As the rest of the army marched eastward with Aszer at its helm, Aric stood silently, watching their departure, the wind biting at his exposed skin beneath the mask.
The cold seemed to intensify as the king and the bulk of the forces vanished into the horizon, leaving him with 150 soldiers upon the desolate, snow-covered plains.
The settlement remained in the distance, faintly visible beneath the dusky sky.
His soldiers, now under his sole command, began their preparations. Weapons were sharpened, armor adjusted, and whispered conversations spread through the camp.
Aric, quiet as always, observed them carefully.
These men did not know his name, calling him only "General." They did not understand he was their enemy, nor did they realise they marched not for the rise of Byzeth but for its fall.
It was always the same; even then, he was just like them—sent to fight and die for a cause they scarcely understood.
But how else could a man's worth be decided?
