"The Day I die is the day I lost"

  -King Arthur the Conqueror

  My P.O.V

  The council chamber was thick with tension. House Drakemont and House Darien had formed an alliance. The two largest duchies in the realm now stood united against the Crown, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

  Devran sat at the head of the table, his jaw clenched, fingers drumming impatiently. Queen Anna sat beside him, her face a mask of cold fury. Lord Callus, ever the tactician, adjusted the rings on his fingers, eyes flickering between the gathered lords. Lord Saban, the steward, had just finished his report, and the news was worse than expected.

  "Trade has stagnated," Lord Saban said gravely. "Duke Eadric has blocked all Crown-affiliated trading ships from using Darienport. Without it, we have no access to foreign trade. Merchants are growing restless. If this continues, we will have no coin left to fund the war."

  Queen Anna inhaled sharply. "That snake," she spat. "Eadric wages war without lifting a sword. He cuts off our lifeline while we sit here and do nothing!"

  "We should have crushed him before he became a threat," Ser Midryn muttered, arms crossed. "Now he controls trade, the largest army in the realm, and now House Drakemont. What’s next? The crown itself?"

  Devran’s fingers curled into fists. "House Drakemont should have been ours," he said bitterly. "If my dear mother had not driven Romulus away, they would be fighting for us, not against us."

  Queen Anna’s glare could have melted steel. "Do not lecture me about Romulus, my son. That man was never loyal to the crown—only to his own ambitions."

  Lord Callus sighed. "It does not matter why Romulus betrayed us. What matters is he has sided with Eadric. Seven thousand Drakemont soldiers are already marching to join him. When they arrive, Lion’s Crest will fall."

  The room fell silent.

  Lion’s Crest. The fortress that stood between Elria and the rebel armies. If it fell, Elria would fall with it.

  Ser Lanselot, his face unreadable, finally spoke. "Then we must hold it." His voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the grim reality. "The Royal Army is in no shape for a prolonged siege. We have only five thousand men, and most of them are city guards and untrained levies. Against Eadric’s forces, we will be hard-pressed to hold Lion’s Crest for long."

  Leo scoffed. "Then why not send Alaric and his men to die for us? He seems eager enough to throw himself into impossible battles."

  Queen Anna’s lips curled into a smirk. "Perhaps Leo is right. If the bastard is so eager to prove his worth, let him bleed for the kingdom he loves so much."

  Devran, who had remained silent, finally spoke. His tone was calm, measured. "I don’t care what any of you think. I’m not sending him because he’s a bastard. I’m sending him because he’s the only one who can win."

  Ser Gildas, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, his voice gruff yet certain. "The boy has fought in more battles than any of you. And he survived them all. I’d wager he understands war better than your entire court combined."

  Queen Anna scoffed but said nothing.

  Lord Varus nodded. "We do not have the numbers for open battle. But if we allow Lion’s Crest to fall, Elria is lost. There is only one man who can lead the defense."

  The room turned to me.

  I said nothing.

  I did nothing.

  Aria was worried if I would say anything.

  But silence was all my answer.

  They all knew it.

  I would fight for them.

  But fight for a kingdom that had hated and mistreated me my entire life? A realm that called me bastard before it ever called me prince?

  I had sworn to fight only for her.

  Yet now, I fought for those who would never be grateful.

  I had no choice.

  If Eadric wanted Elria, he would have to take Lion’s Crest first.

  And I would make sure the cost was too high.

  Eadric's P.O.V-Early Morning in the Military Camp

  Everything was in place. My army stood ready, the banners of House Darien flying high over my war camp. My men drilled in the early morning mist, sharpening their swords, reinforcing their armor, speaking in hushed tones of the battle to come. Lion’s Crest was within reach.

  That fortress is the key. It is the last great stronghold protecting the road to Elria, the heart of the kingdom. Once it falls, the war will shift entirely in my favor. There will be no more need for drawn-out skirmishes, no more need for political maneuvering. One great siege, one decisive march, and the throne will be mine.

  Still, I could not allow myself to grow overconfident. Not yet.

  Though my host had grown—minor counts and barons from Auria had declared for me, swelling my numbers—I knew victory would not be easy. The royal army, for all its weaknesses, still held one great advantage.

  Alaric.

  The thought of him gave me pause.

  It was strange, really. By all accounts, this war should have been over in a matter of months. The Crown had no great allies. House Drakemont and House Darien, the two largest duchies in the realm, stood united against them. Devran was an untested fool, surrounded by scheming nobles and spineless courtiers who cared more for politics than war. The royal army was a shadow of what it once was, held together by gold rather than loyalty.

  And yet… the presence of one man changed everything.

  I remembered Alaric as a boy. He had been thrown into the Third Border War like a lamb to the slaughter, too young to fight, too inexperienced to lead. I had seen him weep in those first days, seen the horror in his eyes as he stepped onto the battlefield for the first time.

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  But he survived.

  More than that, he endured.

  War shaped him, hardened him into something greater than the nobles who mocked him. While the lords of Gulvia sat in their feasting halls, he stood knee-deep in the blood and mud of battle, learning the true nature of war.

  Now, the boy I had once comforted in his darkest hours stood in my way.

  I did not know what kind of man I would face on the battlefield. That was what worried me the most.

  Alaric was not like his brothers. Devran and Leo had their titles, their pride, their noble blood. But Alaric? Alaric had war.

  I knew he would fight for Lion’s Crest until his last breath. If I underestimated him, even for a moment, it could cost me everything.

  I took a deep breath, steadying myself. The time for doubts was over.

  The next time I saw him, it would be on the battlefield.

  As I stood in my tent, lost in thought, the sound of boots crunching against the dirt snapped me back to the present.

  Edward entered, his expression brimming with satisfaction.

  "Good news, father," he said. "Ser Hector has arrived to speak terms."

  A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. It seemed my offer had not been ignored after all.

  Ser Hector. A man who had once been a brother to Alaric, a fellow bastard knight, hardened by the same war. But unlike Alaric, he had no reason to fight for the Crown.

  I had sent him a message days ago, reminding him of that fact.

  The Crown abandoned him.

  They had used him as a sword, as a tool, and when the war was over, they discarded him like a common mercenary. They had denied him the recognition he had earned, ignored his sacrifices, and worst of all, left his family to suffer.

  His mother had died alone, begging for aid that never came. The Crown could have sent him word. But they didn’t. They needed him to keep fighting, to bleed for them without question.

  And so, he had.

  Now, I offered him something better.

  A chance to fight not for a king who saw him as nothing, but for a cause. A chance to stand against the same lords who had thrown us all into the meat grinder of war and left us to rot.

  A chance for revenge.

  I had no doubt he was torn. Loyalty is a difficult thing to cast aside, especially for a man like Hector. But loyalty to whom? To a king who never cared for him? To a kingdom that had let his family suffer?

  No.

  He had only one duty left—to the men who had died beside him in the Border Wars. And I would remind him of that.

  He would not waste his life defending a dying throne.

  "Bring him in," I ordered Edward, my voice calm but firm. "Let us hear his answer."

  The morning sun had barely risen above the hills when Ser Hector was brought into my war tent. The man stood before me, clad in battered plate, dented in places, scratched in others. It was armor that had seen war, real war, not the polished vanity pieces worn by the knights of the capital. His cloak was plain, his boots caked in dried mud, and his expression bore the weight of a man who had long abandoned the notion of glory.

  I studied him carefully, as I always did when dealing with men like him. Bastards, commoners who clawed their way into knighthood, always had something to prove. Some sought wealth, others titles, but Hector was a different breed. He was here not for gold, not for land—he was here because of pain, the same kind of pain that turns a man into either a legend or a corpse.

  "Yer Grace," he greeted me, giving a slight bow. His voice was rough, unrefined. He spoke like the men in the trenches, the ones who bled for their lords but never dined at their tables.

  I allowed my gaze to linger on him for a moment longer. "Ser Hector," I replied, leaning back in my chair. "You've taken your time. I was beginning to think the Crown had its leash too tight around your neck."

  Hector let out a dry chuckle. "Leash? The only thing tight 'round my neck is the memory of the men we lost in the Third Border War. I ain't here to waste words, Duke. You sent me a message, and I came to listen. Speak."

  I could not help but smirk at his audacity. A lesser man would have been thrown out for addressing a highborn in such a manner, but Hector was no lesser man. He was a survivor.

  "Very well," I said, steepling my fingers. "You and I both know why you're here. The Crown left us to rot in the Border Wars. They bled us dry, sent us home as ghosts, and then spat on us like we were nothing. And yet, you still serve them." I let the words settle before continuing. "But you are not a fool. You know there is no future for you there. I offer you a place among us, Ser Hector. Not as a dog to a master, but as a man who deserves better."

  Hector’s jaw tightened. "Deserve better, eh? And what better do ye speak of, Duke? A grave with a fancy banner over it?" He exhaled sharply. "I ain't blind. The Crown failed me, failed my kin, and aye, I ain't forgotten what they did to my mother. Died alone, she did. Begged for help, but none came. I ain't forgivin’ that. But ye think I'm just gonna jump and fight for ye 'cause I’m angry?"

  I leaned forward slightly. "Not just because you're angry, but because you know what war is. You know that loyalty must be earned, not given freely. The Crown never earned yours, and they never will. But I?" I gestured to the banners hanging behind me, to the men gathered outside. "I am offering you vengeance, Hector. And more than that—I am offering you purpose."

  Hector scratched his unshaven jaw, his eyes dark with thought. "Purpose, aye? And what purpose would I have, fightin' for you?"

  I smiled, though I could not help but look at him as a man of lesser standing. He was a bastard knight, a common-born soldier in dented steel, yet he spoke as if his choices carried the weight of kings.

  "You command men, do you not?" I asked. "You led in the Third Border War. You know battle, strategy, and the cost of both. I would not waste your talents." I allowed my voice to drop slightly, speaking as one soldier to another. "You are a good commander, Hector, but you are not a noble. The Crown will never let you be more than what you are. Under me, you can rise as high as your sword allows."

  Hector snorted. "Rise, huh? Aye, I heard that song before. Means somethin' different when ye ain't born in a castle, don't it?" He eyed me warily, as if searching for deception. "And what if I say no?"

  I shrugged. "Then you return to the Crown, to a life where you will never be more than a nameless blade. You will fight, you will bleed, and when you die, they will not even remember to carve your name on a stone. Or, you fight for me, and when this war is won, you will not be Ser Hector the Bastard—you will be Ser Hector, a knight who stood against a kingdom that betrayed its own."

  He was silent for a long moment, his calloused fingers curling into fists.

  "...What do ye want me to do?"

  I smiled. "For now? Ride back. Speak to your men, those who still remember the Border War and what it cost them. Tell them that I do not ask for blind loyalty, only the will to fight for something greater than a dying kingdom. When the time comes, you will know where to stand."

  Hector exhaled slowly, nodding once. "Aye... I'll think on it."

  I knew then that I had already won.

  My P.O.V - Castle Training Grounds

  I swung my sword again, the steel biting deep into the straw dummy. Bits of straw scattered with each strike, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My arms burned, my breathing was ragged, but the war inside my mind raged far worse than any exhaustion I felt.

  Can we even win this war?

  The thought haunted me with every swing. The truth was, I didn’t know. I wanted to believe we could, that we would find some way to hold Lion’s Crest, to stop Eadric’s advance before it reached Elria. But what did we have? A few thousand men, many of them fresh recruits with no real experience. A handful of knights, good ones, but too few to turn the tide. And commanders? Aside from Ser Lanselot and Ser Gildas, there were none I would trust to lead men into battle.

  I struck again, my blade cutting deep into the wooden post beneath the straw.

  What if I spoke to Eadric?

  It was foolish, but the thought kept returning. He had been my mentor once. In the Border Wars, he had been like a father to me—strong, capable, commanding respect without demanding it. He would listen to me, wouldn’t he? If I rode to his camp, if I asked him what he wanted, if I took his demands to Devran… could this war end before it truly began?

  But no.

  It was far too late for that.

  Eadric was already marching, less than a week away. Even if I wanted to speak with him, Devran would never allow it. He saw every slight against the Crown as treason, and I knew he already doubted my loyalty.

  I exhaled sharply, gripping my sword tighter.

  Then what the hell am I still fighting for?

  Not for Devran. Not for the Crown. Not even for Elria.

  I already knew the answer.

  Her.

  If I could force Aria to leave this place, I would. If I could drag her away from the war, away from the bloodshed, away from the chaos, I would. But she would never go.

  She was stubborn, reckless, fearless. Just like I had been when I was younger.

  Another strike. Another deep cut into the straw.

  The world around me faded into nothing—only the dull thud of my blade against the dummy, only the weight in my arms, only the storm inside my mind.

  And then—

  A touch.

  Soft. Familiar.

  A scent I knew better than my own filled the air, and I froze, my grip tightening around the hilt of my sword.

  I didn’t have to turn around. I already knew who it was.

  Aria.

  I let out a slow breath, lowering my sword. The scent of lavender and something faintly sweet—perhaps honey—lingered in the cool morning air. It was unmistakable.

  “Aria,” I murmured, but I didn’t turn to face her just yet.

  “You’re going to break your arm before the battle even begins,” she chided. Her voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it. She knew me too well. She knew why I was out here, hammering away at a straw dummy as if sheer force alone could change the course of this war.

  I finally turned, wiping sweat from my brow. She stood before me, arms crossed, golden curls spilling over her shoulders. In the early morning light, she looked almost out of place—too bright, too untouched by the war creeping toward us. But I knew better.

  “You should be inside,” I said, sheathing my sword. “It’s cold.”

  She scoffed. “And you should be resting, but here you are, trying to kill something that can’t fight back.”

  I let out a tired chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s not the dummy I’m fighting.”

  Her expression softened, and for a moment, there was only silence between us. The distant sound of soldiers training in the courtyard, the clank of metal on metal, the occasional shout of orders—those sounds faded into the background. It was just the two of us, as it had been many times before.

  “You’re worried,” she finally said. It wasn’t a question.

  I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “No,” she admitted, stepping closer, “but I want you to.”

  I hesitated. How could I put it into words? How could I tell her that I wasn’t just worried—I was terrified? That every possible outcome played in my head like a cruel game, and in almost every one, we lost?

  That I lost her?

  I turned away, staring at the ruined training dummy. “Eadric will be at Lion’s Crest within the week. We aren’t ready.”

  “We will be,” she said firmly.

  I almost laughed. “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Because we have you.”

  I looked at her then. She said it with such certainty, such unwavering belief, that for a brief moment, I almost let myself believe it too.

  “You put too much faith in me,” I muttered.

  “And you put too little in yourself,” she countered, stepping directly in front of me now. “You’ve fought in more battles than anyone here, Alaric. You survived when others didn’t. I trust you more than anyone else in that war council.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Devran doesn’t.”

  Aria rolled her eyes. “Devran is too blinded by his own pride to see what’s right in front of him.”

  I looked away again. “It’s not just Devran.”

  She fell silent at that.

  I knew she understood. It wasn’t just Devran. It was the entire court. The lords, the nobles, the knights—no matter how many battles I fought, no matter how many times I bled for this kingdom, they would always see me as Alaric the Bastard.

  But not her. Never her.

  She reached out then, placing a hand over mine. It was warm, grounding me, pulling me back from the dark thoughts swirling in my head.

  “Alaric,” she said quietly. “Do you trust me?”

  I met her gaze. The answer was immediate.

  “With my life.”

  She smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Then trust that we will find a way. Together.”

  I exhaled, letting my shoulders drop just slightly. For her, I would try.

  Even if I didn’t believe in myself, I would fight for her.

  Always.

  

  "A sharp blade can take a life, but a well-placed whisper can take a kingdom."

  -Lord Varus the Queen's Shadow