Three days before departure.

  The armory of the eastern sector of Bragan?a was silent, as if even the steel itself was in mourning. The white marble of the imperial capital reflected the late afternoon light with a cold, almost ceremonial stillness.

  Valquíria adjusted the straps of her mantle, tapping the hilt of her greatsword with impatience.

  — You should replace that scrap, — she said, pointing at Maximus. — It’s long past its time.

  — Maximus has more history than most people alive, — Lukas replied, without taking his eyes off the gladius.

  Luiz paced in the back, examining the imperial weapons arranged in flawless rows. Everything there was symmetrical. Cold. Controlled.

  — History doesn’t sharpen a blade, — he muttered. — And we won’t be facing bandits or goblins. We’ll be facing the Children of the Tower.

  Valquíria shrugged.

  — Then we’ll bleed trying. At least let the strike be pretty.

  Lukas sheathed the gladius again with a sharp motion.

  — I don’t need anything pretty. I just need to win.

  Adriele entered, dressed in her ceremonial uniform, though her weary eyes showed she hadn’t slept in days.

  — The Empire released the supplies, — she said, throwing a list onto the bench. — Silver arrows, rune fragments, reinforced potions from the Southern Tower. The Council vetoed any involvement of magical units with fewer than three victories against Disasters. We’re on our own.

  Luiz scoffed.

  — Of course they vetoed it. No one wants to die for a name that doesn’t even have an officially recognized House yet.

  — The name Fernandes already carries a history they can’t erase, — Valquíria replied. — And that’s what scares them.

  Lukas was about to speak when an imperial messenger rushed in, delivering a sealed steel cylinder.

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  — From the northern frontiers, — he announced. — Signed by Marcos Fernandes.

  Luiz raised an eyebrow as he took it.

  — Marcos… the Wandering Wolf.

  He unrolled the parchment and, even before reading, grumbled:

  — Tsk. Even his handwriting smells like woods and sarcasm.

  Valquíria crossed her arms.

  — Read it already.

  Letter from Marcos Fernandes — The Wandering Wolf

  (written with hurried scrawls and fatalistic humor)

  “Hey. Heard you’re going into the Tower. What an honor. What a legacy. What a damn curse.”

  “Useful news: Disasters can’t unleash their full power outside the Tower. But the bastard from Sorriso — Anatoly — did the unthinkable: he opened a rift between planes. Used fragments of the Black Tower and part of his own body. He’s trying to tear space-time apart and drag the Disasters out of the dimensional prison where they were sealed.”

  “If he succeeds… the Black Tower won’t be a prison anymore. It’ll become a bridge. A throne.”

  “I’m at the northern frontiers. Working with gray elves, dwarves of the Shadow Hill, and a demi-human clan called Tolvarin. We’re fighting outbreaks of corrupted mana around Vardengrund, the city ruled by Rekar Icefang.”

  “The bastard is a half-dragon. Scales, claws, regeneration. Anatoly calls him the ‘First Primordial.’ And his soldiers, the so-called Ci Warriors, aren’t much better. Hybrids. Fanatics. Loyal to the death.”

  “North of him, in the frozen mountains, lies Alesia, the northern royal capital. Ruled by Visergetoriks — the Mad King. Each of his generals is worth an entire kingdom. Even I… don’t like to think about facing three of them together.”

  “And guess who’s there? Dariam. Our brother. He snarled when he saw me. Then ran like a frightened pig.”

  “Valquíria, I know you blame yourself for being there and not here. And Lukas… I should’ve stayed. Maybe Leli wouldn’t have this cursed life.”

  “Take care of yourselves. I love you. Damn, it sucks to write that. But you need to know.”

  “I’m not Kyros. But I am his son. And so are you.”

  — Marcos, the Wandering Wolf

  Luiz rolled the parchment slowly.

  Valquíria said nothing. She only clenched her fist tightly. Adriele stared at the ground, silent.

  Lukas took a deep breath.

  — So… Anatoly wants to bring the entire Black Tower here.

  — That changes everything, — Adriele murmured.

  — And the Copas? — Lukas asked.

  Luiz answered without hesitation:

  — We’ve already taken the far north of Baredin and the slopes of Halvenrok. Only three kingdoms remain. But Vardengrund, Vorstag, and Alesia are the core. And Marcos is right: Visergetoriks is more than a king. He’s a problem.

  — And Dariam… — Valquíria added, venom in her voice. — If he crosses our path…

  — …he’ll feel the weight of the name he rejected, — Lukas said, cold.

  A new silence fell.

  This time, no one tried to break it.

  The arsenal door opened with a discreet creak.

  Three men in worn armor crossed the threshold with firm steps.

  — Lukas Fernandes, — said the first, a scar running from chin to neck. — We were of the Guard of the Four Seasons. We fought for Kyros. We survived the fall of Sorriso. And now… we want to fight for you.

  If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you.

  End of Chapter 3.