Date: July 15, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
A week had passed since the day the council hall had been washed in blood. Some elders still flinched when they heard footsteps in the corridors, but life in the Kingdom of the Rejected moved steadily onward. Kazai did not like to sit idle. He preferred to see everything with his own eyes—the hospital, the barracks, the academies, the construction sites. Today he decided to inspect the results of the labor being carried out by his order.
The morning was grey but not rainy. The fog, the familiar guest of the Dead Swamp, had lifted, and the sun, pale but still alive, broke through the low clouds. Kazai walked along the central street, which until recently had been a muddy, broken path. Now it was paved with stone, and the sparse passersby respectfully parted before the King, bowing low. He didn't look at them. His gaze was fixed ahead—where the new buildings rose.
Hlis followed him, keeping a step behind. The old Adept was silent, but his eyes—black, sharp—noted every detail: the faces of the passersby, the state of the roads, the smells. He knew the King trusted him, and he did his best to miss nothing of importance.
The first stop was the hospital.
The building was made of dark but sturdy stone, with tall windows and wide doors. Inside, it smelled of lime, dried herbs, and freshness—scents Kazai had never encountered in the infirmaries of the Tribe. There, it had always reeked of rot, blood, and despair. Here, there was a sense of life.
The healers froze upon seeing the King. Kazai waved a hand, signaling them to continue, and walked to the center of the hall.
"How many beds?" he asked Hlis.
"Fifty, your majesty," the Adept replied. "Can be expanded to a hundred if needed. The healers are already at work, equipment has been delivered from the southern cities. The first patients arrived yesterday."
"Mortality rate?"
"Zero so far," Hlis allowed himself a brief, nearly invisible smile. "Our healers are not miracle workers, but they know their trade."
Kazai nodded. He walked along the wards, glancing into each one. In one, an old man lay with a bandaged leg—he'd been crushed by a log during construction. In another, a young warrior wounded in a skirmish with bandits. Both tried to rise when they saw the King, but Kazai stopped them with a gesture.
The old man whispered, "Thank you," and the warrior only nodded, but in his eyes Kazai saw gratitude mixed with relief.
*They haven't accepted me yet,* he thought as he left the hospital. *But they already respect me. That's enough. For now.*
From the hospital, he headed to the barracks.
The new building was massive, grim, made of dark stone with narrow arrow slits instead of windows. It resembled a fortress—that was the intent. Inside, it smelled of wood, fresh paint, and iron. The warriors—those who had already earned the right to wear armor bearing the symbol of the Kingdom of the Rejected—froze when Kazai entered. He swept his gaze over them. Young, mostly, but already hardened. The kind who wouldn't flee in battle.
"How many?" he asked Hlis.
"Two hundred, your majesty," the Adept answered. "Plus reserves—another fifty being raised from volunteers. If necessary, we can increase to five hundred within a month."
"Commanders?" Kazai walked along the ranks, not looking at the warriors but feeling their tension.
"Appointed. All vetted. From those who survived the purge."
Kazai smirked. The purge. A good word. He liked it for its clarity and irrevocability.
"Check them again," he said, stopping by the far wall where several new shields hung. "I don't want my army composed of cowards and traitors. One mistake could cost us everything."
"It shall be done," Hlis bowed. "But I vouch for every one of these. They've been through hell in the Dead Swamp. They won't betray you."
Kazai looked at him with a long, heavy gaze. Then nodded.
"Good. I hope your confidence proves well-founded."
He headed for the exit. The warriors watched him go with silent but deeply respectful eyes. No one dared utter a word.
At the barracks threshold, Kazai stopped. The wind, cold and damp, tousled his black hair.
"Hlis," he said without turning. "How are the negotiations with the Netopyrs progressing?"
"Slowly, your majesty," the Adept admitted. "They are weak, but we are also far from our best shape at the moment. If war breaks out, it's unclear who would win—their forces are roughly equal to ours."
"We have no goal of going to war with them," Kazai turned to him. "We need their warriors. Their knowledge. Their connections. Convey this to them: if they agree to serve the Kingdom of the Rejected, they will receive protection, land, and the right to live by their own laws. If they refuse…" he didn't finish.
"I understand, your majesty," Hlis bowed. "I will personally ensure they correctly comprehend our offer."
"Good." Kazai looked up at the sky. The sun had risen higher, and the fog had fully lifted. "Where to next?"
"The academy," Hlis answered.
Kazai nodded and moved forward, toward another new building—bright, with wide windows and a high roof.
The academy awaited its King.