Eight Days!!

"You don't have to worry when I am around. You smile because you trust me."

The moon sliced thinly through the trees, casting slanting silver across the path where they were. Leaves rustled like a discontented audience in the wind. Ronan felt the chill brush at his face but the warmth between his shoulders refused to allow him to feign calm. He studied Loret as a soldier studies a map—looking for folds, marking where danger could reside.

Ronan emitted a harsh, mirthless laugh, his jaw tensing as he shifted slightly to see the darkness ripple within the forest. "I suppose so. But just. tell me how we make the move. Enough with riddles, Loret."

Loret's smile grew, slow and patient, as if showing a blade only to see how it felt in sunlight. He wrapped his hands in front of himself and sat back against an old oak, the bark digging into his coat. "Simple, my friend. We fight a war, nothing more, nothing less. The strategy is clean, efficient. The Lionheart Kingdom has rested too long over the last ten years. Their defenses are organized, but predictable.

You could see the little things in Loret's face—how his smile never really reached his eyes, how his fingers brushed the hilt at his hip when he spoke of strategy; little movements that evidenced a man who had chipped plans from others' failures. There was leadership in him that made men follow, and a chill that allowed them to do so without even wondering why.

Ronan's fists curled at his hips. It wasn't the idea of fighting that made him tense but the magnitude of what Loret suggested—not a swift blow, not a lone theft of a relic, but a full-blown storm over a kingdom that had mocked them once. He pictured the Lionheart banners, the lives entwined beneath them, and the cost they would pay afterward.

He looked at Loret again, hoping to find mercy that would blunt the rough edges of the plan. The older man looked back at him without wincing; there was no malice in his eyes, only the sureness of a man who had already calculated the cost. Ronan swallowed hard, with the question heavy in his throat.

Ronan's brow creased, unbelieving. "You're serious? Just… declare war? On Lionheart?"

"Why not?" Loret retorted, his voice crisp and level. "In the past, we fought wars with smaller kingdoms without hesitation. And now… the time is right. If we succeed, you and I—our kingdoms—are competitors of unparalleled power. We do not engulf them entirely yet. But one day, we rule empires, my friend. One day."

Ronan stood there, his eyes on him for a slow beat, sunlight breaking through the leaves to tint gold on his face. The thought fell between them, a promise and a threat in one. Loret's voice didn't falter; it was as steady as a knife that had mastered not to shake.

Ronan's laughter came loose then, deep and broad, rolling across the clearing and kicking up dust from the trail. It had a man savoring danger and enjoying the taste. "Ha… ha… you are right, my friend. Always the strategist, Loret. Always the schemer!" His chest expanded and fell with each deep note, incredulity interwoven with a savage hunger.

Loret's smile changed, a slight thing but icy — the sort of smile that occurs when you've plotted the future and it's lovely. Shadows appeared to adhere to it. "Yes. Now pay attention. Eight days from now, at the Lionheart Kingdom border, we converge. We strike together. Nothing can resist the combined power of Ironcold and Blackcrow.

Ronan advanced until their shoulders almost touched. He extended his hand, not warmly, but authoritatively. Loret took it; their handshake was iron and a flash, a wordless bond inscribed in bone and will. Beyond them the oaks stood watch, ancient witnesses to a new bond being forged.

They locked eyes, two men who had sized up wars and men and found both lacking. No pretty words ensued—just the firm tap of mutual conviction. Schemes like this did not require pretty words; they required faith, and both possessed it in equal portions.

"Agreed," Ronan replied, voice soft but firm. "We meet… in eight days."

Loret's smile faded, pointed and sure, as he finally let Ronan's hand go, his hold relaxing but the look in his eyes not relaxing at all. "One week, my friend," he said, his voice low, measured, holding promise and menace both. "Plan well. Strategy, armies, all details. Lionheart won't know what hit him.

Ronan's eyes narrowed, sweeping the forest with a habituated instinct developed over decades of governance, a trained watchfulness that refused to let up even for an instant. He nodded slowly, deliberately, accepting the plan, the agreement, and the gigantic responsibility now bearing down on them both. His entire body grew tense, not out of terror, but out of expectation—expectation of the war they were soon to unleash.

Without warning, Loret turned, cloak rustling the ground with a soft sigh, shadows twining about him like some living entity. He strode back into the forest depths, as if he were an extension of the dark itself. Ronan moved in the opposite direction, strides purposeful, calculated, each one leading him deeper toward his own fortress. Though miles of distance parted the two monarchs, minds connected by solitary thought as their thoughts turned already to battle plans, positioning of troops, contingencies, and the myriad unseen strands that would determine triumph or defeat.

Nimbrae above the eastern forest turned dark in an unnatural way. Clouds accumulated with heavy, smothering blandness, churning as if the heavens themselves felt the tempest brewing. Lightning flashed in the distance, zigzagging and brutal, illuminating the trees starkly for an instant, the shadows twisting and stretching grotesquely across the forest floor. Far, far away, in the unsuspecting kingdom of Lionheart, life went on in ignorant tranquility, with no idea that plans years in the making were already slinking through the darkness, each step forward toward the breaking of peace. Somewhere, unobtrusively, almost imperceptibly, the first quivers of coming chaos started to move.

And so it started. Eight days would witness the break of a masterminded tempest, a clash of kingdoms and empires. Far in the secret center of the forest, the ground was scented with damp soil and pine. Two moved with stealthy intent through the giant trunks, their steps silent on the mossy floor. Ronan Ironcold's piercing eyes sliced through the shadows, his thoughts a labyrinth of schemes and backup plans, as Loret Blackcrow moved with calculated precision, his mind weaving patterns of strategy known to him and Ronan alone. Years of mutual ambition and mutual understanding held them fast, their friendship born of trust, of power, and of that understanding that the world of Rim would soon shudder before their combined might.

A low, ominous growl rumbled through the woods, shuddering through the roots at their feet. Leaves trembled as though burdened with secrets from some unseen, forgotten mouth. The wind changed, bringing the smell of rain and iron, and above, high in the air, clouds over Lionheart darkened as though a tempest brewed, their black fingers creeping over the spires of the kingdom. Light and shadow struggled in the distance, and the air itself vibrated with electricity, each beat a promise and a danger, each breeze a warning that nothing would stay the same.

Ronan's gaze flashed to Loret, a soft smirk playing at his lips. "Do you feel it? " he asked, his voice low, almost a growl, but laced with amusement. Loret's own lips twisted into a half-smile, a slow confirmation that he did. "It's coming," Loret said, leaving the words to dangle, full of implications. They didn't have to say anything more.

Each look, each small motion was heavy with the weight of battles beyond number, of victories beyond number, and the assurance that the realms of Rim were to receive a reckoning. Around them, the forest felt alive, a quiet observer to their conspiracy. The trees cast longer shadows, curling between the roots and branches, as if leaning in to hear their discussion. Even the birds had fallen silent, feeling the tension that ran through the trees like an unvisible knife.

Somewhere, far out past the treeline, the faraway bells of Lionheart rang, calling the hours, oblivious to the fact that the earth they stood upon was shaking, that powers both familiar and unknown were agitating, preparing for the conflict that would resound through the ages.

And somewhere, amidst it all, the tides of destiny began to change.

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