My P.O.V

  Five days into our march, we crossed into the Duchy of Dunweld. A small, hollow victory. Mandeville—the seat of House Mandela—still lay more than two weeks ahead, and every day dragged us closer to exhaustion. Supplies dwindled, tempers frayed, and men grew sloppy.

  Still, we pressed on, desperate to put the border behind us.

  When night fell, we made camp in the shadow of a thick wood. It should have been routine.

  But the enemy had been waiting.

  "AMBUSH!" a soldier bellowed, just as a shadow moved through the mist. I turned—only to see him split apart by a brutal axe strike, his scream swallowed by the night.

  The Sami raiders hit us like a thunderclap.

  Steel clashed against steel. Men screamed. Horses bolted.

  I scrambled to rally the troops, but it was already chaos—a storm of blades and blood.

  "Form ranks! Shields up! Form—" I shouted, but my voice was lost in the din. Orders were useless. Survival was all that mattered now.

  I gritted my teeth, feeling the old rage boil up. I hated this—this feeling of being powerless, of seeing good men die because of my failures.

  Blade in hand, I waded into the fray.

  I cut down a raider who lunged for one of my men, then smashed the pommel into another’s face, sending him sprawling. The boy I'd saved looked up at me with wide, terrified eyes.

  "Get a weapon! Fight for your life!" I barked, pushing him toward a fallen sword.

  "Thank you, Lord Commander!" he gasped before vanishing into the chaos.

  For a moment, I thought I glimpsed the battle turning—but it was a lie.

  The camp was a slaughterhouse. Fires roared out of control. The air reeked of blood and wet earth.

  Through the smoke, I saw Ser Rodirik. The old knight fought like a man half his age, parrying a brutal swing and driving his sword through a massive raider’s chest.

  But victory came at a price—another raider's axe hacked low, catching Rodirik’s leg with a sickening crunch.

  I saw him fall.

  "No!" I tore toward him, forcing my way through the clash of men and steel.

  Rodirik was trying to crawl away, blood pouring from a deep gash in his thigh.

  "Are you alright?" I asked, breathless as I dropped beside him.

  "Damn axe... nicked me," Rodirik muttered through gritted teeth, his face twisted in pain.

  "We need to move."

  With a grunt, I slung his arm over my shoulders and dragged him away from the heart of the battle. Every step was a prayer, every stumble another heartbeat lost. We found shelter near a cluster of fallen wagons, half-shielded from view.

  I set him down, fumbling to tear a strip from my cloak. My hands were shaking, whether from rage or fear, I didn’t know.

  "It's too dark," I cursed under my breath. "I can't see how bad it is."

  Rodirik gave a ragged chuckle. "It's bad enough," he said. "Those bastards... They're not just raiders. They're trained. They know how to kill."

  A moment later, a young officer sprinted toward us, helmet dented, cloak torn.

  "Lord Commander!" he gasped. "The Sami are retreating! They've fallen back into the woods!"

  I didn’t answer immediately. I stared out over the camp—what was left of it. Tents burned like funeral pyres. Bodies lay scattered in the mud, some still clutching broken swords.

  We had survived. Barely.

  I looked down at Rodirik, then at the weary survivors stumbling through the wreckage.

  This was on me.

  Every man who died tonight did so under my banner.

  And Mandeville was still two weeks away.

  I tightened my grip on my sword. Tomorrow would come. And when it did, it would find us bloodied—but not broken.

  Not yet.

  Aria's P.O.V - City of Divina

  It had been five days.

  Five days without a single word from Alaric.

  Each passing hour gnawed at my heart. I told myself he was fine—he had to be—but doubt crept in like a thief in the night, whispering every terrible possibility into my mind. Unable to bear the silence any longer, I sat by the window of my solar, pen in hand, and began to write.

  Dearest Alaric,

  It feels as though an eternity has passed since you rode away. Each sunrise brings a new worry, and each sunset another silent prayer for your safety. I hope this letter finds you strong and unbroken, as you have always been.

  I know the road ahead is treacherous, and dangers lurk where we least expect them. But I also know there is no one more capable, more steadfast, than you. You carry not just your sword into battle, but the hopes of those who believe in you—including mine.

  Here in Divina, life continues as it always does, though it feels somehow emptier without you. I find myself staring at the gates, half-expecting to see you ride through them. Foolish, I know... but hope has a way of making fools of us all.

  Please, take care of yourself. Do not bear every burden alone. Even the strongest pillars must lean on others sometimes. You are not alone, Alaric. You never will be—not while I live.

  I await the day when I may see you again, to hear your stories, and to see with my own eyes that you are safe.

  With all the affection a sister's heart can hold,

  —Aria"

  There," I whispered, setting the quill down.

  I carefully rolled the letter and sealed it with a drop of wax, pressing my ring into it—the proud Lion of House Feldyn marking the letter as my own.

  As I sat back, lost in thought, I heard a voice behind me.

  "Your Highness," came the familiar, gravelly voice of Ser Gildas.

  I turned, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. "What is it, Ser Gildas?"

  The old knight bowed slightly. "I bring tidings, my lady. News from Lord Varus reached the city this morning."

  He hesitated, and a sliver of dread twisted in my gut.

  "Speak plainly," I urged, rising to my feet. "What news?"

  "There was an attack," he said. "The company was set upon by Sami raiders two nights past."

  My breath caught. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

  "Alaric—" I began, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Is he...?"

  Ser Gildas stepped forward, his lined face stern but reassuring.

  "Your brother is alive, Princess," he said firmly. "He fought bravely, as always. Lord Varus's report says they drove the raiders off, though the company suffered wounds."

  Relief flooded me, so fierce it made my knees weak.

  "Thank the gods," I murmured. Then I remembered the letter in my hand.

  "Ser Gildas," I said, holding it out to him, "I would ask another favor of you."

  He accepted it without hesitation.

  "Of course, Your Highness. What do you command?"

  "I want you to send one of your best riders," I said, voice steadying. "Make sure this letter reaches Alaric. No delays."

  He bowed once more, the letter tucked safely into his gauntleted hand.

  "It shall be done," he vowed. "I will see to it personally."

  I watched as he departed, the Lion seal gleaming in the sunlight.

  A small part of my heart rode with that letter, carrying my hopes and prayers across the war-torn lands to the brother I loved so dearly.

  As the door closed behind Ser Gildas, the silence in the chamber returned—heavy, suffocating.

  I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, the letter now riding swiftly away to distant lands.

  Slowly, my composure cracked.

  I sank into the nearest chair, burying my face in my hands.

  My heart thudded painfully in my chest, each beat a reminder of how fragile life could be.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He’s alive, I repeated to myself. He’s alive.

  But the thought gave only partial comfort.

  How many more nights would Alaric have to survive? How many more battles would he have to endure before fate finally allowed him peace?

  Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I wiped them away fiercely. I was a Feldyn, and Feldyns did not crumble under fear. Especially not when others looked to me for strength.

  Still, when I finally rose, there was a trembling in my hands that I could not entirely suppress.

  I crossed to the window, looking out over the vast city of Divina, its marble spires gleaming under the noonday sun. From up here, it all seemed so calm, so *safe*—a world away from the mud, the blood, and the battles where Alaric fought to survive.

  "I will not lose you," I whispered into the wind. "Not to raiders, not to traitors, not to fate itself."

  Somewhere far beyond these walls, my brother was fighting not just for his life, but for the very soul of the kingdom.

  And I would wait for him.

  As long as it took.

  Leo’s P.O.V — Divina Training Grounds

  The clang of steel against wood echoed through the training grounds, each strike a thunderous release of my anger and ambition. The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding red against the horizon like a dying soldier on the battlefield. Sweat dripped down my temples, soaking the fine linen of my tunic beneath the armor, but I hardly noticed.

  Last night, I had sent the letter to Duke Eadric—a carefully worded note that revealed the truth: Alaric had left Divina.

  The bastard had marched south, dragging what few loyal men he had in a desperate bid to win House Mandela to his cause.

  I scoffed at the thought.

  A kingdom’s fate, entrusted to a sword-wielding mongrel.

  How fitting.

  Without Alaric here, Divina was little more than a gilded cage waiting to be shattered. The soldiers left behind were green and disorganized, the lords restless and whispering. No army would rise to defend Gulvia now—not when its so-called savior was leagues away, playing diplomat with crumbling houses.

  I struck the training dummy again, the blade biting deep into the wood. A crack splintered up the side.

  The bastard’s absence would be Gulvia’s undoing.

  And my ascension.

  All that remains is timing, I thought.

  Will Eadric seize this moment? Or will he hesitate like the old fool he is?

  "Your Highness," came a voice from behind.

  I turned, wiping the sweat from my brow, to see Ser Midryn approaching with his helm tucked under one arm, a calculating glint in his eye.

  "What is it, Midryn?" I asked, voice sharp with impatience.

  The knight hesitated a moment, as if weighing his words carefully.

  "What will be our course of action should Duke Eadric choose to attack Divina while we remain here?"

  I sheathed my blade with a sharp hiss of metal and leather.

  "We do not fight him," I said simply. "We abandon the city."

  Midryn frowned slightly.

  "Abandon Divina, Your Highness? Surely the people—"

  "Let the people fend for themselves," I interrupted coldly. "We ride for Elria with a small, loyal host. There, we will entrench ourselves within the old royal stronghold, summon the great Lords of the Realm... and prepare for my coronation."

  A slow, understanding smile spread across Midryn's face.

  "Of course. A king without a city is still a king if he wears the crown."

  I nodded, pleased by his quick grasp of the plan.

  "But what if Eadric decides to betray us once we are exposed?" Midryn asked, lowering his voice. "Without his army behind us, we are vulnerable."

  I laughed—a low, bitter sound.

  "Eadric is a creature of ambition. He desires power, not principle. He will think himself clever, using me to legitimize his rebellion. Let him believe that. Let him bleed for me, fight for me."

  I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice.

  "And when the time is right—when he is stretched thin and the lords see him for the usurper he is—I will tear away the mask and denounce him."

  Midryn’s grin widened, admiring the cruelty of the design.

  "You plan to use him as he uses you."

  "Exactly," I said, savoring the taste of the future.

  "Why not let him clash swords with Alaric first? Let them grind each other into the dust. When both sides are bloodied and broken, we will sweep in like the rising tide and claim what is rightfully mine."

  I seized my sword again and with a roar, struck the training dummy so hard that the wood split apart with a deafening crack. Pieces of timber rained down, and silence settled once more over the yard.

  Midryn gave a low, respectful chuckle.

  "You were born for the crown, my Prince. The others... they are nothing but obstacles to your destiny."

  I said nothing for a moment, feeling the old, familiar rage simmering beneath my skin.

  Alaric.

  That half-blood stain on my family's name.

  The bastard who thought himself a knight, a commander, a hero.

  He is none of those things.

  He was a mistake. An insult.

  And soon, he would be a corpse rotting in some southern field while I—Prince Leo of House Feldyn—would be crowned king.

  The rightful ruler of Gulvia.

  I turned my gaze to the blood-red sunset, the burning horizon reflecting the fire in my chest.

  No matter the cost, I would sit upon the Gulvian throne.

  My voice, low and certain, whispered to the empty grounds:

  "Soon... they will all kneel."

  Duke Eadric’s P.O.V — Marching Toward Iza

  The fires of the encampment still flickered as dawn crept over the horizon, casting a dull gray light across the sea of soldiers. They had drilled through the night without respite—sharpening their swords, reinforcing their shields, preparing for the storm to come.

  My storm.

  We were once more back within the borders of Iza, the heartland of my power, and soon, we would march not for defense, but for conquest.

  Divina would fall.

  And Alaric—the bastard son who clung to the dying ideals of House Feldyn—would finally be buried under the rubble of his failures.

  Yet as I stared across the endless columns of men, my mind drifted.

  Would I truly support another Feldyn upon the throne once Alaric was dead?

  The very principle of my rebellion was to *destroy* their cursed line. To end the endless suffering their greed had brought to Gulvia.

  That decision, I thought grimly, would be reserved for another day—*so long as Alaric still draws breath, nothing else matters.*

  "Your Grace," a voice pulled me from my thoughts.

  Ser Hector approached, his weathered face split by a faint, respectful smile.

  "How are you?" he asked, offering a slight bow.

  I gave a weary sigh.

  "I am well enough, Hector. Though... there is a bitterness I cannot swallow. I never had the chance to see Selena again."

  Ser Hector bowed his head, crossing his fist over his heart.

  "May the gods bless her soul, Your Grace. She was beloved by many."

  "She deserved better than the fate that befell her," I said, my voice rough with emotion I could not entirely hide. "Better than this broken world ruled by cowards and liars."

  "You honor her memory, my Lord," Hector said softly. "With every step we take against the Feldyns... you honor her."

  I nodded, the old pain flaring briefly before hardening into iron resolve.

  "Yes," I muttered. "Let us destroy them all. Every last blooded Feldyn. Not just for me. For her. For every soul they have wronged."

  "She was kind," Hector murmured, as if speaking a prayer. "Kind and bright, like the summer sun."

  I allowed myself a rare, small smile.

  "She was," I agreed. "One of the greatest women I have ever known. I was fortunate to meet her... to bed her... and to have a son by her."

  As if summoned by my thoughts, the tent flap opened and Edward entered, his boots muddy from the morning's march but his posture sharp and attentive.

  "Father," he said, saluting crisply. "All goes well. Rations and supplies arrived from Emberhold during the night. The stores are full, and the men are rested. Also... Duke Romulus Drakemont sends his regards."

  "Good," I replied, motioning him closer. "Put the supplies to good use. We will need every crumb and drop of water in the days ahead."

  Edward nodded and approached the large war table in the center of the tent, where a detailed map of Iza and Divina lay spread.

  Small wooden figurines, each representing our forces or enemy garrisons, stood arrayed across the map like the pieces of a deadly game.

  "Now," I said, tapping the table. "Let us speak plainly of our next move."

  Edward leaned in, pointing to Divina on the map.

  "According to the letter I received from Prince Leo, Alaric has departed Divina. He marches south in hopes of winning the support of House Mandela."

  I raised a skeptical brow.

  "And Divina itself?"

  "Left with barely six thousand men to defend it," Edward answered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Also confirmed by Leo."

  Ser Hector stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  "Alaric would need at least twenty—perhaps twenty-five—days to reach Mandeville. Meanwhile, we are but seven days’ march from Divina."

  He looked up, eyes gleaming with the opportunity.

  "This is our moment, Your Grace. Without Alaric, Divina will crumble like dry leaves."

  I pressed my hands down against the war table, studying the paths, the distances, the rivers, the forts.

  "Indeed," I said slowly. "The city is vulnerable... the boy-commander foolish to leave it so exposed."

  But doubt gnawed at me still.

  "And what of Leo?" I asked, my voice darkening. "He suddenly finds it convenient to betray his own blood and offer us the throne in exchange for our support. Why now? What ambition truly drives him?"

  Edward shrugged, a wry smile on his lips.

  "Perhaps he is simply weak. Perhaps he sees the crown slipping from his grasp and clutches at anything to save himself."

  "Perhaps," I murmured.

  "But I have fought too hard, bled too much, to topple one tyrant only to place another in his stead."

  Ser Hector spoke up again, voice low and pragmatic.

  "Why not use him, Your Grace? Without Leo’s betrayal, we would not even know that Alaric had left. His greed serves our needs—for now."

  Edward nodded in agreement.

  "Leo will help us cut down Alaric. Once that is done... we will see if he still draws breath."

  I chuckled dryly.

  "Indeed. We shall use him as a man uses a worn sword—wield it until it breaks in our hands. And when it does..."

  I slammed a fist down lightly on Leo’s figurine, knocking it from the board.

  "...we discard it."

  The tent fell silent for a moment, the gravity of the plan settling over us like the first chill of winter.

  Outside, the camp stirred—the sound of banners snapping in the wind, horses being saddled, armor being strapped on.

  War loomed closer with every heartbeat.

  I straightened, my voice sharp and commanding.

  "Ready the men. We march at dawn for Divina. And when we reach its walls..."

  I allowed myself a grim smile.

  "...we tear them down stone by stone until not a single Feldyn remains to weep over the ruins."

  Edward and Ser Hector bowed.

  "Divina will fall, Father," Edward said with certainty.

  "It will," I said, turning back to the map.

  "And when it does, a new age will rise from its ashes."