“The Hungry Lion left two cubs, and they devoured each other.”

  -Gulvian Proverbs

  My P.O.V - On the way towards Divina

  After our victory at Talbeck, we rested for a single night within the fort’s cold walls. The battle was over, but the war was far from won.

  The smell of burnt wood, dried blood, and damp stone clung to the fortress, a haunting reminder of the lives lost here. In the flickering light of torches, the wounded groaned in makeshift infirmaries, while soldiers scavenged weapons and armor from the dead.

  But we could not stay.

  By morning, the army began its march back to Divina. The winds carried the scent of rain, the storm clouds above Iza growing heavier, swollen with the promise of a coming tempest.

  Our numbers had grown.

  Duchess Irene brought news that Countess Nadia had finally declared for us. Alongside Count Gilbert, they had raised their banners, swelling our forces to 6,500 men. With their loyalty, the entire Duchy of Iza now stood against Eadric.

  It was a step forward—but not enough to declare victory.

  Eadric was a strategic genius. He would not allow this war to drag on much longer. He would move swiftly, decisively.

  The tension in our march was palpable.

  Soldiers rode in silence, their eyes scanning the darkened hills. The sound of hoofbeats, the rustling of banners, and the occasional cough were the only noises that punctuated the stillness.

  When night fell, we made camp along the road, setting up a perimeter with watchfires and patrols. The sky rumbled in the distance, a low growl of thunder warning of the storm to come.**

  I should have been exhausted.

  Instead, I sat alone in my tent, a candle flickering beside me, my fingers tracing the worn pages of a familiar book—The Tales of Kings.

  I had read these stories before. A hundred times.

  But history is never complete. It is written by victors, shaped by rulers, omitting those deemed unworthy of remembrance.

  I turned to the chapter on King Arthur the Conqueror, the man who forged Gulvia from warring tribes into a unified kingdom. Without him, our realm would have been nothing more than squabbling warlords.

  But even Arthur's reign had its darkness. His conquests left ruins in their wake. His sword built a kingdom, but it also drowned nations in blood.

  I turned another page.

  A shadow flickered at the entrance of my tent.

  Then Aria barged in without warning.

  "By the gods, Aria," I sighed, setting the book down. "At least knock before you storm in."

  She smirked, arms crossed. "What? I'm your sister. I can enter your tent whenever I please."

  I shook my head, exhaling. "Suit yourself."

  Her gaze flickered to the book beside me. The Tales of Kings.

  She frowned slightly. "That’s not an original copy. Where did you find it?"

  I hesitated.

  Then, as if the words slipped past my defenses, I admitted, "Eadric gave it to me."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Eadric? Why?"

  "He loves history," I murmured. "He told me to read about King Robert the Bastard—a man who defied his fate, who fought against the nobility that cast him aside. But…" I exhaled. "Robert was never included in the original book. He was forgotten by history."

  Aria studied me. "I see…"

  I leaned back, staring at the candlelight. "Maybe it’s time they added Father and Devran to this book."

  She let out a soft laugh. "You do remember that the original writer died decades ago, right? He never even saw Father take the throne."

  I smirked. "Then someone should write a new one."

  A pause.

  Then, softly, she spoke again.

  "You know… I saw you on the battlefield."

  I glanced at her. "And?"

  She hesitated. "It was… fascinating ."

  I frowned. "Why Fascinating?"

  Aria nodded. "How can one man rally an army that has never fought for him? How do you make them stand, fight, believe?"

  I didn’t have an answer.

  But the truth settled in my chest.

  Eadric had trained me. Eadric had shaped me. Everything I knew, everything I had become, I owed to him.

  And now, we would stand on opposite sides of the battlefield.

  He had already defeated me once.

  I would not let it happen again.

  "I don’t know, Aria," I murmured. "Everything I did at Talbeck… that was all Eadric’s teaching."

  She studied me. "You still admire him, don’t you?"

  I said nothing.

  Aria sighed. "You never talk about the Third Border War. "

  "There’s nothing to say."

  "There has to be something," she pressed. "I want to know what you went through—what my brother endured because his father hated him."

  The words hit me like a blade.

  I clenched my fists, my mind dragged back to Alverton—to the frozen fields littered with bodies, the screams of dying men.

  No.

  She wouldn’t understand.

  She had never fought, never killed, never watched her friends rot in the snow. She had grown up in palaces and gardens, while I had drowned in mud and blood.

  "It’s late," I said coldly, turning away. "You should rest."

  She frowned but didn’t argue.

  "I see," she murmured. "Then… good night, Alaric."

  With that, she left, the flap of the tent swaying in her absence.

  And then—silence.

  Too silent.

  I stepped out, inhaling the cold night air.

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  The rhythmic scraping of whetstones filled my ears. Soldiers sat by the fires, polishing their blades, whispering about the battles to come.

  I found comfort in the sound.

  The night was thick with anticipation. The sky rumbled again, and a few drops of rain tapped against my armor.

  Every night, my mind dragged me back to Alverton.

  To Devran and Ser Lanselot's Death at the Siege of Lion’s Crest.

  Why?

  Why must I bear this burden?

  A gust of wind swept through the camp, the banners rippling, the scent of rain intensifying.

  The storm was coming.

  And I would be ready.

  Here’s a fully expanded and improved version of the scene with deeper characterization, more internal conflict, and richer dialogue.

  Duke Eadric’s Point of View - Fort of Cynest

  The candlelight flickered in my tent, casting long, distorted shadows over the war map stretched across the table.

  Ser Hector’s report had only confirmed what I already suspected.

  Magerius was a fool.

  A man who let his arrogance outweigh his ability, who underestimated his enemies and paid the price for it. His defeat was predictable, but it was still an inconvenience. He had cost me time, and time was something I could not afford to waste.

  But no matter. He was of no further use to me.

  With or without him, I would take Divina.

  I let out a slow breath, my fingers tapping lightly against the table. The real problem was that I now faced the full strength of the Duchy of Iza. Duchess Irene had committed everything to this war, and with Alaric by her side, the battlefield had changed. I had expected her to be cautious, hesitant to throw herself into the fire, but she had surprised me.

  She had chosen a side—and it was against me.

  The weight of that decision would come back to haunt her.

  For now, however, there was one last obstacle standing in my path.

  The fort ahead was the last remaining stronghold before the road to Divina lay open. I had already bypassed one fortress, sacked it, and left it smoldering behind us. But this one… this one could not be ignored. If I left it standing, it would allow Irene’s forces to strike at my rear, cutting off my supply lines and threatening my entire advance.

  No. This one had to burn.

  I turned toward my son, Edward, who stood beside me, awaiting my command with his usual intensity. He was eager, hungry for battle—just as I had been at his age.

  “We cannot afford delays,” I said, my voice calm but firm. “This fort must fall tonight. You will lead the assault.”

  Edward straightened at once. “Yes, Father.”

  “Burn it to the ground,” I continued. “Leave nothing standing. We cannot leave strongholds behind us. Every inch of land we claim must be **ours**, or it is a threat.”

  He gave a sharp nod, his face unreadable, but I could see the fire in his eyes. He had been waiting for a chance to prove himself. I would give him that chance.

  I shifted my gaze to Ser Hector, the man who once served beside Alaric. I knew he had pledged himself to me, and I knew he had no love for the Feldyns, but a man’s heart does not forget so easily.

  “You will accompany my son in this assault,” I told him. “Make sure the people in that fort **understand** the price of siding with Irene.”

  There was a brief hesitation. A flicker of something in his eyes. But then, as always, he bowed his head.

  “As you command, my liege.”

  I studied him a moment longer. I trusted Hector’s skill, but I did not trust his heart. There was still a part of him—no matter how small—that remained loyal to Alaric.

  That could be dangerous.

  But it was a problem for another time.

  I exhaled, running a hand over the map, tracing the old battle lines of the Third Border War.

  Ten years of bloodshed.

  I had watched good men **die**, their bodies left to rot in nameless graves along the border. I had led charge after charge, fought in the mud and rain, seen things no man should have to see.

  And for what?

  For **Devran** to kneel.

  For the king’s heir to **surrender** everything we bled for.

  For a war that cost us **so much** to end with a peace that meant **nothing**.

  It still burned in my mind, that moment.

  I could still hear the silence of the battlefield, the uneasy stillness after the king’s banners had been lowered, when the reality of our loss had settled into our bones.

  That was the day I knew.

  That was the day I realized that the **crown** had no honor, that it was **unworthy** of ruling Gulvia.

  And that was the day I decided to take it for myself.

  A movement at the entrance of my tent pulled me from my thoughts. I turned sharply, my mind already calculating who it could be.

  Edward stepped forward, his expression carefully composed. But there was something else in his eyes.

  “Father,” he said. “Grand Lord Marcius of the Messaine Empire is here.”

  The name sent a sharp pulse through me.

  I clenched my jaw.

  Marcius. Here.

  This was… problematic.

  A nobleman from a foreign empire, appearing unannounced in my war camp? This was a risk I did not need. My men were loyal to Gulvia, and they would not take kindly to the idea of me dealing with outsiders—especially not the Messaine Empire.

  If word of this spread, it would be seen as treason.

  I took a measured breath, masking my concern with cold indifference.

  “Let him enter.”

  Edward gave a short nod, stepping aside as the flap of my tent was pushed open.

  And then, Grand Lord Marcius stepped in.

  His crimson cloak swept the ground as he walked, his golden embroidery glinting in the candlelight. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp and calculating.

  This was not a man who came to **watch** history unfold.

  This was a man who came to shape it.

  I did not let my expression shift.

  But as the foreign noble took his seat across from me, I knew one thing for certain.

  This war had just become even more dangerous.

  The tent flap opened, and in walked Grand Lord Marcius of the Messaine Empire, his long robes embroidered with golden lions and silver laurels, the symbols of his homeland. His every movement dripped with arrogance, his expression unreadable but for the slight smirk at the corner of his lips.

  I remained seated at the war table, my fingers drumming idly on the wood. I did not stand to greet him. A foreign noble, waltzing into my war camp as though he owned it? Testing me? I would not grant him that satisfaction.

  Marcius spread his arms wide, a mocking warmth in his voice.

  "Good to see you, Duke Eadric."

  I gave a curt nod. "Grand Lord Marcius."

  He lowered himself into the seat across from me, sighing dramatically as he brushed a speck of dust from his fine sleeve. "Oh, no need for such formalities. We are allies, after all, are we not?"

  I didn’t answer. I only met his gaze, steel against steel.

  Marcius chuckled. "I see. Straight to business, then." He leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "In case you've forgotten, you owe the Empire a rather significant sum of money. We were generous enough to fund this... ambitious endeavor of yours, and now, the time has come to collect."

  I exhaled sharply through my nose. "This isn’t the agreed-upon repayment date."

  "No, it isn’t," he admitted. "But circumstances have changed. The Empire needs its money now."

  I narrowed my eyes. "For what? The Messainens are richer than all of Western Errissia combined. What could you possibly need from me?"

  Marcius tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Perhaps it isn’t about need, Duke. Perhaps it’s about... control."

  I clenched my jaw. I loathed men who played games with words.

  Marcius smiled, as if he had read my thoughts. "But I am not an unreasonable man. I’ll grant you another month, if that’s what you wish."

  He leaned back in his chair, waiting, savoring the silence between us. Then he dropped the hammer.

  "But this time, you will owe us four million crowns instead of two."

  The war table creaked as my fists slammed against it. "What?! That is absurd! A two-million increase?"

  Marcius did not flinch. If anything, he looked entertained.

  "I won’t accept that," Igrowled.

  Marcius sighed, shaking his head. "Eadric, Eadric... You misunderstand your position. This is not a negotiation."

  I forced myself to unclench my fists. "And you misunderstand mine. I cannot pay that amount."

  Marcius studied me for a moment, then leaned forward, his voice dropping into a low, almost conspiratorial tone.

  "You know what happens if you fail to pay, don't you?" His smile was gone now. "The only reason the Great Invasion has been delayed is because the Empire sees potential in you. We need you on the throne quickly, so that we may shift our focus to the Eastern Continent. The longer you take, the more… impatient my emperor grows."

  The air in the tent turned heavy.

  I gritted my teeth. "Damn you, Marcius. I will take the throne. I will handle my realm. But I cannot meet your outrageous demand."

  Marcius sighed, standing as if this conversation had been an inconvenience rather than a negotiation between two powerful men. He adjusted the folds of his robe, then gave me a final smirk.

  "Then do as you say, Duke Eadric. Take the throne. Secure your rule. And when I return…" He paused, his gaze locking onto mine. "Make sure the money is ready."

  With that, he turned and strode out of my tent.

  I remained still, my fingers curling once more around the dagger at my hip.

  That wasn’t a request—that was a threat.

  Marcius thought he could stroll into my camp, into my war, and treat me like a mere vassal. He thought the Messaine Empire ruled the world, that their wealth and advanced weaponry made them untouchable.

  He was wrong.

  They were only this bold because of what King Alexios did to them a hundred years ago. He crossed the Great Sea and broke their illusion of invincibility. He showed them what we Western Errissians were capable of.

  And I could do the same.

  Let them come.

  I still had the largest duchy in the realm. I had the backing of the Drakemonts. The only advantage the Messainens had was their machines of war—and even machines break.

  Marcius thought he could push me around like a nobody.

  He would learn his mistake soon enough.

  My P.O.V - City of Divina

  After two grueling days of marching, we finally arrived back in Divina. The city walls loomed ahead, standing tall against the approaching storm of war. Reports had already reached us—Cynest had been brutally sacked, its streets painted with the blood of its people, its homes reduced to smoldering ruins. The path to Divina lay open, and I knew we had little time before Eadric's forces came knocking at our gates. We needed to prepare to defend this city to the death.

  Despite the looming threat, the people of Divina greeted us as returning heroes, cheering and throwing flowers as we rode through the gates. Their relief was evident, but behind their smiles, I could see the fear lingering in their eyes. They had heard of what happened to Aldrickhold and Cynest. They knew what fate awaited them should we fail.

  Duchess Irene rode beside me, her expression unreadable. But I could sense her concern. She was not a woman who feared battle, but she understood the weight of war. Divina was her city, her home, and now it stood on the precipice of destruction.

  As soon as I dismounted, exhaustion settled into my bones. Two sleepless nights of marching had taken their toll, and for the first time in days, I felt I could finally rest. My body ached for it, and as I laid down, sleep consumed me almost instantly.

  But peace never lasts long for me.

  In the dead of night, the nightmares came. Alverton. The rotting corpses of my comrades strewn across the battlefield. The cries of the dying. The smell of blood and burning flesh. Then Devran’s lifeless eyes staring at me, accusing. Ser Lanselot’s last stand at the Siege of Lion’s Crest. The weight of it all crushed me, suffocating me even in sleep.

  I jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The city was silent, save for the occasional hoot of an owl and the distant murmur of the night patrols. Sleep was impossible now.

  I rose, wrapped a cloak around myself, and stepped out into the cool night air. Wandering the corridors of the keep, I found myself instinctively heading toward Aria’s chambers. But as I neared, I heard voices—muffled yet urgent. I stopped, pressing myself against the cold stone wall, listening.

  It was Irene and Ser Rodirik.

  “We need to defend the city of Divina to the death, Your Grace,” Ser Rodirik’s voice was firm, laced with concern.

  “I know that, Ser Rodirik,” Irene replied, her tone steady yet strained.

  “I warned you of the risks of entertaining Alaric,” he pressed. “And now death marches upon us.”

  A heavy silence followed before Irene spoke again. “Alaric just secured us a victory against Magerius. Tomorrow, Countess Nadia and Count Gilbert will arrive, bringing more men. Our army will grow stronger. What is there to worry about?”

  Rodirik let out a sharp breath. “I just find this troublesome, my lady. Our duty is to protect Iza, yet look at what is happening. Duke Eadric is sacking forts, burning villages, and tightening his grip. And you allowed it.”

  “As if I had a choice, Ser Rodirik,” Irene shot back, her voice colder now. “Should I have abandoned our allies? Let Magerius destroy what was left of our forces? We won a battle, but the war is far from over.”

  Another silence. I could almost hear Rodirik grinding his teeth.

  “You have placed too much faith in him,” he muttered darkly. “Alaric is a man of war, yes, but he brings destruction wherever he goes. This city will burn because of him.”

  I clenched my fists. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t thought the same thing. How many had died because of my presence? How many more would?

  I took a slow, measured breath and stepped away from the doorway, leaving them to their discussion. The words weighed on me. It was true—Divina wouldn’t be in this situation if I hadn’t come here. This war, this devastation, was a result of my existence.

  I walked out into the courtyard, finding solace in the rhythmic sound of soldiers sharpening their blades and oiling their armor. It calmed me in a way nothing else did. The preparation for war was the only thing that made sense.

  The wind carried the faint smell of rain. A storm was coming. And soon, blood would follow.

  “A lion’s blood runs hot, whether trueborn or not.”

  -Gulvian Proverbs

  TALES OF KINGS: KING ROBERT THE BASTARD

  Born the illegitimate son of King Alexios the Hungry Lion and a commoner woman, Robert was never recognized as a legitimate heir. Yet, like his father in his youth, he was a master swordsman and a warrior of unmatched skill. His status as a bastard denied him a claim to the throne by law, but fate would thrust him into history as one of Gulvia’s most infamous rulers.

  When King Alexios met his sudden demise in the distant lands of Eastern Errissia, chaos followed. Without an officially designated heir, the mighty empire Alexios had built began to unravel. The conquered provinces in the east fell one by one, and even the Sami people—whom Alexios had once subjugated—rose in rebellion. The Gulvian Royal Army, once an unstoppable force, was driven back to its original borders.

  The situation worsened when High King Duran of the Sami led an invasion into Gulvia itself, laying waste to the southern strongholds. House Mandela, sworn protectors of the southern frontiers, was crushed, leaving the region vulnerable. Robert watched in frustration as his half-brother, Prince Aldran—the eldest son of Alexios—struggled to hold the realm together. Seeing his father’s legacy undone, Robert made a bold and controversial claim: that he, not Aldran, was the rightful ruler of Gulvia.

  Thus began the Reign of Blood, an eight-year civil war that tore the kingdom apart. Every noble house was forced to pick a side, turning Gulvia’s once-prosperous lands into endless battlegrounds. What had been the most powerful kingdom in Western Errissia mere years ago now stood divided, its strength turned inward.

  The war finally reached its brutal climax at the Battle of Death Valley, where Robert slew Aldran in single combat, cementing his rule through bloodshed rather than birthright. With his rival dead and his throne secured, Robert the Bastard became the first illegitimate child to rule Gulvia. But his struggles were far from over.

  The Sami, now led by the formidable High King Duran the Great, continued their assault on Gulvia’s southern lands. The next eight years of Robert’s reign were spent in relentless warfare, desperately trying to reclaim the lands his father had once conquered. Though he was a warrior-king, his efforts were met with fierce resistance. For every battle won, another was lost. By the time Robert reached his fifteenth year as king, he had failed to push the Sami back, and the southern lands were permanently lost.

  Robert the Bastard died as he had lived—on the battlefield, sword in hand, defiant to the end. His reign, though long, was marked only by war and bloodshed. Unlike King Arthur the Conqueror, who forged an empire, or King Alexios the Hungry Lion, who expanded its reach, Robert spent his years fighting a war that never truly ended. His rule was troubled, his legacy divided, and history ultimately chose to forget him. The scribes of Gulvia never included his name in the official Tales of Kings, for his reign was never one of peace, only of war.

  And so, Robert the Bastard remains a shadow in history—a king who fought for a throne that was never meant to be his, and a warrior who died trying to reclaim what his father had built.