"A bastard's birth is a father's shame, but a mother's curse."

  -Gulvian Proverbs

  My P.O.V - Military Camp

  The road had been unforgiving. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, dragging through the dirt and mud that had become far too familiar. The path westward had finally brought us into the embrace of the vast forests, where towering trees loomed overhead, their branches stretching like skeletal hands across the night sky. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves, a reminder that the seasons would soon change—and with them, the conditions of our march.

  The men were growing weaker. Seven days of relentless travel had left them hollow-eyed and sluggish, yet they pressed on, driven by duty or desperation. Some, I knew, simply marched because standing still meant giving in to death.

  That night, we made camp beneath the thick canopy of trees. The grand pavilion of the royal family stood in stark contrast to the tattered tents of the common soldiers, though none dared to complain. We were in no position to demand luxury—not when our future was as uncertain as the road ahead.

  I sat by the fire, sharpening my sword, the rhythmic sound of steel against whetstone the only thing keeping my mind from wandering too far into dark thoughts. Then a steward approached, his face grim.

  “My lord,” he said, his voice hushed, as if not wanting the others to overhear. “Since the march began, nearly one hundred and fifty men have perished. Some succumbed to their wounds, others to sickness.” He hesitated before adding, “Thankfully, none of the illnesses appear to be contagious.”

  I nodded slowly, my grip tightening on the sword hilt. One hundred and fifty men. Gone. And not in the heat of battle, not with their swords raised in defiance, but in the quiet suffering of the road. Their deaths weighed on me like stones. How many more would we lose before reaching Iza?

  The steward lingered, perhaps waiting for me to say something, but I had no words to offer. Just another number to add to the growing list of casualties in this war. I dismissed him with a nod, and he left without another word.

  The night was cold, the wind creeping into my bones despite the fire that burned before me. Then I heard the sound of footsteps, heavy and measured. Ser Gildas.

  The old knight settled beside me with a quiet grunt, pulling his thick cloak tighter around himself. For a while, he said nothing, staring into the fire as if lost in its flickering depths. Then he spoke.

  “I never had the chance to thank you, Alaric.”

  I exhaled through my nose. “There’s nothing to thank me for, Ser Gildas.”

  The old knight chuckled, shaking his head. “Not everyone might see it. Some are too proud to admit it. But without you, House Feldyn would have been wiped out in Elria. Without your efforts, I would have died dealing with the Queen and her son.”

  A small, tired smile tugged at my lips. “I think I nearly died too.”

  Then the smile faded, and my voice grew quieter. “I’m tired, Ser Gildas. Tired of always being the one responsible. And now, more men are dying in this lost cause.”

  The old knight let out a long sigh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I understand.”

  I glanced at him. “You fought in the First and Second Border Wars, didn’t you?”

  “Aye,” he nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “And that’s why I refused to fight in the Third.”

  I shifted slightly, intrigued despite my exhaustion. “I read about those wars in a book. They were brutal.”

  Ser Gildas let out a dry laugh. “A book?” He scoffed. “That book did not give us justice, Alaric. Nor did the man who wrote it. They gave all the honor to the king, to the lords who sat on their thrones while young men fought and bled in their wars.”

  I stared into the fire. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “No,” Gildas murmured, voice heavy with age and experience. “It hasn’t.”

  The silence between us was comfortable, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the still night. Then, after a moment, Ser Gildas spoke again.

  “I know this is a different topic, but I have a bastard grandson,” he said, his voice softer now. “We love him dearly. I do not understand how a man like you—a hero, a man who fought in one of the most brutal conflicts in our history—is so mistreated, so cast aside.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Because I am a stain on the king’s name, Ser Gildas. The Gulvians see bastards as unlucky, unfortunate.”

  “Not in my family,” he said simply.

  I turned to look at him then, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. His expression was firm, unwavering. There was no pity in his eyes, only conviction.

  For a moment, I let myself believe in those words. Let myself believe that not all saw me as a stain, as a mistake.

  The fire crackled between us, warm and steady, and for once, the weight on my shoulders felt just a little lighter.

  Duke Eadric’s P.O.V - Lion's Crest

  The situation was worsening by the hour.

  Consumption had turned Lion’s Crest from a stronghold of triumph into a tomb of the living. The disease slithered through the ranks like an invisible reaper, striking down men indiscriminately. The fortress reeked of death—rotting flesh, soiled straw, and the acrid scent of burning herbs that did little to cleanse the air. My men feared the disease more than the Crown’s army, and I could hardly blame them. Every morning, the bodies of the fallen were carried beyond the walls and burned in great pyres, their smoke rising like dark omens into the sky.

  The fortress was becoming untenable. I needed to leave before my men lost all confidence in our cause.

  As I sat in my war chamber, brooding over maps and supply reports, the heavy doors swung open with a creak. Duke Romulus Drakemont strode inside, his fur-lined cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of a stalking wolf.

  It had been some time since we last spoke face to face. He had left the bulk of his army under my command while he returned to Emberhold to tend to affairs in Montaklar. Now, he was back, his gaze sharp and searching as he studied me.

  “I have heard of your great victory,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying an air of amusement.

  I could not tell if he meant it as praise or mockery.

  “Why have you come?” I asked, my tone clipped.

  Romulus settled into the chair across from me, stretching out his legs as if he owned the place. “Victoria grows impatient,” he said. “She wishes to proceed with the marriage. But I told her we are still at war.”

  Victoria. His daughter. My son’s betrothed.

  Edward, who had been standing to my right, straightened at the mention of her name. “Do not worry, my lord,” he said. “I will honor the promise I made to Lady Victoria.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Romulus gave a satisfied nod before his expression turned more serious. “Good. Now tell me—why have you not marched on Elria yet? I hear the bastard has abandoned it.”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “He left it undefended.”

  Romulus frowned. “Then why have you not taken it? The city is the heart of the kingdom. Seizing it would cement your claim.”

  I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers together. “Elria has no glory, Romulus. It is a relic of the old regime. A decaying city, filled with ghosts of past kings. If I am to win this rebellion, I will not rule from the corpse of a fallen kingdom. I will forge a new empire, and its heart will be Darienport.”

  Romulus raised an eyebrow. “A bold vision,” he admitted. “But you cannot ignore the historical significance of Elria, nor its wealth. If you do not take it, you risk appearing weak.”

  “I do not care for appearances. I care for victory,” I snapped. “And victory will not come from marching my already depleted forces into a city that offers no tactical advantage. Alaric is the real threat. If we allow him to reach Iza unchallenged, he may rally support. He may gather an army strong enough to stand against us.”

  Romulus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So what do you intend to do?”

  I glanced at Edward, who met my gaze with quiet understanding.

  “I am torn,” I admitted. “Do I send an army to block Alaric’s path? Or do I consolidate my forces and let him come to me, where I can crush him at my choosing?”

  Romulus drummed his fingers against the table. “If you allow him to reach Iza, you risk Duchess Irene throwing her support behind him. She is unpredictable, but if she deems him worthy, she may rally forces in his name.”

  “I know.” My voice was tight. “But if I send men to intercept him, I risk stretching my forces too thin. We are already struggling with supplies. The longer we linger here, the worse it becomes.”

  Romulus studied me for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. “Very well. Just ensure that when the time comes, Montaklar is rewarded accordingly.”

  “You will have your reward,” I assured him. “But more importantly, I need to know that your house will stand with me, no matter what happens.”

  Romulus smirked, though there was a weight behind it this time. “Of course. Soon, our houses will be bound by blood. I will stand behind you, Lord Eadric.” He paused before adding, “For now.”

  I let his words linger in the air. I knew what they meant. Alliances in war were as fragile as glass, and Romulus was not a man who would blindly follow if he sensed weakness. He would stand behind me—until he saw an opportunity elsewhere.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to in Emberhold,” Romulus said, rising from his chair. “I will visit you again soon. May the gods bless you in your future battles.”

  Edward stepped forward to escort him out, but I remained seated, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

  I had won the battle for Lion’s Crest. But the war was far from over.

  And somewhere, out there, Alaric was still marching.

  Damn him.

  I had known from the start that he would be a problem. He was too skilled, too resilient, too dangerous to be ignored.

  But at least it was just him.

  For now.

  Duchess Irene’s P.O.V - City of Divina

  Alaric.

  A name that carried weight despite the stain of illegitimacy.

  All I truly knew of him was that he was the bastard son of the late King Valero—a man whose death had shattered the fragile peace of the realm. But there was something more. My father, the late Duke Aldrick, had once told me that Alaric was not merely a king’s mistake. He was the child of someone important. Someone whose name had been buried, whose legacy had been erased from history.

  That conversation had taken place six years ago, and the details had faded in my mind. I couldn’t recall which figure my father had spoken of, but the mystery lingered like an itch at the back of my thoughts.

  And now, this same man—this forgotten son—was marching toward Iza, seeking my aid.

  Why am I entertaining this?

  He lost a significant battle, yet here I am, considering his plea for sanctuary. It is not logic that moves me but something else. Perhaps respect for Princess Aria, a woman I know to be kind and just despite the vipers that surround her.

  Or perhaps it is hatred.

  I despise the Queen. She has undermined my house for too long, dismissing us as nothing more than pawns in her political games. House Feldyn has treated Iza with indifference, favoring the wealth of Montaklar or the strategic strength of Auria.

  But they forget.

  Iza is not weak.

  Iza has survived wars, famines, and betrayals. We do not bend easily.

  I turned to Edric, my steward, who stood patiently beside me. “Summon the council,” I commanded. “We have much to discuss.”

  If Alaric sought my aid, then he would have to prove himself worthy of it.

  The council chamber was alight with the glow of the midday sun filtering through tall stained-glass windows, casting streaks of color across the polished stone floor. The air carried the scent of wax and parchment, the room filled with my most trusted advisors—men who had served my father and now served me.

  Ser Rodirik, my Marshal, was the first to break the silence. "Count Magerius has made his move. His men raided several villages near Talbeck Castle."

  I clenched my jaw. "How severe are the losses?"

  "Not as devastating as they could have been, but they are deliberate," Rodirik said. "Magerius isn't just pillaging—he's testing us. If we do nothing, he will escalate. And if he gathers enough strength, he may lay siege to Talbeck itself."

  Solomon, my Finance and Trade Minister, let out a weary sigh. "Not just any villages, my lady. Those were some of the wealthiest in the region. Merchants are already sending word of losses, and tax revenues will suffer if this continues."

  Gendry, my diplomat, frowned. "Magerius senses weakness. With the kingdom in turmoil, he believes he can seize what he pleases. If he succeeds, others may follow."

  I drummed my fingers against the table, deep in thought. "How many men does he command?"

  Rodirik folded his arms. "A standing force of around two thousand, with more levies he can call upon. If he marches in full force, Talbeck’s garrison will struggle to hold."

  "Then we must respond," I said. "We cannot afford to let Magerius gain ground."

  Rodirik nodded. "Agreed, but we must also consider the Royal Army approaching our borders."

  The room fell into a brief silence.

  Edric, my steward, cleared his throat. "That brings us to the other matter, my lady. Alaric and his host are drawing near—fifteen days at most."

  Ser Rodirik leaned forward. "Are you truly sure about this? Giving them sanctuary is one thing, but entertaining them means aligning with them. Once we open our gates to Alaric, Eadric will count us as his enemy."

  I looked around the table, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "I am certain."

  Gendry sighed, rubbing his temples. "My lady, I understand your reasoning. Alaric is a capable commander—perhaps the only real leader left in that damned royal family—but aiding him means war."

  Rodirik's voice was firm. "We are already dealing with Magerius. If we allow Alaric into our lands, we risk fighting on two fronts. Iza does not have the luxury of endless resources."

  Solomon added, "War is expensive. Even if we do not commit troops, feeding and housing thousands of men will strain our coffers."

  I held up a hand, silencing them. "I am not blind to these risks. But listen well—Iza will not sit idle while the kingdom burns. Eadric's rebellion is not a storm we can simply wait out. It will reach us, whether we choose to act or not. I would rather make a calculated move than wait for our enemies to force our hand."

  Rodirik narrowed his eyes. "And if Alaric loses? If the royal cause collapses?"

  "Then we will adapt," I said without hesitation. "But we will not be caught unprepared."

  The table fell silent for a moment.

  Edric finally spoke. "Then we prepare to receive them. Alaric will be here soon."

  I nodded. "Good. When he arrives, he will learn that Iza is not a land of beggars nor cowards. If he wants our aid, he must prove he is worth it."

  With that, the council was adjourned.

  My P.O.V - The North Western Region of Gulvia

  The sun blazed overhead, beating down upon us like an unrelenting hammer. The cold of the previous nights was a distant memory, replaced by a suffocating heat that drained the strength from our bones. Sweat drenched my tunic beneath my armor, and I could see the same exhaustion reflected in the men trudging ahead of me. The march had been cruel before, but today, it felt like we were being punished by the gods themselves.

  I rode at the rear of the column, watching the lines stretch out before me. Some men stumbled from exhaustion, and others slumped against their weapons, barely able to push forward. We had suffered worse, but morale was already fragile. Another few days of this and we’d start losing men—not to wounds, but to sheer exhaustion.

  Then came the attack.

  It started with a scream from the front. Then another.

  The next moment, a rain of arrows fell upon us. Chaos erupted.

  I spurred my horse forward, drawing my sword as I charged toward the front lines. Dust and blood filled the air as bandits surged from the tree line, slashing into our weary soldiers with wild abandon. The front of our column was in disarray, struggling to form a proper defense against the ambush.

  The enemy wore ragged cloaks and leather armor, moving with the desperate frenzy of men who knew nothing but hunger and bloodshed. Forest bandits—lawless men who preyed upon the weak and weary.

  I reached the thick of the battle just as one of our knights was dragged from his horse, his throat cut open before he could even scream. Another soldier fell beside him, a spear jutting from his back. I urged my horse forward and swung my blade, cleaving through a bandit’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across my arm, but I ignored it.

  Ahead of me, I caught sight of Ser Gildas. The old knight moved with terrifying precision—each strike of his sword cut a man down, each step he took brought him closer to another kill. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. Even at his age, he fought as if he had decades of war left in him.

  For every bandit we cut down, another took his place. The attack had been well-planned—hit us when we were weak, force us into chaos, then take what they could before vanishing into the trees. But they had made a mistake.

  We were not broken men.

  "Push them back!" I roared, slashing my sword through the throat of another bandit.

  The soldiers around me, emboldened by the command, fought harder. Shields locked, spears jabbed forward, and swords carved a path through the enemy ranks. The bandits faltered, realizing too late that they had underestimated us.

  One by one, they began to retreat. Some fled into the forest, while others were cut down before they could escape. The battle ended almost as quickly as it had begun.

  I exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat and blood from my face.

  Then, pain.

  I looked down to see a thin line of crimson across my side. A wound—shallow, but deep enough to burn. The last bandit I had killed had managed to land a strike before I cut him down. Damn it.

  Ser Gildas approached, his blade still slick with blood. He looked me over and frowned. "You're wounded."

  "It’s nothing," I muttered.

  "Nothing can turn to something if left unattended," he said. "Let Aria tend to it before infection sets in."

  I sighed, but nodded.

  The battle had cost us men, and the delay would cost us time. We had no choice but to encamp once more, forced to lick our wounds before pressing on.

  And I knew one thing for certain—if this was just the beginning, the road ahead would only grow bloodier.

  "Arthur’s sword carved the realm, but his will forged the crown."

  -Gulvian Proverbs