The Battle of Diplomacy

  Before swords clashed, words cut deeper. Deals were struck. Betrayals whispered.

  And somewhere in the streets of Zadreth, a prince wandered unseen, oblivious to the poison being poured into goblets at his father’s table…

  The throne room of Zadreth was suffocating with the scent of incense and power. Courtiers and warlords moved like specters in the torchlight, their voices soft, their intentions sharper than any blade.

  King Edric sat at the head of the hall, his expression unreadable as General Kael’s proposal echoed in his mind. A marriage of convenience. A union of strength. A peace forged in blood, or perhaps, betrayal.

  But peace was an illusion. Even as the king weighed his choices, whispers slithered through the palace halls like venom.

  Elsewhere, the heir to the throne—Prince Aldric—was nowhere to be found. Disguised in rags, he walked among the commoners, drinking in their struggles with the eyes of a ruler-to-be. He had abandoned the safety of the palace to see the truth beyond the golden gates.

  Meanwhile, preparations for a grand feast were underway. A banquet to celebrate alliances, to mend wounds before war could break them open. Yet, in the shadowed corners of the royal kitchen, a hand slipped something unseen into a goblet of wine.

  A toast would soon be raised.

  But not all would survive to drink.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The Fires of War

  The royal feast had begun as a spectacle of unity—golden goblets raised high, laughter echoing beneath chandeliers of crystal. But unity was a fragile lie, and the moment the first man gasped, clutching his throat, that lie shattered.

  Poison.

  A nobleman fell, his lips turning blue, his fingers clawing at his chest. Another crumpled beside him, his goblet spilling red across the banquet table. Panic surged through the hall like wildfire. Guards rushed forward, swords drawn, while the king stood frozen, his mind racing.

  Was this treachery from within? Or a declaration of war?

  “Seal the doors!” the king bellowed, slamming his fist on the armrest of his throne. His voice held power, but even he could not command fate.

  A woman screamed. A guard unsheathed his sword, the tip hovering over the throat of a trembling servant. “Who did this?” he roared. “Who dares bring poison into the king’s hall?”

  Seraphina, seated at the far end of the banquet, kept her gaze steady as she gently placed her untouched goblet back onto the table. Her heart pounded, but her face remained calm. Someone had made their move.

  Before answers could be found, the trumpets of war sounded across the land.

  March to Blood Valley

  Dawn broke in shades of crimson as the armies of Zadreth and the rebels converged upon the cursed land known as Blood Valley.

  General Kael Vostrik rode at the helm, his armor reflecting the morning light like molten gold. Across the battlefield, the rebel forces stood resolute, their banners snapping in the wind, their commander’s gaze locked onto Kael’s like a wolf staring down its prey.

  Kael tightened his grip on the reins. His warhorse snorted, restless beneath him.

  A young soldier beside him swallowed hard. “Do you think they will surrender, General?”

  Kael exhaled through his nose. “No.”

  On the opposite side, the rebel commander, Lord Rael Dorn, smirked. He turned to his second-in-command. “Vostrik is a brute, but he’s predictable. He’ll strike first, heavy and hard.”

  The commander beside him, a scarred man with a missing ear, chuckled. “And we’ll be ready.”

  Kael raised his sword. “Steady your nerves, men.” His voice was iron, steady, unshaken. “We fight for Zadreth. For honor. For vengeance.”

  There would be no more diplomacy.

  The time for words had passed.

  Swords were drawn. Shields were raised.

  Then, the first arrow flew.