew he was furious.
Girou immediately fell to one knee.
“My lord… forgive me. It was no ordinary opponent. It was Yava. The Divine Merchant returned.”
A ripple of shock spread among the guards.
Yava’s name was not spoken lightly.
The mustache vibrated faster. One soldier quietly stepped back, fearing an accidental slice.
“Well, well…” Malrik’s grin widened. “The Fox has crawled out of whatever hole he disappeared into.”
He tapped his mustache tips thoughtfully.
“And Dael?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. The Divine Chef was with him.”
Malrik’s expression shifted from amusement to calculation.
The mustache hummed ominously.
“Oh, delightful,” he murmured. “If those two are together again… the balance will shift.”
A nearby guard stammered, “S-Should we alert the capital?”
Malrik snapped a glare sharp enough to peel bark off a tree.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Of course we alert the capital, you soggy-brained turnip! The Royal Council needs to know immediately.”
He leaned close to Girou.
“And you”—his voice softened dangerously—“will follow Yava. Fail again, and I’ll grind your precious Iron Skin into dust to polish the palace floor.”
Girou bowed lower, though something new stirred in him.
Yava spared me…
Malrik never would.
Malrik flicked his mustache and mounted his horse.
“Come,” he commanded. “Let Eryndor learn that the Fox has returned.”
The banners rose, and the convoy thundered toward the distant capital of Veyndral, where storms awaited.
Veyndral — Heart of the Storm Kingdom
Dawn broke across towering sea cliffs and iron fortresses as Malrik’s retinue entered the capital.
Built along ridges and storm-beaten coasts, Veyndral was a kingdom carved from war.
- Lightning rods lined the battlements
- Warships anchored along jagged bays
- Training fields echoed with the clash of steel
- Storm banners cracked in the morning wind
In the Grand Palace, nobles and generals gathered in a crimson hall beneath murals of past conquests.
Upon the throne sat King Arduin Eryndor—broad-shouldered, gray-streaked hair tied back, eyes sharp as forged steel. His armor bore the same sunburst crest as the banners.
Malrik knelt before him.
“Your Majesty, I bring urgent news from Hearthspring.”
Arduin’s brow furrowed.
“Well? Speak.”
Malrik inhaled.
“The Divine Merchant… Yava has returned.”
Shock rippled through the hall.
“Impossible—!”
“After all these years?”
“If Yava moves, Dael moves—”
“And if Dael moves, Serath—”
“Silence,” the king commanded, raising a hand.
His gaze hardened.
“Summon the General.”
The Arrival of the Storm General
The great doors creaked open.
A cold wind swept through the hall.
Then came the sound—
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
Heavy iron boots striking the marble, each step echoing like thunder.
A man emerged from the shadows.
His armor was a fearsome blend of black, orange, and gold, forged like layered storm clouds illuminated by fire. Scars crossed his face like battle-worn lightning. His long blond hair was tied back, though a few strands framed his sharp features.
His eyes—deep storm-blue—were calm yet heavy with restrained power.
This was Serath Valen,
General of Eryndor
Wielder of the Authority of Storms
Once known as the Divine Fisherman,
Now feared as a living tempest.
When he spoke, even the torches quieted.
“Your Majesty.”
Arduin rose.
“Serath. Malrik claims Yava has resurfaced.”
Serath’s eyes narrowed.
“…The Fox.”
He said the word as though tasting an old memory—half irritation, half respect.
“Was Dael with him?” Serath asked without turning his head.
“Yes,” Malrik replied immediately. “The Chef lives.”
Serath exhaled slowly. A faint rumble of thunder rolled outside.
“So the Fox and the Flame walk together again,” he murmured. “The world truly is changing.”
The council stiffened, sensing the shift in his tone.
Arduin stepped closer.
“General… how shall we proceed? Yava’s appearance could destabilize everything we’ve built.”
Serath was silent.
Old memories surfaced:
A battlefield drowned in storm and spatial distortions.
Dael standing atop ruins with smoke rising behind him.
And Yava—unmoving, calm, eyes like a galaxy—saying:
“Serath… step back.”
Serath clenched his jaw.
Finally, he spoke.
“Prepare the fleets. Increase border patrols. And inform the nobles that if Yava enters Eryndor…”
He turned toward the doors.
His iron boots echoed like rolling thunder.
“…they are not to engage.”
A hush fell.
Serath paused at the exit and muttered:
“Fox… what game are you playing now?”
Lightning cracked across the sky.
The storm had awakened.