Keiran strode into his office, his steps slow but steady. The room was spacious, its polished wooden floors gleaming under the golden noon sunlight streaming through the large window.
A sturdy mahogany table stood at the center, its surface nearly buried under a mountain of parchment, ink pots, and neatly stacked documents.
Ornate bookshelves lined the walls, filled with thick tomes of laws, treaties, and economic reports. A velvet armchair sat by the corner, its deep blue fabric untouched, a luxury he rarely had the time to indulge in.
He exhaled sharply, his gaze settling on the endless pile of paperwork waiting for him. Letters from advisors, requests from officials, and reports detailing tax collection, infrastructure projects, and military expenses—all demanding his immediate attention.
"This," Keiran muttered, rubbing his temples, "is the price of building a nation."
He had envisioned leadership as something grand, a role of decisive action and commanding authority.
Yet here he was, drowning in a sea of ink and bureaucracy. It wasn't enough to issue orders; he had to ensure they were properly executed, had to mediate between conflicting interests, had to keep the economy stable while maintaining security.
His fingers drummed against the table before he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, heavier than any sword or armor he'd ever worn.
With a sigh, he muttered in a bored, resigned tone, "I hate paperwork."
Keiran picked up one of the papers scattered across the table. His sharp eyes scanned the text, noting the formal language and detailed planning behind the proposal.
It outlined a plan to open a trade route through the dense expanse of the Fiora Forest, a strategic move that would allow merchants safe passage while fostering economic ties with the region's tribes.
The unexpected surge of interest in Casimiro was happening far more quickly than Keiran had anticipated.
Though he had known that his actions would eventually draw attention, the speed at which word of his deeds had spread was almost alarming.
His name had become the talk of the forest—his feats, his victories, and his role as a hero were now whispered and discussed among the various tribes that called Fiora home.
The Harengons were at the heart of this. Their extensive trading network, built on swift messengers and well-connected routes, had carried the news far and wide before Keiran could even consider controlling the narrative.
What had started as small rumors had grown into a wildfire, and now, representatives from other tribes were making their way to confirm the truth for themselves.
Were the tales exaggerated? Was Keiran truly the hero that the stories claimed him to be? These were the questions that brought envoys, warriors, and leaders to his doorstep, eager to see if the man they had heard about lived up to the legend that was forming around him.
•••••
A firm knock echoed through the quiet chamber, breaking the monotony of Keiran's paperwork. He barely glanced up from the stacks of parchment cluttering his desk before responding.
"Come in," he said.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing Greon. The man stepped inside with a measured gait, his posture stiff with formality. He bowed at the waist, pressing a fist to his chest in salute.
"My lord," Greon greeted.
Keiran nodded in acknowledgment, leaning back into his wooden chair. The seat groaned under his weight. He exhaled, fingers tapping idly against the armrest, his gaze flickering to the ever-growing pile of documents before him.
Greon's sharp eyes caught the mess of parchment, ink stains, and half-melted wax seals littering the table. He smirked.
"That's a lot of work to do," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Keiran let out a sigh. "What news do you bring?" He rubbed his temples, already feeling the strain of another long night trapped in bureaucracy.
Greon's expression darkened. "It's about the incoming demon invasion."
Keiran's entire demeanor shifted. His hand, which had been idly twirling a quill, stilled. His chair scraped against the wooden floor as he shot to his feet, eyes sharp with sudden intensity.
"The demons?" he repeated, his full attention now on Greon.
Finally—an excuse to abandon this desk, these papers, and the endless drudgery of ruling.
The mere thought of a real fight, of steel meeting flesh, of adrenaline surging through his veins, made his pulse quicken.
He would rather charge into battle against a horde of demons than spend another day suffocating beneath the weight of ledgers and royal decrees.
"Go on."
Greon straightened his back, his posture rigid with discipline, and spoke in a measured tone. "We have received a hawk from the tribe of Silverfang. They report that their settlement was attacked by demons and nearly wiped out. The survivors managed to escape, but the demons are now amassing their forces in the eastern mountains."
Keiran's eyes flickered with thought as he absorbed the news. He gave a slight nod. "I see."
"This demon army is vast, my lord. If left unchecked, they could devastate multiple tribes within mere days. The Silverfang have sent a desperate plea for aid, offering an alliance in return for our support."
Keiran turned slightly, his gaze shifting to the window. Beyond the window, the younger Lionkin cubs played in the open fields, their tails flicking excitedly as they chased one another.
Noticing him, they waved with bright smiles, unaware of the looming crisis. He raised a hand in response, though his expression remained unreadable.
His voice was firm when he spoke again. "Silverfang?"
Greon inclined his head. "A Wolfkin tribe, my lord. Fierce warriors, but this attack has left them vulnerable."
Keiran's response was immediate. "Send them a hawk. Inform them that we will come to their aid."
Greon's shoulders eased, the tension in his stance shifting into purpose. He lowered his head in a respectful bow. "At once, my lord." Then, without hesitation, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the chamber, already preparing to carry out his orders.
•••••
The night had fallen, casting a deep indigo hue across the sky as the Lionkin and Cervitaurs made their final preparations for the impending battle.
The air buzzed with energy—not of fear, but of anticipation. For the first time, they would fight alongside Keiran, the warrior who had become the heart of their cause.
It was an honor they had long awaited, and now, standing on the brink of war, their spirits were alight with eagerness.
Around the central gathering place of the growing nation, laughter rang out, rich and full.
Yet, away from the warmth of the gathering, Keiran stood alone in the forest. He had slipped away, seeking a moment of quiet before the storm of war.
The rustling of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures surrounded him. The temporary peace settled over him, a fragile yet precious moment before the bloodshed that would soon come.
Then, he sensed it—an approaching presence. His sharp instincts honed in, his body tensing slightly before his gaze shifted toward the direction of the disturbance.
Felicia emerged from the shadows, her steps deliberate, her expression unreadable. The moonlight caught in her eyes, making them gleam with something unspoken.
She did not hesitate, her focus locked onto Keiran, as if searching for something within him that only she could see.
Felicia strode toward Keiran, her expression relaxed but her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Someone named Ihalot is looking for you," she said, arms crossed as she came to a stop beside him. "Something about the paperwork you haven't finished signing."
Keiran narrowed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting away. The mention of paperwork was enough to make his mood drop, but he said nothing in response.
Felicia let out a soft giggle, tilting her head as she studied him. "The great hero of Eteria," she mused, her voice laced with teasing. "A warrior so powerful that his very aura makes demons tremble in fear… and yet, he's terrified of paperwork. Now that would make for some interesting headlines."
Keiran turned his head slightly and regarded her with his usual impassive expression. "Nice dress. You look cute." His tone was flat, almost robotic, yet completely intentional.
Felicia's smile froze for a brief moment before she clicked her tongue, irritation flashing across her face. He knew exactly how to push her buttons, and she hated how effective it was.
Forcing herself to refocus, she took a deep breath, her playful demeanor fading as she straightened her posture. "About what I said earlier," she began, her tone shifting to something more serious.
Keiran remained silent, simply watching her with that same unreadable expression.
Felicia clenched her fists slightly, determination firm in her stance. "I want to become your subordinate," she declared. "I want to serve under the hero."