The banners of House Deryn, Count Rick, and Baron Caldor stretched like a painted river across the fields, their colours dancing in the autumn wind. Seven thousand strong—the largest host Aleric had ever ridden with—moved in disciplined columns along the packed road. The thunder of hooves, the clatter of armour, and the creak of wagon wheels blended into a ceaseless rhythm, as though the land itself was echoing their advance.
Yet for all its might, the host was still a fragile thing. Men spoke in hushed tones of the Duke's looming host of forty thousand, of the fate of villages that had chosen the wrong side, of how the realm's very crown would soon be decided in fire and blood.
Aleric rode at the van, his banner streaming beside him. Beside him, Count Rick sat with the relaxed posture of a man who had led armies for decades.
"You bear yourself well, young Deryn," Rick remarked, watching the soldiers march in formation. "Your father raised a capable son. Not many could have conceived such a trap at Caldrath, much less executed it."
Aleric inclined his head. "I only did my duty. Without your men holding the centre, there would have been no victory to seize."
The Count smiled faintly. "Humility suits you. But be wary—armies are not won by humility alone. When the men look at you, they must see strength, certainty. Give them doubts, and those doubts will eat them alive before any enemy does."
Aleric nodded, though a weight pressed on him. He had commanded before, but never in a host this vast, never in a march that would decide the fate of a kingdom.
That night, as the host camped along a riverbank, Aleric found Jaren crouched by the fire, sharpening his sword. The younger brother looked up, his face half-lit by flame.
"You've… changed," Jaren said awkwardly, after a long silence. "Back at home, I thought you only cared for books and strategy. But now… the men chant your name. Even Father… trusts you to carry his banner."
Aleric sat beside him, pulling off his gauntlets. "It wasn't by choice. The war forced it out of me. We don't always get to choose when we must grow."
Jaren frowned, then sheathed his blade. "I always thought… I hated you. But at Caldrath, when you stepped into the duel… I was proud. I didn't know how to put it into words then. I don't really know how to say it now."
Aleric placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then don't say it. Just march with me. That will be enough."
For the first time in years, Jaren gave him a true smile.
On the third day, Baron Caldor rode up alongside them. His armour gleamed, his retainers well-drilled, his voice smooth as polished steel.
"A fine sight, is it not?" Caldor said, gesturing at the endless banners ahead. "Our realm united, marching for justice. The Saints themselves must smile upon us."
Rick only grunted, but Aleric kept his composure. He had not forgotten Caldor's subtle hesitation at Caldrath, nor the way he measured every word as though weighing its advantage.
"Justice indeed," Aleric replied. "Though justice must be swift, else it rots."
Caldor chuckled. "Spoken like one who understands power already. You will make a fine baron, should fate grant you the title sooner than expected."
Aleric's jaw tightened. He offered no reply, and soon Caldor drifted back to his own men. Yet the chill of his words lingered, like the shadow of a vulture circling above.
By the fourth day, the men grew weary. Dust clung to every cloak, boots wore thin, tempers frayed. Yet the column pressed on. Songs were sung at night to lift spirits—old ballads of kings past, hymns to the Saints, and crude tavern tunes that drew laughter even from hardened veterans.
Aleric made a point to walk among the common soldiers when he could. He spoke with them, listened to their stories, and praised their discipline. Some were boys barely older than Jaren, others scarred veterans who had seen more wars than he could name. Each carried the same fear in their eyes, yet each straightened when their commander passed by.
Realised then what Count Rick had meant: doubt was poison. If he faltered, they would falter. If he stood firm, so too would they.
On the fifth day, as dawn broke over rolling hills, the host crested a ridge. Gasps rippled through the ranks as the dark silhouette of Castle Blackwell rose in the distance.
It was no ordinary fortress. Its walls, black as obsidian, loomed vast and unyielding, built to command the crossroads of the realm. Towering battlements cast long shadows even in morning light, and its banners—those of the Crown Prince—snapped proudly in the wind.
Here, all the loyal lords of the kingdom would converge. Here, the fate of the realm would be sealed.
As the army made camp within sight of the fortress, Aleric stood on a hill, gazing at its towering gates. Jaren joined him silently, followed by Count Rick.
"The storm gathers," Rick said, his tone grave. "By week's end, this plain will be trampled by seventy-five thousand men. And the world will remember who stood, and who fell."
Aleric tightened his grip on the reins of his horse. His father lay stricken, his barony entrusted to him, and now the eyes of allies and enemies alike turned toward him.
4 days later.
Castle Blackwell was unlike anything Aleric had ever seen.
Its walls rose sheer from the earth like black cliffs, hewn from stone so dark it seemed to drink the sunlight. Massive towers studded the battlements, each crowned with iron braziers that burned night and day, their flames licking the sky. To the west and east, two rivers bent like twin arms around its foundations, their waters glinting crimson in the setting sun. Before its gates stretched a vast plain, and upon that plain was gathered the might of the Royal Host.
Tents by the thousands stretched to the horizon, banners of every loyal house rippling in the breeze. The din of soldiers was everywhere: the ring of hammers on armour, the laughter of campfires, the prayers of chaplains, the neighing of horses. A sea of humanity — thirty-five thousand men under arms — had come to fight for the Crown Prince. And now, at last, Count Rick's host had arrived.
At the head of the column, Aleric rode beside the Count, Jaren at his side. As they drew near, a cheer rippled through the encampment. Men and knights saluted; drums rolled. From the gates of Blackwell itself came the Crown Prince, his armour chased in silver, his cloak of deep crimson flowing behind him.
"Count Rick of Kessell," the Prince called, raising a hand. "And Aleric of Deryn. Welcome, my lords! You come not as guests, but as brothers-in-arms."
Count Rick dismounted and bowed deeply. Aleric followed, though the Prince's eyes lingered on him longer than courtesy demanded. There was gratitude there — and caution, too.
Around them, other lords gathered. Some clasped their hands in welcome, offering warm greetings. Others merely nodded, their eyes sharp with calculation. Whispers already followed Aleric's name, and more than one gaze measured him not as an ally but as a rival.
Through the throng came a figure that towered above most men. Broad-shouldered, with arms like oak branches, his face was weathered by countless campaigns. His hair, streaked with iron-grey, was bound back, and a long scar cut across his jaw. He wore no crown, but his presence alone demanded attention.
"Marquis Brandford," Rick murmured at Aleric's side. "Second knight of the realm. A warlord without peer."
Brandford strode forward, his heavy boots striking like drumbeats. He gave the Prince only a brief bow before turning to Aleric, his eyes gleaming with battle-hunger.
"So this is the whelp who broke Harold on the western fields," Brandford rumbled, his voice deep as rolling thunder. "They say you're clever with snares and tricks. But tell me—" he leaned closer, his scarred grin sharp as steel, "—how do you fare when it's steel against steel?"
A murmur went through the gathered knights. Aleric felt every eye upon him. He straightened. "If the Marquis wishes a spar," he said evenly, "then I would be behonouredd."
Brandford's laugh was like a hammer striking an anvil. "Good! Then let us see what promise you hold."
They met in the practice yard outside the fortress gates, surrounded by a wide ring of soldiers and nobles. Wooden practice swords were brought forth, heavy enough to shatter bone if struck with force.
Brandford swung his weapon once, then twice, the air whistling with each movement. Aleric rolled his shoulders, forcing calm into his breath.
"Begin!"
The Marquis came at him like a storm. His first strike crashed against Aleric's guard, numbing his arms. The second nearly drove him to his knees. Yet Aleric did not yield. He ducked, sidestepped, allowing the larger man's weight to carry him forward, then countered with swift cuts aimed at the gaps in Brandford's guard.
Gasps rose from the crowd as Aleric managed two quick touches. However, Brandford only grinned wider.
"Good! But too light!"
With a roar, the Marquis unleashed a flurry of blows that battered Aleric back step by step. Each hit felt like a mountain crashing down; each block rattled his bones. Sweat streamed down his brow, and his arms ached, yet he refused to drop his blade. At last, a feint drew him wide, and Brandford's sword came crashing down onto his shoulder. Aleric staggered, the breath knocked from him, and the bout was ended.
Cheers erupted—some for Brandford's display of power, others for Aleric's courage in facing him.
Breathing hard, Aleric bowed. "I thank the Marquis for his lesson."
Brandford chuckled, clapping him on the back so hard it nearly sent him sprawling. "You've got steel in you, boy. With time, perhaps even iron. But you still have a long road ahead."
Before Aleric could respond, Jaren stepped forward, his eyes blazing.
"Then try me next!" he called out.
Brandford raised a brow. "And who, lad, are you supposed to be?"
Aleric straightened. "My brother. Jaren of Deryn."
The Marquis narrowed his eyes, then nodded. "Very well. Let's see if the blood runs true."
The bout was shorter. Jaren fought with fiery speed, his blade flashing in quick arcs. However, against Brandford's sheer strength and experience, he fared little better. Within moments, his guard was shattered, his blade struck aside, and the Marquis ended it with a gentle but undeniable tap to his chest.
The crowd laughed, though not cruelly. Brandford lowered his weapon, his grin fierce.
"Two brothers with iron in their veins," he declared, his voice carrying. "You won't break easily, and that's worth more than half the cowards who call themselves knights. Train hard, and one day, you'll make me sweat."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold, the Royal Army made its final preparations. Campfires flickered across the plains, thousands of points of light mirroring the stars above. Armor was polished, swords sharpened, and prayers whispered.
Aleric sat with Jaren beside their fire, both sore from the sparring session but unbroken. Around them, the camp murmured with the restless energy that comes before battle.
Tomorrow, the host would march. Tomorrow, the fate of the realm would draw one step nearer.
And Aleric of Deryn would be at its heart.