"They miscalculated from the very beginning. Victory unfolded like a script already written, then butchered upon the stage by inept actors speaking in provincial tongues. And the Queen of Cynthia, through willpower transcending mortal bounds, demonstrated her resolve to perish defending Cynthia's walls. This shall become legend—immortalized in every distinguished collection of verse."—Salman, historian, The Annals of Godma, Book II, Chapter VI: Transit Station.
News of Pafaheim's fall plunged the Cynthian court into a strange state—a jarring mix of chaos and stunned silence. Drawing bitter lessons from that defeat, Lord Loyes, commander-in-chief, consolidated all fighting forces within the capital, Phyal. Divided strength could never withstand the overwhelming numbers Godma commanded. He intended to stake everything on a final, desperate stand before the capital's gates. In war council, many challenged his strategy, with Duke Snit and Archmage Hamilton raising the loudest objections. Though wartime meetings frequently devolved into verbal sparring, none could propose a superior alternative. Neither did anyone volunteer to assume Lord Loyes's position; not one soul present desired to shoulder such a crushing burden.
Despite occasional civil discourse, most sessions dissolved into blistering exchanges. Lord Loyes maintained his position without belaboring his points; arms folded across his chest, he would recline in his chair, listening silently. More and more, she felt the boisterous energy of their arguments was a facade. The true state of Cynthia was written plain on Loyes’s face: a stillness that simply waited for the end.
After seizing Pafaheim, Godma devoted one day to reorganization, then at dawn on the second day split its forces and advanced on two fronts. Two months of exposure to the elements—sleeping on frozen ground, enduring persistent hunger—had exhausted the Imperial army's patience and honed whatever remnants of mercy survived into razor-sharp cruelty. The Friez took Riveper Friez's methods to heart and improved upon them, until bloody massacre became the standard practice wherever Imperial troops marched. After surveying the tactical situation, Raveirmom Dear opted for the emperor's favored strategy—defeat in detail. He would capture every city save the capital, then encircle Phyal as the final act. Though this approach contradicted the principle of swift conquest, sacrificing a modest amount of time would preserve countless lives. He harbored no desire to dash his forces against the hundred thousand Cynthian regulars garrisoned behind the capital's fortifications—even commanding thrice their number. He understood the Great Emperor's temperament: losses unnecessarily incurred would be losses personally accounted for. Moreover, the three hundred thousand troops under his command were not intended solely for Cynthia's subjugation. A vast northern expanse remained to be conquered. For both him and his emperor, Cynthia represented merely a transit point.
Liesnite confronted the empire's spears and swords with virtually no resistance. The city lacked leadership; previously, the Duke of Pafaheim had provided its military strength. With Pafaheim's collapse, its defensive capability vanished. Within less than a day, of seventy thousand inhabitants, all save those few who managed to flee were systematically slaughtered. Disposing of such a multitude of corpses became an Imperial dilemma that demanded immediate attention. Massive pyres arose throughout Godma-controlled territories; The bodies had to be burned to ash – not just to prevent the spread of disease, but more importantly, to keep the ghouls away. These foul scavengers could smell rotting flesh from two miles off; even a buried corpse was not safe. Their ghastly sense of smell would lead them to the grave, and they would dig it up like tireless, unholy gravediggers. Liesnite transformed into a city shrouded in thick, acrid smoke.
Titul offered not even nominal resistance; Imperial forces entered an abandoned settlement. Nearly every resident had fled to Pale City, leaving Countess Orall in an impossible position. She cherished her subjects, and the sight of refugee hordes juxtaposed against her meager defense force of two hundred knights nearly shattered her composure. Earl Orall, notorious for his treachery and cruelty, had perished despised during a peasant uprising. The countess, however, was beloved—not solely for her beauty. Her compassion extended as widely as the city streets; she adored Pale City, her toddling son just learning to walk, and every pristine marble edifice in her domain. Numerous refugees and locals pledged allegiance to her, forming militia units to bolster her knights. Repeatedly she beseeched Lord Loyes for reinforcements, expending countless messenger birds and quills until she secured five hundred infantry—positioned along the main road to intercept the advancing Imperial forces.
The outcome was inevitable. Godma's soldiers, enjoying a tenfold numerical advantage, annihilated the Countess's knights and poorly-equipped volunteers at the boundary between Pale City and Titul, crushing them beneath relentless hooves. Watching her beloved people crushed under the carriage wheels, Countess Orall felt her strength abandon her, and she wept without restraint. She resolved to surrender the city, stipulating only that no blood be spilled. Riveper Friez accepted these terms immediately—magnanimously promising that while the countess drew breath, none under his command would harm her citizenry, and he would even undertake to embellish Pale City, for he admired its unblemished whiteness, this city modeled after the elven palaces of Illuviλofer. She believed his assurances. This cultured man presented himself as reasonable and principled. She commanded her knights to permit the Friez advance, opened the city gates, and relinquished Pale Stone Manor.
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Regardless of posterity's judgment of her decision, her fate would inevitably evoke profound sympathy. During the surrender ceremony she herself had arranged, they tore her son from her arms; then in the great hall, before the horrified gaze of those she had devoted herself to, the assembled Friez subjected her to systematic violation. Her screams could have fractured stone. Meanwhile, Riveper Friez savored Pale City's renowned confections, enthusiastically praising their sweetness between mouthfuls. When sixty-eight members of the Friez clan had exhausted themselves upon the shattered woman, he unleashed his three wolfhounds, ravenous and savage. This atrocity ignited fury among Pale City's populace, but they remained powerless to intervene. One huge black hound, driven by a perverse lust and looking half-ghoul itself, mounted the dying countess, asserting its dominance while its littermates tore the flesh from her face.
"You claimed two of my brothers," he whispered to the assembled witnesses, his voice coiling from the finger pressed against his lips and insinuating itself into every ear present. "I shall claim everything you possess. This I solemnly promise."
In The Annals of Godma, the eminent Imperial chronicler Salman assessed Riveper Friez's actions during this campaign thus: And indeed, Riveper Friez was a man of his word. He waited until Countess Orall was definitively dead before ordering the massacre of everyone left in Pale City, thus fulfilling his first promise. As for the second, he did indeed redecorate the white city—by painting it entirely in blood.
Kadenford enjoyed scarcely four days' respite before warfare engulfed it once more. No assistance materialized from Phyal this time. Baron Penlico and his forces stood virtually isolated. Against Godma's detachment assaulting the western wall, he and the troops the queen had assigned might have barely held their position. But Kadenford found itself caught in a devastating pincer movement. After two and a half days of bloody street-by-street combat, Carl Clawyn and Tyler Wynlers ascended the steps of Hilltop Fort. Kadenford had fallen.
The full weight of Imperial might then descended upon the north—specifically Losmore City. Baron Ramsay prepared for battle; the pincers poised to close upon him were more formidable than those that had crushed Kadenford. City after city had capitulated. The threat to Phyal intensified daily. Lord Loyes finally acknowledged the gravity of the situation and dispatched more troops to Losmore than any other city had received.
War revisited a city already twice baptized in blood. Five centuries earlier, Cynthia's civil war had reached its crescendo here; the memory of bloodshed and lamentation lingered still. Beyond the thirteen thousand professional soldiers, Losmore, like Pafaheim before it, rose as one in defiance. Women, children, and elderly had already been evacuated to Phyal. Those remaining were combatants—some barely thirteen years of age.
Godma's pincers closed inexorably around Losmore. The conflict raged for three consecutive days. The most savage fighting occurred not at the lord's manor but amid the crumbling ruins of Ivy Keep: walls embraced by climbing vines, once the residence of Losmore's most illustrious lord—a man who, during the civil war, had accomplished near-miraculous feats, negotiating temporary truces between House Cynthia and House Grace and even drafting the peace accords. Though lasting peace had eluded the kingdom, his contributions remained indelible. The ancient ruins drew combatants from both sides like a mystical lodestone. They contested this ground repeatedly, advancing and retreating across the same blood-soaked earth. Cynthian defenders held the keep as though it represented the final bulwark of their collective spirit. When overwhelming pressure fractured the western district, Baron Ramsay was forced to reduce the garrison at Ivy Keep—allowing Godma to capture it immediately. Everything thereafter became a systematic withdrawal. At dawn on the fourth day of the assault, Baron Ramsay surrendered. He and all his kin were suspended by vines from the keep's gate, displayed as a warning to potential insurgents. The demonstration proved unnecessary. Under Riveper's direction, the subsequent purge left fewer than a thousand survivors capable of resistance.
Claire Grace was dining when the news arrived. She nearly choked on the bite of honey-roasted goose she had just swallowed. Archmage Hamilton tugged anxiously at his salt-and-pepper beard, unable to formulate consoling words for the queen, who had buried her face in her hands. He summoned Rhones Lord to provide comfort and ordered the messenger raven roasted, hoping to prevent additional ill tidings from reaching the Cynthian Palace.
At midday on the sixth day of Godma's incursion into Cynthian territory, Phyal received the ultimate ultimatum: should Claire Grace refrain from resistance and surrender the city, the empire would assume control peacefully and even permit her to retain her royal status. In an emergency council session, those normally divided by conflicting viewpoints stood united in response: absolutely no surrender. The queen felt momentarily heartened. After expressing gratitude for their loyalty, she descended to the subterranean training chamber, seized a wooden practice sword, and channeled her terror, rage, and anguish into her sparring with Blancheless Liwendell. She sensed the empire's blade pressing against her throat.
Lord Loyes dismissed Godma's final emissary and instructed his squires to arm him for battle. He would lead more than one hundred thousand Cynthian soldiers forth for the climactic confrontation at Phyal. Regardless of how history might judge his earlier decisions, none could deny the tactical brilliance he displayed that day. Two hundred and sixty thousand Imperial troops converged upon the walls. Phyal endured for ten full days.
