Chapter 267 Schemes of Kings and Shadows, A Lord’s Resolve

The grand, tapestried chambers of King Rouben Yachvili of Jorailia buzzed with hushed, urgent conversation. The King, a man whose ambition was as vast as his kingdom’s eastern plains, sat heavily on his ornate throne, Alaric Steele’s message still glowing faintly on the Phone Artifact clutched in his hand.

His chief minister, Lord Kaelen, a gaunt man with eyes like chips of flint, stroked his pointed beard. “Eight Archdemons, Your Majesty? And Ingranad himself? Against the Steele territory?” He shook his head. “An overwhelming force. Even with their formidable barrier, the odds are… grim.”

General Tauron, his weathered face set in stern lines, his hand instinctively resting on the horcux-pommel of his greatsword, disagreed. “Grim, perhaps, Minister Kaelen, but not impossible! Steele’s artifacts have proven their worth. His barrier is legendary. And the man himself… he is a Grandmaster of unparalleled talent. If we strike the demons from the flank, as he suggests…”

“And risk our legions?” interrupted Baron Varis, the King’s treasurer, a man whose loyalty was measured in gold. “For what, General? To protect a minor noble house in a crumbling kingdom? Steele offers vague promises of future trade, territorial concessions that are already being contested by the Assembly. The cost of deploying a significant force so far west, against such a concentration of demonic power… it is prohibitive.”

King Rouben Yachvili listened, his gaze shrewd. Alaric Steele. A useful pawn. A source of powerful tools. But also… a rapidly rising power, independent, unpredictable. If Steele fell, the supply of artifacts would indeed cease, which was problematic. But if he survived an assault of this magnitude… he would become even more influential, perhaps even a rival.

‘He has one Archmage, that Priscilla woman who fled Eryndal,’ Rouben Yachvili mused. ‘And Steele himself, a potent Grandmaster. His mother and aunt are strong martialists, yes, but hardly Arch-level. Against eight Archdemons? Their chances are… less than favorable. Perhaps less than ten percent, even with their barrier buying them time.’

He considered the ‘compensation’ Alaric offered. More artifacts, yes. Land. Resources. But if Steele was crushed, Jorailia could perhaps… secure… those artifacts, that territory, through other means. Less direct, perhaps, but also less costly in Jorailian lives and treasure. Why bleed his own army to save a potential future competitor, when he could wait, watch, and then pick through the ashes?

“Steele’s request is… understandable, given his predicament,” King Rouben Yachvili said finally, his voice carefully neutral. “His contributions to the war effort have been… noted.” He glanced at General Tauron. “However, General, our primary focus must remain the consolidation of our eastern territories. Our legions are already engaged against significant demonic incursions along the Dragon’s Spine foothills. To divert such a large force west at this juncture… it would leave our newly acquired lands vulnerable. A risk I am unwilling to take.”

General Tauron’s jaw tightened, but he knew better than to argue directly with his King’s pronouncement. Duty demanded obedience, even when his warrior’s heart yearned to join the fray, to slaughter demons alongside a proven ally.

“We will, of course, express our deepest regrets to Lord Steele,” King Rouben Yachvili continued smoothly. “Offer our prayers for his success. Perhaps even send a… token force… to demonstrate our solidarity, once our own borders are fully secure. But a major deployment at this time… regrettably, it is not feasible.”

Lord Kaelen and Baron Varis nodded in agreement, their expressions relieved. King Rouben Yachvili picked up his Phone Artifact, his fingers already composing a carefully worded message of polite refusal, filled with expressions of sympathy and strategic necessity. The Steele Family, it seemed, would have to face Ingranad’s wrath alone, as far as Jorailia was concerned.

Deep within the shadowy, labyrinthine headquarters of the Phantom Assembly, hidden somewhere in the blighted western reaches of Eloriath, a similar discussion was taking place. Lord Vortan, his features perpetually obscured by shifting shadows, his voice a silken whisper that promised both power and damnation, listened as Archmage Zylle Mordan relayed the contents of Alaric Steele’s… forceful request.

“Eight Archdemons, Lord Vortan,” Zylle repeated, her own obsidian eyes narrowed in thought. “Ingranad’s main force. A direct assault on the Steele territory. Steele demands our elite strike teams, our assassins, our battle-mages. He offers… Archdemon cores… in return.”

A low chuckle, like dry leaves rustling, emanated from Vortan’s shadowy form. “Demands, Zylle? Or requests with a particularly sharp edge? Young Steele has grown… bold. And his assessment of our reliance on his trinkets is… uncomfortably accurate.”

Another high-ranking Assembly member, a gaunt Master Martialist known only as ‘Silas’ spoke, his voice raspy. “The Steele barrier is strong, Master. Our operatives near its perimeter confirm its potency. But against eight Archdemons… for days? Even their Seventh Order core will drain.”

“Indeed,” Vortan agreed. “The probability of Steele’s fortress withstanding such a siege for long is… minimal. He has the Archmage Priscilla, yes. Steele himself is a powerful Grandmaster. But beyond that? His family members are strong, but not Arch-level. Perhaps he has a few other hidden assets, but against eight of Ingranad’s chosen? He is overwhelmingly outmatched.”

Vortan, like King Rouben Yachvili, severely underestimated the true depth of Alaric’s personal power and the formidable women he had gathered and empowered. He, too, calculated Steele’s chances of survival at less than ten percent.

Zylle Mordan leaned forward, her voice a low murmur. “If Steele falls, Lord Vortan, we lose access to his artifacts. Our recent successes against the demonic incursions in our… newly acquired… territories have been heavily reliant on his Radiant Sun Orbs and Abyssal Snare Traps. Replacements will be needed soon. And his barrier technology… acquiring those schematics would be invaluable for fortifying our own strongholds.”

“Acquisition through… alternative means… might become feasible, should the Steele fortress indeed crumble,” Silas rasped, a predatory glint in his shadowed eyes. “A swift strike amidst the chaos… secure the workshops, the research notes… perhaps even the artificer himself, if he survives, though that seems unlikely.”

Lord Vortan remained silent for a long moment, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. Alaric Steele. A source of immense frustration, yet also undeniable utility. He had humiliated Vortan by demanding Brita Kuusk, yet his artifacts were undeniably effective.

If Steele survived this, his power and prestige would be immense, making him an even more difficult entity to control or manipulate. If he fell… the opportunity to seize his creations, his knowledge, was tempting.

‘A direct confrontation with Ingranad’s main force, to save Steele?’ Vortan mused. ‘Costly. Risky. And for what? To preserve a supplier who already dictates terms? Perhaps… a period of Steele absence might prove… strategically beneficial in the long run. It would allow the Assembly to consolidate its own power without his disruptive influence.’

“Young Steele overestimates our… altruism,” Lord Vortan finally whispered, a hint of cruel amusement in his tone. “He believes we are allies against a common foe. We are merely… opportunistic predators, picking over the same carcass. His demise, while inconvenient in the short term regarding artifact supply, might present… new avenues for Assembly expansion and resource acquisition in the west.”

He made his decision. “We will not commit our elite forces to a direct engagement with Ingranad’s legion to save the Steele Family. The risk is too high, the potential reward too uncertain if Steele himself perishes. We will, however, dispatch… observers. Agents skilled in stealth and reconnaissance. They will monitor the siege. If an opportunity arises to… acquire… valuable assets from the Steele territory during the chaos, they are authorized to act. Discreetly.”

He then turned his attention to the message Alaric had sent.

“As for young Steele’s ‘request’ for aid… we shall express our profound regrets. Our forces are deeply engaged defending our own hard-won territories against demonic counter-assaults. We cannot spare the necessary manpower. A tragic necessity, of course.” He almost purred the words.

“But we will offer him our… moral support. And perhaps… a small, symbolic gesture of aid, should he somehow manage to survive this initial onslaught. Unlikely, but one must maintain appearances.”

Lord Vortan, like King Rouben Yachvili, began to compose his own carefully crafted message of refusal, filled with insincere apologies and pragmatic justifications. The Steele Family, it seemed, was well and truly on its own.

Back in his study at Steele Manor, Alaric watched the replies flicker onto his Phone Artifact.

First, King Rouben Yachvili’s message, filled with flowery regrets and flimsy excuses about border skirmishes.

Then, Lord Vortan’s, equally insincere, citing the immense pressure on Phantom Assembly territories.

Alaric read them both, his expression impassive. He wasn’t surprised. He had anticipated this. Kings and Dark Lords rarely acted out of altruism. Self-interest was their guiding star.

“Predictable,” he murmured, setting the Phone Artifact down. A cold, dangerous light flickered in his ruby eyes. “Utterly predictable.”

He wasn’t angry. Anger was a useless emotion. What he felt was a cold, calculating resolve.

‘So be it,’ he thought. ‘Jorailia and the Phantom Assembly choose to watch from the sidelines, hoping to pick over my bones. They underestimate me. They underestimate the Steele Family. And they will regret this day.’

He made a mental note. King Rouben Yachvili. Lord Vortan. Their names were added to a very exclusive, very personal list. A list of individuals who would, eventually, pay a very steep price for their shortsightedness and their arrogance.

‘Once I am strong enough… once the opportunity arises… their kingdoms, their organizations… they will become valuable additions to my own expanding empire. And their women… ah, their women will learn the true meaning of submission.’

But that was a matter for the future. For now, the present crisis demanded his full attention. Eight Archdemons and ten thousand lesser demons were battering his fortress. His “allies” had abandoned him.

Fine. He would deal with it himself. With his family. With his women.

He rose from his chair, a predatory grace to his movements. He strode out of his study, his mind already formulating a new battle plan, a strategy born of necessity, ruthlessness, and the absolute, unwavering confidence in his own power and the loyalty of those he commanded.

He summoned them all to the main war room – a large, fortified chamber deep within the manor, its walls lined with strategic maps and defensive array control panels.

Lyra, Cassandra, Fiora. Their martial auras pulsed with controlled power, their expressions grim but resolute.

Griselda, his innocent princess wife. She looked terrified, but stood bravely beside her husband, her hand clutching his arm.

Saintess Ceanna, her holy aura a beacon of calm strength. Her clerics stood silently behind her, their faith absolute.

Meng Yao, the Ice Sect Mistress, her Martial King power a palpable chill in the room. Her obsidian eyes were fixed on Alaric, her loyalty unwavering.

Professor Maelis, Archmage of Magic Martial Arts. Her initial shock at being recalled had faded, replaced by a grim determination. She knew what was at stake.

Archmage Priscilla, protector of the Royal Family. Her expression was stern, analytical, her mind already assessing defensive probabilities.

Kara and Ulriya, the Grand Mage maids. They stood slightly behind the others, their power thrumming, their eyes filled with absolute devotion to their Master.

And Brita Kuusk. Her Grand Mage power, enhanced by the awakened Python Essence, coiled around her like a shadowy serpent. Her face was pale, her eyes held a mixture of fear and a strange, fierce loyalty forged in the crucible of her breaking.

Even Kyss’andra, the Siren Queen, was present, though heavily guarded and bound by reinforced silencing and power-dampening chains. She stood silently in a corner, her pearl-like eyes fixed on Alaric with a complex, unreadable expression. Her Arch-level power, even suppressed, added a significant weight to the room. Alaric had decided her… unique talents… might be needed sooner rather than later.

Alaric surveyed his assembled forces. His family. His lovers. His slaves. His allies. A formidable collection of power, beauty, and absolute loyalty.

“Our esteemed ‘allies’ have chosen to observe from a safe distance,” Alaric announced, his voice calm, devoid of anger, but laced with an icy resolve that sent shivers down their spines. “King Rouben Yachvili sends his regrets. Lord Vortan offers his moral support. It seems we face Ingranad’s legion alone.”

A murmur of anger and disappointment rippled through the room, quickly silenced by Alaric’s unwavering gaze.

“It matters not,” Alaric continued, his voice hardening. “We do not need their aid. We do not need their pity. We have our own strength. We have this fortress. And we have each other.”

His ruby eyes swept over them, lingering for a moment on each woman. “Ingranad seeks to make an example of us. He has brought eight of his Archdemon commanders and a legion of ten thousand to grind our home to dust. He believes us weak, isolated, an easy target.”

A cold, predatory smile touched his lips. “He is mistaken.”

He turned to a large, holographic map of the Steele territory and the surrounding demonic encampment, which flickered into existence at his gesture.

“They expect a siege,” Alaric stated. “They expect us to cower behind our barrier until it fails. We will not give them that satisfaction.”

His gaze sharpened. “We will not fight a defensive war of attrition. We will strike. Hard. Fast. Decisively. We will utilize the barrier not as a static shield, but as a dynamic weapon. We will control the battlefield.”

He began to outline his plan, his voice clear and concise, his strategic brilliance undeniable.

“The barrier, as you know, is comprised of multiple, interconnected layers and offensive arrays,” Alaric explained, his finger tracing lines on the holographic map. “Archmage Priscilla, you will retain primary control of the barrier’s energy distribution and its core defensive matrix. Your task is to maintain its integrity at all costs, to shift power where it is needed most, to anticipate and counter any attempts by their Archmages to unravel its enchantments.”

Priscilla nodded, her expression focused. “Understood, Lord Steele. Their attempts to breach it thus far have been… crude. But with eight Archdemons coordinating, we must expect more sophisticated assaults.”

“Indeed,” Alaric agreed. “Which is why we will not allow them to concentrate their power. Mother, Aunt Cassandra, Fiora.” He turned to his martial powerhouses. “You three will lead mobile strike teams of our elite Steele guards. Your objective is to harass their siege lines, disrupt their formations, target their siege engines and supply chains. Use your speed, your Royal techniques. Strike from unexpected angles, then retreat behind the barrier before they can retaliate in force. Bleed them. Demoralize them.”

Lyra’s eyes gleamed. “A guerilla war, Alaric? I like it.”

Cassandra smirked. “Hit and run. My Garuda style is perfect for that.”

Fiora nodded eagerly. “We won’t let them rest, Alaric!”

“Saintess Ceanna, Meng Yao, Professor Maelis,” Alaric addressed his Arch-level spellcasters. “You are our heavy hitters. Ceanna, your holy magic, amplified by your clerics and the artifacts, will be crucial for area denial against lesser demons and for weakening the Archdemons’ unholy auras. Meng Yao, your Martial King ice techniques can shatter their formations and neutralize their fire-aspected commanders. Maelis, your Magic Martial Arts, your sheer destructive power, will be our spearhead against any Archdemon that attempts a focused breach.”

Ceanna bowed. “We serve your will, my Lord.”

Meng Yao’s obsidian eyes burned with cold fire. “They will learn to fear the ice, Lord Alaric.”

Maelis cracked her knuckles, a fierce grin on her face. “Just point me at the biggest, ugliest one, Alaric. I’m itching for a real fight.”

“Kara, Ulriya, Brita, Rosalind,” Alaric turned to his Grand Mage contingent. “You will act as mobile magical artillery. Support the martial strike teams. Provide covering fire. Lay down defensive wards during retreats. Kara, your earth and shadow can create diversions and obstacles. Ulriya, your water and ice can control chokepoints and freeze advancing hordes. Brita,” his gaze on her was sharp, “your Python Essence grants you unique resilience and control. Use your dark ice to ensnare, to debilitate. Rosalind, coordinate their efforts. Ensure their power is used efficiently, decisively.”

“Yes, Young Master/Master/Alaric!” they replied in unison, their determination absolute.

“And Kyss’andra…” Alaric’s gaze shifted to the bound Siren Queen in the corner. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Your role, my dear Siren, will be… more subtle. But no less vital.” He would reveal her part later, in private. Her mental powers, even suppressed, could be a devastating weapon if deployed correctly.

“Ingranad believes he has us trapped,” Alaric concluded, his ruby eyes sweeping over his assembled forces, his voice resonating with unwavering confidence. “He believes he can grind us down with overwhelming numbers and Archdemon might. He is wrong.”

He slammed his fist onto the holographic map, extinguishing the image. “We will not just defend. We will attack. We will dictate the terms of this engagement. We will bleed his legion dry. We will shatter his Archdemons. And we will make Ingranad regret the day he ever dared to threaten the Steele Family.”

His eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire. “This is not a siege. This is a hunt. And we,” he gestured to the powerful, beautiful, utterly loyal women surrounding him, “are the predators. Now, prepare yourselves. The true battle for Steele territory begins at dawn.”

A surge of fierce, almost joyful anticipation filled the war room. They were outnumbered, yes. They faced a terrifying foe. But they hadn’t lost hope and instead wanted to fight bravely!