CHAPTER 52: THE SAINT ON HER KNEES... AND ALREADY THE DEMON GENERAL’S INVITATION

The great tent was steeped in a deceptive heat, saturated with melted wax, wet leather, and sweat. Torches fixed to the posts cast reddish flames over the maps spread on the ground, drawing shifting borders, as if even the parchment itself still hesitated to accept the new geography of the world.

She was there, kneeling before me, head bowed, hands joined against her bare thighs. The Saint. Her white hair clung to her temples, still heavy with melted snow, and her lips trembled with a breath that resembled a prayer. Yet it was no longer God she was invoking: it was me.

I straightened slowly, my boots scraping against the carpet of hides. My voice cut through the silence like a blade.

— There is no longer an Eastern Domain.

She barely lifted her head, her scarlet eyes seeking mine, burning with a troubled fever.

— There is only the Eighth Thorn, Lord.

Her words rolled through the air like a new liturgy. A shiver ran through her, and I saw her back arch imperceptibly, as if the mere announcement of her own dissolution gave her a forbidden pleasure.

I took a few steps, my fingers brushing against the maps.

— You will carry this truth to your people. Not through arms. Not through blood. You will send emissaries to the four corners of your lands. Let them speak of redemption, not conquest. Tell them that the Empire does not swallow: it resurrects. And if they doubt... show them what becomes of those who refuse my orders.

A convulsive smile split her face. Her lips parted as if to receive an invisible kiss.

— Yes... yes, Lord. I will turn every village into an altar for your name. I will place my voice in their ears, my knees in their memory. They will no longer see the Saint: only the Thorn you have made of me.

She bent further, her forehead nearly touching the ground. Her shoulders trembled with a mixture of adoration and ecstasy. There was in her words a demented fervor, but in her gestures a political precision: she had understood that it was not divine glory that would save her lands, but my will.

I stopped behind her, lowering my voice.

— Do not forget... Liora stays with me. Your sister is not free. She is my pledge. If you falter, I will crush her to remind you what you owe me.

She drew a sharp breath, a sigh that turned into a muffled moan. Then she nodded, submissive, almost relieved that I reminded her of the mark of my domination.

— Keep her... I beg you. Let her remain your hostage, your treasure. Thus I shall never be tempted to forget that I belong to you. Everything will be done according to your orders. Everything.

She finally raised her eyes. In their fever mingled the zeal of a fanatic and the icy lucidity of a strategist. She knew what I demanded: not only her flesh, but her word, her authority, her perverted faith to cement the Eighth Thorn.

I let her kneel one second more, her lips trembling with adoration, then I snapped my words like an iron order.

— You may leave.

The Saint bowed until her cheeks brushed against the ground. Her breath was hoarse, almost ecstatic, as if the mere right to leave at my will made her revel in a newfound loyalty. She withdrew backwards, head low, and the tent’s canvas fell shut behind her.

The silence that followed had the weight of a tomb. Only Sae and the scholars remained, rigid silhouettes around the war table, their quills scratching the parchment with a dry, obsessive sound. The red torch flames threw sickly reflections on their faces, accentuating the pallor of their cheeks hollowed by long vigils.

I took my seat at the end of the table, both hands flat on the map stained with wine and blood.

— Good. Bring me the reports.

Sae was the first to speak. She leaned slightly forward, her white hair brushing against her dark armor, and her clear gaze pierced me with icy lucidity.

— The roads advance, but the frost slows them. The canals still hold, thanks to the workers, but the guards must be doubled: water attracts looters as blood attracts flies. The food supplies... must be rationed. Discipline is the key. Without it, hunger will break what we have built more surely than an enemy army.

Her voice vibrated with an authority both soft and sharp, and I saw some of the scholars nod without even lifting their eyes from their notes.

One of them, a young man with still patchy beard, rose hesitantly. His fingers trembled slightly, ink-stained, but his voice steadied as he addressed me.

— Lord... the stocks are solid, despite the cold. The granaries hold, the reserves are protected. But... there are already rumors. Isolated bands, thieves, who cut off convoys to feed themselves. It is not yet critical... but if hunger settles in, rumor will turn into horde.

I let a silence stretch, my eyes drifting from the map to the tense faces surrounding me. Then I struck the table with the flat of my hand, hard enough to make the inkwell tremble.

— No famine. No doubt. Those who steal, die.

I raised my eyes, my voice sinking into their flesh like a blade.

— The Thorns present in the domain will receive the order immediately. Those not assigned to abyssium production will hunt down looters as priority. Whoever steals or diverts a convoy will be hanged on the spot. Examples must be made, everywhere. Every gibbet will be a lesson, every corpse a warning.

The phrase resounded like a guillotine. Quills froze, throats tightened. A shiver ran through the assembly.

Sae slowly nodded, a thin smile brushing her lips.

— Then there will be neither famine... nor weakness.

I leaned back against the chair, letting my eyes wander over the black tracings of roads and mines. Each line on the parchment was not ink: it was blood already paid, and blood yet to come.

After a few more hours of discussing internal management, I was about to close the session with a brief word when the entrance canvas snapped. A freezing draft rushed in, making the flames waver and the blood in the room freeze. A general entered in haste. Helmet under his arm, chest dripping with sweat despite the cold, he panted as if he had run full-speed from the outer camp. His eyes, still dilated by urgency, locked onto mine.

— Lord... a woman requests audience.

The quills stopped scratching. Silence fell, cutting off the scholars’ breaths. Sae lifted her chin slightly, her hand leaving the spear to rest on the table, ready to draw at the slightest threat. Every gaze turned to me, uncertain, tense, as if that single sentence had opened a fissure at the very heart of the tent.

I did not move at first. I let the silence linger, using it like an invisible blade to remind them that nothing entered here without passing through my will. Then I gave a brief, almost weary smile, and my voice fell like a stone into a well.

— Let her in.

The canvas parted slowly, and the icy air from outside rushed into the tent like a slap. A white breath rose from her lips as she stepped inside.

A woman. Tall, proud carriage, measured stride. She did not have the gaudy beauty of concubines thrown to soldiers, but that raw perfection that compels the gaze: features carved by a knife, dark eyes that lowered no more than necessary, and a firm body, held straight by a discipline visible down to the slightest sway of her hips.

Her clothing was sober, almost severe: a thick, dark wool dress, tightened by a leather belt. Nothing rich, nothing ostentatious. But that deliberate austerity made her even more magnetic. Her chest showed beneath the coarse fabric, heavy and contained, her square shoulders framing a bare neck where a steady pulse beat. She advanced like an equal sent humble, but not submissive.

The scholars stiffened, some lowering their heads as if they feared her mere gaze might burn them. Sae, however, followed each of her steps, her fingers resting on the war table, ready to spring if the slightest hostile intent revealed itself.

Reaching a few steps from me, the emissary bent one knee. It was no prostration, but a controlled, dignified salute—the gesture of one who knows she represents a power as dangerous as the one she faces. Her voice, deep and clear, cut through the silence.

— Lord Sora. I come on behalf of my mistress.

She slowly drew from her belt a rolled parchment, sealed with a block of dark red wax. The mark was clear, engraved with an ancient symbol: two intertwined horns above a flaming forge. The crest of Kaenira.

She raised her arms, presenting the letter. Her fingers, long and firm, did not tremble. Her gaze, lowered just enough to respect etiquette, waited.

I took the parchment, the weight of the seal resonating in my palm. The wax glistened in the torchlight, and my lips let slip a low murmur, almost to myself:

— ...the seal of Kaenira.

A shiver ran through the tent. The scholars exchanged quick glances, as if the name had awakened a buried fear. Sae, however, gave a cold smile, her steel gaze fixed on me as if already awaiting the next move.

I slowly unfolded the letter. The writing was fine, elegant, but the strokes bore something martial: every curve cut like a blade. I wetted my lips, then my voice poured into the silence, clear, cold, implacable.

"To Sora, self-proclaimed Lord of the Thorns,

The blood of the East has been spilled, and your victories are no longer rumors but facts.Yet no wall is invincible, no throne eternal.

In fourteen moons, I invite Your Lordship to a banquet in my city.Not to bend the knee, but to speak as sovereigns who know that history is written by the hand of those who dare sit at the same table.

Come. Show that your ambitions do not end with ashes.

— Kaenira, Keeper of the Scarlet Forge-City and General of the Demon King."

I folded the parchment without a word, the weight of the text still vibrating in the smoke- and sweat-saturated air. The scholars exchanged mute glances, their throats tight, unable to guess whether this invitation was a trap or an offering. Sae, meanwhile, remained upright, her steel eyes riveted on me, attentive to the slightest nuance of my breath.

I let the silence last a heartbeat too long, enough for each to feel the gravity of the moment. Then I slowly set the letter on the war table, my fingers pressing into the raw wood as if to plant my seal there already.

— Fourteen days... I murmured. Fourteen days to consolidate the Eighth Thorn.

My gaze swept the tent, every face freezing beneath the weight of my words.

— We have work to do.

Fourteen days. Fourteen days to forge the Eighth Thorn in iron, in blood, in faith. Fourteen days to prepare the banquet that would not be a feast... but our greatest battle yet.

Outside, winter held the world prisoner.

Inside, minds boiled.