"Come and Let's take the Walls of that damned Fort!"

  -Duke Eadric Darien at the Siege of Raven's Roost

  My P.O.V - Lion's Crest

  We arrived at Lion’s Crest after two and a half grueling days of marching. The army was exhausted, our horses foamed at the mouth, and our supplies ran thin, but there was no time to rest. The fortress stood like a sentinel in the middle of the Drowning River, its towering walls rising from the stone like the fangs of some ancient beast.

  Despite its imposing presence, the fort was not ready for war.

  The walls bore scars from past battles, with cracks along the parapets and wooden watchtowers in dire need of repair. The gatehouse was sturdy, but the iron reinforcements were rusting, and some hinges showed signs of rot. If Eadric's trebuchets pounded long enough, they could break through.

  The courtyard buzzed with activity as soldiers carried crates of arrows, set up defensive positions, and sharpened blades. Smoke curled from the forge as blacksmiths toiled over armor repairs.

  I strode toward the command post, the council tent pitched at the center of the yard. The banner of House Feldyn a golden lion over a crimson field, rippled above it in the cold morning breeze. Devran and the other commanders were already gathered.

  Inside, a long table was cluttered with maps, parchment, and half-eaten rations. The flickering torchlight danced against the hardened faces of the commanders—men who had seen war and knew what was coming.

  Devran leaned over the table, his golden pauldrons gleaming even in the dim light. "We have two days before Eadric arrives. We hold Lion’s Crest or we die here," he said, his voice resolute.

  Leo scoffed. "If we had more knights instead of… archers," he spat the word as if it disgusted him, "this wouldn’t be an issue."

  I ignored him and addressed Devran. "The walls need fixing. The arrow slits need fresh quivers, and the main gate must be reinforced with wooden barricades to buy us time if they breach."

  Ser Midryn crossed his arms. "And what of the knights you stripped of their honor?" His sharp gaze bore into me.

  I met his glare without hesitation. "A knight's honor won't matter if he’s dead. Cavalry is useless in a siege. An archer can kill a dozen men before they even reach the walls."

  Some of the knights murmured, uneasy with my decision, but Devran nodded. "He’s right. We hold the walls first, not charge blindly into death."

  The grumbling died down, though Midryn and Leo exchanged a look of shared discontent.

  "The next issue is supplies," I continued. "Lion’s Crest still holds a population of two thousand. If they stay, we’ll run out of food in weeks. We need to evacuate the civilians."

  Devran drummed his fingers on the table. "That’s a risk. If we send them out, Eadric might capture and use them as leverage."

  "Better that than starving with us inside these walls," I countered. "We send them North towardw Elria, under escort. That way, we lessen the mouths to feed and maintain morale."

  After a long pause, Devran sighed. "Fine. We’ll send the civilians away at dawn."

  I pressed on. "One more thing. The keys to the gates must be changed daily. If there's a traitor among us, we cannot afford a single mistake."

  Devran gave me a sharp nod, while Leo raised an eye brow. "You don't trust your own men?"

  “I trust them about as much as I trust the wind,” I said bluntly. “Eadric has spies, and a single bribe could undo all of our defenses.”

  After a long silence, everyone agreed.

  The siege had not yet begun, but already, the weight of command pressed down on my shoulders. I only hoped we had done enough.

  Duke Eadric’s POV – Military Camp

  The banners of House Drakemont fluttered in the evening wind, their black dragons a stark contrast against the black falcon with outstretched wings, clutching a bloodied sword in its talons of my own house. At last, my reinforcements had arrived.

  The Drakemonts were late. Not unexpected. Duke Romulus had always been deliberate in his decisions, a man who measured every step twice before committing. But now, he had finally brought his 7,000 men—hard-bitten veterans of past wars, not soft-bellied city guards. Combined with my 8,000, we had over 15,000 soldiers ready to take Lion’s Crest. Enough to break them.

  I stood atop a rocky outcrop overlooking our encampment, watching as the siege preparations unfolded below. Smoke curled from countless cookfires. The rhythmic pounding of hammers echoed as soldiers reinforced rams and trebuchets. Engineers barked orders as they measured distances, setting up firing angles for the siege weapons.

  But **brute force alone wouldn’t win this battle.**

  Alaric was inside those walls. He had spent his life fighting, learning, surviving. If I allowed him to dictate the terms, this siege would drag on for months. I could not afford that. I needed him **out** of the fortress, in the open, where I could crush him.

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  I turned to my gathered commanders—men of Auria and Drakemont, lords and seasoned warriors. A heavy wooden table had been placed atop barrels, a map of the region spread across its surface. Tokens marked Lion’s Crest, the river, and our forces. The air smelled of sweat, horse, and damp earth.

  "We cannot afford a drawn-out siege," I said, my voice steady. "Alaric is resourceful, and the longer we wait, the more time he has to prepare."

  Duke Romulus crossed his arms. "Then how do we force his hand?"

  I smirked. "We cut him off from the world."

  I pointed at the map. "Duchess Irene of Montaklar is already dealing with a rebellion. She will not come to Alaric’s aid. Duke Robert of Mandeville is fighting off Sami raiders—this is raiding season, and he won’t risk leaving his borders unguarded. And Duke Francis of Marcel? That coward has already declared neutrality."

  "Which means," Ser Hector interjected, his voice rough and unpolished compared to the lords, "Alaric got nowhere to run and no one comin’ to save him."

  I nodded. "Exactly. But we don’t just wait for him to starve. We make him come to us."

  Hector scratched his unshaven jaw. "Ain’t the boy stubborn, though? If we just sit ‘round hopin’ he gets desperate, we might be waitin’ till our grandkids are fightin’ this war."

  I chuckled. "That’s why we give him a reason to leave those walls."

  I turned my gaze toward the fortress in the distance, its silhouette dark against the river.

  "Fire and fear," I said. "We raid every farm, every village in the region. We burn their fields, poison their wells, and take their people. If Alaric has any honor left in him, he won’t sit idly by while the lands around Lion’s Crest are destroyed. He will come to us."

  Duke Romulus exhaled through his nose. "That’s a dangerous gamble. If you underestimate him—"

  "I won’t," I interrupted. "Alaric fights because he believes he has something to protect. If we take that away, he will be forced to act. And when he does, we will crush him."

  The commanders exchanged glances. No one objected. They knew the risks, but they also knew the rewards.

  Ser Hector snorted. "So we smoke ‘im out like a fox in a burrow. Simple ‘nough. Though I bet the lads’ll have more fun pillagin’ than sittin’ in this muck waitin’ for the walls to fall."

  "The men will get their fill soon enough," I assured him.

  Hector grinned, revealing a chipped tooth. "Well, can’t say I ever liked farmers much anyway."

  Duke Romulus gave him a sharp look, but Hector ignored it. He was a common-born soldier, and he spoke like one, without the polished etiquette of the highborn. I valued that about him. He said what others were too polite to voice.

  Ser Aedwyn, my siege master, cleared his throat. "What of the civilians still inside Lion’s Crest? There are thousands. Do we let them starve?"

  A slow smile spread across my face. "They will soon wish they were anywhere else."

  Ser Aedwyn chuckled darkly. "Aye. That they will."

  My P.O.V - Lion's Crest

  The sun hung low in the sky, its dim light barely cutting through the thick morning mist that curled around Lion’s Crest. A day had passed since our arrival, and I made sure not a single moment was wasted. The entire army drilled from sunrise to sunset, sweat soaking their tunics, muscles burning from ceaseless repetition. Some grumbled, others pushed through in silence, but they all knew the truth—if they weren’t ready when Eadric arrived, they would die.

  From the ramparts, I watched the ranks move. Spearmen locked shields and thrust forward in formation, swordsmen hacked at wooden dummies until their arms shook, and the archers fired volleys into makeshift targets, their arrows cutting through the mist like streaks of shadow. Every man, whether seasoned knight or fresh recruit, was forced to train. Even the city watch, barely more than glorified tax collectors, had to hold a spear steady and learn the discipline of war.

  Beyond the walls, I spotted movement along the dirt road. A thin column of riders—our light cavalry. The foraging party had returned. I exhaled in relief. We needed every scrap of food, every bundle of supplies we could muster before Eadric’s blockade cut us off from the world.

  A metallic clang echoed through the courtyard as swords met shields in sparring matches. From across the training grounds, I caught sight of Devran, Leo, Ser Lanselot, and Ser Midryn watching from a raised platform. Devran stood rigid, his expression dark, arms crossed over his chest. The golden lion on his armor seemed duller under the overcast sky. He looked different now—gaunt, weary. The burden of war had taken its toll, carving deep lines into his once-proud features.

  For a moment, I felt something close to respect.

  I despised Devran. He had always been the shining son, the perfect heir, the golden lion who could do no wrong in our father’s eyes. But here, on the battlefield, titles and birthright meant nothing. War did not care for nobility—it only demanded sacrifice. And despite everything, he stood here, willing to die to defend our incompetent father’s kingdom.

  I could respect that.

  Leo, on the other hand, looked unchanged—still draped in fine silk under his armor, still carrying himself like he belonged in a royal court rather than a battlefield. He whispered something to Midryn, who smirked in response.

  I turned away, unwilling to waste another thought on them.

  Instead, I strode toward the archery range. The wooden targets had been reinforced with fresh straw, the painted circles still visible through layers of old punctures. I grabbed a bow from the nearby rack and tested the string—taut, well-maintained.

  I nocked an arrow, pulled back the string, and aimed.

  The weight felt unfamiliar. It had been too long since I had last fought, too long since I had trained properly. My form felt stiff, unnatural.

  I loosed the arrow. It struck the target, but not where I intended.

  Damn it.

  I tried again. Another shot. Closer, but not perfect.

  I exhaled, lowering the bow. Something was missing. My mind wandered to Aria—how she used to train beside me, how she would scowl when I corrected her stance, only to master the technique days later. Without her here, the range felt emptier, colder.

  I pulled back the bowstring again, feeling the tension against my fingertips. My stance was firm, my breath steady. I exhaled slowly, then released.

  Thwack.

  The arrow struck just off-center. Not perfect, but good enough to kill.

  I rolled my shoulders, exhaling through my nose. The tension had never fully left my body since returning to Elria. My muscles still carried the memory of war—the instinct to react, to fight, to survive. But here, in the capital, war felt like a distant shadow. These walls had never known the horror of the battlefield. The men behind them had never heard the screams of the dying, never felt blood slick their hands, never watched their comrades die with a sword buried in their gut.

  The nobles on the platform above still watched. Ser Lanselot, Ser Midryn, Devran and Leo, dressed in their fine silks, speaking in low voices as if the war was already won. Devran’s golden mane caught the light, his armor polished to perfection. Leo, the second son, ever in his brother’s shadow, smirked as he whispered something to him. I ignored them.

  They had never fought in the mud, never waded through corpses, never been sent to die for a crown that didn’t want them.

  I reached for another arrow, but the sound of hesitant footsteps made me pause.

  “Milord?”

  I turned.

  Twosoldiers stood before me, all young, their faces uncertain. Their hands clutched bows, but their grips were clumsy, their stances stiff. I could see it in their eyes—fear, uncertainty. These weren’t veterans. They were farmers, blacksmiths, boys who had never held a weapon before this war had called them.

  One of them, a wiry youth with dark hair, swallowed hard before speaking.

  “We saw you training, milord. We ain’t much good with a bow, but if we’re defendin’ these walls… we’d rather know how to shoot straight.”

  I studied them. They weren’t wrong to worry. If Eadric laid siege to Lion’s Crest, it would not be swords and shields that decided the battle—it would be arrows. A poorly aimed shot was as good as wasted.

  I nodded. “Pick up your bows.”

  They scrambled into place, nervous but eager. I moved among them, adjusting their grips, correcting their stances. One of them—a broad-shouldered boy with straw-colored hair—held his bowstring too loose. I pressed a hand to his shoulder, guiding him.

  “Draw back. Hold steady. Breathe. Release on the exhale.”

  One by one, they fired. Some arrows found their mark, others wavered, but they adjusted quickly. I watched, correcting as needed.

  Two of the soldiers edged closer—a dark-haired youth and another with sun-bleached curls.

  “I’m Aidan, milord,” the dark-haired one said with a grin. “This here’s Francis. We’re from a village near Elria.”

  Francis nodded. “Never thought I’d be trained by Prince Alaric himself.”

  I frowned at the title.

  “I am no prince,” I said flatly. “I was sent to war because I was expendable.”

  Aidan tilted his head. “Still, you was fightin’ while the rest of the nobles sat in their castles. That ain’t common.”

  Francis nodded. “Most highborns only know war through books. But you? You bled for this kingdom. That’s somethin’.”

  I loosed my arrow. It struck the target cleanly.

  “I am a bastard,” I said simply. “Not a prince. Not a noble.”

  Aidan chuckled. “Bastard or not, you’re more a leader than half the lords we’ve served under.”

  Francis added, “Aye. And if we’re to die fightin’, at least we’re fightin’ for someone who knows what it’s like to stand in the mud with the rest of us.”

  I said nothing.

  How many times had I heard similar words? In the Border Wars, in the frozen camps along the frontier, men had murmured of it in the dark—how they trusted me, how they followed me because I fought beside them, not above them. And yet, in the halls of the castle, I was nothing. A bastard. An outsider.

  These men, these commoners, saw me as something the nobles never had.

  Not a prince. Not a noble. But a warrior.

  And perhaps, when the battle came, that would be enough.

  I turned back to them. “Again. Hold your stance. Breathe. Loose.”

  They fired. The arrows flew.

  And for the first time since returning, I felt something like purpose.

  "Without Aria, I don't even know if I still have a purpose"

  -Alaric the Bastard