Handing the signet ring to the royal messenger, Kane offered a satisfied grin.
"Deliver this directly to Queen Sylva," Kane instructed, crossing his arms.
"Tell her General Raymond is no longer a complication. The northern trade routes belong to us now."
Bowing deeply, the courier secured the pouch to his belt.
"And what of the second parcel, Lord Kane?"
"Copies of intercepted schematics," Kane explained, tapping the sealed tube of parchment.
"Tell Her Majesty the real threat floats. I expect her response by tomorrow morning."
Watching the rider gallop away toward the royal palace, Kane felt a distinct sense of accomplishment.
Funding remained secured.
Targets were efficiently eliminated.
Turning back toward the manor, a familiar laugh caught his attention.
Near the arched stone entryway, Firlia stood talking with Aldrin.
The elven guard looked good in his armor, leaning casually against the wall.
Firlia smiled brightly at something the boy said, her cheeks flushed with obvious affection.
’Why does she look beautiful now?’ Kane thought, a sudden spike of territorial heat rising in his chest.
’Or maybe she just needs a reminder about how things work around here.’
Waiting patiently in the shadows of the corridor, Kane watched Aldrin finally bow and return to his post at the front gate.
Firlia turned around, humming a cheerful tune as she carried her accounting ledgers toward the main study.
Reaching out from the shadows, Kane grabbed her wrist.
"Wha-?"
Pulling her swiftly into an alcove, he pressed her back against the cool stone wall.
Firlia gasped in surprise, dropping her parchment onto the floor.
Before she could utter a single word of protest, Kane stepped directly into her personal space.
Hooking his arm under her thigh, he lifted her right leg high, wrapping it securely around his waist.
"Lord Kane," Firlia breathed, her eyes darting nervously toward the open hallway.
"You looked very happy just now," Kane whispered, his lips intentionally brushing against her pointed ear.
"Discussing important trade routes with the gate guard?"
"Aldrin was happy... about the promotion," she stammered, her pulse racing visibly against her collarbone.
"We were catching up."
"Fiancé is down bad for you, huh," Kane corrected, tracing a finger down her throat.
"He was calculating his chances for marriage. I conjecture he thinks I’m too busy running a war to notice what is mine."
"I’m your secretary," Firlia reminded him, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
"You are much more than that," Kane murmured.
Capturing her lips, he kissed her with unapologetic possession.
There was no gentle romance in the exchange.
It was demanding and designed entirely to make her forget every other man in Sylvandar.
Firlia whimpered softly, her initial shock melting into immediate surrender.
Her hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer as she eagerly opened her mouth for him.
When he finally broke the kiss, her chest heaved.
Her carefully arranged hair fell in messy strands across her flushed face.
"Finish your accounting," Kane instructed, gently lowering her leg back to the floor.
"And tell Aldrin to keep an eye open."
Leaving her panting in the alcove, Kane adjusted his tunic and headed toward the war room.
Pushing the doors open, he found Thora and Sira tracing supply lines across a regional map.
"Morvak is changing the board," Kane announced, tossing the stolen naval blueprints onto the table.
"He knows the western pass is closed. He is building a fleet to bypass our mountains entirely."
Sira leaned over the intricate drawings, her silver eyes scanning the hull designs.
"These are war galleons. Built specifically to carry siege engines."
"Can your archers hit moving ships?" Kane asked, pouring himself a cup of water.
"If they come close enough to the shore, they will burn," Sira promised, tapping the parchment.
"But we need more hands to fortify the coastline. My scouts cannot cover the forest and the beaches simultaneously."
Thora crossed her arms, looking right at him.
"We have an entire tribe waiting back in the old woods."
"Exactly my thought," Kane smiled.
Opening the door, he flagged down a passing Bloodfang warrior.
"Gather three men and ride out to our old camp," Kane ordered.
"Find Greta. Tell her the Border Lord requires his people. Bring her, the children, and every remaining villager straight to Sylvandar. We have proper beds and full bellies waiting for them now."
The warrior pounded a fist against his chest, sprinting off to prepare the horses.
"Yes, chief!"
’Building an army requires bringing the people together,’ Kane mused, looking back at his two trusted fighters.
’We will need every single blade when those ships finally launch.’
[System Notification]
[Population Transfer Initiated: Bloodfang Tribe]
[Settlement Status: Expanding]
[Warning: Enemy Faction highly volatile]
Miles away, inside the capital of the Menual Empire, an old man with long black hair stared blankly at his mahogany desk.
A beautiful box sat right in the center of his organized paperwork.
Lifting the lid with trembling fingers, the Chancellor gazed down at the severed, salted head of his lead assassin.
A small, bloodstained note rested between the dead man’s teeth.
Your math is wrong.
Recalculate.
"OUT!" Morvak shrieked, his composure shattering entirely.
Four elite guards standing near the doors flinched, exchanging terrified glances before rushing out of the room.
Sweeping his arm across the desk, Morvak sent inkwells, ledgers, and the grotesque box crashing onto the expensive rug.
His chest heaved with unrestrained fury.
Years of careful planning, completely dismantled by a single red-haired barbarian who refused to follow established political rules.
"General Kaelen!" Morvak roared, pacing frantically around the spilled ink.
A scarred officer stepped cautiously into the room, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the Chancellor.
"My Lord?"
"Raymond is dead," Morvak spat, his voice trembling with venom.
"Our western invasion is ruined. Our shadows failed."
"What are your orders, Chancellor?"
"Burn the western strategy entirely," Morvak commanded, his eyes gleaming with a frantic, desperate light.
"Shift every available coin to the shipyards. Double the labor shifts. I want those warships in the water by the end of the month."
"But the hulls require proper curing time—"
"I do not care about curing time!" Morvak screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the officer.
"I want a fleet capable of leveling Sylvandar to ashes. Send word to the harbor masters. Any worker who slacks will be executed on the docks. Any captain who questions the timeline will be replaced."
The scarred officer bowed strictly.
"It will be done, Chancellor."
Left alone in his office, Morvak stared at the severed head resting on his rug. The barbarian’s mocking note taunted him from the floorboards.
’Recalculate,’ Morvak thought, his nails digging into his palms until they bled.
’I will calculate the amount of ash required to bury your precious elven city.’