The first grey light of dawn crept across the battlements of Ebonreach. Inside the Duke's great hall, torches still burned low, their flames flickering in the stale air. Roderic Valebrand sat upon his chair, his face pale and drawn. Around him, his remaining lords and captains stood in uneasy silence.
No messenger had returned. No trumpet call or signal fire marked Ser Kain's triumph. The hall remained quiet, heavy with the unspoken truth.
At last, the Duke slammed a goblet of wine against the table, crimson spilling across the polished oak. "Damn it all… Kain is gone." His voice trembled with fury, though his eyes glistened with something closer to fear.
Viscount Harrow cleared his throat nervously. "My lord… perhaps they yet fight, or perhaps they retreated into the woods and wait—"
"They are dead," Roderic snapped. His gaze was sharp, cutting like a blade. "All of them. Five thousand men, gone in the night, and my champion with them. We are naked." He looked around at his councillors, his jaw tight. "Marvin, this is your failure."
Across the table, the Duke's Grand Tactician bowed his head. "No, my lord. This is yours. You ignored my warnings, and now we bleed for it. The enemy will march at dawn—and we are unprepared for a siege."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Roderic's fist clenched white against the armrest, but he said nothing. His silence was damning enough.
The sun rose golden over the Crown Prince's camp. Trumpets rang through the crisp morning air, and drums echoed as men roused themselves from the long night's vigil. Fires still smoked from the remnants of the night raid, yet morale was high—higher than it had been since the campaign began.
Ser Kain, the invincible knight, was dead. The Duke's blow had been blunted.
Crown Prince Renard strode through the camp with calm authority, his cloak billowing behind him as soldiers saluted. His voice carried firm and steady: "Today we prepare. Today, we bring down the walls of treachery."
Around him, engineers and carpenters were already setting to work, axes biting into fresh timber. Frames for siege towers rose from the earth like skeletons. Blacksmiths hammered out iron fittings for rams, sparks flying in showers of light. Squads of soldiers were assigned to carry ladders, to sharpen stakes, to dig trenches against sallies.
The war machine of the Crown Prince stirred with purpose.
That evening, the great war council was held in Renard's command tent. Oil lamps cast a warm glow upon the gathered lords, their armour gleaming, their voices low with tension and anticipation.
Count Rick was among the first to speak, his voice proud. "The left wing owes its survival to Lord Aleric. Had he not foreseen the raid, had he not fought as he did… the story of this war might be very different."
Several heads nodded.
"Yes," said Baron Caldor, leaning forward. "The boy shows cunning beyond his years. He should be rewarded. Perhaps… elevated further?"
At this, murmurs rose again. Some approving, others cautious. Marquis Brandford smirked from his corner, arms crossed. "He's already proven himself more than most of you ever have. I say let him rise."
Aleric, seated quietly beside his brother Jaren, bowed his head humbly. "I only did my duty."
But not all eyes in the tent were warm. A few lingered too long, calculating, weighing. Ambition was as thick in the air as the smell of lamp oil.
Lord Halric of Thornwood spoke next, his smile thin and insincere. "Indeed. A promising lordling. It makes one wonder… if such a promise should not be secured for the future of the realm. A match, perhaps? My daughter is of age. A beauty and well-mannered. The boy would do well in Thornwood's halls."
Jaren's face flushed with surprise, and he shifted uneasily. Aleric stiffened but kept his composure.
Another lord, Baron Edran, interjected smoothly. "And why not my niece? She is fair, with blood tied to the old royal line. A union there would bring great honour"
The tent buzzed with whispers. Some laughed softly, others muttered.
Renard's hand paused mid-motion over the table map. His eyes, usually calm, flickered for a moment—a faint shadow of discontent. His lips tightened, though he said nothing.
Marquis Brandford leaned forward, breaking the tension with a chuckle. "Careful, gentlemen. The boy's sword arm isn't even cooled from slaying Ser Kain, and you're already pawning him like a prize stallion. Let the lad breathe."
The nobles laughed, though uneasily.
Aleric inclined his head politely. "I thank you, my lords, for your… generous offers. But I am a soldier in service to His Highness. My blade is bound to this war, not to dowries."
Jaren added sharply, "And any match concerning me or my brother will be considered by our house, not haggled like cattle at council."
Some frowned at his boldness. Others nodded, impressed.
Renard's voice finally cut through the murmurs, calm but firm. "Enough. There will be time enough for talk of alliances when the war is won. Until then, we speak only of the siege."
The council fell silent.
The prince's expression returned to serenity, but the flicker of dissatisfaction had been seen by a few. Not all offers were for Aleric's benefit—some were to weaken Renard, to sow division, to claim loyalty where it might shift. He knew it. And so, apparently, did Aleric.
As the meeting dissolved, maps were marked, timetables set. Tomorrow, ladders would be tested, towers rolled forward. The noose was tightening around Ebonreach.
Outside the tent, the sound of hammers and saws filled the night. Soldiers trained with their weapons, voices carrying in the cool air. The Crown Prince's host was alive with energy, every man and woman preparing for the coming storm.
But within Ebonreach's high walls, the Duke sat alone in his hall, staring at the empty seat once belonging to Ser Kain. The weight of fear pressed heavily upon his chest.
For the first time, he wondered not how to win, but how long he could hold before everything came crashing down.
The council had ended, but the camp still stirred with restless energy. Soldiers sharpened blades, engineers hammered at wood and iron, and scouts filtered in and out with reports of enemy movement. Victory had been tasted the night before, yet all knew the hardest trial still lay ahead.
Aleric stood at the edge of the training yard when a deep voice called out.
"So, boy, are you content with slaying monsters in the dark?"
He turned to see Marquis Brandford striding toward him, a wooden practice sword in each hand. His armour was unbuckled, his cloak tossed aside, his thick frame radiating confidence.
"You've improved," the Marquis said, tossing a sword to Aleric. "But I wonder—how much? Care for a test?"
Aleric caught the weapon with a small smile. "If you mean to crush me again, my lord, I'll gladly accept. Perhaps this time, I'll last longer."
Brandford laughed heartily. "That's the spirit! Come then, let's give these lads a show."
Soldiers nearby gathered quickly, eager for spectacle. Jaren crossed his arms, watching intently as his brother squared off against the famed knight.
The first clash came hard and fast. Brandford's strength nearly knocked Aleric off balance, the practice swords cracking together like whips. Yet Aleric did not stumble—he turned with the blow, sliding aside, his footwork sharper, quicker than before.
"Good!" Brandford barked, pressing forward with a relentless flurry. "You've learned to yield without falling."
Aleric countered with a thrust, forcing Brandford to pivot. "And you've not slowed, my lord."
They circled, sweat beading. Aleric ducked under a heavy swing, his blade snapping up to strike Brandford's ribs—only for the Marquis to parry and twist, sending a jolt up Aleric's arm.
"Faster, boy!"
"I'm trying!" Aleric shot back, his eyes narrowing.
The exchange grew fierce, wood clacking, feet shifting in the dirt. The crowd shouted encouragement. Aleric used his smaller frame to weave inside Brandford's guard, forcing the larger man to adjust. He feinted low, spun high, and managed a grazing strike across the Marquis's shoulder.
A cheer erupted.
Brandford grinned wolfishly. "Ha! Now you've teeth!"
With a final, thunderous strike, he disarmed Aleric, sending the practice sword spinning into the dust. But instead of laughter, he extended his hand and pulled the young lord to his feet.
"You're no green pup anymore," Brandford said, clapping Aleric's shoulder. "One day, you may even give me a proper fight."
Aleric bowed slightly, chest heaving but pride swelling within him. Jaren smirked from the sideline, impressed despite himself.
The soldiers dispersed, murmuring about how far the young commander had come.
Later that night, in the quiet of his tent, Aleric sat alone with a sealed letter he had carried since the eve of battle. He had been too consumed with war, too consumed with survival, to open it.
With careful hands, he broke the seal. The familiar handwriting brought his father's voice to life in his mind.
"My son,
You have made me and our house proud. Never forget that you bear not only the sword but the trust of our people. Care for your family, protect the barony, and guard yourself against leeching nobles who will seek to claim your light for their own. You have a great future ahead, Aleric. A future brighter than mine ever was.
Your father, Elias of Deryn."
Aleric let out a long breath, emotion tightening his throat. For once, the weight of command lifted, replaced by the warmth of a father's pride. He pressed the letter to his chest, whispering, "I'll not fail you."
But the moment was shattered when the flap of his tent opened. A messenger, dust-covered and weary, stood stiffly.
"My lord," the man said quietly. "I bring… grave tidings. Your father, Baron Elias, has succumbed to his wound. He passed three days ago at dawn."
The words cut deeper than any sword.
Aleric's hand trembled, the letter slipping from his grip onto the table. The warmth turned cold.
"No…" Jaren's voice came from behind, heavy with disbelief. He had entered just in time to hear the news. His eyes darted to Aleric, stricken.
The young commander closed his eyes, forcing his breath steady, but the sorrow was uncontainable. His father's proud words still echoed in his ears, and now they would be the last.
The tent was silent, save for the quiet rustle of the letter in the evening breeze.
Aleric let the letter slip from his trembling hands, the parchment curling as it brushed against the floor. His eyes blurred, and before he could stop himself, he reached for Jaren and pulled him close. His younger brother did not resist. Their foreheads pressed together, arms wound tight, and the silence between them broke into quiet, shuddering sobs.
Tears streaked down Aleric's face, unbidden and unstoppable, tracing the lines of exhaustion carved by days of marching and nights of bloodshed. For all his victories, for all the praises showered on him in the war council, he was still only eighteen—barely a man, and now a son without a father.
"I should have been there…" Jaren's voice cracked, muffled against his brother's shoulder. "We should have been there, to see him, to speak to him one last time."
Aleric tightened his grip, as though anchoring them both against the storm of grief. "Don't… don't blame yourself, Jaren. Neither of us could have changed it. He knew… he knew we were fighting here, for Deryn, for him."
Jaren shook his head, tears sliding down his cheeks as well. "But he died alone, Aleric. Without us."
The words pierced deep, and Aleric closed his eyes, his chest heaving. He wanted to believe his father's spirit had lingered long enough to hear his last victories, to feel pride in the family name. Yet the thought of never hearing his voice again, never receiving another letter inked in his father's steady hand, weighed on him like armour made of stone.
"It isn't fair," Jaren whispered, clutching at his brother's tunic. "We're still young, Aleric. I thought… I thought we'd have more time."
"So did I," Aleric admitted, his voice breaking. He pulled back just enough to look Jaren in the eyes. Both sets of grey eyes, so like their father's, brimmed with grief. "But we have each other now. That's what Father wanted. We carry him with us, in our choices, in our battles… in how we protect our people. That's how we honour him."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the muffled sounds of camp life beyond the tent drifted in—the hammering of wood for siege engines, the clatter of armour, the distant neigh of restless horses. Yet within the small space of their embrace, time seemed to slow.
At last, Jaren nodded, tears still streaking his cheeks, but his breathing steadier. "Together then. Always together."
"Always," Aleric whispered, holding him tighter.