The mist rolled in before dawn, cold and heavy, seeping between the cracks of the fire-wall and swallowing the basin in silence. Riku stood at the top of the tower, wrapped in ash and shadow, watching the swirling haze. It smelled of steam and earth, unsettling in its stillness. This was no natural fog—it was the Blood Moon's whisper calling something through.
It wasn't long before Sira's call slashed the quiet.
"Movement, south ridge!"
He descended from the tower in three steady strides, meeting her at the wall's edge. Dozens of figures emerged—black-cloaked Draganoids with long spears and banners swallowed in mist. They pressed forward, testing the heat barrier with jabs and shout-throats, probing for weakness.
They were scouting—not attacking. But audacious enough. They'd come too close already.
Riku watched as the outer spurs of his fire wall flared, and the fog hissed back. He looked back at Kael, who stood ready with the bellows. No signals passed between them—no commands needed. This moment had been rehearsed.
Tharn led five of the elite fighters to the gate. Riku moved toward them.
They opened with precision. Pillars of flame rolled forward, not to burn, but to shape—corralling the scouts into channels of heat. The strangers faltered, angling back. The mist rolled closer against the flames, steam rising with tension.
Then Riku signaled with minimal movement—one hand brushed the guard's vane. Charges snapped forward, spears poked hazards into the mist, cutting off escape subtly. The Draganoid host retreated—no bows fired, no cries raised. Just a quiet withdrawal into the fog.
No casualties either side. A message delivered without a scream.
They watched the figures vanish, minds electric.
Later, Riku returned to the supply stacks, picking through the retrieved spears. One blade had a golden engraving—tiny chevrons etched with steel. He picked it up, feeling its curious weight. It was an enemy spear, captured and wielded by his own man.
He walked it over to the forge, set it under the coals.
As it warmed, he examined the engraving again and again.
When it glowed too hot to touch, he left it by the anvil overnight.
In the morning, it had changed.
The blade's angle was sharper—more tapered. The etchings looked deeper, more elegant.
He didn't announce anything.
He just knew.
[Weapon Folded – Captured Spear | Original Quality: Standard | Multiplier: x1.5 | Final Quality: Razor-Taper Spear]
He tucked the new spear into the rack and left word for Tharn to distribute it to his best guard.
By midday, a figure appeared on the global chat feed, masked by an alias: Highridge. They posted a single message: "Heat held. I see your fire." No offers. No threats.
Riku didn't reply.
Instead, he looked south at where the mist still clung to the cliffs.
Their first confrontation had been bloodless, but explicit.
And in the way of kings, an answered question now demanded another one: Was this rivalry or diplomacy?
Riku nodded to himself and returned to the forge, the new spear humming softly at his side.
Tomorrow, he would decide.