Lysandor watched the towering Lizardman turn and step down from the stone platform, his thoughts still struggling to catch up.
What had he just said?
“You don’t know what demons truly are.
I do.”
Kroq-Gar stopped after only a few steps.
He turned back, his slit pupils sweeping over the imprisoned Elves before issuing another calm command.
“Release four of them.”
“Let them carry my message.”
Lysandor slowly rose to his feet.
He understood exactly what that meant.
Releasing four Elves meant informing the Elven High Command that deep within the rainforest lived an unknown civilization capable of speech, possessed of cities and armies, and knowledgeable about Chaos.
It was a standard diplomatic gesture before any conflict.
Reveal your existence.
Allow the other side to react.
When a new power suddenly emerged, that was the proper first move.
As the captured scout captain, however, he had no voice in the decision.
He was simply one of the four chosen to return.
The Skink guards removed the wooden bar from the prison door.
When the iron gate swung open, his deputy was already waiting behind it.
The remaining six Elves stayed seated upon the straw bedding.
Each wore a different expression.
Some frowned.
Some pressed their lips together.
Others simply nodded in silence.
But they all understood.
Those left behind had ceased to be returning messengers.
For now, they had become bargaining pieces.
Quiet ones.
Inside the open square before the city gate, Kroq-Gar sat cross-legged upon the stone pavement.
“When you return to your commander,” he said, deliberately slowing his Common Tongue so every word was unmistakable, “tell them this.”
“There is an Order-aligned civilization within this rainforest.”
“We are not Humans.”
“We are not Elves.”
“We are not Dwarfs.”
“We are the Lizardmen.”
“We share a common enemy.”
“If your commander wishes to discover whether the enemy of his enemy can become a friend…”
“Come to the edge of the rainforest.”
“I will be waiting.”
Lysandor listened carefully.
This was more than a simple message.
Its structure was almost identical to the diplomatic protocols taught in military academies.
State your identity.
Clarify your position.
Identify the shared threat.
Offer terms for negotiation.
It was a formal declaration.
“I will deliver your words exactly as spoken,” Lysandor replied.
Kroq-Gar gave a small nod.
He then turned toward Tekuna and spoke several short sentences in the Skink tongue.
Lysandor understood none of the hissing language, but he watched Tekuna rapidly jot several notes onto a sheet of bark paper before raising a claw toward the gate.
The city gates slowly opened.
Morning sunlight flooded through the entrance, illuminating the blue purification runes carved into the stone roadway.
Lysandor and his three companions stepped outside Golden Tower and returned to the gravel road.
The journey back to the rainforest’s edge took only half as long as their arrival.
By midday they reached the forest boundary.
The towering trees gradually gave way to shrubs.
Beyond them stretched endless grasslands beneath brilliant sunlight.
Lysandor burst through the final line of trees and stepped onto open ground.
Ahead stood an encampment.
An Elven military camp.
“Quick,” he called over his shoulder.
“We must report to the commander.”
They hurried through the camp gate.
Past orderly rows of white tents.
Someone called after them.
“Lysandor!
You’re back!”
He merely waved without stopping.
His deputy ran beside him.
Her hand instinctively reached for the empty ring where her curved sword should have hung.
The weapon still rested inside Golden Tower’s prison.
The commander’s pavilion stood at the heart of the encampment.
Twice the size of every surrounding tent.
The white canvas bore the blue star emblem of the Elven Council.
Four halberd-bearing guards stood outside.
When they saw Lysandor sprinting toward them, they exchanged surprised looks before immediately stepping aside.
Inside, the Elven commander stood beside a large sand table with two senior officers.
The model represented the city of Clermont.
Its walls.
Its gates.
Its siege lines.
The commander was a tall Elven woman.
Long silver hair tied neatly behind her head with a narrow leather strap.
Eyes the colour of pale blue crystal.
When she saw Lysandor, her gaze first swept over him, checking for injuries.
Only then did it settle upon the empty sword ring at his waist.
“What happened to your reconnaissance team?”
Her voice remained calm.
Lysandor stood beside the sand table and recounted everything.
From the moment they entered the rainforest…
To their silent encirclement by Cold One riders.
To their capture.
Their imprisonment.
And finally, their unexpected release.
He described how the Cold Ones had surrounded them without making a sound.
How they had never even been given the chance to properly draw their weapons.
He spoke of the great stone city rebuilt from ancient ruins.
Of the Skink craftsmen laying roads, carving runes and raising new buildings.
Of the enormous blue-scaled Lizardman standing three and a half metres tall.
A ruler who spoke the Common Tongue.
A commander who issued orders with absolute authority.
Finally…
He repeated Kroq-Gar’s message word for word.
“If your commander wishes to discover whether the enemy of his enemy can become a friend…”
“Come to the edge of the rainforest.”
The command tent fell completely silent.
The advisers froze with their pens suspended above parchment.
After several long moments, the commander finally spoke.
“You said they possess roughly five thousand soldiers.”
Her voice was quiet.
Clear.
“And despite that…”
“They’re inviting us to meet.”
She gently placed the command pointer beside the sand table.
Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against the wooden frame.
“This isn’t a provocation.”
“It’s a demonstration.”
“They’re telling us…”
“‘We have enough strength that we’re not afraid for you to know it.'”
“‘And even so…'”
“‘We still choose diplomacy first.'”
She turned toward her advisers.
“Retrieve every patrol report we’ve ever collected concerning the Lizardmen living within the rainforest.”
“Every single one.”
“I don’t want a single report overlooked.”
At the same time…
Within Golden Tower…
Kroq-Gar sat upon the edge of the stone platform while studying the latest military report Tekuna had delivered.
Three different colours marked the positions and readiness of every military unit across all three cities.
Three cities.
Each maintained the same defensive organisation.
Ten companies of Skink Javelin Warriors.
These formations remained permanently assigned to city defence and were excluded from expeditionary forces.
Beyond them stood the mobile army.
Five companies of Saurus Spearmen.
One hundred warriors per company.
Cold-blooded.
Tower shields.
Long spears.
When advancing together, they formed a living bronze wall.
Two companies of Blessed Saurus Warriors.
One hundred elite soldiers each.
The faint golden sheen upon their scales glimmered beneath the sunlight.
They had fought through every battle from New Tlaxtlan to Golden Tower.
Not one casualty.
Ten companies of Skink Javelin Warriors.
One hundred and sixty Skinks each.
Lightly equipped.
Javelins.
Round shields.
Normally noisy enough to chatter endlessly.
Yet the instant an order rang across the battlefield, every voice fell silent.
Two companies of Cold One Riders.
Forty-eight riders each.
One beast for every warrior.
Additional Cold Ones waited within the breeding pens, newly trained but still lacking riders.
This was the force Kroq-Gar trusted above all others.
Ambush.
Encirclement.
Pursuit.
Breaking fleeing enemies until resistance collapsed.
Capturing them alive.
There was also the wild Triceratops.
Only one.
Crusher.
It occupied the largest mud pit inside the Cold One enclosure.
Even the Cold Ones refused to wander too close.
And finally…
There was himself.
Kroq-Gar laid the charcoal stick upon the bark paper and tapped the final line with one claw.
Just over two thousand field troops.
Combined with more than a thousand garrison soldiers stationed in each of the three cities.
Only a month ago…
He had possessed nothing but a command interface and a handful of starting units.
Now this single sheet of bark recorded three functioning cities…
More than six thousand scaled warriors…
And a gravel road steadily pushing northward toward the grasslands.
Tekuna crouched beside him, holding a freshly roasted bowl of meat.
The Skink stared at the numbers.
Its golden eyes spun twice before becoming still.
“My Lord…”
“If the Elves choose to attack…”
“Then we fight.”
Kroq-Gar folded the report and slid it into the storage compartment built into the stone platform.
His tone remained perfectly calm.
He picked up another piece of roasted meat, chewed twice, then looked toward the northern grasslands as though measuring invisible distances.
“They have forty thousand soldiers,” Tekuna reminded him.
“Forty thousand.”
Kroq-Gar slowly opened his claw.
A faint blue glow from the purification rune hidden between his scales flashed for an instant before fading.
“That depends.”
“On whether they dare enter the rainforest.”
His gaze remained fixed upon the northern horizon.
“For now…”
“We’ll see whether they dare come and talk first.”