On the morning of the new moon, the rain falling over Elyaran was cold, gray, and bitter. It washed the soot from the marble squares, but it could not wash away the dread creeping through the halls of the Inner Citadel.
Azhred sat upon the iron throne, a scroll tightly gripped in his right hand. His face was unusually pale; the familiar enchanting warmth had been replaced by an icy, helmet-like mask.
Messengers stood before him—exhausted couriers from the Eastern Borders, caked in mud.
“Ten thousand imperial soldiers,” the lead messenger gasped, kneeling on the cold floor. “The Central Crown Army, under Marshal Kaelen of the Imperial High Council, has crossed the Red River. They carry siege engines, dragonfire mortars, and three regiments of Astra-Core Guardians. They will reach the valley within seven days.”
The hall erupted into whispers filled with dread. Ten thousand imperial veterans were not the garrison of a regional governor; they were an extermination force designed to erase entire rebellions from the map.
Azhred slowly turned his head toward the shadows behind the throne pillar. “Tair.”
Tair emerged from the darkness, dragging his iron-clad leg. He looked more like a wraith than a living man. His right arm that no longer answered him hung motionless in its sling, his leather band covered his right eye, and his skin was a horrifying, translucent gray. Dark, dried blood had crusted along his jawline and ears—the permanent physical cost of his temporal interventions.
“We cannot hold the walls against ten thousand soldiers, Orun-Khar,” Azhred said, his voice flat and tense. “We should retreat to the northern highlands. We abandon the Lower City, burn the granaries, and draw them into the salt marshes.”
The northern Varduns nodded in agreement. Abandoning the people of Elyaran to their fate was a standard tactic of the steppe Veyrans.
Tair stopped three steps before the throne. He raised his bloodshot single left eye and fixed it upon Azhred.
“No,” Tair rasped; his voice a dry, grating whisper that silenced the room. “If you abandon the Lower City... you lose the shadow network. If you lose the granaries... you lose the people. Without Elyaran... you are nothing but a homeless warlord living upon the land.”
Azhred’s eyes ignited with a sudden, dangerous silver glow. He rose from the throne and descended from the cedar platform until only inches separated him from Tair.
“I am the Veyranu of Drazhan!” Azhred whispered in a harsh, low voice. “I will not sacrifice my three hundred noble riders to defend three thousand tanners and beggars inside a wall of mud!”
“Those tanners... hold the keys to the imperial supply lines,” Tair whispered; a thin line of fresh blood slipped from his left ear as he pressed his left thumb against the obsidian ring. “Marshal Kaelen... gets his grain from three merchant houses in the Lower City. The supply contract... was signed yesterday.”
Azhred froze. His jaw tightened as cold realization struck him once again.
Chrono-Anchor: ASTRA
NEURAL COST: 48%
TEMPORAL RECORD: Marshal Kaelen supply route mapped