Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 198

Chapter 198: The Last Stand of House DeLambre
As the knights surged down the rolling hills like a tide of iron, their war cries echoing against the rising wind, a different sound rose behind them—quiet, but no less powerful.

Atop a ridge just beyond the frontlines, where the grass was still untouched by trampling hooves, stood Isode and a circle of veiled priestesses draped in robes of pale ivory.

Their garments fluttered in the gust, forming a ring of soft white around a single golden censer that swung gently from a chain. They knelt in unison, their hands clasped, lips moving in silent fervor before their voices united in a solemn chant.

“O Maiden of Justice and Purity, bless thy children, who ride into the shadow of war…”

The air shimmered above them as holy glyphs circled upward from their fingers, radiant with divine light.

Feathers of golden luminescence drifted downward, dissolving into the charging knights like embers in reverse—sanctifying, bolstering, transforming mortal resolve into something near divine.

Sanctum Aegis—the ancient blessing of spiritual protection and valor, said to bind a warrior’s soul in lockstep with the goddess’s will.

Armor glowed faintly. Blades radiated holy power. Horses galloped faster, unburdened by fear.

Isode opened her eyes mid-prayer. The wind kissed her cheek, and though the battlefield smelled of churned earth and metal, she felt only the weight of heaven behind her.

“Ride well, Arkanos. And do not fall where the light touches.”

…

…

The great hall of House DeLambre’s manor was a monument to Akerian pride, its vaulted ceiling adorned with gilded sunbursts and tapestries depicting victories long faded into legend.

Candlelight flickered across polished oak, casting shadows that danced like specters over the lord’s high seat.

Lord Yoanas DeLambre, a man whose silver-streaked beard belied his unyielding vigor, gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white as he glared at his first son, Alaric.

“You would throw away centuries of honor for a merchant’s daughter?”

Yoanas’s voice thundered, rattling the crystal goblets on the long table. His crimson doublet strained against his broad chest, a stark contrast to the golden sunburst embroidered at his heart—the sigil of Akeria’s nobility. “House DeLambre does not bind itself to common blood, Alaric. Not while I breathe.”

Alaric, lean and sharp-featured, stood defiant before the table, his blue eyes blazing. At twenty-three, he carried the poise of a swordsman and the stubbornness of youth.

His tunic, unadorned save for a silver clasp, marked him as a man who valued action over pomp. “Honor?” he spat, slamming a fist on the table. “You speak of honor, Father, yet you’d sell my sister to that lecherous Lord Varren for a trade alliance! Where’s the honor in that?”

Yoanas’s face darkened, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Mira’s betrothal secures our grain routes to Domereth Valas. Varren’s fleets are our lifeline against the empire’s tariffs. You’d risk our house’s survival for sentiment?”

“Sentiment?” Alaric’s voice cracked, raw with fury. “I love Elyse. She’s no mere merchant’s daughter—she’s the mind behind half the trade deals keeping our coffers full. Mira deserves better than a drunken brute. You’re blind if you think coin outweighs family.”

Yoanas rose, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “Family is duty, boy. Duty to our name, our blood, our empire. You think love builds walls or arms knights? Word has it that soon Bloodbane dogs will circle our borders, and you’d weaken us with this folly?”

Alaric stepped closer, undaunted. “The Bloodbane invasion is a rumor, Father. Whispers from the east. You’re chaining us to fear while the real threat is your pride. Elyse—”

“Enough!” Yoanas’s roar silenced the hall, echoing off the rafters. “You will end this dalliance, or I’ll disinherit you. House DeLambre will not fall to your whims.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward the dagger at his belt. For a moment, the air held its breath, thick with the weight of a son’s rebellion and a father’s wrath. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only sound daring to intrude.

Then, the heavy oak doors burst open, splintering the tension like glass.

Captain Torren, commander of the house guard, stumbled in, his chainmail clinking, face pale as ash. Sweat beaded his brow despite the autumn chill seeping through the hall’s high windows.

“My lord!” Torren gasped, dropping to one knee. “An army—unknown banners—charging from the hills! They’re nearly upon us!”

Yoanas froze, his anger draining into a steely focus. “Unknown banners?” he demanded, striding toward Torren. “Speak plainly, man. Numbers? Colors?”

“Ten thousand, at least,” Torren stammered, rising. “Black and crimson, with a dragon crest. They move like a storm, my lord. Cavalry, infantry, mages—teleported in, by the look of it. They’re headed straight for the manor.”

Alaric’s eyes widened, the argument forgotten. “Teleportation… only one nation still possesses such sorcery… Bloodbane,” he whispered, the name a curse. He turned to his father, voice urgent. “The eastern whispers—they’re real. Arkanos himself must lead them.”

Yoanas’s face hardened, the lines of age deepening into resolve. “So, the dragon comes to Viremont.” He crossed to the wall, yanking down a broadsword mounted beneath the DeLambre crest—a golden sunburst on a field of blue. The blade gleamed, its edge untested in a generation. “Torren, rouse the garrison. Every man to the walls. Send riders to House Valthorne for aid.”

“My lord, the riders may not reach them in time,” Torren warned, his voice low. “The enemy’s too close.”

“Then we hold until they do,” Yoanas growled, buckling the sword to his belt. “This is our land. Our blood. We do not yield.”

Alaric stepped forward, his earlier defiance replaced by purpose. “Father, let me lead the outer defenses. The hill paths—I know them better than anyone. We can slow their charge.”

Yoanas paused, studying his son. The firelight caught Alaric’s eyes, fierce and unyielding, a mirror of his own in youth. For the first time that evening, pride flickered across the lord’s face. “Very well,” he said gruffly. “But you hold the line, Alaric. No heroics. We need you alive.”

Alaric nodded, clasping his father’s arm—a rare gesture of unity. “For House DeLambre.”

“For Akeria,” Yoanas corrected, his voice a vow.

As Alaric sprinted toward the armory, Yoanas turned to Torren. “Signal the mages. Prepare the manor’s wards. And get my armor.”

Outside, the distant roar of hooves grew louder, a tide of iron and fury cresting the hills. The golden wheat of Viremont swayed under a blood-red sky, and House DeLambre braced for a storm it might not survive.