While Blackwood sharpened its will in silence—
Far to the west, something began to fracture.
The Council Chamber of Westwind City was warm.
At least, it should have been.
Flames roared within the massive hearth, devouring dry oak with greedy hunger. Sparks leapt and died in the air, and heat pulsed outward in waves strong enough to soften steel.
Yet the room remained cold.
Not the gentle cold of winter—
But the dead, unmoving cold of a tomb.
At its center stood Count Raymond.
Once, he had been a lion.
Now, he was something caged.
He did not sit.
The great chair—ironwood, draped in bear fur, symbol of his dominion—stood empty behind him, like a throne abandoned by its king.
He paced.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each step landed too hard, too uneven, grinding into the thick carpet beneath his boots as if trying to crush something unseen.
Beneath his feet—
Paper.
Dozens of them.
No—
Hundreds.
Shredded.
Crushed.
Ground into dirt.
Fragments of reports lay scattered like fallen leaves, their ink still screaming:
Burned.
Lost.
Slaughtered.
Missing.
The men in the chamber did not move.
Knights.
Advisors.
Veterans of court and war alike.
They stood as statues, heads bowed, breaths shallow.
No one dared speak.
Because the man before them—
Was breaking.
Raymond stopped.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His gaze fixed on the table.
On a single object.
A silver goblet.
It gleamed even in the dim light, its surface etched with hunting scenes—wolves driven into spears, stags collapsing beneath arrows, men triumphant.
A gift.
From Alfred.
His hand rose.
Shaking.
Not with age—
But with something deeper.
He tried to grasp it.
Missed.
Tried again.
Failed.
On the third attempt, his fingers closed around the cup with sudden, violent force.
Cold.
So cold.
It pierced through him.
Through anger.
Through pride.
Through everything he had used to hold himself together.
"Demi-humans…"
The word crawled out of his throat.
Not spoken—
Dragged.
"…filthy… beasts…"
Each syllable cracked, jagged, scraping raw against his teeth.
"Alfred…"
The name broke him.
For a moment—
The lion vanished completely.
What remained was a father.
And that was worse.
"I will kill them."
A whisper.
"I will kill them all."
Then—
It erupted.
"I WILL KILL THEM ALL!!"
The roar tore through the chamber, violent and uncontrolled, stripping away the last illusion of composure.
"Mobilize everything! Every knight! Every soldier! I will lead them myself!"
His voice shook—not with hesitation, but with excess.
Too much rage.
Too much grief.
Too little control.
"I will burn that forest to the roots! I will pile their skulls until the sky itself chokes on them!"
He raised his arm—
Ready to give the order.
Ready to drown reason in blood.
"Boom—!"
The doors exploded inward.
All heads turned.
A messenger was thrown onto the floor.
Not guided.
Not escorted.
Thrown.
He hit the stone hard, limbs collapsing beneath him.
Dust.
Blood.
Fear.
"My Lord—! My Lord!!"
He crawled forward, fingers scraping against the ground, voice breaking under its own weight.
"Urgent report—from Iron Oak City—!"
Raymond turned.
Slowly.
"Speak."
The word was quiet.
But it carried death.
"The Northern Mine…"
The messenger trembled violently.
"…has fallen."
Silence.
"…What?"
The sound came from somewhere behind.
Weak.
Disbelieving.
But the messenger continued, as if unable to stop.
"Garrison—twelve hundred—gone. All of them. Slaughtered."
His voice cracked.
"Not one survived."
"And the slaves—"
He choked.
"Six thousand… taken."
Six thousand.
The number settled into the room like poison.
One advisor staggered.
Another went pale.
They understood.
Better than soldiers.
Better than knights.
That wasn't a loss.
It was collapse.
Raymond didn't react.
Not at first.
His grip on the goblet tightened.
And tightened.
And tightened—
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast.
Uncontrolled.
Another figure burst in.
A scout.
Kneeling.
Gasping.
"My Lord! News from the south!"
He forced the words out between breaths.
"Greenwood Valley—Count Horsman's lands—destroyed."
A pause.
"Completely."
"Casualties… incalculable."
For a moment—
Something twisted across Raymond's face.
A smile.
Ugly.
Thin.
Wrong.
"Heh…"
A dry sound escaped him.
"…that old snake…"
But it died quickly.
Too quickly.
Because something else rose in its place.
Something colder.
Understanding.
"They… struck both…"
His voice dropped.
"…at the same time…"
The room seemed to shrink.
"How many are there…?"
No one answered.
No one could.
Because the question wasn't meant for them.
It was meant for something far worse.
The final thread snapped.
"Aaaaaah—!!!"
The sound that came from Raymond was no longer human.
Steel screamed.
"Clang—!"
His sword left its sheath in a blur of silver.
Then—
Impact.
"CRACK—!"
The oak table split.
Not cleanly.
Not neatly.
It broke.
A massive chunk tore free under the force of his blow, splintering outward in a violent spray of wood and dust.
He stood there, chest heaving, sword trembling in his grip.
"I will drown them in blood!!"
His eyes were no longer those of a ruler.
They were empty.
Burning.
Lost.
"All of them!"
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The knights—
The advisors—
The men who once shaped policy and war—
Now stood frozen.
Reduced.
Because before them—
There was no longer a Count.
Only a man consumed.
Only a storm with no direction.
Only ruin waiting to happen.
The fire crackled.
Uncaring.
And in that vast, suffocating chamber—
The future of the Western Earldom quietly began to collapse.