The Pursuit Of Catalyst: A Dive Into Another Verse

2 Months later.

Imperial Palace of Asphalia — High Council Hall

The grand chamber was awash with the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, their light reflecting off polished obsidian floors. Heavy drapes muffled the sounds of the outside world, sealing in the tension that hung in the air.

At the head of the table sat Emperor Maevor Asphalia, regal and sharp-eyed despite the weight of his years. Draped in imperial robes of midnight blue embroidered with gold, he regarded the gathered council with quiet authority.

To his right sat the only Duke of the empire — Danise Ellesmere, head of the Duchy bordering Zweinston. His calm, unreadable expression offered little, but those who knew him understood he was weighing every word spoken in the chamber.

Seated along the long oval table were five Counts representing the major regions of the empire, each flanked by their most trusted aides. Lesser nobles, military advisors, and envoys stood silently along the periphery, listening intently.

A young officer stepped forward and bowed.

"Your Majesty," he began, voice steady, "our border scouts confirm unusual troop movements on the southern edge of Zweinston. Over thirty thousand soldiers have been stationed near their capital outskirts. They've begun large-scale drills and supply accumulation. It appears… they are preparing for war."

A murmur rippled through the room.

Count Renald Kestmere of Kestmere Estate scowled. "Zweinston has never taken such an overt stance. This cannot be dismissed as coincidence."

Countess Arelia Velmire of Velmire Estate nodded sharply. "They may not have declared war, but their intention is clear. The question is no longer 'if'—but 'when'."

Emperor Maevor raised a hand and the room stilled.

"And the source of this intelligence?"

The officer bowed again. "Direct from the covert channels established along the neutral corridor. Multiple sightings. Verified by three separate scouts, my Emperor."

Duke Danise finally spoke, his voice low and composed. "Then it is certain. Zweinston seeks to test our strength. And they will likely begin with the weakest—and most tempting—of our border regions."

All eyes shifted to him.

He met the Emperor's gaze. "The Duchy of Ellesmere lies closest to their line of advance. If they strike, it will be here."

Emperor Maevor's expression darkened. "They intend to bleed us slowly—strike the edges and see if the center folds."

Count Braen Dunlor of Dunlor Estate frowned. "Should we begin mass conscription?"

The Emperor shook his head. "Not yet. We do not stir the people with fear until we must. But raise the alert in all border regions. Begin defensive preparations. Quietly."

Count Marquis Lawrance of the Lawrance Estate (Sarena's father) added "Indeed, making this public now will cause panic... and problems dealing with country's internal affairs."

Count Bronn Aswel of the Aswel Estate spoke, "Then it can cause us problems dealing with the external affairs like war and trading."

"Shall we call back the Crown Prince for military coordination?" another noble asked.

"No," Maevor said firmly. "Prince Elas remains at the academy. And so does young Sylves Ellesmere. We do not interrupt their growth—yet. They will become adults in just a year. Their time will come soon enough."

(Note: In this world, a person is considered an adult at the age of 15, generally after passing their academics life.)

A long pause.

Then the Emperor rose from his seat, casting a long shadow across the council table.

"We prepare in silence," he declared. "But if Zweinston dares move first—then Asphalia shall respond with fire."

The room bowed in unison.

---

Duchy of Ellesmere – Two Months Before War

The sun rose over the frost-covered peaks of the northern highlands, casting pale light across the vast expanse of the Ellesmere estate. Snow clung to the rooftops and treetops, but beneath the serene winter exterior, the province stirred like a sleeping beast awakened.

News of Zweinston's rumored movements had reached the duchy swiftly—faster than expected. Although the Empire's central court at Asphalia City deliberated in its chambers, Duke Danise Ellesmere wasted no time waiting for consensus. War was not a distant threat. It was a coming storm—and his duchy, as the southernmost shield, would be the first to face its wrath.

In the first week, all outposts and watchtowers along the southern border were reinforced. Black-plated riders of the Duke's elite Drakensworn patrolled the snowy roads, ensuring supply routes were secure and no spies crossed undetected. Alarm towers were tested, torches were relit, and signal magic was re-inscribed—glyphs glowing faintly in the snow under the scrutiny of court mages.

Inside the halls of Whitebark Fortress, the duke's command bastion near the southern edge, a dozen officers pored over maps. Each inch of border terrain was assessed, from the craggy passes of Dornspire Valley to the wide plains along the Eira River.

Count Bronn Aswel, a grizzled veteran with scars running from chin to collarbone, struck his gauntlet on the oak table. "If they try the river route, they'll be bottlenecked at three crossings. I say we build palisades and hold those. If they try a frontal march through the valley, we'll bury them in snow and rock."

"Brawn will not be enough," replied Countess Arelia Vilmire, the youngest among the counts. Her dark green eyes burned with tactical precision. "Zweinston's forces are zealous. We must assume they'll strike without regard for losses. Hit-and-run cavalry patrols. Archer nests with wide arcs. Scorched ground in areas we can afford to abandon."

Duke Danise, seated at the head of the table in a fur-lined coat, gave a nod. "Do both. We'll not predict what their general intends. We'll prepare for every path."

By the second week, over 12,000 men were mobilized within the duchy's standing forces. Blacksmiths worked day and night in the towns of Havenreach and Mirrowen, forging new pikes, axes, and blades. In the mountains, conscripted dwarven craftsmen—long under Ellesmere protection—began shaping reinforced plating for siege defenses. Enchanted steel from the mines of Greldor Keep flowed north to the training camps like veins of power being fed into a body bracing for conflict.

Food rations were restructured by the end of the third week. Civilian caravans headed north to prevent panic in southern towns like Faelridge and Southwin Hollow, while field kitchens began stockpiling dried meats, medicinal herbs, and hardtack. Ashia's mother, Aria—the head maid at Ellesmere Manor—oversaw the conversion of one wing of the estate into a recovery hall for wounded soldiers. Ylva, the Duchess, worked beside her in quiet determination.

"They are my people too," Ylva said one night as she personally folded bandages by the hearth. "I may not wield sword or spell, but I will stand by Danise… and Sylves's future."

In the fourth week, the duchy received shipments of enchantment supplies from the imperial capital. Barrier crystals, elemental traps, and reinforced runestones for fort walls arrived under the personal seal of Emperor Maevor himself. Although the central empire had not yet officially declared war, it was clear the Emperor trusted Duke Danise with the southern line. With Prince Elas and Sylves still at the academy, no other noble wielded comparable strategic authority.

Training intensified. Squadrons drilled daily in snow-laden fields. Mage companies were reorganized under the direct command of Count Halven Marrow, a grim man with expertise in layered magical defense. "Wards must hold against artillery. Shields must repel not just flame but Void. Prepare for the worst—hope for less."

By the sixth week, the duchy had formed three lines of defense: the outer ridge lines, fortified with archer towers and avalanche runes; the midline garrisons on key hills, manned by both infantry and beast-riders; and the inner defense—a living wall around Whitebark Fortress itself, lined with ballistae, mage bunkers, and hidden teleport anchors.

Civilians too were trained—in evacuation drills, in fire-response spells, and even in dagger self-defense. Children under ten were relocated to northern cities, and temples across the duchy offered sanctuary.

In the quiet moments between drills and briefings, soldiers wrote letters home. Mothers wept in silence while weaving thick winter cloaks for their sons. Farmers who once tilled land now sharpened spears. The duchy was transforming—no longer just a noble's estate, but a bastion for the Empire's soul.

And still, Danise stood firm.

On the eve of the eighth week, as snow drifted quietly beyond the stained-glass windows of Ellesmere Manor, the Duke stood on the battlements with his wife.

"They will come soon," Ylva said, tightening the cloak around his shoulders. "But Sylves will return stronger than ever. He'll inherit a duchy that didn't falter."

Danise nodded. "And if he does… he will inherit more than just land. He'll inherit pride. Resolve. The unbreakable will of Ellesmere."

Far to the south, in the hidden chambers of Zweinston's royal castle, similar fires burned. But for now, in the snowy north, the Duchy stood ready—not to conquer, but to protect.

---

Southern Border of the Duchy of Ellesmere — Dawn of War

It was an icy morning.

The sun had not yet risen. Fog rolled thick and heavy over the frozen fields, swallowing the pines and hills into silence. Snow coated everything in a deceptive hush—white, cold, serene. Not even birds dared break the quiet.

And then, the world screamed.

A horn blasted through the fog—long and deep like a beast's roar—followed by the thunder of boots against the earth. The ground trembled as Zweinston's vanguard surged forward like a tidal wave of iron. Shadows emerged from the mist—helmets glinting, spears leveled, flags raised high with their serpent crest.

The outermost lookout towers of the Duchy flared to life. Signal glyphs ignited in crimson light, casting eerie glows across the snow. Arrows were loosed even before targets were fully seen, vanishing into the fog, only to be answered by volleys from the other side.

"Enemy advance! Dornspire Valley!" the wardstones shrieked.

Ellesmere's front-line garrisons—young men and seasoned warriors alike—rushed to meet the storm. Ballistae turned on groaning frames. Ice-rimed palisades stood fast as wave after wave of Zweinston's front lines charged. Their war cry pierced the sky:

"For Zwein! For conquest!"

The first clash was thunderous. Steel slammed into shield. Men cried out—some in fury, many in pain. Blood stained the snow as swords met flesh. The fog made monsters of men. Blades came from nowhere. Screams were muffled as lives vanished into white.

A squad of Ellesmere archers, stationed atop a ridge, loosed arrow after arrow—but the enemy kept coming. Count Bronn Aswel rode along the ridge on a frostmane elk, barking orders as lightning magic exploded among the enemy ranks.

"Hold! Reinforce the left flank! Do not give them the pass!"

But even as he shouted, the eastern ridge began to collapse under pressure.

They had underestimated Zweinston's aggression.

From the fog emerged siege golems—towering brutes carved of stone and blood-forged iron, their runes glowing red with unholy energy. One swung a hammer down on a barricade and shattered it like splinters. The men behind it barely had time to scream.

On another flank, Ellesmere mages tried to cast barriers, but dark arrows—tipped in alchemical toxin—rained down from unseen archers. One mage's shield flickered, then shattered as she collapsed clutching her throat.

The fog warped with Void magic. Dark rifts opened momentarily—sickening glimpses into the abyss. Few on Ellesmere's side could understand the spellwork used. Even fewer lived to report it.

And through it all, the signal fires continued to flare—yellow, then orange, then red. Each color meant another point was breached. Another section was falling.

Back at Whitebark Fortress, Duke Danise Ellesmere stood atop the southern wall, watching the mist glow with fire and chaos.

His jaw clenched.

"So… they've begun."

Behind him, runners scrambled with messages. Mages prepared for long-range teleport reinforcements. War had arrived at their doorstep—not as a thunderclap, but as a slow, grinding scream into the cold.

And it was only the beginning.

---

Imperial Asphalia Academy – Council Room

Two Days After the War's Outbreak

A heavy silence cloaked the council chamber, broken only by the scratching of quills and the quiet rustle of worried robes. The stained-glass windows of the circular room—normally radiant with soft morning hues—now cast grey shadows across the long obsidian table. Around it, the academy's professors sat tensely, eyes drawn to Headmaster Gardinant at the far end.

He rose slowly, his dark crimson robes edged in silver, and looked around with a grim expression. "As of this morning, Emperor Maevor has officially declared war," he said. "The Duchy of Ellesmere is now the primary battlefield. Reinforcements—ten thousand strong—have already been dispatched from the capital."

Gasps echoed. A few professors exchanged panicked looks. One of the older lecturers muttered, "That means the rumors were true…"

Gardinant continued, "Despite suffering a surprise attack, Duke Danise Ellesmere has managed to hold the line. The estate remains intact—barely. But this is no skirmish. The enemy pushes harder every hour. The war has only begun."

Before anyone could respond, a surge of deep violet light swirled in the corner of the room. A tear in space snapped open with a crackling hum. From it stepped a tall man in a black coat, silver-lined and wind-swept.

Hawk Frost had arrived.

His boots clicked against the stone floor as he took two long strides forward, silver hair unsettled and sharp Void mana flickering faintly around him.

"I felt a disturbance," he said without preamble. "Toward the South. Like a jagged tear cutting through the air itself. Something powerful. Something hateful."

Several professors stiffened. A young faculty member near the rear whispered, "What kind of magic could disturb someone like Hawk Frost?"

"Should we alert the students?" asked Professor Regan Aldeworth. "Some of them have family in Ellesmere—"

"No," Gardinant said, cutting in sharply. "Not yet. Mass panic will hinder more than help. Classes will continue as usual. We'll prepare contingency plans silently."

A murmur of reluctant agreement passed through the room.

Hawk leaned on the table slightly. "I want a list. Every student whose homeland borders the southern provinces. And those with military or noble ties to Ellesmere."

Professor Selvine, keeper of academy records, nodded quickly. "I will compile it immediately."

Hawk turned his gaze toward Gardinant. "If the enemy pushes through Ellesmere... the academy is only a few weeks' march away. We need to prepare magical defenses and evacuation paths."

"I've already begun consultations with the empire's war council," Gardinant said. "But if you—Hawk Frost—sense something... beyond the norm... I trust that more than any official report."

Hawk didn't respond. Instead, he walked toward the tall arched window and stared out toward the unseen South, where the sun failed to break the haze of clouds.

"…If Ellesmere falls," he murmured, "then it won't just be war. It'll be annihilation."

No one in the room dared question the weight of his warning.

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