The Elves had been marched south for less than half an hour before the rainforest began to thin.
The towering trees that had blocked out the sky gradually fell behind them, replaced by cleared ground and broad stretches of exposed grey stone.
The path widened.
It was level.
Crushed stone had been carefully laid across its surface, with every gap filled by a pale blue mortar.
Once it had hardened, the entire road felt like a single slab of rock.
“They’re building roads,” the deputy whispered beside Lysandor.
“No,” Lysandor replied as he studied the ground beneath his boots.
“They’re paving one.”
“This road is new.”
“The edges of the stones haven’t been rounded by rain yet.”
“The mortar hasn’t faded beneath the sun.”
He nudged one of the embedded river stones with the tip of his boot.
Its surface still carried the distinctive blue-grey veins found only along the Whitewater River.
“These stones came from the Whitewater River.”
“A few days ago, this road didn’t exist.”
The deputy fell silent.
Elven architecture had long been celebrated throughout the Old World.
Their white stone cities and the ancient Elven Roads were masterpieces, every slab strengthened through generations of enchantment.
Yet the road before them held no trace of magic.
Only crushed stone.
Mortar.
And flawless engineering.
It wasn’t beautiful.
It was practical.
Wide enough for two Cold Ones to march side by side.
The curves were measured so supply wagons would never jam at the corners.
This was an aesthetic built entirely upon function.
It belonged neither to Elves nor humans.
It belonged to a civilisation they had never encountered before.
“Lysandor,” one of the Elven archers called quietly from the middle of the column.
His voice carried an uneasiness hidden beneath forced humour.
“Have you ever seen creatures like these?”
Lysandor glanced toward the powerful forelimbs of the Cold One beside him, then at the silent rider perched upon its back.
The rider had turned its head to watch them.
Its vertical pupils rotated slowly inside golden eyes, like a cat deciding whether a bird was worth catching.
“Lizardmen,” Lysandor answered.
“Deep within the southern jungles.”
“Before the war between our people and the humans began, northern patrols occasionally encountered them near the rainforest.”
“The smaller ones were swift.”
“The larger ones possessed incredible strength.”
“But the reports claimed they couldn’t use tools.”
“The patrols described them as savage beasts that hunted in packs.”
“They attacked intruders with claws and teeth.”
“They had no language.”
“No tactics.”
“No organised society.”
“Our scholars concluded they were a degenerated ancient race, little different from the wild animals that shared the jungle.”
He paused.
His eyes travelled across the perfectly ordered formation of Cold One cavalry.
Each mount maintained identical spacing.
Every spear rested at precisely the same angle.
Even the rhythm of the Cold Ones’ tails seemed synchronised.
“But none of those reports mentioned roads.”
“They never mentioned Cold One cavalry.”
“Or ambush tactics.”
The deputy finished the thought in an even quieter voice.
“Or commanders.”
A young Elven warrior suddenly asked,
“Then…
why didn’t they kill us?”
Not because they refused.
Because none of them truly knew.
The question had been asked repeatedly during the march.
Each time it felt just as impossible to answer.
“Because we’re worth more alive,” Lysandor finally said.
“They wanted prisoners.”
He lowered his voice further.
“That means they have a rear command.”
“An organised society.”
“A city.”
“And someone capable of giving the order to capture us alive.”
The column rounded the final ridge.
The youngest Elven warrior, still favouring her injured ankle, saw it first.
She stopped beside the road.
Her mouth slowly fell open.
She forgot to take another step.
Golden Tower stood in the heart of the rainforest.
The midday sun poured across its walls without obstruction.
Grey stone gleamed beneath the light, every block cut with razor-sharp precision.
The walls rose high above the clearing.
Watchtowers stood at regular intervals.
Their firing slits were not covered by wooden shutters.
Instead, carefully carved stone louvers concealed the defenders within while allowing volleys of javelins to be thrown outward.
Rows of banners fluttered above the battlements.
Heavy indigo hides formed the flags.
Upon each one was painted a coiling white serpent using powdered mineral pigment.
The two largest banners hung beside the main gate.
White crystals had been set into the serpent’s eyes.
Under the noon sun they glittered like living creatures blinking down upon the world.
There were figures moving along the walls.
No.
Not figures.
Lizardmen.
Two companies of Saurus Spearmen drilled atop the battlements.
Their formations flowed behind the parapets with perfect discipline.
Sunlight flashed repeatedly across polished bronze shields.
Every ten paces, the entire formation halted together.
The butts of their spears struck the stone in perfect unison.
The dull impact echoed across the clearing.
“This…”
Lysandor murmured to his deputy.
“…isn’t a tribe of beasts.”
“This isn’t what our patrol reports described.”
“They claimed these creatures had no language.”
“No tools.”
“No civilisation.”
“They were wrong.”
“They have language.”
“They have tools.”
“They have cities.”
“And cavalry capable of executing coordinated ambushes.”
His gaze swept across the settlement.
From the Skink artisans moving in and out of the spawning complex…
To the disciplined Saurus drilling atop the walls.
“Our scholars have labelled this rainforest an ‘uncivilised region’ for over a thousand years.”
The gates opened.
The black ironwood doors slid inward beneath the pull of heavy winches.
Cold One grease coated the hinges, allowing the enormous gates to move with barely a whisper.
Two ranks of Saurus Spearmen stood outside.
As one, they grounded their weapons. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
The spear butts struck the stone road together with a thunderous metallic boom.
The Elves were escorted through the gate.
Silence fell over all ten of them.
They had seen human cities.
Crowded.
Noisy.
Filled with refuse and shouting merchants.
They had seen the elegant white stone cities of the Elves.
Perfectly symmetrical.
Every tower a work of art.
Golden Tower was neither.
It was something entirely different.
There was no elegance.
Every stone radiated overwhelming strength.
The Elves stared in silence.
Not because they had nothing to say.
Because words had failed them.
The young warrior with the injured ankle had forgotten the pain entirely.
She stood gazing at the towering obsidian pillar dominating the central plaza.
The archer who had fired upon the Cold Ones silently watched the Saurus sparring in the training grounds.
His lips moved soundlessly as he counted their numbers.
The warrior whose sword had struck a Saurus rider’s leg stared at the disciplined ranks of cold-blooded soldiers.
He muttered something in Elvish beneath his breath.
It sounded very much like,
“What…
are these creatures?”
The deputy watched the endless stream of Skinks moving through the spawning complex.
They carried freshly forged javelins.
New shields.
They chattered among themselves, golden eyes darting rapidly as they worked.
The scar running from her cheekbone to her jaw turned pale beneath the dust stirred up by passing Cold Ones.
“They’re mass-producing weapons,” she whispered to Lysandor.
“These aren’t ancient relics.”
“They were forged recently.”
Lysandor said nothing.
The Cold One Riders halted in the centre of the plaza.
Almost simultaneously, every rider dismounted.
Scaled feet landed upon the stone with a single crisp sound.
No one tied down the mounts.
They didn’t need to.
The Cold Ones stood more quietly than tethered warhorses ever could.
The riders turned together.
They lowered their heads toward the northern stone platform.
The Elves followed their gaze.
A towering blue figure approached.
Three and a half metres tall.
Blue scales shimmered beneath the midday sun.
The edge of every scale bore the faint irregular marks left by countless ancient battles.
Lysandor slowly raised his head.
Among Elves, he was considered tall.
Yet before this towering Lizardman, the top of his head barely reached its chest.
He could clearly see the razor edge of those enormous claws.
He could see an old scar running from beneath the creature’s jaw to its collarbone.
The wound had healed long ago.
Fresh scales had grown over it.
Smooth.
Whole.
Yet the mark remained.
The giant stopped before them.
Its golden reptilian eyes swept calmly across every prisoner.
Then its deep voice echoed through the plaza.
“Elves.”