CHAPTER 70: THALLERION

King Xerxez of Thallerion stood upon the palace’s jutting balcony, his gaze sweeping over the distant districts. He was a king whose reign was a quiet, deliberate cultivation of peace, a stark contrast to the thundering wars that had once scarred the land. He watched the kingdom’s slow, resilient climb from the ashes, a progress he had earned with the heavy cloak of leadership. The palace’s grand, paved thoroughfares, once trod by the restless feet of warriors, now bore the calm footsteps of citizens moving with purpose. He saw them flow like a peaceful river from the vibrant Bellatrix plaza toward the bustling Betelgeuse District.

In the distance, the people looked up at the towering silhouette of Thallerion’s palace, a spire of hope piercing the heavens. The main gate, an edifice of thick wood and metallic inlays, didn’t merely gleam—it ignited with a silver fire at sunrise, reflecting the dawn’s promise. Carved into its surface was the symbol of the kingdom’s fiercest warriors, a testament to a strength so profound that it had repelled even the weapon of the formidable Hedromus. For its unyielding fortitude, it was known to all as the Shield of Orion.

Day and night, guards stood sentinel, embodying Thallerion’s solemn dignity. Two colossal statues, with swords held aloft and faces turned to the rising sun, stood as silent, stone witnesses to the kingdom’s long struggle and triumphant rebirth.

Inside the palace, history was not merely preserved—it was a living presence. The walls chronicled the genesis of Thallerion, narrating tales of ancestral courage that had introduced its warriors to the world. Here, the essence of Xerxez’s lineage lived, their triumphs etched not just in stone but in the very smiles of the past kings and queens whose faces shone from the paintings. In other halls, the very souls of fallen heroes were enshrined in the gleaming weapons they once wielded. The marble floors of the grand hall and the expansive throne room whispered stories to the soft music of string instruments, lessons whispered from a king to his people.

The palace’s ceiling was adorned with a chandelier of prestigious crystals, each one a diamond-like drop of light. Below it, Xerxez’s throne stood with a warrior statue holding a jeweled sword. A soft, lion-fur-like rug of deep brown lay at its feet, worn smooth by the generations of kings who had stood upon it, yet it felt as fresh and vital as a new beginning.

Xerxez’s royal robe was a deep, majestic blue silk, woven with the lines of Orion. His noble cape was the very symbol of his heroism, and his sash, a silent chronicle of his victories, was encrusted with precious jewels. It was a sacred heirloom, passed down only to kings who had successfully tamed their enemies. Yet a profound melancholy shadowed Xerxez’s eyes, for this mantle of triumph was one his own father had never had the chance to wear. The very name Orion, once a fearful whisper on the lips of opposing nations, now felt like a curse. It was a legacy of conflict that Xerxez sought to dismantle, a burden that made people believe Thallerion was a land of inevitable war.

At every opportunity, Xerxez personally rode through the Four Districts, not just to govern but to feel the heartbeat of his people. He sought to understand their struggles, to solve their problems with a direct and personal touch.

The palace door opened, and Xerxez was met by his guards in their magnificent, gold-laced uniforms. A genuine smile, a rare and precious sight, touched his face as he saw his white horse waiting. It was a horse meant for peacetime journeys, a perfect vessel for his tour. In the heart of it all stood the Betelgeuse District, the nerve center of the kingdom where the palace was rooted. The council and ministers, those who spoke the language of statecraft and economy, watched him leave, their faces reflecting the deep, peaceful security he had brought to their lives.

He observed the banners of red and blue silk fluttering from every wall and building, each one bearing the Orion emblem. It was a symbol of their past—a glorious warrior—but to Xerxez, it was a brand of aggression he desperately wanted to shed. The thought took root that a new symbol was needed, one that would finally sever the kingdom’s ties to the "inevitable war" narrative.

As they rode, the people’s smiles were a balm to his spirit. By the time they reached the second district, Rigil, his heart was full. From a distance, they heard the steady drumming of hoofbeats and the commands of soldiers, their synchronized movements a chilling rhythm that echoed across the vast training grounds. A chief commander named Matheros stood on a raised platform, his eyes sweeping over the troops. He was a force of nature, and his gaze was sharp enough to sense Xerxez’s arrival from afar.

"Welcome to the Rigil District, My Lord King," Matheros said, a fierce, protective loyalty in his voice as Xerxez dismounted. "Here are the soldiers of Thallerion, ready for battle at your command." He adjusted the sword on his belt with a gesture that spoke of readiness and conflict. The soldiers froze, their movements ceasing instantly to offer a respectful bow.

"Let’s avoid such thoughts," Xerxez replied, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the military air. He saw that Matheros’s mind was still tethered to the old ways, the constant anticipation of conflict. Matheros simply nodded, but his eyes, and the small pistol at his hip, betrayed the ingrained reflex of a warrior. Taller and broader than Xerxez, Matheros was a man of immense physical presence, his voice a deep thunder when he commanded, yet it softened to a loyal murmur in the king’s presence.

"Come, let’s go to the weapon facility," Matheros invited, his armor tinkling a martial song as he walked.

The roof of the facility, a drab, industrial gray, housed a symphony of brutal sounds. The constant, rhythmic pounding of steel from within was the pulse of war itself. Inside, the cool air was a deceiving reprieve. But with a single, simple gesture from Xerxez, the facility roared to life. The clang of machinery, the relentless impact of screws, and the shrill whine of saws cutting through timber all erupted. The glow of the furnace was a fiery mouth, fed by great logs whose embers hissed as they melted steel.

The workers toiled in a sweltering heat that stung their skin, the molten metal pouring into molds like a volcanic eruption. The grindstone screamed as it sharpened each blade to a lethal edge. Sweat cascaded down the workers’ bodies as they hammered glowing steel, each blow sending a shower of sparks into the air. In every weapon, Xerxez saw not just an instrument of war, but a potential legacy of fame, a link to the celebrated past he carried on his shoulders. The hammering echoed beyond the facility walls, a drumbeat of potential conflict that resonated with the soldiers’ training.

He could also smell the sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder being carefully mixed in a corner of the room, workers meticulously crafting the explosive charges.

In the armory, the history of war hung on the walls. Swords, spears, and helmets, like silent, empty skulls, were arranged in rows. The shining metal of the shields caught his eye, a stark contrast to his quest for peace. He tapped one with a finger, and the sound was a resonant clang, a reminder of their impenetrable strength.

"How are the new weapons?" Xerxez asked, his eyes scanning for the familiar shape of firearms among the daggers on the wall.

"The quality from the nation of Thartherus is magnificent," Matheros replied, glancing out a window at soldiers hauling heavy boxes. "General Phalleon’s reports indicate no defects. The feedback is very positive." There was a glint of pride in Matheros’s eyes, a man who saw progress in the tools of war. He was more than a commander to Xerxez; he was a steadfast, older brother figure who had vowed to protect him. He was the only one who had stood by Xerxez when he had challenged King Hedromus.

"And the weapons from Vhorlandrus? They were delivered last week, weren’t they?" Xerxez asked, his nose catching the strong scent of the white, beach-sand-like gunpowder. He pulled out a handkerchief to press to his face, a small gesture of a king uncomfortable with the very tools he was examining.

"The explosives have been safely stored," Matheros confirmed. "We haven’t tested them, but they are said to be far more powerful than what we produce here."

"Then we will send men to Vhorlandrus to study their methods," Xerxez declared, his gaze sweeping the room. He clapped his hands, a fine dusting of gunpowder clinging to his fingertips. "So that the work of our own craftsmen can become even better." He had purchased powerful new cannons from Vhorlandrus and beautifully crafted, multi-shot rifles from Thartherus. Outside, these cannons stood like crouching beasts, ready to hurl destruction. The artillery from Peronica, resembling the mythical phoenix, was a symbol of destructive beauty. Xerxez knew Thallerion had to embrace modern warfare, but he also insisted that the new generation never forget their old ways. Inventors were already at work on even more specialized weapons, all for the purpose of being prepared for future threats. This was his paradox: to avoid war, he had to become a master of it.

They then moved to the District of Bellatrix, the heart of Thallerion’s commerce. It was a place teeming with life, a meeting point of trade and industry, though it now carried the mark of the Moonatoria mercenaries. This was Xerxez’s favorite district, a place where he could lose himself in the vibrancy of his people.

"The beauty of Bellatrix Plaza never fades," he remarked to Echerg, the man who managed the plaza’s order. He saw the vendors, their skirts long and colorful, their smiles as bright as their clothing.

"Your Majesty, it is an honor to have you here," Echerg said, his eyebrows furrowed with a worry that rippled across his placid face like waves on a calm sea. "It is a good time for you to hear the concerns of our vendors. Supplies are running low. Production from our farmers has not been bountiful. From my investigation, I’ve discovered they are in a dispute over the Wendlock lands." He spoke with a gravity that mirrored the seriousness of the issue. Xerxez’s personal reporter, Aghero, a man with a wide scroll detailing the kingdom’s affairs, confirmed the account.

"Wendlock..." Aghero said, taking a sip from his porcelain teacup and savoring its warmth. "Your Majesty... it is true. Some of our farmers rely on that land. It is the only fertile ground for cultivation... The problem is—"

Xerxez listened quietly, his eyes lost in the gentle flow of the fountain and the pure blue of the sky. The scent of the tea, a simple comfort, was a sharp contrast to the gravity of the words. He could hear the peaceful hum of life around him, a sound he fought to protect.

"There are Ossibians living there who are taking over our farmers’ land," Aghero continued, the tension in his voice melting away with each sip of tea. "Even our own residents report that the land dispute is getting worse."

"For now, my only word on this is—Wendlock belongs to us, and the Ossibians must know this," Xerxez declared, his voice losing its former gentleness. He took a sip of his tea, its flavor unchanging, indifferent to the troubles it accompanied. A resolve settled in his chest, a decision made. "Send a representative for a meeting tomorrow. I want you there as well, Echerg." Echerg bowed in silent understanding. "The Ossibians have picked a fight they won’t win."