Elisabeth was drawn back to a time nearly four hundred years in the past, when the land of Normandine was ruled by a single power: the Kingdom of Normandia.

  In that era, King Maximilian I — founder of the kingdom — still held the throne. He was the great unifier, the ruler who gathered the once-divided tribes and forged them into a flourishing realm. Under his fair and wise governance, the people of Normandia enjoyed prosperity for many years.

  During this time, the Normandians lived peacefully alongside the Elves. The Elven Forest had not yet become sacred or forbidden to humans, for no disputes had arisen between the two races.

  King Maximilian I had two children: a son, Prince Hans Jonasior Dragensen, aged twenty-five, and a daughter, Princess Iliana Jonasior Seranina, aged nineteen.

  But peace did not last.

  A violent upheaval struck the Kingdom of Normandia following the betrayal of the High Regent, Jarl Ivar Jorgenssen — once a trusted confidant of the king. His treachery stemmed from the secret hunt of the Stag of Luminous Antlers, a sacred creature slain so its radiant horns could be sold to black-market traders from Molumerandine, Normandine’s neighboring land.

  The act provoked outrage among the Elves. Worse still, Ivar had engaged in covert political dealings without King Maximilian’s knowledge.

  Enraged by the deception, Maximilian I stripped Ivar Jorgenssen of his title, reducing him from High Regent to commoner, and exiled him — along with his family — to the eastern banishment territories of Normandine.

  Yet five years of exile only deepened Ivar’s hatred.

  Burning with vengeance, and aided by cunning schemes and illicit connections, Ivar founded a small but rising realm: the Kingdom of Sartala. Loyal tribes who had once served under him followed, swelling Sartala’s strength.

  One day, within Sartala’s grand council chamber, Ivar Jorgenssen — now king — proclaimed his first royal decree beneath Sartala’s banner: a serrated Black Trident set upon a dominant purple field.

  “The Kingdom of Normandia shall feel my wrath.”

  “From this day forward, call me King Jorgenssen I.”

  “Sartala shall forever stand at war with Normandia.”

  “Long live Sartala.”

  “Long live—”

  That decree marked the turning point of King Jorgenssen I’s rule.

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  With the guidance of Balavkan, Sartala’s royal advisor and Ivar’s longtime companion from his days in Normandia, the new king ruled with an iron hand. He strengthened Sartala’s military fleet, recruited countless newcomers as soldiers, and reinforced the kingdom’s economy — all while maintaining covert ties with black-market traders. Ancient stag antlers became Sartala’s primary commodity, drawing concern from the Elves and prompting diplomatic contact with Normandia.

  On a bright September morning, Uldrick — the Elves’ High Elder and grandfather of Ulrion in Elisabeth’s era — met with King Maximilian I upon the palace balcony. Together they drank Monleaf tea, accompanied by the soft melody of a lyre and the recitation of poetry by a skald.

  “Honored King Maximilian I,” Uldrick began.

  “I have heard that your former subordinate, Ivar Jorgenssen, has established a powerful kingdom within the exile lands.”

  Maximilian fell silent, stunned, as he sipped his Monleaf tea.

  “Forgive my boldness, Roman,” Uldrick continued, calling the king by his true name. “I hope you will decide wisely regarding your position and your realm.”

  “I understand,” the elder added gently. “As a friend, you do not wish to see a companion executed for his sins. But as a king, you must act — lest your throne and your people suffer in the future.”

  Maximilian set down his white porcelain teacup trimmed with gold and exhaled heavily.

  “I still remember how Normandia was built.”

  “You, I, and Ivar fought day and night against Molumerandine.”

  “Through blood, sweat, and tears, Normandia — and Normandine itself — gained freedom from oppression.”

  “Ivar has betrayed me… yet I cannot forget what we once endured together.”

  “A leader must make difficult choices, Roman,” Uldrick said softly. “All for the sake of your people.”

  “I will consider it, Uldrick,” Maximilian replied at last, his gaze drifting beyond the palace walls.

  Betrayal is a wound that cuts deeply. Yet when one clings too tightly to memories forged before treachery, the soul risks remaining forever trapped in the shadows of the past.

  In time, King Jorgenssen I issued a formal declaration of war, written upon goatskin parchment. The date was set: November 15th.

  Both kingdoms prepared their armies.

  Within Sartala’s war council, Balavkan proposed a plan of grave consequence.

  “Your Majesty, I have learned that Normandia’s defenses will be led by General Malavsky. Commanding the First Guerrilla Division is his own son — Prince Hans Jonasior Dragensen — who will stand at the front lines.”

  “The prince is extremely dangerous.”

  “Though still young, his harsh training and battlefield experience make him a formidable opponent.”

  “What is our strategy, Your Majesty?”

  “Together, father and son are a terrifying combination.”

  “We require greater assistance. Is there no other solution, Balavkan?”

  Balavkan, once a Division Eleven commander in Normandia, smiled with quiet malice.

  “There is one solution, Your Majesty… though it carries a fatal cost.”

  “Speak.”

  “We forge a contract with Briel — the Angel of Death.”

  The words sent a chill through the chamber.

  Jorgenssen I knew the terrible risks of such a pact. It was a wager paid in blood and life. Yet with war approaching and pride clouding his judgment, he accepted.

  “So be it.”

  “Prepare the summoning ritual.”

  “At once, Your Majesty.”

  Balavkan converted an abandoned rum and wine vault into a ritual chamber. Prisoners were sacrificed. Ancient runes were inscribed.

  And Briel appeared.

  The Angel of Death agreed to aid Sartala, but demanded blood-bound conditions: only those of Jorgenssen’s pure royal lineage could summon Briel thereafter, and the ritual site itself would be sealed forever as forbidden ground within Sartala.

  Having accepted the terms, King Jorgenssen I emerged from the blood-sealed chamber with pride and unwavering optimism.

  He believed victory over Normandia was now inevitable.