The air was thick with smoke and screams, the iron tang of blood mingling with the acrid stench of burning flesh. The war cries of the Hertaleans rose above the din, fierce and unrelenting, while the clamour of steel on steel rang out in the cobbled streets below. From the ramparts of Bycrest’s central fort, lord Aden surveyed the chaos.
Bastion Trost had fallen first, its defenders slaughtered or scattered like leaves before a gale. Now Sina burned, and Rosa would not last the night. Aden’s midnight charger snorted, pawing at the stone beneath them as if it, too, sensed the doom creeping ever closer.
“They're inside the walls,” he said, his voice as rough as the grind of a whetstone.
Beside him, King Leonard held the reins of a white destrier, his silver armour catching the glow of the fires raging below. He looked younger than his thirty-and-two years, but his eyes were old—older than Aden had ever seen them.
“I never thought it would come to this,” the king murmured, his voice a whisper lost in the tumult.
Aden grunted. “Nor I, Your Grace.”
Below them, Hertalean soldiers flooded through the city like rats, their banners snapping in the wind. The sigils of their varied houses—a flight of dragons in the gloom—seemed to mock the defenders. Men fought and died in the alleys and squares, Algrian steel clashing against Hertalean blades, but it was no use. The enemy had numbers, and treachery had opened the gates.
Aden’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pommel of his sword. “The city watch is broken,” he noted grimly. “Trost is gone, Sina follows, and Rosa... well, she’ll hold, but not for long. The armoury is near spent. We’ve powder for one night, no more. When the cannons fall silent, so will the last of our hope.”
Leonard turned his gaze to the lord, his mouth a grim line. “And what would you have me do, Aden? Fight to the last? Throw myself into the fray with a sword in one hand and a prayer in the other?”
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“Is that what you want, my liege?” Aden asked with a grunt. “For history to say you died with dignity? I’d rather you died of old age.”
The king snorted, a faint, bitter laugh that held no joy. “Isn’t that all a crown is worth? Dignity in death?”
Aden looked to the younger man. “It’s worth what men will give for it, and no more.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy as the smoke-laden sky. In the distance, a fresh volley of screams rose as Hertalean soldiers brought down yet another barricade.
Leonard’s voice, when it came, was soft but resolute. “Take the Queen,” he said. “Take my heir. Get them to safety.”
Aden turned slowly in his saddle. “You don’t mean—”
“I do,” the king said. “There’s a passage beneath the fort, westward, into the hills. My wife knows the way. She’ll guide you.”
“And you?” Aden demanded.
“I’ll stay.” Leonard’s eyes were distant now, fixed on the horizon where smoke and fire painted the heavens. “Bycrest is mine to lose, and mine alone. I will not abandon it.”
Aden spat on the stones. “Damn you, Leonard. Damn you for a fool.”
“Perhaps,” the king said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But I’ll die a fool with my honour intact.”
Aden stared at him, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. “You’re no good to anyone dead.”
“I’m no good to anyone as a coward, either,” Leonard said. He turned his steed, its white coat streaked with soot, and gestured to the city below. “Go, Aden. Save them. Save my heir. That’s the only command I’ll give you tonight.”
For a long moment, the lord said nothing. Then he nodded, his shoulders heavy with resignation. “As you command, Your Grace.”
He pulled his charger around, its hooves striking sparks from the stone. But as he turned to ride, he paused. “Leonard,” he said, without looking back.
“What is it?”
“...Give them hell.”
Leonard chuckled softly, though the sound held no mirth. “I intend to. Now go, brother. May the ancestors be with you.”
With that, Lord Aden departed, his black cloak streaming behind him like a shadow.
King Leonard remained atop the ramparts, alone now save for the smoke and the flames. The cries of the dying rose around him, and somewhere, faint and mournful, a bell tolled. The king unsheathed his sword—a gleaming blade of tempered steel that caught the firelight like a thing alive—and raised it high.
“Come, then!” he shouted as he turned his steed and rode towards the storm of men below. His voice carried across the chaos, strong.
Defiant.
“Come and take your king!”
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