Rise of Tyrus

Upon Crown Prince Saldeon's bold declaration, an oppressive hush fell amongst the attendees. The officers stared at the weapon, and at their prince, with expressions ranging from grim satisfaction to barely concealed shock.

First to move, Tehen bowed, his fist against his chest, shattering the stillness. "It will be done, Your Highness. The Beastfolk will learn the cost of spilling Lethian blood."

Many more officers, hardened by years of military service, followed their lead, their expressions stern and resolute. Seasoned by war, these men understood its language, a moment they may have awaited with a patience exceeding their willingness to confess. Yet not all shared their enthusiasm.

Ostaun's bow came a second slower. His eyes lingered on Saldeon's face with the same concern that had marked their earlier conversation. "Your Highness, a formal declaration to the Imperial Court will require His Majesty's approval. This may—"

"His Majesty will receive my petition and the evidence that supports it," Saldeon cut him off, though his voice lacked its earlier fire. Now that the moment had passed, something cold and hollow had settled in his chest. "Forty innocent lives so far have perished, Ostaun, stemming from my incompetence as a commander."

The number lingered, a silent indictment. Even those officers who harbored doubts about aggressive action found their reservations crumbling in the face of a loss. In the grand scheme of things, losing forty Lethian lives may seem miniscule in terms of casualties, but to the families left behind, to the community shattered by grief, it was a catastrophe.

For Saldeon, the situation was a snowball sliding down a powdered mountain as tall as the heavens themselves. He had to be the one to halt the snowball's growth before it became unstoppable.

Gulinar stood silent throughout the exchange, leaning against the wall. When he finally spoke, his voice carried just the right note of reluctant acceptance.

"The decision is made, then," he said, stepping forward and placing a hand on Saldeon's shoulder. "I know this weighs heavily on you. It weighs on us all. But sometimes the burden of leadership demands we choose the harder path."

Saldeon nodded slowly, then addressed the others. "Prepare the men for what lies ahead. Tell the supply masters we'll need provisions for a long campaign. And Tehen, double the patrols along our eastern borders. If more raiders are out there, find them before they attack again."

The officers left, already chattering about preparations and expectations. News would spread quickly through the war camp: two thousand men would shift from defense to offense within hours.

Gulinar lingered until the last officer had departed, then moved closer to his brother to give him another pat on the back before taking his leave. Saldeon remained alone in the command tent. The space felt larger now, emptier, as if his declaration had somehow changed its very proportions. He sheathed his sword and walked to the table where the maps still lay spread out, their colored pins compiling new significance.

***

Saldeon's private quarters felt like a sanctuary after leaving the tent. The stone walls blocked out most of the camp's noise, leaving only the distant sounds of soldiers going about their duties. He settled at his writing desk and drew out a fresh sheet of parchment.

The imperial seal lay beside the inkwell, waiting to give his words the weight of official decree. For a moment, he simply stared at the blank page, his mind struggling to find the right words to explain his decision to his father. Emperor Johan had sent him here as a peacekeeper and observer, trusting in his diplomatic skills and measured judgment. Now he would have to explain why diplomacy had failed.

Declaring war was not as simple as drawing a sword and making bold proclamations. The Lethos Empire had procedures made after the Grand Conquest that governed how conflicts escalated from tension to open warfare. These protocols existed for good reason, ensuring that war truly was the last resort when all other avenues had been exhausted.

The process began with diplomacy, as it always should. When hostilities reached dangerous levels between nations, the empire would send diplomatic envoys to the opposing kingdom, bearing gifts and carrying proposals for peaceful resolution. It was tradition for these diplomats to receive gifts of equal value in return—a symbolic gesture that acknowledged mutual respect and the settlement of tensions.

But their envoy to the Beastfolk Kingdom had never returned. Weeks had passed since Ambassador Kerek and his retinue had crossed into Beastfolk territory, carrying Emperor Johan's personal seal and a proposal for renewed trade agreements. They should have been back within weeks, whether bearing good news or bearing the Beastfolk's rejection.

Instead, there had been only silence. That silence had triggered the next phase of protocol. The Lethian army had been amassed here at the border, not for invasion but for readiness. They waited in preparation, a show of strength designed to encourage negotiations while preparing for the possibility that diplomacy might fail entirely.

Now, with the raids on Pilouth and Creslin, that possibility had become grim reality. The Beastfolk had moved beyond mere rejection of diplomacy to outright aggression. Forty innocent lives had been the price of their answer.

Under Imperial law, only members of the ruling family or the commanders of the Lethian army possessed the authority to declare war verbally in moments of immediate crisis. Saldeon had exercised that authority in the command tent, but the verbal declaration was only the first step. For war to be officially sanctioned, a formal petition must be written and submitted to the Imperial Court.

The court would gather to deliberate the contents of his letter, weighing the evidence of Beastfolk aggression against the costs of military action. They would debate logistics, consider ramifications, and examine every alternative before reaching their decision. Only when the court had given its approval and Emperor Johan had added his consent would the final ritual take place.

If war were declared, his father would plant a pole bearing the banner of the Lethos Empire in front of the palace. That banner would fly as a declaration to all the world that the empire had chosen the path of war, that diplomacy had been exhausted and force would now speak where words had failed. Saldeon had set all of this in motion with his declaration.

He dipped his quill in the ink and wrote. The words flowed easily at first, falling into the formal cadence he'd learned through years of correspondence with the Imperial Court. He described the raids in clinical detail; the burned villages, the civilian casualties, the clear evidence of Beastfolk aggression. Each sentence felt necessary, building a case that any reasonable person would find compelling.

But as he continued writing, something felt wrong. Not with the words themselves, but with the act of writing them. It was as if his fingers trembled with every word written in black ink.

I was wrong, he thought, pushing the doubts aside. The attack at Mevena's Scar should have opened my eyes sooner.

Yet even as he thought it, pain lanced through his skull like a lightning bolt. A momentary blur of vision showed him standing at Mevena's Scar, watching the creatures beyond the chasm. The image was so vivid, so immediate, that his hand trembled and left an ink blot on the parchment.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

No, the pain in his head intensified, driving out the strange vision. You remember correctly.

The headache vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. He stared at the ink blot, then grabbed another sheet of parchment and began to rewrite. Perhaps the recent events had affected him more than he'd thought. It wasn't surprising his mind played tricks, given the pressures of command and the looming war.

His hand steadied, and he continued writing with renewed confidence. Each word reinforced the necessity of his decision, each argument building inexorably toward the conclusion that war was not only justified but immediate. He wrote of duty to the empire, of responsibility to protect the innocent, of the hard choices that leadership sometimes demanded. Once finished, he set down his quill and read through the letter once more. The language was perfect: respectful but confident.

Saldeon folded the letter carefully and pressed his personal seal into the warm wax. The emblem of crossing swords glared back at him from the crimson seal. This letter would reach the capital in three days if the messenger rode hard. Within a week, the full might of the Empire would be mobilized for war.

Saldeon rose from his desk and walked to the door, ready to summon the messenger who would carry his declaration to the capital. His heart thumped as each aching step sent shivers all along his body. He ignored it as he clutched the letter more firmly, leaving his private quarters.

***

High above the warcamp, atop a jagged spire of stone that jutted from the plateau like a natural watchtower, Prince Gulinar stood with his arms spread wide to embrace the evening breeze. From this vantage point, he could see everything—the draping military encampment below with its orderly rows of tents and barracks, the yawning chasm of Mevena's Scar cutting across the landscape like a wound in the earth, and beyond it, the wooden palisades of the Beastfolk camp.

A glorious battle between the two camps was imminent.

Gulinar threw back his head and laughed; a sound of pure, unrestrained joy that echoed around him. All those months of watching his brother cling to his naive pursuit of peace, of biting his tongue when he wanted to scream that war was inevitable. Finally, finally, Saldeon had been forced to see reason.

"No," Gulinar corrected himself with another burst of laughter. "Not forced to see reason. Driven to make the only choice left to him."

The raids on Pilouth and Creslin had been orchestrated right on time. Enough destruction to seem credible, enough casualties to demand a response, but not so much as to seem obviously staged. The reports had reached Saldeon at exactly the right moment, when his altered memories of the black tiger's "attack" were still fresh and his judgment clouded by manufactured rage.

And now his dear brother had done exactly what was needed. The verbal declaration of war would reach their father within days, along with a petition that would sound entirely reasonable coming from the crown prince's own hand. The Imperial Court would debate, but they would approve. How could they not, when faced with such compelling evidence of Beastfolk aggression?

When the war banner rose outside the palace, Gulinar would finally have his chance to prove himself. He would lead charges against the enemy lines, earn glory in battle, and return home bearing the titles and military honors that would silence any who questioned his worthiness. No longer would he be merely seen as the inferior of the Two Suns. He would be Prince Gulinar the Conqueror, he who brought the Empire to new heights that rivaled even the Grand Conquest.

Yes, his accomplishments would soon eclipse even the First Emperor's!

His shadow, cast long by the setting sun, began to writhe and move independently of his body. The darkness pooled and thickened, taking on substance and form until a cloaked figure emerged from it like something rising from deep water. The Scourge operative's masked face turned toward Gulinar.

"It is done," the operative said, his voice carrying a note of congratulation. "Your brother has played his part perfectly."

Gulinar's smile was sharp with triumph. "Did you ever doubt he would? Saldeon always was predictable in his righteousness. Feed him the right information, present him with the right crisis, and he'll convince himself that war is a moral imperative."

"Indeed. Your understanding of his character has been invaluable," the operative said. "Lesser minds might have failed to predict his reactions so precisely. It required someone of your insight to oversee events so skillfully."

The praise washed over Gulinar like warm wine, confirming what he'd always known—that he possessed a clarity of vision that others, including his supposedly superior brother, lacked entirely.

"The petition is being written even now," Gulinar continued, gesturing toward the camp below. "Saldeon will craft it in his usual language, making the case for war with such measured reasoning that Father will have no choice but to approve it."

"Nevertheless, I must remind you, the success of our plan depends entirely on Emperor Johan remaining unaware of Prince Saldeon's altered condition," the operative said. "Should he suspect that his heir's judgment has been compromised..."

Gulinar scoffed. "Father sees what he expects to see. If his precious heir declares war, it must be for all the right reasons. I've seen no sign that Father suspects anything amiss so long as they do not meet."

"Your assurance is most gratifying. A man of your wit would naturally be the first to notice any shift in Johan's demeanor."

"Exactly." Gulinar's chest swelled with pride. "Father trusts Saldeon implicitly, and he trusts me to support my brother. As long as I continue playing the role of concerned sibling, there's no reason for suspicion to fall on either of us."

The operative nodded approvingly. "Then our arrangement continues to proceed flawlessly. I shall take my leave for now. My presence here becomes unnecessary once events follow their natural course. But I will return when the war begins in earnest. There will be opportunities to further our mutual interests once the blood flows."

"See to it," Gulinar said, dismissing the operative. "I have no patience for delays once we start."

The cloaked figure bowed slightly before dissolving back into shadow. The darkness pooled and squirmed for a moment before settling back into an ordinary shadow cast by Gulinar's body.

Alone again on his stone perch, Gulinar turned his attention back to the landscape spread out before him. His mind raced ahead to the battles to come, painting glorious visions of cavalry charges and clashing steel.

He would lead from the front, of course. A true prince didn't command from the rear lines like some cautious bureaucrat. He would be in the fighting's thick, his sword drinking deep in enemy blood while lesser men cowered behind.

The Beastfolk were formidable opponents; he had to admit. They were much stronger and faster than the average human warrior, thanks to their beastly nature. Not to mention they possessed claws, wings, and teeth—natural arsenals besides those crafted by hands—they were among the fiercest and terrifying warriors for any unblessed to face.

However, in the end, they were nothing more than beasts that contained a lesser mind than a human, relying on instinct rather than intelligence.

More importantly, they lacked him. Gulinar had studied warfare his entire life, had trained under the finest military minds, had dreamed of this moment when theory would finally give way to practice. Unlike Saldeon's hesitant approach, he would show them true leadership through decisive action and overwhelming force.

When the war ended, Gulinar would return to the capital bearing honors that would eclipse anything his brother had ever achieved. The court would sing songs of his valor, bards would compose epics celebrating his genius, and history would remember him as the prince who brought the Beastfolk to heel.

For a moment, an amusing thought crossed his mind: what if he conquered the Beastfolk so thoroughly that they offered him their crown? King Gulinar of the Beastfolk Kingdom, ruler of wolves and tigers and all manner of savage creatures. The image was so absurd that he burst into fresh laughter.

Rule over unruly beasts who barely understood civilization? Lead creatures that most likely communicated more through growls than words? No, that was beneath him. Let the Beastfolk keep their primitive kingdom. What he wanted was respect among civilized men, not dominion over animals.

But the thought led to another, more intriguing possibility. What if his military success in this war opened doors he'd never considered? What if the glory he earned here could be leveraged into something greater than mere titles and honors?

The Lethos Empire was vast, with distant territories that could use strong leadership. Perhaps, if the throne of Lethos truly remained forever beyond his reach, he could carve out his own kingdom somewhere on the frontier. Some of these territories were overseen by the family heads of the Great Lineages, but that was a matter reserved another time.

Gulinar chuckled softly as these new possibilities swarmed through his mind like eager whores. War had a way of reshaping the world, creating opportunities for ambitious men to rise far beyond their original station. Was this what the First Emperor felt before the Grand Conquest? The idea sent a thrill through him that had nothing to do with the cool breeze.

Soon, the world would know the name of Gulinar, and they would speak it with the respect he had always deserved.