The morning sun broke over Castle Blackwell's plains, glinting on thirty-five thousand spears and shields arrayed in the Crown Prince's ranks. Banners of stag and flame whipped in the wind, their colors gleaming above the restless tide of men. Across the wide field, the Duke's host of forty thousand gathered like a dark sea, drums echoing, horns blaring their defiance.
In the Prince's great war tent the night before, Aleric had stepped forward, his youth stark against the hardened veterans who lined the council. His words had been bold, his tone steady:
"My Prince, the Duke expects you to spread evenly — to match his numbers line for line. If we do so, he will grind us down. Instead, strip men from the right, strengthen the left, and let us hammer his weaker wing until it shatters. Once it breaks, we roll inward, and the wolves will collapse."
A murmur of discontent had rippled among the retainers. Marquis Brandford, towering and scarred, had spoken first.
"You would bare our right to their assault? Madness. The Duke will crush it before your hammer even swings."
Others nodded in agreement, voices sharp with doubt. But Aleric did not waver.
"The right need not win, my lord. They need only hold. If they can fix the Duke's left in place while we strike decisively, the battle will be ours. Victory comes not from holding everywhere, but from breaking one place so completely that the rest follows."
Marshal Tyron, commander of the Prince's left, had studied the young man in silence. A soldier of decades, scarred from campaigns past, he finally grunted.
"The boy is right. Risky, aye — but bold. Better to cut off a limb than to wrestle the beast entire. Give me the men, and I'll make his wing bleed."
The Prince's gaze had swept the chamber. His jaw tightened, then eased. "So be it. The left will strike like a hammer. The right will hold, no matter the cost."
And now, as the armies arrayed at dawn, the gamble was cast.
The horns sounded.
The Crown Prince's army shifted subtly so that even the Duke across the plain might not immediately see it. The right wing thinned, shields packed tighter, ranks deeper, while the left swelled — nearly half the army massed beneath Marshal Tyron's banner, with Aleric riding at his side.
With a bellowed command, the Duke's drums thundered, and forty thousand surged forward.
Marshal Tyron raised his sword, his deep voice carrying down the line. "Forward, sons of the realm! For the Prince, for the kingdom!"
Aleric's own banner — the falcon of Deryn — streamed beside Tyron's as their cavalry surged ahead, hooves pounding, lances bristling like a deadly forest. Behind them, the dense press of infantry followed, shields locked, pikes angled forward.
They slammed into the Duke's right wing with earth-shaking force. The shock scattered the first rank of wolves, spears piercing, cavalry trampling men beneath iron-shod hooves.
Aleric's sword cut down, cleaving a path through the chaos. His retinue pressed close, Jaren among them, fighting with raw ferocity at his brother's side.
The Duke's right, commanded by Viscount Gerald and The Duke's Son was also in the Left Wing beside the commander, the Viscount reeled under the sudden weight. They had not expected such concentrated fury, such numbers crashing upon them all at once. Cries of confusion rippled through their line as they buckled.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the battlefield, the Prince's right wing endured a storm. The Duke's left crashed against them with brutal strength, and though the line held, men fell in droves. Shields splintered, ground churned with blood, but the command was clear: hold, no matter the cost.
The center thundered as both hosts clashed in a grinding melee. Marquis Brandford fought like a titan, each sweep of his sword carving bloody arcs. The Prince himself rode among the men, his presence steadying them, his banner a beacon amid the storm.
But it was on the left that the battle's fate would be decided.
Marshal Tyron, armor dented and bloodied, rode with grim focus. "Press harder! Break them here!" he roared, hacking a foe from his saddle.
Aleric, eyes sharp amid the maelstrom, saw the pattern unfolding. The Duke's right was folding, men stumbling back in disarray, formations unraveling under the relentless assault.
"Drive them!" Aleric shouted, his voice carrying above the din. "Break their spirit and the day is ours!"
His men answered with a roar, pressing forward, step by bloody step, until the wolves of the Duke's right began to falter, their captains screaming in vain to hold.
The battlefield seethed around them — cries of men, the thunder of hooves, the metallic shriek of steel clashing steel. Yet in that chaos, two figures carved out a circle of death, all eyes turning toward them.
Adrien Valebrand, heir to the Duke, towered over most men, his greatsword gleaming with the cruel polish of noble forges. His armor bore the sigil of House Valebrand — a black falcon clutching a crown — the same falcon that had loomed over the west for generations. His face was young but hardened, eyes cold as winter stone.
Opposite him, Aleric gripped his longsword, his breath steady despite the tremor of exhaustion humming through his limbs. He had bled, fought, killed all day — but this duel was different. This was more than survival. This was a statement.
Adrien sneered. "You're the cub everyone whispers about? The so-called 'genius'? You'll die here, boy, and your house will burn with you."
Aleric didn't answer. He simply raised his blade in silent challenge.
The clash came like a storm. Adrien's greatsword descended with monstrous force, and Aleric barely caught it, sparks bursting as the impact numbed his arms. The second blow came immediately, then the third, each strike like a hammer against an anvil. Adrien fought like a juggernaut, pressing forward, seeking to crush Aleric outright.
But brute force wasn't everything.
Aleric ducked, sidestepped, let Adrien's momentum carry him forward, then slashed low across his thigh. Steel cut through mail, and Adrien snarled, stumbling but not falling. Rage twisted his features.
"You rat!" Adrien swung in a wide arc, his blade whistling through the air. Aleric bent backward, the tip of the greatsword grazing his breastplate, and countered with a thrust. Adrien twisted just in time, the sword gouging his side but not finishing him.
The duel dragged on, each man sweating, bleeding, breathing hard. Around them, soldiers had formed a circle, pausing their own fighting to watch heir against heir. The outcome would shake the entire wing.
Adrien bellowed and charged, raising his blade high. "Die!"
Aleric saw the flaw — overextension. He stepped aside, slammed his shoulder into Adrien's chest, and as the heir stumbled forward, he rammed his longsword under Adrien's gorget, straight into his chest.
Adrien's eyes widened, shock freezing him. Blood bubbled from his lips. Aleric leaned in, voice low and cold.
"You should have studied the art of war… not just inherited it."
With a savage pull, Aleric dragged the blade upward, tearing through bone and flesh. Adrien's scream split the din, then choked into silence. The heir of House Valebrand collapsed, lifeless, his greatsword slipping from his grip into the mud.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Crown soldiers roared Aleric's name, their morale surging like fire through dry grass. The Duke's right wing faltered.
Aleric raised his bloodied sword high, and the chant began:"Aleric! Aleric! Aleric!"
Not far from his brother, Jaren found himself face-to-face with Viscount Gerald, a brute of a man clad in dented plate and wielding an axe large enough to cleave a horse in two. Gerald's reputation was one of merciless slaughter, his strength second only to his cruelty.
Jaren's heart thundered. He was not Aleric. He was the younger, often overshadowed, mocked as the lesser. Yet now, before the eyes of hundreds, he had no choice but to prove himself.
Gerald smirked. "Another pup? I'll split you in half and send your pieces back to your mother."
Jaren gritted his teeth, gripping his sword tightly. "Try me."
The axe fell like thunder. Jaren leapt aside, the blade biting into the earth with enough force to send dirt flying. He slashed at Gerald's arm, but the viscount twisted, backhanding him with a gauntleted fist. Pain exploded across Jaren's jaw, and he stumbled back, blood in his mouth.
The crowd jeered and cheered, soldiers on both sides shouting encouragement to their champions.
Gerald pressed forward, swinging again and again, his attacks wild but monstrously strong. Jaren blocked desperately, his arms shuddering from the impact, but he refused to yield ground. Each clash sparked fire, each breath came ragged, yet he endured.
Then came the moment. Gerald overextended, his axe embedding into a shield on the ground. Jaren darted forward, slashing across his thigh. Gerald roared in pain, yanking his axe free, but slower now, wounded.
"You… little bastard!" Gerald swung again, slower, heavier. Jaren parried, sparks spraying, then thrust into Gerald's ribs. The viscount grunted, staggered, but didn't fall. He raised his axe high for a final killing blow.
Jaren screamed and lunged, driving his sword through Gerald's gut and up into his chest. The steel burst from his back in a spray of blood. Gerald's eyes bulged, mouth opening in shock as he dropped his axe.
"I… am not… my brother's shadow!" Jaren shouted, twisting the blade and ripping it free.
Gerald collapsed, twitching once before lying still, his blood soaking into the mud.
For a moment, silence. Then Crown soldiers cheered again, emboldened by the sight of another noble of the Duke struck down.
Jaren stood panting, drenched in blood, staring at his brother in the distance. For the first time, he did not feel small. He felt like a warrior.
Elsewhere, Marshal Tyron, grizzled commander of the left flank, faced Viscount Aurelian, a duelist famed for his precision and cunning.
Their duel was slower, more deliberate. Sword against sword, shield against shield, every movement calculated. Sparks lit the air, and men paused to watch as two masters fought for dominance.
Tyron fought like a lion despite his age, his roars echoing as he pressed forward. Aurelian, cold and calm, parried and countered, slowly bleeding the old marshal with cuts and feints.
"Old dog," Aurelian mocked. "Your time is done."
Tyron spat blood. "Then I'll drag you to the grave with me."
They clashed one last time, Aurelian's blade sinking deep into Tyron's ribs. The marshal coughed blood, but instead of retreating, he surged forward, seizing Aurelian by the collar. With his dying strength, he rammed his sword through the viscount's throat.
Both men collapsed, locked in death's embrace.
Soldiers roared in grief and vengeance, hurling themselves at the enemy with renewed fury. Tyron's sacrifice became the spark of wrath that drove the left wing into an unstoppable push.
The left flank of the Duke's army wavered, shaken by the death of Adrien Valebrand, the fall of Viscount Gerald, and the loss of Commander Aurelian. And at the center of it all stood Aleric and Jaren — brothers, no longer boys, but warriors drenched in blood and glory.