HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

Two weeks had passed since the fall of the council's stronghold, yet the echoes of that battle lingered in every stone, every whisper of the wind through the broken city. Time had dulled the roar of combat into memory, but it had not yet mended the scars. The walls still bore blackened wounds from fire, streets were pitted with the craters of magefire strikes, and the air retained the faint bitterness of smoke. Yet in the quiet intervals between duties, the people of the South had begun to breathe differently — not freely yet, but as though learning the rhythm of hope for the first time.

Ryon walked along the edge of the outer ramparts at dawn, the sun's first light breaking through the thinning fog that rolled off the low hills. The land spread out before him like a wounded beast, but here and there, the signs of recovery were beginning to stir — makeshift markets rising from the rubble, farmers returning to the outskirts, and craftsmen hammering wood into new shapes that defied the ruin. It was fragile, this awakening, but it was real.

Beside him, Elira kept pace, her armor freshly polished though the scars on her gauntlets told of recent bloodshed. "Scouts returned from the west during the night," she said, her tone measured but edged with concern. "The governors of the Red Plains are moving their banners. They haven't declared their intentions, but…" She trailed off, letting the implication hang.

"They smell weakness," Ryon finished quietly. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the faintest tremor of dust hinted at distant movement. "The council's collapse didn't end the hunger for power — it scattered it, like embers in the wind. And some of those embers are already catching fire."

Kaelen found them at the watchtower steps, his expression grim. "It's worse in the north. Our allies in Thornvale report that two minor lords have already raised levies. The fighting hasn't started, but it's only a matter of time."

"Then we need to move before it does," Ryon said. His voice had sharpened, but it carried no panic — only resolve. "If the South fractures now, the victory we bled for will be nothing but a story told in the ruins."

By midday, the war council was assembled in the repurposed great hall — a long, scarred chamber where sunlight streamed through cracks in the roof and dust drifted like lazy spirits. Around the central table, maps were spread and weighed down with daggers and stones, marking contested regions. Elira stood at Ryon's right, Aurelia opposite her, Kaelen and Neive forming the other points of their quiet circle.

Neive was the first to speak after the reports were laid out. "We can't meet every rising threat with steel. That path will bleed us faster than our enemies ever could. We need a different strategy — divide the ambitious before they unite."

Aurelia's voice was cool and precise. "Agreed. But we cannot show too much restraint either. Mercy in the wrong place will be read as weakness, and weakness will draw predators."

"Then we offer a choice," Ryon said, leaning over the table, his fingers brushing the inked borders of the Red Plains. "Those who wish to join the new covenant may do so. Their lands will be protected, their people fed, their voices heard. Those who refuse…" He paused, letting the silence speak the rest.

Elira's eyes met his, fierce and certain. "We show them what happens when they cling to the old chains."

Kaelen nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on the map. "It's a dangerous balance to walk. One misstep, and we'll have more enemies than we can hold at bay."

"That's why we can't misstep," Ryon replied.

The days that followed were filled with movement — messengers dispatched, riders sent to secure nearby towns, envoys tasked with carrying Ryon's terms to the distant lords. The city itself continued to change in subtle but vital ways. Barricades were dismantled, not to erase the memory of war, but to make space for life to flow again. The markets buzzed with the cautious hum of trade. At night, the streets were lit not by the flames of destruction but by lanterns — their warm glow swaying in the wind like quiet promises.

One evening, while crossing the main square, Ryon stopped near the half-rebuilt fountain where children played. Their laughter rose into the cooling air, bright against the still-ruined backdrop. He watched for a long moment, letting it settle into him. For all his strength, for all the battles fought and still to come, this — the fragile joy of those too young to carry the weight of politics or blood feuds — was the reason he could not allow the South to slip into chaos again.

On the twelfth night after the council's fall, under a moon wrapped in thin silver clouds, a rider arrived at the gates. His horse was lathered with sweat, and his eyes were wide with urgency. The guards ushered him straight to the war council, where he fell to one knee before Ryon.

"Lord Donovan," the man said, his voice raw from the ride. "The banners of the Red Plains march. They've crossed into the Hollow Pass."

The room fell into a taut silence. Elira's hand drifted to her sword hilt. Aurelia's jaw tightened. Kaelen swore under his breath.

Ryon did not move for several long heartbeats. When he finally spoke, his words were calm but edged with steel. "Then the embers have found their fire."

He looked to each of his allies in turn. "Summon the captains. We march at first light."

The message needed no embellishment. The South was still in its infancy of freedom, and already, it was being tested by those who would see it bound again. But Ryon's path was set — through flame or frost, storm or silence, he would see it endure.

And so, as the council scattered to prepare, the night itself seemed to tighten, the air humming with the quiet weight of what was to come. Somewhere beyond the Hollow Pass, the Red Plains advanced. And here, within the battered heart of a city still healing, a new fire began to burn.