My P.O.V - City of Divina

  The news of Duke Eadric’s retreat reached us at dawn. Alongside it came word of Lady Selena’s death—his wife, a noblewoman of House Arriane, taken by a sudden illness. I had met her only once, during the final weeks of the Third Border War. Even in the chaos of bloodshed and banners, she had carried herself with grace. There was warmth in her words. Kind eyes. A rare thing among the highborn, rarer still in wartime. She did not deserve such an end.

  But grief does not dull the edge of war.

  Eadric’s forces are vast. Demoralized? Certainly. Defeated? Not yet. A swift strike might shatter his retreating army, end the rebellion with one gamble. Yet the numbers give me pause. Even wounded beasts can bite.

  And then there’s the South.

  House Mandela remains the largest neutral house untouched by the fires of war. Eighteen days south. A march that would bleed my men, and risk clashing with the Sami raiders who are burning and pillaging the southern borderlands. Opening another front now would be reckless. But if the Mandelas pledged their banners to us… for the first time since the rebellion began, we would stand equal with Eadric. Perhaps even stronger.

  But this isn’t my army.

  Not yet.

  I serve under Duchess Irene Stiedry. It is her banners that fly at Divina, not the Crown’s. The throne remains empty. And while I may be the bastard son of a dead king, that grants me no right to lead alone.

  Politics can wait. The war cannot.

  As I walked through the long stone corridor toward the council hall, bootsteps echoing like distant drumbeats, a voice pulled me from my thoughts.

  “A moment, Commander?”

  I turned to see Varus, leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed, cloak hanging like a shadow across his shoulders. He was always a difficult man to read—sharp eyes, a tongue dipped in venom, but a mind you’d want on your side more than across a table.

  “What is it?” I asked, slowing my pace.

  He fell in beside me. “I assume you’ve heard of Eadric’s retreat?”

  “I have. And his wife. A sad thing. I met Lady Selena once, years ago. A good woman. She did not deserve to die like this.”

  Varus gave a rare, solemn nod. “Few people do. But that’s not the only reason I stopped you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice.

  “One of my overseas contacts—an old spice merchant with connections in Almaris—sent word. There are whispers, Commander. Whispers that the Messaine Empire has taken a keen interest in our little rebellion.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “The Empire? Are you certain?”

  “Not certain,” Varus admitted. “Not yet. But the smoke is rising. Something is happening in the east—movements of coin, letters smuggled through the coast. My source believes Eadric may be receiving support, though indirect. Trade promises, military advice… maybe more.”

  “What would the Empire gain from meddling in our affairs?”

  “Instability,” he answered quickly. “A fractured Gulvia is far easier to manipulate than a united one. Perhaps they hope to gain a foothold here. Access to the western ports. Influence in our politics. Maybe they see Eadric as a man they can buy.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Or a man they’ve already bought.”

  “Exactly.”

  My hands clenched into fists. “If we’re right about this, then we’re not just fighting a rebellion anymore. We’re fighting a foreign power.”

  “And we are not ready for that fight,” Varus said, his voice low and grim. “We barely have the strength to hold the realm together. The crown is leaderless. The people are frightened. And you—you’re the only one in this entire damned mess who’s trying to keep the kingdom from splintering.”

  I looked at him, surprised by the weight of his words.

  “Funny,” I said, “I always thought you hated me.”

  “I did,” Varus admitted. “Or maybe I convinced myself I did. Like most, I was told what to believe. That you were a bastard, a threat, a weapon of war that should’ve stayed buried in the borderlands. But the more I watched… the more I saw sense where others only showed pride.”

  “And what changed your mind?” I asked, more curious than offended.

  He gave a small, tired smile. “Watching you lead. Watching you bleed for people who never thanked you. You want a better Gulvia. You might be the only one who does.”

  “Then prove it,” I said. “Find out who is pulling Eadric’s strings. If Messaine is behind this, I need more than rumors. I need names. Ships. Trade lines. Proof.”

  “You’ll have it,” Varus promised. “One way or another.”

  I nodded, then turned toward the council hall.

  “Alaric,” Varus called after me. I stopped.

  “You may not wear a crown, but men are watching you like you already do. Just… don’t lose yourself in the shadows chasing truth. You’re more important than you realize.”

  For a long moment, I didn’t answer. Then, softly, I replied, “I never wanted to be important. I just wanted to survive.”

  As I pushed open the great oak doors of the Council Hall, the iron hinges groaned under their own weight. Inside, the tall arched windows let shafts of pale autumn light spill across the war table. Duchess Irene stood at its head, her dark green cloak draped over her shoulders like a banner. Ser Rodirik Gardner stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed in thought.

  The chamber was quieter than usual. A few lesser lords were absent—likely tending to supply lines or managing their men after the recent movement along the borders. Still, the heart of this war council remained.

  “Alaric,” Duchess Irene greeted, her voice sharp and purposeful. “Has Eadric truly retreated, or is this just another of his tricks?”

  Her eyes searched mine, reading every twitch of muscle as if weighing me like grain on a scale.

  I bowed my head respectfully. “The retreat is real, Your Grace. Scouts confirmed it two days ago. The death of his wife, Lady Selena, struck him deeply. His banners pull back toward Auria.”

  “But then why do you wear a frown?” Ser Rodirik asked. “If he is weakened, why not press the advantage? Surely now is the time to strike.”

  “Because we risk feeding our strength into the jaws of a trap,” I replied. “Yes, his army is shaken… but not broken. They still outnumber us, and the terrain between here and Auria favors him. Eadric may be grieving, but grief does not make him stupid. The man is a tactician. He’ll let us come, bleeding and overconfident, and then grind us down. One mistake—just one—and everything we’ve built here in Iza turns to ash.”

  Duchess Irene narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “You believe caution is wiser than courage?”

  “I believe in winning, Your Grace,” I said simply.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  She let a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “Spoken like someone who has seen too many battles.”

  Ser Rodirik grunted, folding his arms. “So what then? We sit on our hands while Eadric licks his wounds?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “We move. South.”

  Their gazes snapped to me.

  “To House Mandela?” Irene asked.

  I nodded. “They are the last of the great houses still uncommitted to either side. If we earn their support, we won’t need to gamble everything in a direct clash. With their banners beside ours, we’ll match Eadric man for man—perhaps even exceed him.”

  “But marching south opens another front,” Rodirik countered. “The Sami raids worsen with each passing week. Their chieftains strike and vanish like shadows, and the Mandelas are stretched thin already.”

  “We won’t send the full host,” I said. “That would be suicide. I propose a detachment—three thousand men, well-armed and mobile. Enough to assist the Mandelas against the Sami raiders, enough to show we are allies worth trusting. It is both a show of strength… and of good faith.”

  “You’d still be marching into active warzones,” Rodirik growled. “And splitting our forces while Eadric regroups.”

  “Which is why we act quickly,” I said. “If we delay, the raiding season ends. The Sami scatter. The Mandelas no longer need us. But if we help them now—while the snow still hasn’t fallen—we forge something stronger than just a military alliance. We give them cause to stand with us when this rebellion reaches its peak.”

  Duchess Irene walked slowly around the war table, trailing a finger along the carved lines of river and road.

  “You’re suggesting a political campaign dressed in armor,” she said.

  I nodded. “Sometimes, Your Grace, swords win hearts faster than words—if they’re pointed at the right enemy.”

  Rodirik exhaled through his nose, clearly unconvinced. “And if Eadric sees your absence and strikes north while you’re in the South?”

  “Then let him,” Irene said, lifting her gaze. “Iza is not without defenders. If Alaric succeeds, we gain far more than we risk. We may even force Eadric to draw back further, lest he finds himself surrounded.”

  There was a long pause. Then finally, she looked at me.

  “You believe this will work?”

  “I believe it must,” I replied. “We’ve come too far to let this rebellion fester. The longer we linger, the more pieces move in the dark. I’d rather gamble now than wait until we’re cornered.”

  She nodded once, sharply.

  “Then prepare your men. Take what you need, but leave enough to defend the realm’s heart. Speak with my steward—he’ll ensure you’re provisioned. I expect a report the moment you reach Mandela lands.”

  “You’ll have it,” I said. “And I promise, I’ll return with their banners at my back.”

  Her voice softened, just slightly. “I know you will, Alaric.”

  As I turned to leave, the council hall already stirring with orders and motion, I felt a familiar tightness settle in my chest.

  This campaign to the South wasn’t just a gamble—it was a crossroads.

  If House Mandela joined us, it would be the first real turning point in this war.

  And if they refused…

  The price would be mine to pay.

  Edward Darien's P.O.V - Somewhere near Aldrickhold

  It had been two days since the retreat began. The bitter chill of the northern wind gnawed at our backs as we marched, and yet I felt no cold. Only frustration burned within me.

  We had momentum. Divina was vulnerable—its gates barely held, and the Bastard was likely spread thin, tending to the defense and politics that came with pretending to be a commander. We should have laid siege. We should have ended this.

  But we didn’t.

  My father—once the lion of the rebellion, the great Duke Eadric Darien—was now... hollow. Ever since mother died, something in him had died too.

  "We should've taken Divina when we had the chance," I muttered, not for the first time.

  Ser Hector, riding beside me, adjusted his cloak and gave me a sidelong glance. "Your father is a broken man, my lord. I’ve seen him lose comrades in war. But not like this. This wound goes deeper."

  "He loved her," I said coldly. "I understand that. But we cannot pause a rebellion for mourning. We fight a war. If Alaric gains the support of House Mandela, then only the Marcels remain neutral—and they’re too far and too proud to ever pick a side. That will give him the numbers. The Bastard will grow stronger while we grow weaker."

  Ser Hector nodded, but his expression remained distant. "We follow the Duke’s orders, even when they lead us into the fog. That is what loyalty means."

  "And what if he leads us into ruin?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. Hector didn’t respond, and the silence that followed weighed heavier than my cloak.

  Just then, a messenger rode ahead through the column, mud streaking his boots and frost clinging to his beard. He bowed low before speaking.

  "My lords," he said, "I bring a letter. Sealed with the crest of House Feldyn—the lion rampant."

  I frowned and reached for the parchment. A letter from the royal family? Curious timing. I broke the seal and unfolded it with a growing sense of unease.

  To the Honorable Lord Edward of House Darien,

  Let me speak plainly, for the time for veils and courtesies has long passed.

  The realm stands at the edge of ruin. My brother, Alaric—the bastard born of scandal and silence—now rides at the head of armies, not for crown or glory, but to place a girl upon the throne. Aria. My sister. Gentle, kind-hearted Aria, who has neither the ambition nor the strength to rule. And yet, Alaric marches with his banner raised in her name.

  You know as well as I do: Gulvia does not need sentiment. It needs order. It needs strength. It needs a king.

  Eadric was bold enough to raise his sword. I respect that. But we both know he does not raise it for peace or unity—he raises it for power. And once he takes the throne, do you truly believe he will share it with you? With anyone? No. He is a man of war, not rule. He will burn every banner but his own.

  But I offer you something different. A future built not on rebellion or blind loyalty, but alliance and purpose.

  Stand with me. Let us end this conflict together—not for Aria, not for Alaric, not even for Eadric—but for a new Gulvia, forged by those with the will to shape it. When I ascend the throne, House Darien will have its rightful place beside it. I swear that to you as both prince and future king.

  Let us not delay the inevitable. The realm is ours to take.

  —Prince Leo of House Feldyn

  I lowered the parchment slowly, the words searing into my mind. For a moment, I said nothing. Then, finally, I looked to Hector, who had been watching me silently.

  "A letter?" he asked.

  "From Prince Leo," I muttered.

  "Leo? The second prince?"

  I nodded. "He wants our support. Claims that Aria is unworthy. Says that he should be king."

  Hector raised an eyebrow. "A desperate prince making desperate promises."

  "Or an ambitious man seeing an opportunity," I replied.

  "Are you entertaining it?" Hector asked, studying me closely.

  "I don’t know yet," I admitted. "But he’s right about one thing—we can’t let Alaric gather too much strength. If the Mandelas march under his banner, this war may shift in his favor permanently. And Leo… Leo might be the only one left with the power to rival him."

  Ser Hector scowled. "I served Alaric once. Fought beside him. Watched him grow. He is not perfect—but he's a damn sight better than Leo, who’s more lion cub than lion."

  "Maybe," I said, folding the letter again. "But cubs grow teeth, Hector. And if we don’t choose wisely, this war won’t end with peace—but with ashes."

  My P.O.V - Divina Training Grounds

  Preparations for the southern march were in full swing. The training fields behind the walls of Iza rang with the clash of steel and the sharp cries of drill sergeants barking orders. Dust rose beneath the boots of men sharpening their skills, their faces grim, focused, and tired. These were no longer soldiers of the realm—they were men reforged in fire, loyal not to a crown, but to cause and survival.

  I stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, watching the chosen companies train. I had selected them personally—seasoned fighters, quick-footed scouts, and those with experience in wild terrain. They would face the Sami berserkers, warriors who fought like devils unbound, and I needed men who wouldn’t flinch.

  But even as they trained, my thoughts wandered. Southward, beyond the valleys and broken keeps, lay House Mandela. If we secured their allegiance, we could shift the balance of this rebellion. If not… then we remained at a disadvantage against a grieving duke with an army still twice our size.

  “Alaric.”

  A voice like spring after winter.

  I turned and saw Aria walking toward me across the dusty ground, her cloak brushing along the wind, the sunlight catching in her dark hair like woven gold. Ser Gildas followed her, ever faithful, ever silent, like a mountain walking beside a star.

  “You’re up early,” I said, forcing a faint smile.

  “I could say the same of you,” she replied, her gaze sweeping over me. “Though I doubt you’ve slept at all.”

  “I’ve rested.”

  “No, you haven’t,” she said, tone firmer now. “You’re thinner than last week. Your eyes are bloodshot. You haven’t even touched the bread brought to your tent this morning.”

  I looked away, back toward the training field.

  “There’s no time for rest, Aria. You know that.”

  “There’s always time,” she insisted, stepping closer. “You carry too much. You always have. And now it’s showing.”

  Ser Gildas grunted in agreement. “I’ve seen men like you before, lad. They burn the candle from both ends until there’s nothing left but wax and ash. You’re not made of steel, no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise.”

  “If I fall asleep, I might dream again,” I muttered.

  They both paused at that. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But it slipped, and the silence that followed was heavier than the armor I hadn’t yet worn.

  “Nightmares?” Aria asked softly.

  I gave a nod, eyes locked on two young recruits failing to land proper blows in their sparring match. “I see the Third Border War in my dreams. The screams. The fire. The smell of blood and rotting mud. Then I wake up and find myself here… still fighting.”

  Aria placed a hand gently on my arm. “But you’re not that boy anymore, Alaric. You’ve come far. You’ve become a leader not because someone named you one—but because people believe in you. I believe in you.”

  Her words pierced through the armor I didn’t wear.

  “Belief isn’t enough to win wars,” I said, voice lower. “Steel and strategy win wars. And even then, it costs lives. Too many.”

  “It also costs the soul if you never stop to remember why you’re fighting.”

  “She's right,” Ser Gildas said. “We’ve all lost something. But we’re still here. And if you break, lad, this whole thing breaks with you.”

  I gave a weary sigh. “I’ll rest once we reach the South.”

  “You said that last week,” Aria pointed out with a faint smirk. “And the week before that.”

  “I suppose I’ll keep saying it until I can no longer stand.”

  “That’s not a plan, Alaric. That’s a slow death.”

  Her words weren’t angry—just honest, filled with the concern of someone who had watched too many people disappear into war and never return the same. She wasn't just a princess. Not to me. She was a reminder of who I was before blood and battle tried to make me forget.

  “I’ll try to rest,” I said finally, my voice low. “But I make no promises.”

  “You never do,” Aria smiled, then gestured toward a nearby bench beneath a tree. “Sit. Eat. Even if it’s just bread and dried meat. I’ll make sure they don’t drill without you for an hour.”

  Ser Gildas stepped forward, arms crossed. “And I’ll stand guard. Gods know someone has to keep you from working yourself into the grave.”

  I hesitated—just a moment—before finally nodding and walking toward the bench. My legs ached more than I’d admit. As I sat down, Aria handed me a satchel. Inside: dried apples, smoked meat, and a warm roll likely stolen from the kitchen.

  “You’ll need strength,” she said. “If you plan to convince House Mandela, you’ll need more than just your sword.”

  I took a bite of the roll and met her eyes. “Then let’s pray they’re as wise as you.”

  She smiled—soft, knowing—and for a moment, the war faded.

  But only for a moment.

  TALE OF KINGS: KING VALERO '"THE FRAIL"

  Valero of House Feldyn, remembered in the history books as "The Frail," was anything but weak in spirit. Arrogant, proud, and unyielding, Valero ruled Gulvia with a cold certainty that often masked a deep-rooted insecurity. The son of a great but cautious king, Valero came to power during a time of relative peace—but peace never suited him.

  From the start of his reign, he sought to stamp his name into the annals of history through bold conquest and unflinching displays of royal will. His most ambitious act was the invasion of the Southern Provinces, a campaign that would later be known as the beginning of the Third Border War—one of the bloodiest conflicts in the realm’s recent history.

  Though the war was waged with fire and fury, and though Valero poured gold, steel, and sons into the effort, he failed to break the southern lines. The war dragged on for years, draining the kingdom’s coffers and devastating entire provinces. In the end, Valero gained no ground, but still claimed victory through attrition—a hollow boast few believed. His pride could not afford defeat, and he spun his failure as a necessity for stability. But those close to the court knew better.

  Valero’s downfall, however, was not only on the battlefield. His private life stirred even greater scandal. Though married to the politically shrewd and icy Queen Anna, he fathered a bastard child with a mysterious foreign noblewoman. That child, Alaric, was reluctantly acknowledged, but never accepted. Raised in the shadow of his legitimate siblings—Devran, the golden heir; Leo, the lion-hearted second son; and Aria, the beloved youngest—Alaric was sent away to the frontlines of the war at just thirteen. Valero’s decision was branded as both cruel and cunning: some claimed it was punishment; others believed it was a test.

  Despite his flaws, Valero was a man who got things done. He held the fracturing realm together through fear, manipulation, and a sharp political mind. He kept the dukes at bay, balanced the realm’s fragile economy, and crushed minor rebellions without mercy. Yet, his obsession with legacy often clouded his judgment. He trusted few, listened to fewer, and clung to old grudges like armor.

  In the twilight of his reign, Valero was a hollow man—bitter, paranoid, and tired. His death marked not only the end of his iron-fisted rule, but also the beginning of the kingdom’s unraveling. With no strong successor and a bastard son hardened by war, Valero left behind a realm ripe for rebellion, betrayal, and bloodshed.

  Though many curse his name, and many more pity him, one truth remains:

  King Valero the Frail was no weakling—he was a storm in a dying crown.