At the gates of Deepwell—a fortified town in Duke Halvar's western marches—the war still ground on. Even with their own troops and a contingent from the royal army, they had held a stalemate for days and nights. Blood ran; bodies were piled and burned on pyres. The count of the dead climbed without a victor to claim them. Duke Halvar's defense was impeccable; the revolutionaries' assault was relentless. Neither side gave an inch. Neither side dared to.
They could not lose. The duke could not allow it—for Ismyr's sake. His lands were the hinge of the kingdom: harbors and shipyards, naval trade, the shield against seaborne invasions through the Blue Waters, the artery for soldiers and supplies bound to the fronts of a future empire. All of that belonged to the Duke of the West.
