Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points! - Chapter 210

Chapter 210: Prophecy And Pale Wings Part Two
Varian’s pace slowed.

The corridor ahead was empty, lit only by torches flickering in their iron sconces, but his voice cut through the stillness like drawn steel.

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

He turned, half-facing the fallen angel now. The dim torchlight danced along the angular lines of his face, casting his shadow long against the pillar behind him.

“A divine artifact?” Varian asked, voice calm but weighted. “You speak as if I should already know what you mean. Or worse — as if you expect me to guess.”

Zair’El smiled — slow, infuriatingly pleased.

“I expected the question. I even hoped for it.”

He strolled a little further, wings folding close behind him like a silken cloak. His halo gave a faint shimmer, pulsing once as he spoke.

“The mountain of the first dawn… you call it by another name. Mount Caedryn, I believe. The place where light first kissed your world in the days before your gods remembered shame.”

Varian’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpened.

Zair’El continued, the air around him growing subtly colder.

“There, in the coming days — or hours, if the clock is less forgiving — something old shall awaken. A relic not born of mortal hands. Not forged in fire or gifted in vision, but returned from beyond the veil. An artifact tethered to the greater game you and your little lizard rival play.”

He tilted his head slightly, wings twitching faintly.

“Its presence will shift the balance. Not in who commands more troops or builds higher walls, but in who owns the story.”

Varian’s gaze narrowed, his voice lowering.

“You believe I will chase riddles up a mountain while Arkanos encircles my borders?”

“No,” Zair’El said plainly, stepping into the full light now. “I believe you will try to take both. Because that’s who you are, Varian. The man who wants to drink from every cup — even when one is poison and the other divine.”

For a moment there was silence, but those words caused a memory to stir at the back of his mind.

…

…

The banners of House Akeria had only just begun to tear themselves apart, brother against brother, gold against gold. Varian’s camp sat nestled in the craggy hills near the river Tris, torches burning through the rain, the air thick with sweat and damp parchment.

He had just finished briefing three new lords who had sworn to his cause when a courier arrived — mud-splashed and pale, bearing a sealed letter with no sigil, only a pressed thumbprint in wax. Camila’s mark.

Varian waved off the scribes and generals, retreating into his tent. He broke the seal in one motion, a flick of his thumb. The paper was folded twice, hurriedly. Her handwriting was always clean, always deliberate. This time, it trembled.

“Varian—

There are men watching the village. I do not think they are yours.

I could be wrong. Perhaps it is only my nerves.

But you asked me to write when something felt wrong. And this feels wrong.

Your son is safe. He is asleep beside me. I sang to him — that lullaby from the gardens in Delvane. He laughed today. A full laugh. He has your stubborn brow and your mother’s glare.

Come soon. Or send someone you trust. Not a knight. Not a banner. A man. One you know.”

Varian read it twice.

Then folded it slowly and stared at the canvas wall of his tent for a long time. His hands trembled once — barely — then stilled.

He had already given orders for a siege to begin at Fort Blackrun the next day. He had just secured a new alliance with House Mericant. Every move was timed. Every day lost gave his brother more ground.

He reached for the map, stared at the southern routes. He could go. It would cost him seven days. Or he could trust the man he’d placed with her — Sir Corvin, the oldest of his retainers, loyal since they were boys. The man would die before letting harm come to her.

Wouldn’t he?

He sat there in silence for a long while, the letter still warm in his hand.

He made his choice.

And years later, standing in a blood-soaked throne hall with empires burning at his command… he would still remember this moment — the moment he trusted others to protect what only he should have.

The memory ended.

He stared at his hands. For a moment, it seemed as though blood flashed across them. Behind him, the pale bodies of a woman and a small boy lay still as he knelt silent in the rain.

But it was merely a flash — an illusion. His sight returned to normal.

The silence between them hung for a breath.

Then Varian replied:

“Then I will choose the order carefully. First the cup of ash, then the cup of fire.”

He turned away again, cloak snapping behind him like a closing curtain.

“Find out who else knows about this… artifact,” he said, voice already shifting back to command. “If you’re lying, Zair’El, I’ll strip what’s left of your grace and feed it to my war mages.”

Zair’El grinned.

“Always the romantic.”

Varian’s steps echoed faintly as he resumed his pace through the corridor, his tone dry but edged with deliberate weight.

“This suggestion of yours… it has potential.”

“But what of our original bargain, Zair’El? What became of that path? The one where we use the fall of Arkanos to secure the Crown of the Spirit King? Or has your master grown so shrewd he now forgets how to honor his own terms?”

The moment the words left his lips, Zair’El moved.

A blur of wings and shadow. In less than a blink, he stood directly before Varian, six wings unfurled to their full span, blocking the corridor behind him like a cathedral gate. His smaller head-wings twitched violently, and the cracked halo above him glowed with a sickly pulse.

His voice was low, but sharp as razored glass.

“Be careful, Varian.”

“I have humored you thus far because you were meant to be useful — not difficult…”

“Push your luck again… and I will remind you of the difference between your crown and our patience.”