Eugene stood over the map table, rubbing the grit from his eyes. He unbuckled his sword belt, setting the scabbard on a sturdy wooden chest, and sighed. They’d waited for days for the dwarves to finally show up, and now that they had, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d have been better off sealing the damn tunnels.
His very bones ached with fatigue, even though his mighty constitution allowed him to ignore it all.
He reached for a silver goblet resting near a crude sketch of the Gullet Gate, poured a measure of dark red wine, and drank. The vintage was spiced with blackberries and smoked oak, a rare comfort shipped from the surface, one he was afforded thanks to his position among the leaders of the army.
Not that he was among the highest-ranking nobles, no. A mere Baron from the frontier normally wouldn’t dare sit among Counts and high generals, but he was Prestige, so he was given ‘privileges’.
He lowered the goblet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to hang his woolen cloak on the corner cot.
He froze.
A small, neatly folded piece of parchment lay on the blanket.
Exhaustion seeped from Eugene’s muscles as fire roared in his veins. His hand fell from the cloak, and his dagger cleared its sheath without so much as a whisper.
He took a slow step toward the cot. His eyes tracked the tent's corners, the shadows pooling near the iron stove, the seams of the canvas. Nothing. The anti-scrying wards outside hummed steadily, unbroken. The guards at the entrance had raised no alarm. Yet someone had breached his resting place.
Another attempt by a fat noble to involve me in their conspiracies? If so, they must have splurged to hire someone with such stealth skills.
Eugene used the very tip of his dagger to flip open the parchment, as if it were a snake waiting to bite.
The ink was fresh. Two words stared back at him in a familiar hand.
Hello, Dad.
Eugene’s breath hitched. His eyes darted across the empty pavilion. "Show yourself," he rumbled.
The air near the stove rippled, and the ambient mana, which had felt perfectly uniform a second before, suddenly parted. A figure materialized from the shadows, a dark coat resolving from midnight silk that seemed to lose its hold on the world.
At the same moment, an aura so deep and mighty that it raised his hair brushed against Eugene’s senses.
He spun, bringing the dagger up in a reverse grip, its point halting mere inches from the intruder’s chest.
He stared at the young man standing before him. The calm expression, the dark hair, Elena’s lips, his own eyebrows, and the staff resting casually in one hand. It was Nick.
The dagger trembled as Eugene’s metaphysical senses finally registered what he’d just felt. This was not the aura of a gifted apprentice, nor the bright, burning potential of a high-level mage he would have expected his son to possess by now. No, this was an ocean, a boundless mass that defied the strict laws of mortality.
"Gods," Eugene whispered, the word thick with awe. He lowered the dagger, staring at his second son. He couldn’t believe it, yet the evidence was before him. "You actually did it.”
"Not everyone takes as long as you do," Nick replied cheekily.
A barking laugh ripped from Eugene’s throat. He tossed the dagger onto the map table and stepped forward, gripping his son by the shoulders. The boy felt solid and real, but the power thrumming beneath his skin was staggering.
"My son, the genius," Eugene breathed, searching Nick’s face even as he tried to reconcile the timeline in his head. Nick was not even midway through his teenage years and had a single year of study in the Tower under his belt.
Decades of blood, grueling quests, and near-death experiences were the standard toll for the Prestige tier. Eugene himself had sacrificed much to cross that threshold, even if he’d reached it faster than many others.
Nick had bypassed years of suffering and ascended without anyone’s help.
"If the Royal Court knew..." Eugene murmured, as the political ramifications of this miracle crashed over him.
"They already do," his son grimaced. "But I was given three months to present myself before the King.”
Nick returned the grip, and Eugene pulled him into a tight embrace. The pride swelling in his chest waged a bitter war with the cold dread of what the Court would try to do to an anomaly of this magnitude.
We’ll have to prepare. Three months… I’ll have to call in favors. Leon, for sure. The General. Maybe even Master. They won’t be able to touch him.
They separated, and Eugene forced himself to set those thoughts aside. He poured another goblet of wine, handed it to his son, and they spoke. His son told him what had happened in his time north—the fall of the Patriarch of House Ultimer, the elevation of Gaelen Elpen, the selection of a new Ultimer heir, and the precarious alliance with the Black Hounds.
Eugene listened, feeling his respect for his son growing with every word, even as he knew he was only hearing a sanitized version. When Nick asked for a pardon to protect the mercenaries from Duke Mordhau’s greed, Eugene did not hesitate. He moved to his desk, drafted the writ under his authority as Warden of the Western Border, and sealed it with crimson wax.
He made sure to warn Nick about Nolan’s fragile ego, advising a bribe of silver to placate the Grand Commander, even as he planned to pave the way for an accord. He’d need Nolan on his side, or at the very least neutral, to ensure nobody tried anything when the time came to present Nick before the King.
Then Nick shifted the conversation to the dwarves. He spoke of a possible Greater Demon, of the Abyss pushing upward, and of the dwarven elder’s true motives for attending the talks.
Eugene stared at the maps of the deep roads, cursing softly. It made perfect sense. Only one dwarven Prestige had guarded the city, which he had found very strange.
If the rest were below, fighting for their lives, it would explain everything. But he also knew Nolan, blinded by the glory of a historic victory, would never accept the truth. He wanted a treaty and a parade, not a holy war that would keep him here for months, maybe years.
"I will push to establish a permanent watchpost in the lower levels," Eugene promised, even though he knew it was a fragile shield.
In the best case, it would give them time to gather their forces if the dwarves fell. In the worst case, they’d be able to set up lines around the north to try to contain the Incursion.
They discussed the Capital. Eugene promised to send Leon back with the main army to serve as support at Court. After a final exchange of warnings, Nick did something to his dark cloak and vanished.
One moment, he was there; the next, he was a fluctuation in the air, a draft from the stove. Eugene stood alone in the tent for a long time, staring at the space where one of the youngest Prestiges in Berea’s history had just stood. Certainly the youngest not to come from the Royal Bloodline or an Archmage’s get.
———
Two days later, the basalt plaza of the First City served as the stage for the war's conclusion.
Eugene stood half a pace behind General Nolan. Across the stone table, the dwarven elder hovered above the floor. The tension in the cavern was palpable, and he knew more than one pride had been bruised, but that was the hallmark of a good agreement.
Nolan dictated the terms.
The dwarves would get the First City back, pay a king’s ransom in star-sapphires and refined ores, and swear a binding pact of non-aggression.
The elder accepted with stiff reluctance.
"There is one final stipulation," Eugene interjected, his voice cutting through the echoing plaza. Nolan glanced back at him, a faint frown creasing his brow, but Eugene kept his gaze on the dwarf. They’d discussed this, and though the Grand Commander didn’t see the need, he hadn’t argued. “To ensure the terms of this pact are honored, the Royal Army will establish a permanent garrison at the Gullet Gate.”
The elder’s eyes flared violet. For a fraction of a second, genuine anger slipped through the creature's psychic barriers. The dwarves wanted the humans gone, sealing the tunnels behind them. A watchpost meant human eyes watching over them, eyes that might eventually be turned to more than the demonic tide.
"That is an intrusion upon our sovereign borders," he ground out, but that he didn’t reject the request out of hand meant he was willing to give some ground.
"It is a guarantee of peace," Eugene countered coldly. “Our men wouldn’t be enough to threaten the city, but you must understand our reluctance to abandon all the lost ground. Think of it as an embassy, if it helps.”
Nolan, ever the opportunist, smiled. He hadn’t cared much for the demand before, but now that it hadn’t been rejected, he could present it as a boot firmly on the neck of a defeated foe. "General Crowley speaks with the King’s voice. We shall leave behind a garrison to ensure the smooth passage of the payments and maintain good relations with the Deep Kingdom.”
At his gesture, the scribes added the final stipulation to the papers.
The elder visibly swallowed his protests and signed the parchment with an angry motion. And just like that, the treaty was struck.
He fought far less than I expected. Maybe they really are desperate.
That was not necessarily a good thing.
———
Returning to his camp, Eugene found himself navigating a different kind of battlefield. The integration of Sir Leon Sadie into the upper echelons of the royal forces proved treacherous.
Leon had crossed the threshold during the fighting, and although they’d managed to hide it for a while, it was now known that he’d reached the Prestige tier.
A young Prestige knight was the rarest prize in the kingdom. The vultures began circling before the ink on the dwarven treaty had dried.
An eastern Duke sent an envoy offering a vast tract of arable land and his youngest daughter’s hand in marriage. Archmage Mantarys, his cloudy eyes gleaming with predatory interest, cornered Leon near the quartermaster’s tents and offered access to the Magic Tower’s restricted knowledge of martial arts if Leon swore himself to his service as a Spellblade.
Even Nolan pulled Eugene aside, suggesting that Leon be transferred to his regiment, and was only placated by repeated assurances that he didn’t intend to take him away from his role as Commander of the Thirteenth Royal Knights Corps.
It was hard work, but Eugene managed to shield his young friend from most of the attempts. That evening, he invited Leon to his pavilion and shared a flask of good wine.
The poor man looked exhausted, his honest face tight with strain. "I am a knight of His Majesty, General. I swore my sword to uphold His Peace. Why can’t these people understand?”
“They’ll never get it,” Eugene replied. “They are ambitious men, one and all. Too used to the cesspit of politics that is the Capital to see your earnestness.”
Leon groaned.
“There might be something you could do to shake them off, however,” Eugene continued, drawing his friend’s attention.
He had to be careful here. He didn’t want to come off as just another noble trying to use him. While he thought he’d earned some leeway, it was best to coach his words.
“My son, Nicholas, has been summoned to the Capital after attaining Prestige.”
Leon’s head snapped up, “What?!”
“Indeed,” Eugene confirmed, watching the young knight process the impossible news. "The Crown knows, and will want to test him. I cannot leave the western border undefended, not after so long away. I need a man I trust in the snake pit.”
“You want me to go back to the Capital,” Leon said, though fortunately, there was no anger in his eyes.
“Yes. You’ve certainly earned enough accolades, and some time in the King’s direct service will help cool things down. After Nick presents himself, few will remember your achievement.”
Some might have taken it as an insult, but Leon smiled.
———
Tens of thousands of men, thousands of wagons laden with dwarven gems and precious metals, and horses trudged up the widened sapper paths. The sulfurous air of the deeps gradually gave way to the freezing wind of the northern mountains.
When the Crowley banners finally emerged onto the snow-covered basin of the Crag of the Broken Tooth, Eugene called his lieutenants to his side.
Sir Poules rode up on a sturdy gray gelding, scarred by a demon’s claw yet still strong. Sir Quack followed; having handled logistics for their forces, he was almost untouched, though his eyes were dark and tired.
They pulled their mounts to a halt beside Eugene, looking out over the sprawling surface camp.
“Give it to me," Eugene said.
“We lost two hundred and fourteen men, my Lord. Most fell during the demonic attacks, and a few more in the breach of the obsidian gates. The quartermasters have secured their tags for the families,” Quack replied.
Eugene nodded slowly. Better than he’d feared, worse than he’d hoped. "And the gains?”
"Significant," Quack grunted, a rare smile touching his lips. "The men who survived are harder than iron. We have footmen moving with the discipline of veterans, striking with power they lacked a month ago. The levels gained across the battalion are staggering, and that isn’t even to mention the wealth of materials we acquired.”
"Furthermore," Poules added. "Word of your victories spread through the mercenary camps. The free riders saw how the other nobles fared in comparison, and now we have three hundred unattached swords seeking to swear oaths to House Crowley. Hardened fighters, mostly from the southern marches. They want a Lord who wins.”
“Keep an eye on them. I’m sure more than a few are spies, but I’m inclined to accept their oaths,” Eugene muttered. It’d be impossible to get rid of every agent, but knowing where they were and what they saw would be valuable.
The royal forces were splintering. Nolan was organizing most of the army for the march to Toneburg, eager to stage his victory parade before winter snows made the mountain passes difficult to traverse, while the minor eastern and southern lords were breaking off to return to their estates and the mages were preparing to teleport out.
Before giving the order to march for Floria, Eugene walked across the camp’s frozen slush toward the sprawling crimson pavilion of the Grand Commander.
Nolan sat behind a polished mahogany desk, sipping wine as he reviewed reports from his scouts. He looked up as Eugene entered, raising his goblet in a toast.
"Eugene," Nolan greeted, gesturing to an empty chair. He must have been in a very good mood to skip the usual games.
"I will stand, General," Eugene replied. "I have come to inform you that the western forces will detach at dawn. We are eager to march for Floria.”
Nolan paused, the crystal goblet stopping halfway to his mouth. He set it down, a look of genuine confusion crossing his handsome features. "Floria? Eugene, the parade in Toneburg will be the stuff of legends. The King himself will hear the songs sung in praise of our victory. You broke the Gullet Gate. The glory is yours as much as mine.”
Eugene shook his head. "The western marches have been without their Lord too long. I must return to my lands.”
Nolan studied him, his pale blue eyes narrowing. He was a master of politics and knew a maneuver when he saw one. Eugene was deliberately stepping out of the spotlight, allowing Nolan to claim the lion's share of the credit for the northern campaign, even though many saw him as its hero.
"You are a strange man, Eugene," Nolan mused. "Most men would kill for a fraction of the adulation awaiting them in that city.”
"I am but a family man, General," Eugene said, pivoting to his true objective. "Which brings me to my final request.”
Nolan leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Name it.”
"My second son, Nicholas, has received a summons to appear at Court," Eugene said, letting a note of paternal concern slip into his voice. "He is young. He possesses talent, but he lacks the refinement one would expect at Court.”
Nolan’s eyebrows had been rising the whole time, but he still gave a short nod. “I see.”
"I cannot leave my lands again so soon to guide him," Eugene continued. "I need a man of reason, a man of undeniable influence in the Capital, to ensure my son is not taken advantage of.”
Nolan smiled, a slow, satisfied smile. Eugene was offering more than his share of the glory. By asking for his protection, the Crowleys put themselves in his debt.
It was something he’d undoubtedly remember.
"You fought well for me, Eugene," Nolan declared magnanimously. "You have my word. When your boy arrives in the Capital, I will ensure he is treated with the respect due to the son of my finest general.”
"I am in your debt, Grand Commander," Eugene said, offering a formal salute.