Lord of the realm

Chapter 190: The Flight West

The practical considerations began flowing: who would go, what they’d bring, and how communications would be maintained. Despite the short timeline, the household moved with impressive efficiency.

Two hours later, Jaenor stood in the training field with his companions. They wore practical armor and cold-weather gear and carried weapons and supplies. Ba’narussa had been roused from her rest and now stood ready, alert, and focused.

The vassal house leaders had arrived to see them off. All three looked grim but determined.

"We’ll hold the duchy while you’re gone," one of the vassal ladies said.

"And if you need reinforcements, send word. We don’t abandon allies in the field."

"Thank you," Jaenor said sincerely.

"All of you. For your loyalty, your support, for believing in someone with a cursed bloodline."

"Not cursed," Danarry corrected.

"Not anymore. You’re proving that every day."

They climbed onto Ba’narussa’s back, finding their positions on the divine beast’s massive form. Jaenor settled at the base of her neck, his hands finding purchase on her scales.

Through their bond, he communicated direction and purpose. Ba’narussa understood immediately: west, toward the village.

Her massive wings unfurled, and with a single powerful leap, she launched skyward.

The estate fell away below them, then the duchy, then the entire region. They climbed higher and higher until the world spread out like a map, and Ba’narussa turned west, toward the distant mountains.

Jaenor felt wind against his face, felt his merged power resonating with Ba’narussa’s ancient energy, and felt the determination of his companions behind him.

-

Ba’narussa’s wings beat in steady rhythm as they soared through the sky, heading west.

Jaenor received updated intelligence through a communication crystal Wendelina had provided. The northern breach was critical, yes, but scouts had reported unusual demon activity in the western territories. Movement that suggested coordination beyond normal raiding patterns.

And one name had appeared in the reports: Frostvale.

Against their wishes, the village seemed to have come under threat. They hoped that nothing would happen to them, and the reports only made them anxious.

Frostvale, the small village where Jaenor’s mother had lived and their families resided currently.

The moment he’d seen that name, Jaenor urged the beast to fly faster.

Morgana hadn’t argued.

Ba’narussa carried them at speeds that made the landscape blur beneath them. The divine beast seemed to sense the urgency, pushing herself harder than normal, eating up miles with relentless efficiency.

After several hours of flight, the western territories came into view.

The land here was different from Drakenten’s rolling hills, more rugged, with forests of evergreen that stretched for miles and mountains rising in the distance. Snow dusted the higher elevations despite it being only early winter.

And cutting through the forest like a dark scar was the demon legion.

They were visible from high above, a massive force moving with terrible purpose toward human settlements.

Jaenor could see them clearly with his enhanced vision: thousands of demons in organized formations, Black Orcs forming the disciplined core, with lesser demons filling out the ranks. War machines rolled along cleared paths, giant creatures following closely behind.

It was an invasion force, and their path led directly toward a cluster of settlements in the valley ahead.

Toward Frostvale.

"There," Jaenor said, pointing. His voice carried clearly to his companions despite the wind. "That’s them. And there—" he indicated a small collection of buildings perhaps two miles ahead of the demon column, "—that’s Frostvale."

Rena leaned forward, squinting to see details.

"How long before they reach the village?"

"At their current pace? Maybe an hour. Less if they increase speed."

Jaenor’s jaw tightened.

"We need to stop them here. If they reach Frostvale, if they get among the buildings—"

"Massacre," Baren finished grimly.

"Civilians can’t fight that kind of force. They’d be slaughtered."

"Then we don’t let them reach the village," Jaenor said with finality.

He communicated with Ba’narussa through their bond, and the divine beast began a controlled descent. They spiraled down, losing altitude gradually, giving everyone time to prepare mentally for what came next.

As they dropped below the clouds, the demon legion became even more obvious. Jaenor could see individual units now, see the Black Orc commanders directing their forces, and see the brutal efficiency with which they moved.

And at the front of the column, he felt something that made his blood run cold.

A presence.

Powerful, ancient, radiating authority that dwarfed even the strongest demons in the legion. It was familiar in the worst way; he’d felt this specific signature before, at Ki’thara village, when the Seven Sins had gathered.

Draelusa, Pride of Sin.

The one who’d corrupted the witch sisters, who’d orchestrated the assault on the Silver Spire, who’d been manipulating events across the realm.

He was here. Leading this legion personally.

"We have a problem," Jaenor called back to his companions.

"Pride is with them. Draelusa himself."

Morgana’s face went pale.

"A Sin? One of the Seven? Jaenor, we can’t—"

"I can," Jaenor interrupted, and his voice carried certainty backed by power.

"I have to. If he’s leading them, killing lesser demons won’t stop anything. We cut the head off, or we accomplish nothing."

Ba’narussa landed perhaps a quarter mile ahead of the demon column, in a cleared area where the forest had been burned away by some previous conflict. The ground was scorched and dead, providing clear sightlines in all directions.

They dismounted quickly, forming up in a defensive position.

Ba’narussa positioned herself at their center, her seven heads raised and alert, a living fortress that radiated divine power. As soon as she landed, the remaining heads sprouted out of her neck.

The demon legion stopped advancing the moment they landed. Orders shouted in harsh languages rippled through their ranks. The column began reorganizing, shifting from march formation into battle array.

And from the front of that column, a single figure walked forward.

He appeared human, the handsome middle-aged man Jaenor had glimpsed in visions and reports. Distinguished features, cultured bearing, wearing traveling clothes of excellent quality. He moved with casual confidence, as if approaching friends rather than enemies.