The banners of House Calista fluttered above the ramparts of Eirenhold for what would be the final time.
Helena stood atop the outer wall, the wind tangling her dark hair as she gazed across the valley. Smoke rose in the distance—thin lines trailing into the sky like silent omens. The farms were burning again, this time not from raiders or careless fire, but from deliberate, strategic malice. Elena was making her move.
Elena, once a friend at court, now a predator cloaked in nobility. She had always smiled too sweetly, eyes too calculating. And now she had returned—not as a guest, not as a diplomat, but as a conqueror.
Helena clenched her fists. Her kingdom had been weak. Since her father's passing, the nobility had been restless, her allies unreliable. Trade routes were severed by desert politics, her coffers bled by years of poor harvest, and half her army had defected after Elena promised gold and lands.
"She'll breach the gates within a week," said Captain Theros, stepping beside her. His voice was tired but loyal, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
"I know," Helena said, jaw set. "And she won't show mercy."
Helena was not known for theatrics, but she could feel the curtain drawing on her reign. She had hoped her reforms would buy her time—a new irrigation network, the partial demilitarization in alliance with Ramses and Adonis, an open stance with Thalia's progressive model. But diplomacy could not hold back iron and flame forever.
The attack came three nights later.
The Fall of Eirenhold
Night fell heavy upon Eirenhold, cloaking its towers and stone courtyards in pale silver moonlight. The stars were choked behind gathering clouds, and the torches along the battlements flickered violently in the rising wind. It was the third night since the last courier had vanished, and Captain Theros's eyes had not closed in over thirty hours.
Helena stood in the chapel tower, overlooking her city. She could feel it — the silence before a storm. The way the city seemed to hold its breath.
Then, it came.
A thunderous crack.
The western wall, long thought reinforced, erupted in a spray of stone and dust. A hidden charge—alchemy or vaelstone-fused blackpowder—had detonated along the base. Stones tumbled like broken teeth, taking screaming sentries with them. A gap wide enough for a company had formed, and out of the smoke charged the bannerless hounds of House Elena.
Clad in blackened steel, moving like oil poured over cobblestone, Elena's vanguard surged into the breach.
The alarm bell screamed, echoing through the cold streets.
Helena raced down the chapel stairwell, her armor half-fastened, hair unbraided, sword at her back. By the time she reached the lower courtyard, the clash had already begun—metal ringing on metal, arrows singing through the air.
Captain Theros met her at the stables, his shield arm already bleeding. "They've bought someone inside. No way the wall fell from outside force alone."
"Sabotage," Helena growled, cinching her gauntlet. "They bought someone inside my court."
"The bastards came prepared. They're cutting off the granary, heading for the central well."
"Then we cut deeper," Helena said. "We hold the inner court. Break their spearpoint."
They didn't wait for more. Helena mounted a borrowed steed—her warhorse had been poisoned the night before—and rallied what forces she could. Her knights were scattered, many sleeping when the wall fell. Still, two dozen rallied to her banner in the burning square.
The western quarter of Eirenhold was ablaze now, fire licking through thatched rooftops and markets. Screams echoed through alleyways, and the clatter of boots rang like war drums.
Helena drove into them like a blade into flesh.
Her first strike cleaved through a pikeman's shoulder, splitting armor and sinew. Her men followed behind with swords and flanged maces, pushing the invaders back step by bloodied step. In the chaos, one of her officers—Ser Lorik—threw himself into a trio of spearmen, buying the rest time to reach the inner gate.
But they were outnumbered three to one. Elena's army hadn't just come for a raid. It was a calculated invasion, the work of a commander who knew Helena's defenses better than she should have.
"She had our old battle maps," Helena muttered as she cut down another soldier. "That witch memorized everything."
By the chapel's inner courtyard, the worst blow fell.
Captain Theros—loyal Theros—stood at the head of the last shield wall, holding back a wave of armored knights aiming to overrun the temple gardens. His shield was splintered, face bloodied, but he did not break.
"Fall back, Theros!" Helena shouted.
Theros shook his head once. "I'll hold them. Get to the keep."
Helena hesitated for a breath, and in that moment, a spear took Theros in the side.
He dropped to one knee, blood pouring out like dark wine. His sword still swung twice more before the enemy cut him down fully.
Helena screamed—more rage than grief—and led the final charge with the last of her loyalists into the courtyard of the central keep.
The heart of Eirenhold.
There, among the sacred stone and the fountain of her great-grandfather's design, she made her final stand. Her sword arm ached. Her shield was shattered. Arrow shafts jutted from her left thigh and side. The ground was slick with blood, and the air stank of smoke and burning books.
Still, she fought.
With every breath, she recalled the dreams she once had for her kingdom. For education, roads, justice. She fought not for power now—but to defend memory. Legacy. Dignity.
But ideals do not blunt steel.
Arrows rained down from the balconies. Helena's squire, Mael, took one through the neck as he shielded her from a second volley. One by one, her comrades fell—cut down in the ornamental courtyard that had once hosted wedding feasts and spring festivals.
By dawn, only twelve remained.
Helena could no longer lift her sword. She dropped it onto the bloodied stones and gave the only order she could.
"Retreat."
They slipped into the servants' tunnels. Hidden paths, once used by children playing in the palace walls, now became the escape route for the remnants of House Calista.
Behind them, the banners were torn down.
Elena's sigil—a silver serpent entwined around a rose—rose above the broken gates of Eirenhold before noon.
The city had fallen.
Helena did not cry.
She walked through the forested paths of the southern glade with numb silence, her shoulder dislocated, her side stitched hastily with dried vine, her mind racing not with loss, but fury.
Elena had won a kingdom.
Eirenhold was lost. Her banners were torn down by morning.
Two weeks later, Helena rode north toward the Plain Biome, toward Alexios.
She was thinner now, bruised, wrapped in leather and travel-weary cloaks instead of royal silk. At her side rode eight men and women—former officers, sappers, scouts. All had chosen exile over submission. They were soldiers, not diplomats. Helena had become something else now—not a queen, not even a lord. She was a blade-for-hire.
The sun dipped behind the western hills as they approached the outskirts of Helion's Reach—Alexios's capital. The town had transformed from a cluster of farms into a small fortified city, thanks to the architects Ramses and Adonis. Stone walls, structured roads, and civic buildings bore the mark of order and vision.
The guards recognized her—Helena's fall was already known. One of them hurried inside.
By the time she reached the courtyard, Alexios was waiting.
He looked every inch the leader he had become—tall, scarred from his encounter with the Oni, wearing a dark green cloak that bore the newly forged emblem of his kingdom: the sun bursting from a laurel crown, stitched by Isis herself.
Helena dismounted slowly.
"Your Majesty," she said, with the smallest trace of a smirk.
"You've never called me that," Alexios said.
"I'm no longer a sovereign. I suppose the world is shifting."
Alexios glanced at the others behind her. "Survivors?"
"Veterans," she said. "Fierce. Loyal. Experienced in siege defense, supply-line disruption, and guerrilla strategy. All looking for a cause."
"And yours?"
"Gone. Stolen by Elena, yes. But I'm not here just to grieve. I won't waste years gathering moss in the ruins of my past. I'm here to fight."
Alexios studied her carefully. "You seek refuge?"
"No," Helena said, her eyes narrowing. "I seek employment. If you'll have me, I'll serve your command. You need someone with field experience. Someone not tangled in court. You're building something new, Alexios. I can see it."
There was silence between them. Alexios folded his arms. "You led a kingdom once."
"Now I lead men and women who lost everything. I don't want your pity. I want a purpose."
Alexios turned toward the tower steps. "Come. Let's talk."
That evening, as the torchlight flickered in the war room, Helena laid out her knowledge on the map. She knew Elena's weaknesses—her reliance on southern mercenaries, her poorly guarded granaries, her fragile ties with Takahashi's scouts. More importantly, she knew how to train young soldiers fast, how to build mobile units in case of desert campaigns, how to reinforce small towns under siege.
Alexios listened. So did Isis, seated nearby, noting the emotional weight Helena tried to suppress.
By midnight, it was agreed.
Helena would form the Vigilant Blades, a mobile mercenary division under Alexios's banner but given autonomy in tactics and internal hierarchy. They would operate as the sword and shield in the shadows—dealing with bandits, rogue nobles, sabotage missions, and skirmishes that the formal army was too slow or too burdened to handle.
Her men were given new armor. Helena was given a title: Commander of the Vigilant. No longer a ruler in name, but still a leader in every sense.
By the end of the week, Helena's banner—black and gold crossed blades—fluttered beside the Helion sun.
She was no longer Helena the Queen.
She was Helena the Blade.
And as she drilled her new recruits in the yards of Helion's Reach, her voice sharp and commanding, her eyes never left the south.
Elena had won a kingdom, yes. But Helena had found something greater: the fire of resolve.
Let Elena guard her gilded throne. Helena had war to prepare for.
Because the next time the banners rose, it would not be for survival.
It would be for vengeance.
And she would be ready.