De Loredo Fight
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De Loredo stood at the precipice of a fractured realm, his ambitions coiled like serpents beneath a veneel of calculated diplomacy. The old order crumbled—kings turned to relics, borders dissolved into contested shadows, and the very air crackled with the static of upheaval. He navigated this chaos with a blade in one hand and a ledger in the other, trading loyalty like currency. Whispers named him architect of the Council of Nine, that shadowed cabal pulling strings from smoke-filled chambers, yet even his influence frayed at the edges. A mystic surge, raw and unbound, seeped from the earth’s wounds—farmers’ children conjuring flames with a glance, forests twisting into labyrinthine horrors, rivers running backward to drown entire villages. The peasantry, once docile, now sharpened scythes and murmured of "the Unseen Crown," a myth made militant. De Loredo’s spies brought word of a mercenary legion amassing in the salt flats, their banners stitched with a phoenix devouring its own wings. He smiled, thin and wolfish—chaos was a ladder, but its rungs splintered underfoot. Let the zealots pray to their dead saints, let the scholars scribble futile treatises. He’d carve his legacy not in stone, but in the trembling flesh of a world reborn. Yet as he drafted orders to flood the eastern mines, a crow tapped at his window—its beak clacking a rhythm that matched his dead brother’s wartime heartbeat. The game, it seemed, had teeth even he couldn’t predict.
