NTR: Barbarian Harem Conquest

”Six of my fastest fighters. Kessa on point, Lirael on the right flank. We are the mobile response force.”

Two Knights of Elfheim stepped forward.

Lirael made a quiet call at dawn, and they appeared without any royal ceremony.

Meeting their glowing eyes, Kane gestured toward the manor approaches.

”Use your own judgment.”

They offered nods and vanished into hidden positions Kane couldn’t have chosen better himself.

Standing near the gate with his one working arm, Rutheus watched the flawless deployment unfold.

”You’re thinking like a seasoned general,” Rutheus rumbled approvingly.

”We should be prepared,” Kane corrected him.

”Same thing,” Rutheus laughed.

Leading his mobile escort through the bustling city, Kane headed straight for the outer boundary of Sylvandar.

His main Bloodfang force had finally arrived after receiving Sira’s urgent message, slipping into the elven woodland under the cover of early morning.

These were the men and women he left behind in Greenhaven with Greta, expressly ordered to wait outside the empire’s borders until he actually secured a proper foothold.

Stepping into the forest camp, Kane watched over a fifty hardened fighters rise to their feet instantly.

They looked stronger than before.

”Chief,” A barbarian woman grinned, stepping to the front of the pack while resting a forged iron club casually on her shoulder.

The fiery warrior woman looked just as wild as the day they parted ways, though she wore a few new scars to prove her recent experience.

”How many are combat ready?” Kane asked.

”Every single one of us,” the women answered proudly, gesturing to the sprawling camp.

”We held Greenhaven exactly like you ordered, bleeding out any wandering mercenary crew dumb enough to test our walls. Sira’s message said you needed an army, so we marched straight through the night to get here.”

Evaluating the rugged fighters, Kessa tilted her head.

”Sloppy footwork, but excellent killer intent.”

”We don’t need fancy footwork to break skulls.”

’They finally made it,’ Kane thought, feeling the numbers tilt back in his favor.

”Listen up,” Kane ordered, projecting his voice across the clearing to ensure everyone heard him.

”New equipment is coming. Full war armor for everyone, composite bows for the twelve best archers, and explosive charges for four people I will assign personally.”

A murmur of eager excitement rippled through the ranks, as the barbarians traded hungry grins.

”Menual is sending a declaration force today,” Kane revealed, letting his eyes sweep over his loyal warriors.

”A hundred riders are heading this way, but they aren’t coming here to fight. They are just coming to make us stare at them while the real movement happens somewhere else entirely.”

The forest camp fell completely silent.

”We’re going to let them declare,” Kane smiled dangerously.

”We’re going to receive their little diplomatic stunt professionally. And while everyone’s attention is focused on a hundred riders at the border, we’re going to be doing something else.”

”What are we doing?”

”Winning a war that hasn’t officially started yet,” Kane answered.

The Menual army arrived at noon.

Kane stood waiting on the rise just above the border marker, casually resting his axe on his shoulder while he watched the force approach.

A hundred riders descended the slope in perfect formation, sitting atop enormous war destriers bred from a specific northern bloodline.

Each black horse stood seventeen hands at the shoulder, easily worth more gold than an average border village might see in a lifetime.

This was a dedicated declaration unit, explicitly designed to force an audience to witness their wealth rather than their tactical strength.

Their signature armor consisted of crimson plate adorned with intricate gold inlay.

Riding at the very front was a solitary figure clad in white armor draped with a crimson cloak.

The Declaration Herald rode a white horse, creating a deliberate, eye-catching contrast against the sea of black mounts trailing behind him.

Stopping one hundred meters from the border marker, the unit halted as one breathing entity.

’You have to respect a group of men willing to sweat in full plate just to make a grand entrance,’ Kane thought.

Removing his feathered helmet, the Herald revealed a weathered face belonging to a veteran.

His eyes scanned the elven border position, offering a professional assessment rather than the theatrical contempt Kane usually received from arrogant elven nobles.

Those eyes swept over Kane standing on the rise, moved toward the fierce barbarian woman gripping her iron club, and flicked toward Kessa guarding the left flank.

Finally, the veteran’s gaze snagged on the two Knights of Elfheim, pausing on their divine-designation armor.

”I seek the official representative of the Elven Empire’s border authority,” the Herald called out, his voice perfectly trained to project across the open space.

”You found him,” Kane yelled back, leaning comfortably against his weapon.

A long pause stretched across the expanse.

The Herald stared at the red-haired foreigner wearing war armor, clearly struggling to reconcile the fact that a tribal barbarian currently represented the oldest empire on the continent.

”You won the Celestial tournament?” the Herald stated, proving his intelligence briefing was completely up to date.

”I did,” Kane smiled.

Sitting rigidly straight in his saddle, he cleared his throat.

”I’m Herald Cassian of the Menual Empire. I bear a formal declaration from Emperor Dominic the Third, sovereign of the Menual Empire, keeper of the eastern plains, and lord of the seven river territories.”

Pulling a rolled scroll from his chest plate, Cassian held it high so the imperial seal remained visible even at this distance.

”The Menual Empire formally declares its intention to establish territorial clarification along the border regions disputed since the Convention of Verath, signed four hundred and twelve years ago,” Cassian announced loudly.

”We request the Elven Empire’s official acknowledgment of this declaration and the immediate opening of formal negotiations within thirty days.”

It was standard diplomatic boilerplate, the same boring language that almost every war in history started with.

Letting the silence sit for just long enough to make the Herald feel slightly uncomfortable, Kane waited one beat longer before finally responding.

”We acknowledge your declaration,” Kane nodded.

Looking relieved, the Herald began rolling the document back up.

”I do have one question,” Kane added, causing the veteran to pause.

”The Convention of Verath,” Kane called out.

”Article seven. The territorial boundaries established therein specifically excluded the northwestern corridor as an area of mutual non-interference, and both empires agreed to that exclusion explicitly.” He let the trap snap shut.

”Does your Emperor’s current declaration of territorial clarification include or exclude the northwestern corridor?”

Silence.