The evening sky over Eastmarch burned crimson, as though the heavens
themselves mirrored the news of war. The fortress was alive with clamor:
blacksmiths worked their forges deep into the night, horses whinnied
restlessly, and torches blazed along the ramparts. In the streets, people
pressed against one another—some carrying what little they could, others
weeping as they embraced loved ones bound for the frontier.
King Alistair Veylor
stood atop the main tower, his eyes fixed on the plains stretching eastward.
Beyond the distant mists, Eldoria was marshaling seventy thousand soldiers. He
knew he could summon no more than sixteen thousand cavalry. Those proud riders
of Eastmarch now filled the inner courtyard, their armor glinting dimly in the
torchlight. Along the walls, eight thousand archers readied their bows, while
the kingdom's mages gathered in the corner towers, blue sigils pulsing beneath
their hands to uphold the barrier.
"Sixteen thousand cavalry and eight thousand archers," whispered a general
beside him. "That is all we have. Even boys who only yesterday first touched a
bow now stand atop the walls. But them—" he gestured eastward, "—they outnumber
us five to one."
Alistair gave no reply. His fingers tightened around the cold stone rail,
feeling the chill seep into his bones. That very night he dispatched envoys
westward—to Highmount, Ironclad, and Greenhaven. If there was hope, it lay only
in their hands.
At sunrise the message reached Highmount. King Thrain Halvarr slammed his warhammer
against the council table, his roar echoing through the mountain hall. He
commanded twenty thousand soldiers to march down to the lowlands. They moved in
disciplined ranks: spearmen in front, round-shields behind, archers spread along
the flanks. Their advance was slow, winding down rocky passes and misty valleys
like a serpent of steel. From mountain villages, folk brought loaves of dry
bread and jugs of water. Children waved as their fathers and brothers
descended—some crying, knowing this farewell might be their last.
A week later Ironclad answered. King Darius
Ironhelm summoned eighteen thousand warriors, his voice heavy
as hammer striking anvil. They set out in thunderous rhythm—massive shields at
the fore, axemen and swordsmen in the center, heavy cavalry trailing. The
clatter of chainmail rolled like a storm of iron, and each footfall made the
ground tremble. Ironclad marched slowly, but once on the battlefield, their
line was near impossible to break.
Greenhaven moved slower still. That agrarian realm debated for weeks before
King Leofric Arden
resolved to send fifteen thousand troops. They wore no heavy plate, only
leather and long spears. Greenhaven's light cavalry carried simple bows, yet
their spirits burned fiercely. Villages wept as families departed, for
Greenhaven was no kingdom of war. They marched not for glory, but because they
knew if Eastmarch fell, their fields would follow.
Meanwhile, Eastmarch waited in dread. Days passed with no certainty, only
scraps of news borne by messenger pigeons: Highmount nearing the frontier,
Ironclad still en route, Greenhaven just beginning their march. On the tower,
Alistair asked in a weary voice,
"How much longer until they arrive?"
"At least two weeks, Your Majesty," came the reply.
In the distance, Eldorian torches appeared—lines of fire slashing through
the dark. Eastmarch no longer had time. Children were carried off to mountain
hamlets, women prayed in chapels, while youths too young for war patched their
fathers' armor with trembling hands.
In the white citadel of Eldoria, the Emperor stood before a vast map. His
generals knelt as he gave orders.
"A coalition? Sixty thousand soldiers from three realms? They are nothing but a
gathering of fear. Eastmarch will be our gate. From there, the entire east will
bow."
He raised his hand, tracing the lines of attack.
"Forty thousand heavy infantry—strike the gate directly. Twenty thousand
coastal cavalry—sweep around the southern flank. Ten thousand engineers with
siege engines from Oakhaven—shatter their barrier. We strike on the night of
the dark moon, when they are least vigilant."
Thunderous cheers erupted. Seventy thousand Eldorian troops stood ready:
shield walls locked tight, cavalry with long lances poised, and ranks of siege
engines dragged by massive oxen.
On the thirtieth night since war was declared, Eastmarch lit every torch
along its walls. From afar, Eldoria's torchlight seemed like a sea of fallen
stars flooding the earth. Alistair stood atop the main tower, his hand
trembling on the hilt of his ancestral sword. Below, sixteen thousand cavalry
waited within the courtyard, ready to ride out should the gates be breached. On
the walls, eight thousand archers pressed shoulder to shoulder, arrows nocked
to string. The mages of Eastmarch cast their blue-lit circles, weaving a
radiant dome above the fortress.
The thunder of Eldorian war drums grew louder, the air shivering with each
beat. From the mist, flaming arrows streaked forth like meteors. Hundreds
slammed into the barrier, making its blue light shudder. Siege engines hurled
boulders the size of houses, crashing into the ground outside the gates with
earth-shaking force. Eldoria's war cries surged like waves striking cliffs.
The barrier quivered violently. Fine cracks spread before sealing again, but
sweat already poured down the faces of the mages. They clutched hands, their
chants entwining to keep the shield aloft.
"Hold your lines!" Alistair's voice was hoarse but carried to the rearmost
ranks. "These walls are our home. As long as the barrier stands, Eastmarch will
not fall!"
A roar answered from archers and cavalry alike. Arrows from the walls rained
into the dark, striking Eldoria's front ranks. Ballistae thundered from the
towers, their giant bolts splintering siege towers into wreckage.
But Eldoria pressed on. Their general lifted his blade, signaling the
infantry to advance in steady formation—shields locked tight, spears thrusting
through the gaps. Another stone crashed against the barrier, this time leaving
deeper fissures before fading.
That night, under torchlight and pounding drums, the eastern war truly
began. Eastmarch's walls trembled, the blue dome pulsed with strain, and two
armies clashed in a battle that would shape the fate of all Etheria.
Far away in Kaelenspire, Valoria's citadel lay calm beneath a pale moon.
Arthur sat in the council chamber as Hadrick entered, his face grave with a
scroll in hand.
"My lord," he said with a bow, "war has broken out in the east. Eldoria has
struck Eastmarch, and their border fortress is already battered by siege
engines."
Arthur accepted the scroll, glanced at it briefly, then set it aside.
"Far from us, yet close enough for its flames to spread. We will watch first.
No rash moves."
Soon after, Boris entered and knelt.
"My lord, more news. King Garrick Van Wood of Northaven and King Eryndor of
Silverwood seek audience. They ride to Kaelenspire, claiming they wish to
discuss the future of their realms."
Arthur fell silent, then gave a slow nod.
"Then welcome them well. If they come of their own will, they have already
decided what is best for their people. Let us hear what they wish to say."
He turned to the high window, gazing into the quiet night sky.
"The world moves quickly, Hadrick. We must remain steady, lest we be carried
away by its current."