CHAPTER 50: THE BANNERS OF REVOLUTION

The banners of House Ferrondel unfurled above Dawnhaven’s walls, their black and rustlight sigils catching the summer wind.

For the first time in living memory, those banners did not hang in defeat or mourning but in promise. A promise of reckoning.

The muster had been called at dawn. By noon, the streets were filled with soldiers.

Rows of infantry in half-plate, magitech rifles at the shoulder, bayonets fixed, stood with drilled precision.

Cavalry trotted at their flanks, sabers glinting, revolvers holstered at their hips.

Behind them came the thunderous beasts of Caedrion’s new industry: artillery pieces dragged by teams of horses, their steel carriages polished and gleaming like the birth of a new sun.

The people of Dawnhaven gathered along the avenues, not with tears and dirges as they had when the siege was first raised, but with cheers.

Children threw garlands at the soldiers’ boots. Old men saluted from their stoops. Mothers held their babes high as if to let them witness the dawn of a new age.

The memory of the last march lingered, the hollow procession, the grief, the belief they would never see their sons again.

But now? They had seen two thousand men shatter twenty thousand and return alive. They had seen their heir, their Architect’s scion, defy the world and win.

Hope was no longer a word whispered in taverns. It was alive, ringing in every cheer that rose with the drums.

At the castle gates, Caedrion stood in his armor.

His Pyroclaustic plate gleamed with its rustlight tracery, humming softly with the rhythm of his leylines.

His cavalry boots shone, his saber and revolvers hung at his sides, and the smirk that curved his lips was neither arrogance nor cruelty but the steel certainty of command.

Aelindria clung to him a moment longer than propriety allowed, her forehead pressed to his chest.

"You always run toward fire," she whispered, her voice trembling between pride and fear.

"So at least promise me you’ll come back, no matter how much of it you set yourself ablaze with."

Caedrion stroked her cheek with his gloved hand, his eyes softer than the army would ever see.

"I swore to protect you, didn’t I? That oath binds me tighter than any battlefield. You’ll see me again, and when you do, Dawnhaven will stand taller than it ever has."

Malveris approached next, his expression torn between the worry of a father and the pride of a soldier who had lived long enough to see his house rise again.

"You carry more than your sword, my son," he said gravely, placing a hand on Caedrion’s shoulder.

"You carry the weight of every man here, and of every ancestor who bent beneath Ignarion’s yoke. Do not falter."

Sylene, regal and silent, merely embraced him once, whispering a single prayer of protection into his ear before stepping back.

Her eyes lingered on him the way a mother might look upon a son going to his first war, even if she were his aunt by blood. Though she said nothing more.

The horns sounded. The gates of Dawnhaven creaked open. Caedrion mounted his steed, raising his saber high, and the rustlight circuits across his armor flared with brilliance.

"Men of Dawnhaven!" his voice thundered, carried by both lungs and leyline.

"For too long we have bent the knee to tyrants who thought themselves gods! Today we march to break them! Not for conquest, not for plunder, but for justice, for our homes, for our children! The Architect is with us, and with her strength, no spell, no flame, no foe can stand!"

The reply was a roar that shook the very stones of the city.

And so the army of Dawnhaven, twenty thousand strong with banners snapping, rifles gleaming, cavalry thundering, and artillery rolling behind, marched forth to reclaim the lands stolen by Ignarion.

This time, no one believed they were marching to their graves.

This time, the people believed they were marching to victory.

---

The Ember Court was silent when the news arrived.

Not the usual silence of ceremony, but the strained hush of men who had nothing left to say.

The courtiers gathered in the high chamber, the glow of Crucible braziers flickering across their anxious faces.

Veltharion sat on his basalt throne, his jaw locked like stone, while messengers and scribes laid reports at his feet.

At last, one of the elder Magi dared to speak.

"It has been but three months... three months since we lost our host at Dawnhaven’s barrier. And now, ten thousand march beneath their banners. Nulls! Their army grows like weeds, without bloodlines, without the time it takes us to cultivate a single Spellsword. How can this be?"

Another slammed his staff against the floor.

"Impossible! It takes a generation to raise a Spellsword of worth. Even the weakest of our kind requires decades of training. These... these levies cannot match that strength. They should have been slaughtered like dogs! Yet they multiply and return stronger after every battle."

The chamber erupted, some voices panicked, others clinging desperately to tradition.

"They rely on toys and tricks. Machines. Witchery of iron and fire. It cannot last. Once their weapons break, they will crumble like the nullborn they are."

"And yet those toys cut through our cavalry, shattered our wards, slew our sons! Did you not see the reports? Entire lines of Spellswords dead in moments!"

Veltharion raised a hand, and the chamber fell still, though unease still rippled across every face. His eyes, molten with restrained fury, swept over them all.

"You disgrace yourselves. Do you think a lion is felled because a cub roars? No. This Ferrondel upstart stumbled upon some relic of the Architect, nothing more. His Nulls march only because they are emboldened by trinkets. And trinkets can be broken."

A younger courtier, braver or more foolish than the rest, swallowed hard before voicing what many thought.

"But, my Lord... what if they cannot? What if these ’trinkets’ are not fleeting, but the beginning of something greater? If they can raise ten thousand in months, what will they raise in years? The balance will shift. Our dominance, our very bloodlines—"

He was cut off by Veltharion’s glare.

"Our bloodlines are eternal. Do not compare my House, my Court, to the rusting toys of a pretender."

Still, the doubts had been spoken aloud. The whispers lingered in the vaulted hall, unspoken but undeniable:

Spellswords could not be replaced in months.

Armies of Nulls could.

And for the first time in centuries, House Ignarion’s aura of inevitability cracked.

---

The chamber of House Marvik was filled with a tension that could be cut by a knife.

It was not the wild panic of Ignarion’s Ember Court, but something colder, quieter, like men watching the tide rising inexorably toward their feet.

Projected across the crystal scrying dome was the sight of Dawnhaven’s army.

Rank upon rank of soldiers, no longer the ragged levies they had scoffed at, but a host of twenty thousand, clad in half-plate, shouldering gleaming rifles, their columns ordered with unnerving precision.

Behind them rolled carriages bearing strange new artillery, massive guns that looked more like eidolon relics than anything crafted by human hands.

Lady Caltrisse was the first to break the silence, her voice sharp though her fingers trembled around her goblet.

"This is no token force. No artifact’s gift. This is industry. Industry that did not exist three months ago, and yet now... now it marches like an empire reborn."

The Lord of House Servant, ever pale and nervous, muttered.

"We said it was a defensive trick. A fleeting boon from some ruin... We told ourselves Ferrondel had unearthed a weapon to ward off Ignarion’s wrath, nothing more. But this? This is not defense. This is war."

A ripple of uneasy agreement passed through the room.

Viscount Veylar, younger and more brash than the others, slammed his hand against the crystal table.

"Impossible! No Magus, no matter how blessed, could have done this alone. Even the most gifted craftsman of my House cannot craft more than a handful of enchanted swords in a year, let alone tens of thousands of these... these... What trickery sustains him?"

The Lord of House Marvik, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was slow, heavy with dread, and his gaze lingered on the projected columns as though trying to pierce the mystery.

"It is no trick. He has done what none of us dared attempt. He has found a way to strip the power of magic from bloodlines, and bind it into iron, into wood, into steel. He has broken the monopoly of our very existence. Look well, my lords and ladies, this is what the end of our world looks like."

The words fell like stones into still water.

One of Caltrisse’s advisors whispered,

"If he can do this, what need has he for the Magi? What place will we hold in a world where any Null can be made our equal? Where ten thousand can be raised in months, while our children require decades of training?"

"That," Lady Caltrisse hissed, "is why this Ferrondel must be stopped before his contagion spreads. Already the common rabble whisper his name like a prophet. Already Dawnhaven is swelling with recruits, drawn by the promise of power without pedigree. If he succeeds, he will not stop at Ignarion. He cannot stop."

But Marvik shook his head, his expression grim.

"You speak as if it were so simple. Tell me, which House will stand first? Will you, Caltrisse, cast away your bloodline in open war against him? Will you, Servant, bleed your coffers dry to march against a man who fights with endless numbers and weapons that ignore our shields? No. None of you will. And so he will grow. He will grow, and the day will come when it is too late to halt him."

Silence returned to the chamber, thick and suffocating. They all knew he was right.

At last, Lady Caltrisse drained her goblet and hissed.

"Then at least we must act in secret. Trade must be curbed. Caravans diverted. Let no raw ore or precious fuel reach Dawnhaven. If we cannot strike him openly, then we must strangle him quietly, before his fire spreads further."

A murmur of assent followed, though none looked convinced. Each House understood the truth: Caedrion Ferrondel had already crossed the threshold.

The age of Magi aristocracy was ending, and it was ending faster than any of them had believed possible.

And in that dawning realization, fear settled deeper than any hatred for Ignarion ever had.