Chapter 89: The 5 Duke’s
The wind whistled past Vetra’s massive black wings, dying down from a howling gale to a hot, dry whisper as she descended through the clouds. The air grew denser and warmer with every beat of those great spans, the moisture of the upper sky giving way to the arid pressure rising from the land below.
Below them, the jagged mountains of Ignis-Vara abruptly gave way to a sight that defied nature. Stretching as far as the eye could see was a blinding expanse of black and crimson crystal. The ground wasn’t sand or dirt—it was a solid, vitrified plain of ancient volcanic glass, smooth as a mirror and reflecting the overhead sun into fractured, shimmering beams of light. Those beams shifted and danced with every slight movement of the clouds above, turning the entire landscape into a restless sea of light and shadow.
Vetra landed with a heavy, echoing CRACK against a ridge of fused obsidian, her claws leaving white scratches on the mirror-like surface. The impact rang out across the empty plain, a sharp, lonely sound that seemed to travel farther than it should.
"End of the line for flying," Vetra grunted, her deep voice reverberating through her chest before her body surged with violet mana. She shrank down, shifting back into her human form with a light spring in her step. The change was fluid and practiced, the great wings folding inward until only a tall, dark-haired woman stood where the dragon had been.
"The heat rising off this glass creates weird mana updrafts. Flying blind out there will throw us off course."
Vince stepped onto the smooth black glass, his boots clicking sharply against the ground. The surface felt unnaturally solid beneath him, neither yielding nor brittle, as though the earth itself had been frozen mid-melt ages ago. Beside him, Lyrielle adjusted her traveling cloak, her emerald eyes widening as she looked out over the endless desert of mirrors.
"It’s breathtaking..." Lyrielle murmured, shielding her eyes from the glare. The light seemed to come from every direction at once, bouncing off the glass and painting their faces in shifting crimson and black.
"And terrifying. Nothing grows here."
"Not under the surface, no," Vince said softly, his dark purple eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. He could feel it in the air—a strange, subtle warping of space itself. The heat mirages dancing across the glass weren’t just thermal tricks; the very fabric of the spatial plane felt thinner here, brittle like the ground beneath them.
This whole place was probably formed by an ancient spatial rupture. The space behaves strangely out here.
He could sense the way distance itself seemed uncertain, as though a single step might cover far more or far less ground than intended.
"Watch your step," Vince said.
Lyrielle walked up beside him, her hand slipping naturally into his. Vince squeezed her fingers gently, a calm, reassuring smile touching his lips. The simple contact grounded them both against the strange pressure of the place.
"Whatever’s waiting across this desert of glass," Vince said, looking out toward the horizon where the sky met the crimson reflections, "we walk through it."
Vetra stretched her arms over her head with a toothy grin, her knuckles popping. The motion was casual, almost cheerful, as if the unnatural landscape around them were nothing more than an interesting challenge.
"Just leave any overgrown glass monsters to me!"
"M-Monsters?" Lyrielle’s voice caught slightly on the word, her grip on Vince’s hand tightening for a moment.
---
Hundreds of miles away, at the geometric center of the continent, the world felt far more ordered—and far more dangerous in a different way.
The towering monolith of the Royal Tower pierced the clouds like a spear of white marble. Surrounding its base was a massive, ancient plaza carved from solid granite, designed to accommodate the royal retinues of the human realm’s five revered men. The stones of the plaza were worn smooth by centuries of formal processions, yet they still held an air of quiet authority.
Duke Owen dismounted his armored stallion, his dark velvet cape snapping in the wind as he marched toward the grand entrance. Behind him, a double line of thirty elite guards followed in disciplined, heavy-armored steps. Their boots struck the granite in perfect unison, a measured rhythm that announced the arrival of one of the realm’s most powerful figures.
The grand council chamber at the top of the tower was a vast, circular hall lined with towering stained-glass windows depicting the founding of the human territories. Colored light spilled across the polished floor in shifting patterns of gold, crimson, and deep blue. In the center stood a massive round table made of polished petrified wood, set with five ornate stone thrones. The wood itself was dark and dense, its grain still visible after ages of careful preservation.
Three of the other Dukes were already present.
To the north sat Duchess Rosalind of the Frost Veil, a woman with silver hair and eyes as cold as glacier ice, lazily swirling a goblet of chilled wine. The pale liquid caught the light from the windows, throwing faint blue reflections across her face.
To the west sat Duke Kenneth of the Iron March, a scarred, burly veteran whose armored shoulders were broader than a doorway, picking at his fingernails with a bone dagger. The soft scrape of the blade against his skin was the only sound he made for several long moments.
And to the south sat Duke Valerius of the Sunken Coast, a slender, sharply dressed young man draped in silks and pearls, who offered Owen a fake, polite smile as the heavy iron doors swung open.
"Ah, Owen," Valerius purred, his voice dripping with smooth condescension. "We were beginning to think you were too busy chasing ghosts in your borders to join the rest of us."
Owen didn’t answer right away. He pulled out his heavy stone chair with a grating scrape against the marble floor and sat down, resting his massive, gloved fists on the table. The sound of the chair moving seemed deliberately loud in the otherwise quiet chamber.
"Mind your tongue, Valerius," Owen growled, his deep voice carrying a lethal edge that made the younger duke’s smile falter slightly. "I have no patience for political games today."
"Clearly," Duchess Rosalind chimed in, her icy voice cutting through the tension as she set her wine glass down. The soft click of the goblet against the wood was precise and deliberate. "Word reaches the High Council that you’ve lost two of your Dread Commanders, Owen. Rin and Balthazar. To a banished, magicless brat, no less."
Duke Kenneth let out a booming, rough bark of laughter, slamming his broad fist against the wooden table. The impact made the goblets and papers jump.
"Is that true, Owen?! A boy you captured managed to slaughter two of your top dogs? Sounds like your ’Dread’ commanders were getting soft!"
Owen’s eyes burned with a dark, terrifying aura, the mana around his chair visibly warping the air. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a degree or two as the pressure of his presence expanded.
"Vince is an anomaly. He possesses power that threatens the stability of all five of our territories—heck, even the world itself. If you think his threat is isolated to my borders, you are fools."
Before Kenneth or Valerius could retort, the heavy double doors at the far end of the hall creaked open once more.
A quiet hush fell over the room as the Fifth Duke entered—the eldest and most influential of them all, stepping up to take a seat. His presence alone was enough to still the sharp words that had been forming on the other dukes’ tongues.
The political storm of the Five Dukes had begun—but the central seat remained empty.