CHAPTER 145: THE RECLAIMING OF CASTLE PRECIPICE

The jagged silhouette of Castle Precipice loomed like a black bone jutting out from the high cliffs of the Northern Marches. Built atop a sheer granite cliffside overlooking the valley below, it had once been the proud seat of Clan Macrae, a fortress granted to Cullum Macrae by royal decree, paid for in blood during the Border Wars. Now, a faded Solarian banner hung limply from its central keep, fluttering in the icy mountain draft.

Along the narrow, winding ascent toward the outer gate, the ground shook with a rhythmic, thunderous thrum.

Caius rode at the head of a silent column, clad in dark armor that absorbed the morning sun. At his back marched exactly one thousand elite Orc Legionnaires of the Black Obsidian Legion, one-fifth of his standing army. The remaining four thousand remained behind in the Citadel under the watchful eye of Old Bones and Shaman Vrak, ensuring the newly unified Steppes remained ironclad against opportunistic incursions while the year-long integration of the new quick-reaction legion began.

Beside Caius's mount glided the three entities of his soul-temple courtyard: the Black Flame Demon radiating waves of heat that melted the surrounding mountain frost, the Black Sabre-Lightning Tiger crackling with violet sparks, and the Arachne Princess hovering silently on four chitinous spider-arms.

"My Lord," muttered the front legion commander, his forehead bead pulsing with a steady crimson rhythm. "The Solarian garrison has not abandoned the walls."

Caius raised his eyes toward the battlements. Standing atop the stone ramparts were nearly two thousand Solarian soldiers and royal defenders. But there was no battle cry, no notched arrows, and no flaming pitch. As the thousand Orcs halted in absolute, terrifying formation at the edge of the drawbridge, a heavy, suffocating panic swept across the human defenders.

Duke Alban’s hasty, terrified retreat from the Citadel had preceded Caius by only two days. As he rode south through the mountain passes, his hands trembled against the reins, his mind racing in frantic denial. That boy, a cold terror gripped the old Duke's chest, that tainted bloodline I refused to ever accept or acknowledge as my grandson, was supposed to have perished in the abyss three years ago when Castle Precipice fell. How did he survive? How is he now the Sovereign of the Steppes coming to strip everything away? Word of the Sovereign's ultimatum had already spread through the garrison like wildfire: Leave everything intact. Missing so much as a single cup means five Solarian cities burned to ash.

CREAK.

Before Caius could even speak a word, the heavy iron chain-winches groaned. The massive timber drawbridge slowly lowered, crashing onto the stone threshold with a plume of dust.

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The heavy oak gates swung wide open.

Stepping out from the dark archway was the Solarian garrison commander, his sword unbuckled and held trembling in both hands before him. Behind him, lines of silver-armored royal soldiers marched out in solemn, broken silence, abandoning their posts, their weapons piled in neat, untouched stacks beside the courtyard entrance.

"Sovereign Macrae..." the garrison commander rasped, his voice shaking as he lowered his eyes to the cobblestones, unable to bear the cold, ruthless glare of the young man before him. "The Duke’s orders arrived yesterday. Every garrison soldier is withdrawing beyond the southern pass. Nothing has been touched. The armories, the granaries, the hall relics... all remain exactly as your father left them."

Caius did not offer a nod or a word of mercy. He simply urged his mount forward, riding past the retreating Solarian soldiers. The thousand Orc legionnaires filed in behind him, their heavy iron boots echoing through the ancient archways as they claimed every tower, rampart, and walkway in a matter of minutes.

Caius dismounted in the central courtyard, his boots stepping onto the flagstones where Cullum Macrae had once trained his knights. He walked slowly toward the Great Keep, pushing open the heavy doors to reveal the grand hall, pristine, silent, and waiting.

He stood at the center of the quiet hall, looking up at his family’s coat of arms. To him, Castle Precipice held purely sentimental value, a ghost of his father's legacy and a physical memory of the past. Tactically, it held no true strategic weight in his grand vision. He had no intention of holding this isolated cliffside fortress with the same absolute, iron grip he maintained over the Shattered Steppes. He would visit once in a while to pay homage to his roots, but the citadel across the plains remained his true seat of power.

Turning back to the courtyard, Caius gave his command to his senior legion commander.

"Leave five hundred chosen elite guards and five Orc shamans here to hold the keep," Caius ordered coldly.

These five hundred were fiercely loyal warriors who viewed guarding their Sovereign's ancestral seat as a sacred honor, dreaming of proving themselves worthy to join the ranks of the elite Black Obsidian Legion. Yet, in Caius’s calculating mind, they were ultimately acceptable sacrifices, expendable bait left on Solaria's doorstep. He knew full well the Solarian Crown would eventually attempt to retake Castle Precipice in the future. Leaving it lightly defended made it a deliberate eye sore, a permanent thorn in the Empire's side and an irresistible target that would give him the perfect, undisputed provocation to launch an all-out invasion and shatter the human kingdom once and for all.

But above the politics, the wars, and the geopolitical bait, Caius looked past the northern parapets, his gaze drifting toward the abyssal fog rising from the great divide in the distance.

His true objective lay far beyond Castle Precipice: The Abyss.

Once the war with Solaria was finished, once the debts of blood were settled and his enemies reduced to ash, he would return here. Precipice was merely the staging ground, the doorstep to the deep, forgotten abyss where his ultimate power and true fate awaited.