"Kill every last of them seems a good option"

  -Ser Lanselot at the Battle of Lion's Crest

  My P.O.V - The Throne Room

  The air in the throne room was thick with tension, the morning light casting long shadows through the high-arched windows. The scent of oiled steel and leather filled my lungs—battle was coming. The so-called Royal Army was already assembled in the courtyard, a ragtag force of knights, levies, and men who had never seen true war. It was hard to believe that this was the force standing between Eadric and the capital.

  As I stepped forward, all eyes turned to me. Some filled with shock, others with skepticism. It seemed they hadn’t truly believed I would stand beside them. Devran gave me a nod of acknowledgment, a rare gesture of acceptance, while Leo's glare was sharp enough to cut steel. Beside him, Ser Midryn's sneer was barely concealed. Neither of them spoke, but their contempt was clear.

  Before taking my place, I unbuckled my sword belt and handed it to the guards at the door. A show of good faith, but also a necessity in a room filled with nobles who would rather see me dead.

  At the head of the room, Ser Lanselot stood beside Devran, his posture firm as ever, his hands resting on the pommel of his greatsword. To his right, Lord Callus whispered to a scribe, no doubt ensuring every word of this council would be recorded. Lord Saban, dressed in chainmail, bore the weight of trade collapsing under Eadric’s blockade. Lord Varus, ever the spymaster, observed in silence, his expression unreadable.

  Queen Anna sat at the high seat, her fingers gripping the arms of the throne as if she could crush the wood beneath them. She had always hated me, but today, even she knew my presence was necessary.

  Devran cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "The time has come. Eadric marches, and we must be ready. Lion’s Crest is our only hope—lose it, and we lose Elria."

  Ser Lanselot stepped forward, his voice steady. "We must hold the fortress at all costs. Its walls are thick, the terrain favors defense, and with proper command, we can delay Eadric’s advance for weeks, maybe even months."

  "Delay," Leo scoffed. "Not win. You all talk as if we stand a chance."

  "We do," I said, my voice even. "If we fight smart."

  All eyes turned to me again.

  "And what do you suggest, Bastard?" Ser Midryn spat.

  The word hung in the air for a moment too long.

  Then, before I could even react, a sharp voice cut through the room.

  "Say that again."

  It was Aria.

  Her tone was cold as steel, and the look in her eyes was sharper than any blade in this hall. She sat upright, her small hands clenched into fists, her blue eyes burning with fury. Ser Midryn, to his credit, faltered for the briefest moment. He had made a mistake.

  If there was one thing Aria hated above all else, it was hearing someone call me "bastard" in her presence.

  Ser Midryn, ever the arrogant knight, tried to compose himself. "I meant no offense, princess," he said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

  "You meant every offense," she snapped. "You wear that armor as if you are a knight, yet you speak like a coward."

  Midryn clenched his jaw but did not respond. Even Queen Anna said nothing. No one, not even the Queen, would challenge Aria when she was like this.

  I exhaled quietly and stepped in before the matter escalated. "It’s fine," I said, my tone even. "If Ser Midryn meant no offense, then let’s move on to more important matters."

  Aria’s glare lingered on him for a moment longer, but she eventually shifted her focus back to the council. Midryn swallowed his pride and turned his attention forward, though I could still see the irritation on his face.

  With the matter settled, I spoke again. "If we fight smart, we can hold Lion’s Crest. Eadric expects a weak resistance. He believes his numbers will be enough to break through. But Lion’s Crest is a fortress built for war. If we force him into a prolonged siege, he’ll bleed resources. He has the numbers, but we have the walls."

  Lord Callus folded his hands. "A prolonged siege requires supplies—do we have enough?"

  Lord Saban answered grimly. "Barely. Trade has slowed to a crawl since Eadric barred our ships from Darienport. If we don't act fast, starvation may kill us before his swords do."

  Silence. Then Queen Anna spoke for the first time. "Then we need a decisive battle. Dragging this war will only weaken us further."

  "No," I said firmly. "If we meet him in open battle, we’ll be crushed. Our only chance is to force him to attack us where we are strongest. If we do that, he will suffer."

  "And who do you expect to lead this?" Leo challenged.

  Devran straightened, his voice sharp. "Alaric will command the vanguard."

  Shock rippled through the room. Even I wasn’t expecting that.

  Leo slammed his fist on the table. "You would put a Bast—" He stopped himself, glancing at Aria, who was already glaring daggers at him. He swallowed his words. "You would put him above me?"

  "You would put your pride above the kingdom?" Devran shot back. "Alaric has fought in real wars. You haven't. He is the only one who knows how Eadric thinks."

  Leo was speechless, seething but unable to argue.

  Ser Lanselot turned to me. "Will you take this responsibility?"

  I took a slow breath. I had no love for this kingdom, but for Aria, for the men who would die beside me—I would see this through.

  "I will," I said.

  And with that, the strategy for the defense of Lion’s Crest began.

  The council had ended. Orders were given, strategies drawn, and fates sealed. The weight of war loomed over us like an unshakable shadow. The throne room emptied quickly, leaving behind the lingering echoes of hurried footsteps and tense whispers.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I stepped outside, the cold morning air hitting my face as I exhaled slowly. Elria was alive, but not in the way it usually was.

  The castle courtyard was filled with movement—soldiers fastening armor, sharpening swords, adjusting saddles on restless horses. Blacksmiths hammered final touches onto steel, sparks flying in the dim light. Pages ran between knights, carrying orders and supplies, their faces pale with the kind of fear that came before battle.

  Some men prayed. Others sat in silence, staring into the distance, knowing that by week’s end, they could be dead.

  A column of warhorses, massive and armored, stood by the stables, their breaths visible in the crisp morning air. Stable hands moved quickly, tightening straps and fitting barding onto the destriers. The scent of sweat, leather, and damp earth filled the air. War had a smell, and this was it.

  Beyond the castle gates, Elria itself stood frozen. Families had gathered to say farewell to sons, husbands, and fathers. A woman clutched a man’s face, pressing her forehead against his, whispering words I couldn’t hear. A boy, no older than ten, gripped his father’s cloak with small, trembling hands, refusing to let go.

  The father knelt, saying something softly. The boy nodded, but his lip quivered.

  I forced myself to look away.

  I had seen this before, and I would see it again.

  I left the courtyard behind and made my way down the winding streets of Elria. The city was eerily quiet—no merchants haggling, no music from minstrels, no lively chatter. The only sounds were the occasional clank of armor and the soft murmurs of the people who watched us pass.

  I found myself at the Weeping Soldier, a modest tavern nestled between an old bakery and a leather shop. It had always been a favorite among the city guards and off-duty knights, a place where men could drink away the weight of their duty.

  Tonight, it was different.

  Few men remained inside. The ones who did sat hunched over their drinks, speaking in hushed voices. Some simply stared into their cups, as if the bottom of an ale mug held all the answers.

  I approached the counter, nodding to the innkeeper. “Mead.”

  He filled a cup without a word.

  I drank it in one go, the burn doing nothing to ease the unease settling in my chest.

  For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different life. One where I wasn’t a bastard prince leading men to war. One where Aria wasn’t a princess caught in the crossfire of politics and ambition.

  But that was not the world we lived in.

  I set the cup down and left.

  Back at the castle, Aria was preparing.

  I found her in her chambers, tightening the straps of her leather bracers. The moment she saw me, she spoke, her voice firm and unyielding.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  I exhaled sharply. “No, you’re not.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Lion’s Crest is only two days’ march from here. I won’t sit in a castle while you fight a war.”

  “Living with soldiers isn’t like living in a palace, Aria.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “It’s not for a princess.”

  She clenched her jaw. “I am not a princess. I am a warrior.”

  I snorted. “Right.”

  Her eyes burned with frustration. “I’ve trained my whole life—with you. You know I can fight.”

  “That’s not the point.” I sighed. “I wouldn’t fight well if I knew you were near the battlefield.”

  She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the straps of her bracers.

  “You’re asking me to stay behind while you—”

  “Yes.” I stepped closer, my voice softer this time. “Just tell me stories when I get back.”

  She let out a frustrated sigh, crossing her arms. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’ll make something up.”

  I smirked. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  Before leaving, I sought out Ser Gildas. The old knight was in the courtyard, already in full armor, overseeing the last-minute preparations.

  “I need you to stay,” I told him.

  His gray eyes flickered toward me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need someone to protect Aria.”

  Ser Gildas scoffed. “She’s safer with me in battle than she is behind these walls.”

  “Not if Eadric marches on Elria.” I crossed my arms. “If I don’t make it back, I need to know she’ll be safe.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a heavy sigh, he looked toward the castle. “She won’t like this.”

  “She doesn’t have to.”

  The old knight let out a grumble but finally nodded. “Fine. But if you die, I’ll kill you myself.”

  I smirked. “That makes no sense.”

  He only grunted in response.

  Morning came swiftly.

  The sky was a dull gray, the kind of sky that promised blood and battle.

  Men gathered in the courtyard, adjusting armor, checking supplies, mounting their horses. The banners of the Crown were raised—gold against black, fluttering in the cold morning wind. The sound of marching boots filled the streets as the army prepared to depart.

  I stood at the gates, looking back one last time I saw Aria still waving at me.

  Is this the last time I would see her?

  Elria stood behind us, silent and still.

  Ahead of us lay Lion’s Crest.

  And beyond that, war.

  My P.O.V - The Road to Lion's Crest

  The first night of our march toward Lion’s Crest was colder than I expected. Even in the height of spring, the wind howled across the open fields of the Great Road, carrying with it the distant scent of damp earth and smoke from the countless campfires scattered across our encampment. Five thousand men—knights, levies, and city watch—had set up camp in the shadow of the great oaks lining the road. The soft neighing of horses, the low murmur of men speaking in hushed voices, and the occasional clanking of armor filled the air.

  Men sharpened their swords in quiet determination, while others sat in tight circles sharing dry rations and murmured prayers to the gods. Some wrote final letters to their families, unsure if they would return from the coming battle. It was a sight I had seen before—men hardening their hearts for the fight ahead, masking their fear with idle conversation and forced laughter.

  The officers and knights had been summoned to a war council in Devran’s command tent. I stepped through the entrance flap, shaking off the lingering cold, and found myself facing a dimly lit room where the highest commanders of our so-called Royal Army had gathered.

  Devran stood at the center of the tent, arms crossed, his golden hair glinting in the torchlight. His usual air of arrogance had been replaced with something resembling focus. To his right, Leo sat on a wooden stool, idly toying with the hilt of his dagger, his expression unreadable. Next to him, his ever-present shadow, Ser Midryn, observed the room with his usual sharp-eyed scrutiny, as if waiting for a chance to pounce on weakness. Across from them, Ser Lanselot leaned over the large map spread across the table, his brows furrowed in deep thought.

  I took my place at the table, standing between Lanselot and Devran. The air was thick with tension, but I had no time to waste on pleasantries.

  “We need archers,” I said without preamble, my voice cutting through the silence. “Defending a fortress requires more than just men with shields. We need volleys of arrows to break their ranks before they even reach the walls.”

  Leo scoffed, shaking his head. “We don’t have enough bowmen, and we’re not about to summon some phantom force out of thin air. Unless you have a few thousand archers hiding somewhere, Alaric?” His tone was laced with mockery.

  I ignored him and turned to Devran. “We turn the Royal Knights into archers.”

  A silence fell over the tent. Even Lanselot lifted his head to glance at me. Devran raised a brow, clearly skeptical.

  “The knights won’t like that,” Ser Midryn said flatly. “Knights are meant to charge into battle, not sit behind walls and shoot like peasants.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” I countered. “Knights and cavalry are useless in a siege. They can’t charge the enemy, and if we waste them trying to hold the walls in melee, we’ll be cut down before the real fight even begins. If we give them bows, they can at least hold the walls properly.”

  Lanselot, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than watching our knights die uselessly on the walls. We need every advantage we can get.”

  Devran exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin in thought. “The knights won’t be happy about it, but I see the sense in it.” He glanced at me. “You sure about this?”

  I met his gaze without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

  Leo scowled but said nothing. Devran finally gave a slow nod. “Then it’s decided. The knights will be given bows, and they’ll learn to use them on the march.”

  Ser Midryn clicked his tongue in distaste but made no further objections.

  With that decision made, we moved on to other matters—the placement of defenses, how to ration supplies, and how long we could realistically hold the fortress. The meeting stretched on deep into the night, until finally, we left the tent one by one, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  I stepped outside, greeted once more by the cold night air. The stars stretched endlessly above, distant and uncaring.

  Lion’s Crest awaited. And with it, our first true test.

  As I stepped out of the council tent, the crisp night air wrapped around me, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. The scent of damp earth and burning firewood mixed with the faint metallic tang of sharpened blades, a reminder of the battle to come. The camp stretched before me, dimly lit by scattered torches and flickering lanterns. Soldiers murmured in small groups, some sharpening their swords, others tending to their horses, while a few sat in quiet prayer.

  I had barely taken a few steps when I noticed a rider approaching from the main road. His horse, a lean, sweat-lathered bay, bore the signs of hard travel. The man atop it, cloaked and hooded against the cold, urged his mount forward with a sense of urgency. My hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of my sword as the rider neared, though I quickly noted the royal crest sewn onto his cloak—a messenger from Elria.

  The rider dismounted swiftly, landing with the practiced ease of one accustomed to long journeys. He gave a slight bow before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a sealed letter. Even in the dim light, I recognized the familiar wax seal—Aria’s.

  "Prince Alaric," he addressed me, his voice rough from travel. "A letter from Her Highness, Princess Aria. She insisted it reach you without delay."

  Aria.

  I took the letter carefully, my fingers tracing the seal before I broke it open. I glanced up at the messenger. "You've ridden hard. Have you eaten?"

  The rider shook his head. "Not yet, my lord. I was ordered to deliver this as swiftly as possible."

  "Then find yourself something warm to eat. Speak to the quartermaster—tell him I sent you."

  The man bowed again, gratitude flickering across his face before he led his weary horse toward the supply tents.

  With a steadying breath, I unfolded the parchment, my eyes scanning Aria’s delicate script. As I read, I felt the weight of the war momentarily lift, replaced by something far heavier—her longing, her worry, her unwavering belief in me.

  To my dearest brother, Alaric

  I hope this letter reaches you safely. The thought of you on the road to war unsettles me more than I can put into words, but I know you, and I know nothing I say will make you turn back. So instead, I will ask—how are you? Have you been eating properly? Sleeping, at least a little? I can already imagine you scoffing at me for worrying over such things, but someone must, and I will do so whether you like it or not.

  Is Devran treating you well? Or at the very least, with some measure of respect? I know how he is, how he looks at you like an unwanted shadow trailing behind him. If he says or does anything—anything at all—know that I am here, and I will remind him that you are worth more than he will ever understand.

  The castle feels emptier without you. The halls are quieter, though not for lack of voices. The lords still bicker, the council still squabbles, and the weight of our father’s absence lingers over everything. But you are not here, and that is what makes it truly empty for me. Ser Gildas watches over me as you asked. He is as gruff as ever, though I suspect even he misses your company in his own way.

  I walked through the training yard today and imagined you there, correcting my stance, laughing at my mistakes, pushing me harder when I faltered. I have not lifted a sword since you left. It feels strange to hold it without you there to tell me how to do it properly. But I promise I will practice so that when you return, I can show you how much I have improved.

  And you must return, Alaric. I will not accept anything else. I will not let war steal you from me as it has taken so many others. Come back, and when you do, I expect stories—of your battles, of the foolishness of court, of everything in between. I will wait for you.

  Be safe.

  With all my heart,

  Aria

  She missed me.

  And I would return. No matter what it took.

  "We will take the walls of Lion's Crest, no matter what!"

  -Duke Eadric of House Darien