The battlefield lay drenched in firelight and blood. As dusk surrendered to night, the cries of men— wounded, dying, or calling for comrades who would never answer again—rose into the darkening sky. The scent of iron, smoke, and trampled earth mixed into a suffocating haze. The great clash between the Duke's host and the Crown Prince's army had ended, but the aftermath of slaughter was almost as harrowing as the battle itself.
The field, once an expanse of open grassland, was littered with broken standards, shattered shields, and mangled corpses. Horses limped riderless, neighing in confusion. The exhausted soldiers of both armies staggered about like shadows, their armour dented, bloodied, or stripped away entirely.
The Duke's army was shattered. What had begun as a disciplined host of forty thousand was now reduced to a fleeing mass of fifteen thousand—some too wounded to carry a weapon, others too broken in spirit to ever march again. Fifteen thousand corpses lay behind them, unburied, a testament to the carnage. Another ten thousand had fled the field in such panic that they scattered into the countryside, abandoning banners and officers alike. Most would never return to Duke Roderic's cause; they would vanish into villages, deserts, or hostile forests, or meet the blades of local militias hunting deserters. The mighty host that had marched with thunderous pride toward victory was now no more than a broken fragment.
On the Prince's side, the toll was also grave. Though victorious, the Royal banners drooped, and soldiers slumped wearily against spears and pikes driven into the earth to steady themselves. Of the thirty-five thousand who had marched to battle, eight thousand were lost—most on the right wing and the embattled centre, where the Duke's numbers had pressed hardest. The right flank in particular was a graveyard; its commander, though triumphant in holding his line, had paid dearly in lives. The men who remained alive were gaunt with fatigue, their faces smeared with ash, their limbs trembling from hours of desperate resistance.
Still, the victory was undeniable. The enemy fled before them. As night swallowed the battlefield, horns sounded, calling back the weary men from pursuit. The Crown Prince, though eager to press the advantage, knew exhaustion had thinned his army's strength as much as the blade had. He ordered the pursuit halted, lest his men collapse or be drawn into night raids by desperate stragglers. Torches were raised across the camp as the living searched for their brothers among the fallen.
The War Council
By the time the moon reached its zenith, the Prince's commanders gathered in a large pavilion erected hastily in the centre of camp. Its canvas was still streaked with mud from travel, yet inside it glowed with lamplight. Guards stood sternly outside, though even their faces bore the grey pallor of fatigue.
The Crown Prince sat at the head of the war table, his armour dented but burnished with victory. His face bore both triumph and sorrow: triumph for the crushing of the Duke's once-mighty host, sorrow for the price paid in blood.
Around him, the leaders of the battle gathered—some wounded, some silent, all visibly shaken by the sheer scale of the day's carnage. Count Rick leaned heavily on a cane, a deep cut across his brow still bleeding sluggishly beneath a bandage. Baron Caldor kept to the back, his sharp eyes ever watching. Brandford, the formidable Marquis Knigh, ranked second in the kingdom, stood tall and grim, his plate still streaked crimson.
And then there was Aleric Deryn. Mud streaked his hair, blood not his own clung to his gauntlets, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders—but his eyes still burned with the same clarity they had at dawn. The murmurs of soldiers chanting his name—Aleric, Aleric, the Falcon of Deryn—still echoed outside the pavilion. It was a chant that would linger for days to come.
The Crown Prince raised his hand, silencing the murmurs of the council."Today," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "the Duke's might has been broken. The West is ours. Now, we March onto Ebonreach and destroy my pretender Uncle once and for all"
A grim silence followed, broken only by the snapping of the tent's canvas in the night wind.
The Prince's eyes settled on Aleric. "Yet without Lord Aleric of House Deryn, this battle might have ended differently. Himanoeuvres crushed the Duke's right, shattered their confidence, and turned the tide when our lines faltered. His father, Baron Elias's son, has proven himself a commander worthy of history."
Aleric inclined his head respectfully. "Your Highness, I merely played my part. Count Rick, Lord Brandford, and Count Stephen, Commander of the right wing, held the line when collapse seemed certain. Without them, my trap would have been meaningless."
The Crown Prince allowed a faint smile. "Modesty suits you, Lord Aleric. But victory demands recognition." He rose to his feet, his cloak trailing like a banner behind him. "As of this night, Aleric Deryn is elevated to the command of the Left Wing, succeeding the late Marshal Tyron. His deeds have earned it, and his future shall prove it."
The announcement sent a ripple through the council. Some voices murmured approval—Rick gave a weary but genuine smile, Brandford nodded with measured respect. Others shifted uncomfortably, their eyes betraying unease at the meteoric rise of a young baron's son. Power was a delicate balance in the kingdom, and Aleric's growing fame threatened to tip scales carefully held by older lords.
Jaren, standing beside his brother, stared wide-eyed. Pride and awe replaced the disdain that had once soured his heart. He fumbled for words but only managed, "Brother… you truly—" He stopped, cheeks reddening, before finishing in a low voice, "I will fight by your side."
Aleric placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "And I by yours. Together, we are stronger."
The Crown Prince's gaze swept the room again. "Brandford, Count Rick, Count Stephen —you too shall be honoured. But our greatest reward will come only when Roderic is defeated and this kingdom restored. Until then, we march on."
He turned to the war map spread across the table, lit by flickering lamplight. "We are bloodied, but so is our foe. We hold the momentum. Within two weeks, we should be at the gates of Ebonreach and shall lay siege to their stronghold."
The council murmured agreement, though fatigue weighed heavily on every voice. Orders were given to tend to the wounded, bury the dead, and prepare for another march. Outside the tent, soldiers cheered as news of Aleric's promotion spread among the soldiers. He was respected and glorified by them, while the majority of the Lords didn't like it.
And so, as the night deepened, the victors rested uneasily among the corpses of the fallen, their torches burning against the dark. The battlefield was theirs, but the war was far from over.
The following morning, after the bloody clash that had left the fields around Blackwell Castle soaked in death, the royal host rose again. The army of the Crown Prince—once thirty-five thousand strong—now marched with weariness etched across the faces of its men. Though they carried the mantle of victory, the cost weighed heavily. Eight thousand comrades had been lost, many from the battered right wing and the blood-soaked centre. Yet, the banners still fluttered high, and morale remained unbroken, carried on the knowledge that the Duke's strength had been gutted.
By contrast, the enemy lay in ruin. Of the Duke's original forty thousand, scarcely fifteen thousand now remained. Fifteen thousand corpses had been claimed by the field, while another ten thousand had scattered into the wind, deserters who would never again raise the Valebrand banners. The Crown Prince's victory had been nothing short of decisive.
But in victory, politics began to stir.
The army's march toward Ebonreach, the seat of the Duke's power, was a river of steel and banners stretching across the autumn countryside. Fields flattened beneath boots and hooves, and villages watched in silence as the tide of war passed by. Among the nobles, however, there was discord.
Some lords rode stiffly when Aleric, the new commander of the left wing, passed them by. Their words, whispered behind him, carried poison.
"An upstart with lowly baron's blood given command?""A crown prince blinded by sentiment…""This kingdom will fall if boys like him hold the reins."
More than once, their disdain surfaced openly. A few even muttered insults to Aleric's face—thinly veiled as jests—but the venom was clear. Yet he bore it with cold patience, neither striking back nor lowering his head. His victories on the battlefield had earned him steel and fire, but courtly tongues were another war entirely.
The Crown Prince, too, received his share of scorn. Whispers painted him as reckless for elevating an unknown to such a prestigious role. But Renard, ever composed, such insults could only be done behind the back, these cowards dared not to utter a single word infront of the Crown Prince, even in the war councils, these Lords who were once spoiled brats never gave any advice because they didn't know of how the battlefields worked nor did they learn any other useful skills except extorting the peasants of their work and money using high taxes which was their family skill passed down like a Legendary sword or something.
On one of the colder nights of the march, the Crown Prince sat alone within his tent. The flicker of lanterns cast long shadows upon the canvas walls. His table was cluttered with reports, maps, and a half-written letter. The quill moved steadily in his hand, ink flowing into graceful lines upon the parchment.
Aleric was announced at the entrance by a guard. With a simple nod, Renard granted his request for audience, though he did not set aside his work.
"You wished to speak, Lord Aleric?" Renard asked, his eyes fixed on the parchment.
Aleric stepped inside, bowing respectfully. For a moment, he watched the prince write before speaking."Your Highness, forgive my bluntness, but I must speak plainly.
After hesitating for a moment, Aleric then spoke again cautiously, "Not all who march under your banner are loyal. I have seen the looks, heard the venom in their words. They doubt you… And they despise me. Should the tides turn against us, I fear they would abandon you without hesitation."
The prince finally set his quill aside, though he did not look surprised. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful."You are not wrong, Aleric. That is the nature of politics. Many of these lords do not fight for crown or country, but for advantage. If I win, they will hail me and "request" more rewards after the war. If I falter, they will flee. Such men are a necessity, for now. Even pawns serve a purpose on the board."
To which Aleric replies, "I see," in a calm manner.
There was no bitterness in his tone—only a quiet, weary acceptance.
Aleric hesitated before asking, "Then, may I ask… to whom do you write, Your Highness?"
Renard's eyes softened for the first time that evening. His hand brushed gently across the half-finished letter."To my family. To my sister and mother, who wait in the capital. They are all I have left. My younger brother… he fell in the war against Kandaria. And my father, too."
After a brief silence, the crown prince looks at Aleric and says, "You remind me much of my sister; she is just like you, bold, cunning, and sharp-minded. Heck!, even your ages are similar." The crown prince chuckled softly.
After a brief silence, Renard spoke again, "This crown I bear is heavy not because of ambition, but because of loss. Every battle fought, every life spent, is a reminder that the cost of this throne is greater than I ever wished it to be."
A silence lingered, heavy but not uncomfortable. Aleric bowed his head."Then I will fight all the harder, not only for you, but for them as well."
Renard gave him a rare smile, faint but genuine. "See that you do. This war will not end swiftly."
Aleric departed soon after, but the conversation lingered in his heart. That very night, inspired by the prince's words, he remembered to write to his own barony—to Steward Morien, to old Ser Brandt, to his own family and to the people who looked to him for protection. War stretched long shadows, but bonds of home gave light to endure them.
Two days later, as the host pressed deeper toward Ebonreach, the first signs of resistance appeared.
The Duke's shattered army, though broken, was not idle. From the forests and hills, small bands of soldiers struck like wolves. Arrows rained upon marching columns, carts were burned in the night, and lone patrols vanished without a trace. Every step forward was harried by ambush and fire.
It was no grand army that stood against them, but the cunning hand of a tactician. Marvin—the Duke's grand strategist—had no illusions of victory in open battle. Instead, he sought to bleed the prince's host with a thousand cuts, slowing their advance, sapping their strength, and sowing unrest in the ranks.
Men marched with their shields ever raised, eyes darting to the treeline, expecting death in every shadow. Exhaustion grew heavier, and though victory had been theirs, the path to Ebonreach was proving more treacherous than the battlefield.
And all the while, far ahead, Marvin laid his traps, determined to grind down the Crown Prince's triumph before it could reach the Duke's gates.
The war was far from over.
The march north toward Ebonreach was slowed not only by the Duke's guerrilla strikes but also by the nature of the lands they passed through. Every village, every keep, every manor was a question mark—friend, foe, or silent opportunist waiting to see who would prevail.
On the Third day of the march, scouts rode ahead with urgent news: a banner of parley had been raised at the gates of Wexholm, the stronghold of Lord Monroe. The man had sworn fealty to the Duke of Valebrand at the start of the rebellion, his levies having fought against the Crown's loyalists during the first clashes in the south.
…Yet now, with the Duke's army broken and scattered, Monroe's banner hung limp on the walls, and his own men carried a white flag before the gates.
Renard gave no word of approval nor disapproval as the column approached. He merely raised a hand, and the army halted in its march. The Crown Prince's eyes narrowed, cold and unreadable, as Lord Halrick himself came forward with a handful of retainers.
The man bent his knee on the muddy road, his head bowed so low it nearly touched the earth.
"Your Highness," Monroe's voice quavered, "forgive my folly. I was deceived by Valebrand's honeyed lies, forced by fear into rebellion. But I see now where true strength lies, and I come humbly to beg pardon and renew my oath to the crown."
A murmur rippled through the camp. Some nobles looked expectantly at the prince, others with concealed amusement. Many of them knew what Halrick had done—his men had ridden against royal supply lines, and it was said he had even taken part in the burning of villages loyal to the throne. To forgive such a man would be mercy most rare.
Renard's gaze remained fixed on Halrick for a long silence. His quill-sharp features betrayed no warmth.
"Raise your head," the Crown Prince finally commanded.
Monroe obeyed, his face pale with relief, hope flickering in his eyes.
Renard dismounted in a single smooth motion, his boots sinking into the mud. He approached the kneeling lord, every step deliberate. The entire host seemed to hold its breath.
"You speak of fear," Renard said, his voice steady but laced with iron. "And yet, when fear gripped you, it was not to your rightful liege you turned, but to his enemies. You call that folly? No, Lord Monroe. That is treachery."
Monroe's mouth worked soundlessly, his retinue shifting uneasily. "Your Highness, mercy—"
"Mercy is for the loyal," Renard cut him off, his tone final as a blade striking stone. He lifted his hand. "Traitors earn only one fate."
At his signal, two knights of the Royal Guard seized Monroe by the arms. He struggled weakly, shouting his innocence, cursing the Duke, begging for another chance. The army watched in solemn silence as he was dragged before the ranks.
Aleric, standing among the other commanders, felt no pity. He thought of the villages razed in the south, the starving peasants forced into exile. Men like Monroe had feasted on their suffering. Yet even he felt a cold shiver when Renard gave the order.
"Execute him. And his household guard who marched against us."
Steel flashed. Screams rang briefly, then silence. Blood pooled in the mud before Wexholm's gates.
The Crown Prince turned, his cloak snapping in the wind. His voice carried across the host.
"Let this be a lesson to all who think loyalty is a matter of convenience. The crown remembers. And the crown does not forgive treachery."
The soldiers roared their approval, a thunderous sound that rolled down the valley. Morale soared, and fear of betrayal diminished—for they all knew, now, what fate awaited oath-breakers.
Aleric studied Renard in that moment. The prince's face was composed, as though he had ordered nothing more than a meal. Yet in his eyes burned a cold fire. Compassion for his men, perhaps, but no softness for those who betrayed the realm.
The march resumed soon after. Wexholm's gates were thrown open, its stores and provisions seized for the army's use. Yet the shadow of Lord Monroe's blood lingered in the minds of all who witnessed it.
And as night fell, Renard's banner still flew high, crimson against the darkening sky—a warning to friend and foe alike.