Departure from Blackwell
The dawn broke crimson over Castle Blackwell, painting its iron-grey walls in hues of fire and blood. The fortress loomed like a sentinel of stone at the kingdom's heart, its high towers crowned with fluttering banners of the Crown Prince — the golden stag rearing upon a field of crimson. Beyond the walls, the royal host had awakened with the rising sun.
Trumpets blared, deep and resonant, followed by the thunder of war drums that rolled like an oncoming storm. The ground itself trembled beneath the ordered steps of thirty-five thousand men arrayed for march. Infantry formed the bulk, armoured in mail and steel, spears glinting in the half-light as their ranks stretched further than the eye could see. Cavalry trotted at the flanks, destriers pawing impatiently, their riders clad in polished plate, banners and pennons streaming in the wind. Behind them rolled endless lines of wagons bearing food, arms, tents, and siege equipment — the lifeblood of war.
It was not just an army. It was a tide, vast and unstoppable, surging forth under the command of one man.
At the head of the column rode Crown Prince Edric, his expression grim but steady as he surveyed his gathered might. His cloak of crimson fur caught the wind; his helm, crested with antlers polished to a gleam, marked him unmistakably as the heir to the throne. Around him clustered his retinue: Marquis Brandford, towering and broad-shouldered, the very image of a knight forged in iron; Count Rick, calm and commanding in his composure; and other lords, their armour reflecting the rising sun.
Behind them rode Aleric of House Deryn, his baron's banner carried proudly by a young squire. The retinue of Deryn, though small compared to the great houses, bore themselves with pride. Aleric's sharp eyes roamed the endless sea of men — not in awe, but in calculation. This was no mere march of power; it was a living beast, one that had to be fed, commanded, and restrained. If it faltered, the beast would turn upon itself.
Jaren rode a few paces behind his brother, silent and uncharacteristically thoughtful. His humiliation at Blackwell during the spar with Brandford still weighed on him, though determination now lit his gaze. He would not remain in his brother's shadow forever.
As the sun rose higher, the gates of Blackwell opened wide. With the roar of thousands, the Royal Army began its march southward. Dust rose in great plumes, birds scattered from the fields, and peasants in the surrounding villages gathered to watch. To them, it was not merely an army — it was their hope, their shield against the chaos tearing the kingdom apart.
Strategy Council on the March
By noon, the great host had advanced several miles. The army camped in disciplined order, tents springing up in neat lines, fires lit for cooking, and wagons forming protective circles at the rear. It was here, beneath the largest command pavilion, that the Crown Prince gathered his leading commanders for a council of war.
The air inside was thick with the smell of wax and parchment. A massive map of the kingdom lay unrolled across the central table, its rivers, mountains, and strongholds inked in bold strokes. Small wooden tokens marked the positions of allied and enemy forces, though many were based on uncertain reports.
"My lords," Crown Prince Edric began, his voice heavy with responsibility, "our scouts confirm that Duke Roderic marches with forty thousand men. His vassals answer his call in droves. His army is vast, but it is not invincible."
Marquis Brandford crossed his arms, his sheer bulk casting a shadow across the map. "Numbers alone do not win battles, Your Highness. If they did, Kandaria would have crushed us long ago. Roderic believes that brute force will prevail. That will be his undoing."
Count Rick nodded. "The Western victory has given us momentum. Our men march with pride, while the Duke's men, though numerous, are stretched thin garrisoning fortresses and keeping their supply lines intact. If we press our advantage wisely, we can bleed him before the decisive battle."
"But where do we bleed him?" asked another lord, impatience creeping into his tone. "Do we not march to meet him at once? Every day we delay, his numbers grow."
It was then that Aleric spoke, his calm voice drawing all eyes toward him.
"If we rush headlong, we play into his hands," he said. "The Duke expects us to strike the centre, and with good reason. Instead, we must harass his lines, cut off his supplies, and force him to come to us on our terms."
Several nobles exchanged wary looks. A baron's son giving counsel in the presence of counts and marquises was unheard of. Yet none could deny the truth of his words, not after what he had achieved at the Eastern Pass and against Baron Harold.
Marquis Brandford let out a booming laugh. "Spoken like a wolf among sheep. I see why Rick and Elias trust you, boy. A battle is won not only with swords, but with patience."
The Crown Prince leaned over the map, studying the young commander. "And how would you harry him, Aleric?"
"With cavalry," Aleric replied without hesitation. "Small, swift detachments to strike at his scouts, his foragers, his wagons. Force him to slow, to starve, to tyre. A hungry army is a beaten army before the swords ever cross. And when he is weakened, we choose the ground and strike."
A murmur swept the council, some voices sceptical, others intrigued. The Crown Prince raised a hand for silence.
"You have proven your worth before, Aleric of Deryn. I will not dismiss your counsel now. We will incorporate your strategy."
The decision was made. And though some lords muttered beneath their breath, the approval in Brandford's fierce gaze and Rick's calm smile told Aleric that his words had struck true.
Duke Roderic's March
Far from Blackwell, another army stirred the earth. Forty thousand strong, its banners black and crimson, adorned with the snarling wolf sigil of House Roderic.
The Duke's host moved more slowly than the Prince's, burdened by sheer size. Wagons groaned under the weight of supplies, siege towers, and baggage. Columns stretched for miles, an iron serpent crawling across the land. To the peasants who glimpsed it from their fields, it was less an army than a force of nature.
At its head rode Duke Roderic himself, armoured in blackened steel, his great cloak sweeping behind him. His hair, dark as a raven's wing, was streaked with silver, his eyes cold as winter. His very presence radiated command.
To his right rode his personal guard — Ser Kain, a knight whispered to be among the top twenty in all the Continent. Tall, grim, and deadly, his presence alone cowed lesser men. To his left, his Grand Tactician, Lord Marvin, hunched over his saddle like a bird of prey, sharp-eyed and sharper-minded. It was Halrix who had guided the kingdom to victories against Kandaria during the reign of the old king.
"My lord," Marvin rasped, breaking the silence as scouts reported yet another convoy harassed by raiders. "The boy of Deryn commands in the west. Do not mistake his youth for weakness. The reports from Harold and Percy confirm his cunning."
Duke Roderic's lips curled into a sneer. "Percy was a fool. Harold is a little better. Do you mean to tell me the fate of this kingdom rests on the tricks of a baron's whelp?"
Marvin did not flinch beneath the Duke's scorn. "Fools though they were, their defeat has emboldened the enemy. Their men march with pride, while ours are already weary. Aleric bleeds us without battle. We must be cautious."
Roderic's gauntleted hand slammed the pommel of his sword. "Caution does not win thrones, Marvin. Power does. I have forty thousand men at my back. Let the boy play his games. When the time comes, I will grind him and the Prince beneath my heel."
Marvin inclined his head, though the furrow of his brow deepened. Quietly, he began to issue orders to fortify river crossings, reinforce garrisons, and guard supply lines. The Duke's confidence was unshaken, but Marvin knew well — arrogance had felled greater men than Roderic before.
And so the black banners of House Valebrand advanced, the wolf's fangs bared, the earth trembling beneath their march.
Skirmishes on the March
The second week of marching brought blood.
It began small — a convoy of the Duke's supply wagons ambushed at dawn by Aleric's cavalry. The raiders swept in like shadows, their lances lowering as startled teamsters scattered in panic. Oxen screamed, arrows cut down guards, and in moments, the wagons were in flames, their contents spilling into the mud.
The following day, another strike — this time against a scouting party of two hundred men. Aleric's riders drew them into a narrow pass before crushing them with horsemen hidden among the rocks. Not a single scout returned to the Duke's host.
The Duke's banners advanced more slowly now, each mile contested. Halrix fumed as his maps filled with red markers of lost convoys and slain scouts.
"He bleeds us, my lord," the Grand Tactician warned. "If this continues, our men will grow weary before battle is even joined."
But Duke Roderic scoffed. "A flea cannot fell a wolf. Let him harry us. When we clash, his petty tricks will mean nothing."
Back in the royal host, the news of each victory spread like fire. Soldiers spoke Aleric's name with pride, the young commander who struck fear into the enemy. But Aleric himself remained unsatisfied. He saw the truth: each raid bought time, each wagon burned weakened the Duke's reach — but it was not enough to decide the war.
One evening, as he stood over his map by lamplight, Jaren leaned over his shoulder."You've made the wolf bleed. But he still walks."
Aleric's eyes narrowed. "Then we must find where to cut deeper. A wolf does not fall from scratches. We must pierce the heart."
Shadows of the Decisive Battle
By the third week, the two armies stood less than a day's march apart. The land between them became a no-man's land — burnt villages, trampled fields, and shallow graves where skirmishers had clashed.
The Crown Prince stood upon a ridge at dusk, watching torches flicker in the valley below where the Duke's army camped. The sight was a sea of fire stretching into the distance — proof of Roderic's overwhelming numbers.
Marquis Brandford stood beside him, arms folded, his voice low and grim."The wolf has come to bay. Tomorrow or the day after, he will strike."
The Prince's gaze was steady, though his jaw tightened. "So be it. Better the fate of the realm be decided in one battle than dragged into years of bleeding."
Behind them, Aleric and Jaren stood silently. The younger brother clenched his fists, the sting of his defeat in the spar still haunting him. But Aleric's eyes burned with a different fire — resolve. He knew the battle to come would test everything they had built, every lesson, every scar.
That night, the camps settled into uneasy quiet. Men sharpened blades by firelight, priests whispered prayers, and messengers hurried from tent to tent. In the Duke's camp, Halrix marked positions on his maps while Roderic laughed loudly among his captains, confident of the victory to come. In the Prince's camp, silence reigned — not from fear, but from the weight of destiny pressing down on all.
As the moon rose high, Aleric lay awake in his tent, staring at the canvas ceiling. He thought of the duel with Brandford, the man's overwhelming strength, and how far he still had to climb. Yet in his chest, he felt no despair — only the hunger to prove himself.
Tomorrow, the wolves and stags would clash.And in the clash, legends would be born.