The battlefield lay quiet at last. Where once there had been the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel, now only the moans of the wounded and the cawing of carrion birds remained. Smoke drifted across the plain, tinged with the acrid stench of blood and fire. Among the heaps of the fallen, banners still fluttered in the wind—some trampled into the mud, others lifted high by trembling but unbroken hands.
Yet one name rose above the silence, chanted by hundreds of throats in ragged unison:
"Aleric! Aleric! Aleric!"
The cry spread across the allied host, from weary infantry gripping bloodied spears to horsemen resting against their saddles. The chant was not ordered nor rehearsed—it came from men who had seen the tide of death and lived, men who had been snatched from despair by the cunning of a commander they now saw as more than noble blood: a savior in steel.
Count Rick, still mounted and streaked with gore, rode forward through his battered ranks. His voice was hoarse from hours of command, but his words carried weight. "It is to Lord Aleric we owe this day," he declared, gesturing with his crimsoned blade toward the younger man. "Had he not shattered Harold's flank and struck the enemy's rear, we may not have been alive."
Beside him, Baron Elias—grim, blood-soaked, yet alive—nodded. "A trap well-laid, and well-sprung. You have saved the lives of so many of these soldiers."
The cheers grew louder.
But Aleric, still astride his black stallion, raised a gauntleted hand for silence. His armor was dented, his cloak torn, and his face smeared with the grime of battle—but his eyes burned with composure. "My lords," he said, "the victory belongs not to me alone. Count Rick and his men held the center against impossible odds. Had they faltered even for a breath, my flank would never have struck. And Baron Elias—your charge broke the enemy's momentum before it could consume us well, there was no momentum for them to begin with, haha!"
Then, turning in the saddle, he gestured toward the tall, broad-shouldered commander who had fought the duel at the day's outset. The man still bore the dust of the fight, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion, but his victorious expression remained unshaken.
"And let us not forget Sir—" Aleric paused, then corrected himself with a deliberate flourish, "—Commander Jon, whose courage in single combat raised our hearts before a single sword had clashed. His strength became the strength of all."
Murmurs of approval ran through the gathered men. Aleric dismounted, unfastened his helm, and strode toward Baron Elias. Lowering his voice so that only the baron and the nearest captains might hear, he said, "Father, I ask this of you—not for me, but for the men. Elevate Jon here and now. Let him be made a knight of Deryn, so his valor is honored as it should be."
For a moment, Elias studied his son's face, perhaps weighing whether this was pride disguised as humility. But the sincerity in Aleric's eyes could not be doubted. Slowly, the baron drew his sword, the fading sunlight glinting off its nicked edge.
"Kneel, Jon," Elias commanded.
The young warrior dropped to one knee, eyes wide, lips pressed in disbelief. With solemnity, the baron touched the blade to his shoulder.
"In the name of House Deryn, I name you Ser Jon, Knight of Deryn. Rise, and bear the honor you have won."
The camp erupted in cheers anew. Ser Jon rose, humbled, and bowed deeply to both lord and son.
Off to the side, Jaren, who had fought alongside Elias on the right flank, watched all of this in silence. For so long, he had lived in the shadow of his elder brother's brilliance, resentment his constant companion. But now—seeing the soldiers hail Aleric, watching his father respect his counsel, and hearing the chants that filled the dusk—something shifted. He stepped forward awkwardly, clearing his throat.
"Brother," he said, his tone uncharacteristically uncertain, "you… fought well. More than well. I—" He faltered, words catching in his throat. Finally, he finished with a muttered, "Thank you."
Aleric turned, surprise flashing across his face for the briefest instant before softening into something warmer. He clasped Jaren's shoulder with a firm grip. "We fought well together. And we will need to again."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the plain in a haze of crimson and gold, the army allowed itself a moment of reprieve. Fires were lit, songs were sung for the lives lost, and for one fleeting night, men laughed amidst the ruins of slaughter. Victory, though fragile, was theirs.
Later that night, in the great war tent lit by flickering lamps, the lords and captains gathered once more. Maps were spread across the table, and wine was poured into battered cups. The mood was less triumphant here, more cautious, the air heavy with the scent of blood and smoke carried in from the battlefield.
It was Aleric who broke the silence.
"This victory must not be wasted," he began, his tone calm but firm. "Harold is dead, his flank crushed, but the war is far from over. The Duke will not yield. If we allow him time to recover, he will call fresh banners and return with greater force."
Elias leaned back, eyes narrowing. "You suggest pursuit?"
"Not pursuit. Advance." Aleric pointed at the northern stretch of the map, where two baronies were marked in ink. "One of the barons whose leader was Harold, who now lay dead, and the other a cruel Baron who lived a lavish life off of peasants' misery. If we march north now, we can seize their keeps before the Duke's agents fortify them. They lie on the main supply routes to his heartlands. With them in our hands, the western frontier will be secured—and the Duke's lifeblood cut."
Count Rick stroked his beard, studying the younger man with a mixture of scrutiny and admiration. "You propose boldness, Lord Aleric. Risk lies in overextension. Yet…" He glanced at the map again, then at the weary faces of his captains. "Your reasoning is sound. Occupy the baronies, and we hold the ground to choke his supplies. More than that—we show all who waver that the tide has turned."
Elias drummed his fingers on the table, silent for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Very well. We march north. But we must keep discipline. No plundering, no terror. These are our people still; however, they have been misled."
Rick raised his cup. "Then it is settled."
The days that followed were marked not by pitched battle, but by steady advance. Columns of soldiers wound their way northward through valleys and villages, their banners rippling in the cool autumn wind. The resistance they met was scattered at best—garrisons disheartened by Harold's defeat, peasants unwilling to die for absent lords. The two baronies fell swiftly, their keeps surrendered without siege.
True to his word, Count Rick assured the populace that no harm would befall them. "You are our kin, not our foes," he proclaimed to the townsfolk who gathered nervously in the squares. Grain stores were left untouched, temples unharmed, and order restored under banners of Deryn and Rick alike.
Yet even as stability returned to the north, word traveled faster than armies. Messengers slipped through broken lines and across forests, carrying tidings of Harold's fall, of Aleric's ambush, and of the allied host's advance.
In the ducal court, the news reached the Duke himself. And far away, within the royal city, the Crown Prince too received word. Both men listened in silence, their faces unreadable—each measuring the weight of this single victory, and what it might mean for the wars to come.
Roderick's POV: The Ducal Court
The great hall of House Valebrand—ancestral seat of the Duke—was a place built not merely for rule but for awe. Towering pillars of dark stone rose into vaulted ceilings, banners of black and silver hung solemnly from the rafters, and the polished floor reflected the light of braziers that flickered against carved walls depicting centuries of conquest. It was here that the Duke's most loyal and dangerous retainers assembled at his summons.
At the center of the hall sat Duke Roderick Valebrand, a man whose presence radiated command. His hair, black streaked with iron gray, framed a face carved by battle and calculation. His fists rested heavily on the arms of the high seat, and before him knelt messengers, still dusty from their desperate ride.
The news had already been spoken. Harold was dead. Percy had been beaten back. The West was lost.
Around the Duke, his retainers stood in tense silence.
First among them was Sir Armand Veynar, Captain of the Duke's personal guard. A knight ranked first among the Duke's household and counted among the top twenty swordsmen on the continent. His armor shone like tempered silver, unmarred despite countless duels and campaigns, and his cold blue eyes betrayed nothing as he listened. His reputation alone was enough to silence rooms.
Beside him stood Lord Malrec the Hawk, the Duke's Grand Tactician. A thin, severe man with sunken eyes and parchment-like skin, Malrec was the architect of the Duke's many victories during the wars with Kandaria in the previous reign. His strategies had broken armies, outmaneuvered foes thrice their size, and carved the Duke's reputation as the Kingdom's unyielding fist. Where others saw battles, Malrec saw equations—and his chalkboard was the land itself.
Behind them, dressed in finery that suggested both pride and privilege, lingered Lord Adrien Valebrand, the Duke's eldest son. Young, handsome, and with the impatience of youth, Adrien's hand tightened on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He hated the humiliation this defeat brought, though his inexperience kept him silent before his father's wrath.
Other nobles and captains filled the chamber, but it was these three whose presence weighed most heavily.
The Duke rose at last, his voice thundering through the hall.
"The western side is lost!" he roared, his fist crashing onto the carved table before him. The impact rattled goblets and made younger lords flinch. "A host of eight thousand reduced Percy's army to ruin. Harold—dead. Percy—humiliated. My banners scattered." His glare swept the room like a blade. "Bring me the head of that incompetent! Percy has shamed us all!"
Adrien's jaw tightened, but he dared not speak.
It was Malrec who stepped forward, folding his thin hands behind his back. "My lord, rage is natural—but our concern must be the whole, not the limb." His voice was quiet, yet every man strained to hear it. "The West is compromised. The supply routes feeding the center of your strength are exposed. We must bolster the garrisons along the western marches at once, lest the enemy seize more than two baronies."
"That will weaken us," Sir Armand said flatly, his voice like steel scraping stone. "Fewer men to march with when the final battle comes."
"Yes," Malrec agreed, his tone cold as the grave, "but fewer men are preferable to no men, when our granaries and forges lie bare to raiders. We must bleed the outer veins to keep the heart alive."
The Duke's nostrils flared, but his fury was tempered by reason. He gave a curt nod. "So be it. The garrisons will be reinforced. Percy will be summoned, and if he cannot answer for this debacle, he will lose more than honor." His gaze swept across his council, lingering last on his son. "Prepare yourselves. The next battle will not be fought against stragglers or barons—it will be against the Crown Prince himself. And it will decide the fate of the Kingdom."
Crown Prince's POV:
The war tent of Crown Prince Renard was a vast pavilion of white and gold, its canvas walls swaying gently in the wind of the open plain. Outside, banners bearing the crowned falcon snapped proudly against the sky, their gilded tips gleaming in the morning light. The camp itself was alive with sound: blacksmiths hammering steel, soldiers murmuring in weary relief, and horses snorting as they were watered.
Inside the pavilion, a long oaken table had been spread with maps, marked with pins and carved figurines denoting friendly and enemy positions. Oil lamps cast a steady glow across the parchment, while the air was thick with the mingled scents of wax, steel, and sweat. Around the table, the Prince's most trusted retainers assembled, waiting anxiously for the words of their sovereign.
The messenger's report had been read in full. The western front—secured. Marquis Percy routed. Harold dead. The Duke's banners scattered.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then the tent erupted.
A knight thumped his fist against the table, grinning like a man who had been given back his life."By the Saints, the west holds! Our allies triumph!"
Another lord, his chain of office glinting, raised a goblet. "Percy is a fool, and fortune has punished him. With the west secured, the Duke bleeds. His numbers dwindle by the day!"
A third voice, younger and more eager, chimed in. "Surely, my Prince, this is a sign from the heavens themselves. Victory is near at hand!"
The pavilion swelled with voices, cheers, and arguments. Some called for immediate offensives, others for caution, but all carried the same undercurrent: relief, hope, the intoxicating sense that the tide was turning.
At the head of the table sat Crown Prince Renard.
Unlike his retainers, he did not cheer. His hand rested against the edge of the map, his gaze fixed on the carved figurine of Duke Roderick's central host. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his brow heavy with thought.
The retainers noticed. The voices faltered. One of them—a seasoned captain, his face scarred from campaigns—leaned forward.
"My Prince," he said carefully, "forgive me, but… why so grave? The West is ours. The Duke weakens. Surely this is cause to rejoice?"
Renard lifted his gaze, meeting the eyes of every man and woman in the tent. His voice, when it came, was calm, yet it carried a weight that silenced the chamber.
"Yes, the west is won," he said. "But wars are not decided by one battle. Nor two. Percy's defeat is a wound to the Duke—but a wound does not kill a beast unless struck at the heart." He tapped the map with a finger, right on the central plains where Roderick's banners clustered. "The heart is here. Until we sever it, this war is far from over."
A murmur spread through the council. Some bowed their heads, chastened; others straightened with resolve.
At that moment, the flap of the tent opened, and another messenger entered, mud-streaked and weary from long travel. He bowed deeply, holding out a sealed scroll marked with the sigil of Lady Veyra.
The Prince broke the seal with steady hands, scanning the words swiftly. As his eyes moved, a change flickered across his face: tension giving way to something lighter, a deep exhalation he had not realized he held.
"The east is stabilized," Alaric said at last, his voice firm though his relief was plain. "Lady Veyra's maneuvers have held the passes. Kandaria's mercenaries have been checked, and the baronies there remain loyal. For the first time in months, we need not fear the east collapsing."
Relieved laughter and murmurs filled the pavilion. A young knight even let out a victorious whoop before catching himself.
Renard's steward, a careful man of letters and diplomacy, bowed low. "Then, my Prince, the stage is set. The west secured, the east stabilized—the time has come to bring all our strength together."
The Prince nodded. He straightened to his full height, his figure illuminated by the glow of the oil lamps. The cheer had not touched him as it had the others, yet his eyes now gleamed with determination.
"Then hear me, all of you," Renard declared, his voice ringing through the tent. "By my command, every army loyal to the crown is to converge at Castle Blackwell within two weeks. It stands at the heart of our realm, our stronghold and our shield. From there, we shall march as one host. And when we march, it will not be for baronies or for borders—it will be for the very soul of the Kingdom."
The retainers bowed their heads, a chorus of assent rising like a solemn chant. Scribes began to write the orders, and riders prepared to carry them across the kingdom.
The tent swelled once more with fervor and renewed spirit. Lords toasted, knights exchanged vows, and captains spoke of strategies.
Yet through it all, the Prince stood silent for a long moment, his hand once more resting on the map. His eyes lingered on the figurine of the Duke's host, his mind already racing through the storms to come.
He could not smile, though the news was good. He could not rejoice, though his men cheered.
For in his heart, he knew: this war was far from finished.
And the final battle would decide not only who wore the crown—but whether the Kingdom itself would endure or not.