In the land border shared by both Starhaven Kingdom and Shadowvale Kingdom, another fierce fight broke out, this time between their armies, whilst their navies are only just rebuilding. The otherwise rolling, verdant plains of the land border they shared are a chaos of mud, blood, the metallic ring of steel against steel when the war horns blew, with shields interposed against arrows, spears, battle-axes, and swords. Banners lay strewn across the muddy ground. Those who dropped and lost their shields and weapons are locked into bitter, hand to hand combat with enchanted daggers in both hands. Catapults and ballistaes from both threw boulders and large ballista bolts at formations, scattering them and turning an otherwise disciplined formation, and turning them into chaotic and mad dash for scramble to be out of range, only to be met with another incoming charge of knights, pikemen or halberdiers. Dames, sellswords and knights alike from both sides lay injured or dying on the mud

“You can debate all you want on whether you’ll side with Second Prince Theron, or Third Prince Cain. So long as it's not the Bastard Pretender. Are dragons to drop on their knees and grovel at the feet of the Holy Church now? I think not.”Sir Harold Seafyre slammed his Dragonheart Imperium dagger onto the obsidian war table, the steel’s hum reverberating through the stone halls of Pyrestone Keep. The sudden clang silenced the chamber, lords, cousins, commanders, and heirs held their breath. Even Lord Walter Seafyre, the old and brooding Lord Protector of Seafyre Province and Warden of Seafyre Bay, leaned forward in surprise.The table is shaped like a wyvern in flight, and the dagger now pierces its heart.“Mind your temper, Harold,” Lord Walter growled. “We speak of alliances. Not tantrums.”Harold didn’t flinch. “We speak of our honor, my lord. That crown is forged in mockery. Alaric Blackmoor, a half-priest, half-puppet king, is not fit to command dragons, let alone rule a kingdom

Lady Philippa Hamilton, the young, sharp and clever Lady Protectress of Hamilton Province, in title and in deeds, gazed out the window of her private solar in Sunspire Citadel, the main fortress of House Hamilton, whilst writing a letter to the Second Prince Theron.“ So I take it that we’ll declare for the Second Prince, cousin? “Sir Anthony Hamilton, the castellan of Sunspire Citadel in Lady Philippa Hamilton’s absence, when she made frequent business trips in Thaloria, and beyond, asked. “ Third Prince Cain, and Crown Prince Alaric will also do as well. “Sir Anthony Hamilton added. “ Alaric is half a choirboy and half a Holy Mage, dancing to the tunes of the Holy Church, Sir Anthony. Half our residents are mages, and the Vintalomancers are the reason why our province has rich crops, and export quality wines, ale, and alcohol. If we ally with House Blackmoor, massive persecutions will occur, and the mages will flee in large numbers to Frostmark, or Caelora Province. Our coffers

“ It is an honor to receive an envoy from Frostmark Province. So, what does the cold and icy North have to offer to… us snakes and scorpions here in the desert, Lady Muriel Silverfin? Oh, and must say, Crown Prince or… King Alaric won't be pleased with the… sudden disappearance of his messengers. “Sir Maximus Solara, known and feared in Thaloria Kingdom and beyond as The Grey Viper, called The Grey Viper for his downright ambiguous views that border on grey areas regarding ethics and morality, for his quick wit, courtier’s charm, his sharp tongue, his unpredictable nature, and his poisoned blades said in a voice rich with sarcasm, and bold, blatant mockery said, offering a mocking bow after the VTOL fighter-bomber plane that Lady Muriel Silverfin rode on, bearing the insignia of the serpent coiled on a broken crucifix,quartered with the shark of House Silverfin with open fangs on a field of blue, and the Watchful Owl of House Thaloria, landed on the grounds just outside the Sun Scor

The surf slammed like a war drum against the barnacle-crusted walls of Krakenfell Citadel, ancestral seat of House Krakenfell. Seafoam battered the stone like an impatient beast. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries lost in the wind as if mourning some ancient shipwreck, or perhaps warning of one yet to come.Lord Noah Krakenfell, half a pirate, half a merchant, half a lord, and full menace to coastal decency, lounged shirtless on his throne of driftwood and whale bone. Salt clung to his dark curls, and half-healed bite marks adorned his arms and ribs. His pet shark, “Diplomacy,” swam lazy circles in the pool beside the dais, occasionally gnawing on the thigh of a salted sailor lowered for its amusement.A roast sea-beast, half-octopus, half-whatever-the-net-dragged-up, steamed at Noah’s feet. His iron sword stuck into it like a tavern knife into a roast pig.The hall reeked of brine, blood, and wet leather. The banners overhead are water-stained and frayed, but still bold: a black