The sun rose cold and pale over the camps of the Crown Prince, but Aleric felt none of its warmth. His eyes were rimmed red, his face drawn as though a weight pressed on his shoulders. He had slept little, and what dreams came had been broken, muddied things—his father's voice calling his name, the clash of steel, the choking taste of ash in his throat.
By the time he emerged from his tent, the camp was alive with the clang of hammers on wood and the groan of ropes pulling siege towers into place. Smoke from cookfires curled into the air, mixing with the sharper smell of tar and pitch. Yet as he walked, men paused, eyes following him. Some bowed their heads; others pressed fists to their chests. Word of his father's death had spread swiftly.
One after another, lords and knights approached him.
"Lord Aleric," spoke Count Rick, grave and sombre. "Your father was a man of iron and honour. The kingdom has lost a steady hand."
"Aye," said another, a baron whose name slipped from Aleric's weary mind. "He raised sons worthy of his line. Take heart, young lord. Grief must wait when swords are drawn."
Some spoke sincerely; others, Aleric could tell, were measuring him with their words, testing how grief bent him, how they might twist it into advantage. He heard whispers of daughters, alliances, and bonds to be sealed in the shadow of his loss. Their condolences were daggers sheathed in silk.
Through it all, Jaren remained by his side, silent but steadfast. His brother's eyes were still rimmed with sorrow, yet when others came too close with their honeyed words, Jaren's glare was enough to send them scattering.
At midmorning, the horns summoned them to the war council. The Crown Prince Renard stood at the head of the tent, his face stern with fatigue and urgency. A great map of Ebonreach was spread before him, the jagged walls of the city inked in bold strokes.
"These lands have suffered too much," Renard said, his voice hard. "Every day this war drags on, bandits run rampant and burn villages, harvests rot in the fields, and good men starve. I will not allow Duke Roderic to cower behind stone and famine us into weakness. Moreover, we have greater threats looming outside our borders. We end this swiftly."
Some lords shifted uneasily. Siegecraft was no simple matter, even with numbers fourfold greater. A garrison of five thousand, behind stout walls, could bleed twenty-five thousand dry if given time. But none dared speak against the prince's will.
"By noon, we strike," Renard declared. "Ladders, rams, towers—every man to his task. We will storm the walls of Ebonreach and tear down this rebellion in one stroke."
A cheer rose, forced yet fervent, as though sheer sound might make the walls crumble.
Aleric said little. He felt the eyes of the council on him when Renard praised his foresight during the night raid, when Brandford clapped him on the shoulder with a gruff, "You've made your father proud, boy. Remember that." The words cut more deeply than any blade, but he nodded all the same.
By noon, the army surged forward. Siege towers creaked as oxen dragged them across churned earth. Men carried ladders taller than ten men, their ends bouncing against the mud. Drums thundered, horns blared, and a great shout rolled across the fields as the Crown Prince's host descended upon the walls of Ebonreach.
Arrows darkened the sky. The defenders loosed in disciplined volleys, shafts hissing down like rain. Men screamed and fell, clutching at throats and eyes, before their boots even touched the stone foundations. Oil flasks shattered against the siege towers, flames licking up their sides until the tar-black smoke billowed like banners of death.
"Push! Push the ram!" bellowed a captain, spittle flying from his lips as men strained at the timbered behemoth aimed at the southern gate. Stones crashed down from above, shattering skulls and splintering shields. The ram lurched forward, then back, a dance of futility.
At the ladders, the slaughter was worse. Aleric fought there, his sword slick with blood, Jaren at his side. They climbed and were hurled back again, the Duke's men fighting with the desperation of cornered wolves. Twice, Aleric was nearly cast down, only to feel Brandford's great hand drag him upright again.
"Hold your ground, lad!" the marquis roared above the din. "Make them pay for every inch!"
By evening, the fields were slick with blood and ash, littered with shattered ladders and burned rams. The assault faltered, horns calling the men back to camp. The walls of Ebonreach still stood, blackened but unbroken, the Duke's banners defiant in the setting sun.
Renard's jaw was clenched like iron when he returned to his tent. No man dared call it a defeat, but the truth hung heavy in the air: the Duke had survived another day.
Aleric, his arms heavy, his body aching, sat in silence. Grief still gnawed at his heart, yet now it mingled with exhaustion and the bitter taste of frustration. War gave no time for mourning, and yet, in the stillness of his tent, tears threatened to rise again.
Both sides had suffered equal losses, but it was evident that the besiegers suffered a greater mental toll.
The day after the failed assault dawned heavy with silence. The camp of the Crown Prince stirred, but no horns blared, no drums beat. For the first time since they had arrived at the walls of Ebonreach, the men remained in their tents, tending wounds and burying the dead.
Prince Renard himself had ordered it so.
"There will be no more waste of lives against unbroken stone," he had declared before his council. "No assault before there is a breach. Let the stones crack before my men do."
It was a mercy and a reprieve, but not without its cost. Morale had been shaken by the slaughter at the ladders and gates, and yet when the word spread that the prince would bring down the walls themselves, a fierce anticipation grew in the ranks.
For five days, the sky thundered with stone and fire. Catapults and trebuchets were hauled to the fore, their arms groaning as they flung boulders the size of horses against the western wall. Day and night, the bombardment continued. The air shook with each impact; towers shivered, masonry split, and dust billowed like storm clouds across the battlefield.
The defenders answered with arrows and ballista bolts, but every day their fire slackened, their return cries weakening.
The young brothers spent their days sharpening blades, walking the lines, watching as stones tore Ebonreach apart. They sparred sometimes, Jaren urging Aleric to shake off the heaviness that clung to him, but grief was not so easily dislodged.
At night, Aleric lay awake, hearing the faint boom and crash echo from the walls, and thought of his father. He had not been there at his deathbed. He had not carried him to rest. Duty had chained him here, beneath alien skies, while his blood kin turned to dust far away.
On the sixth day, the wall broke.
It began with a groan, a long rumble as though the very earth was sighing in agony. Then, with a thunderous roar, a section of the western wall buckled and fell, crashing outward in a cloud of stone and ash. Cheers erupted from the Crown Prince's army. Men beat their shields, horns called across the lines, and for the first time, the soldiers of Ebonreach fell silent.
On the seventh day, the final assault began.
Through the breach surged twenty-five thousand men, their banners snapping in the wind. Ladders and rams were abandoned; now they needed none. The Crown Prince's host poured into the wound in the wall like water into a broken dam.
The garrison of five thousand fought with the desperation of the doomed. They met the tide with spears and blades, screaming defiance, dragging down foes even as they were cut apart.
"Hold the breach!" shouted their captains. "Hold for your duke!"
But the numbers were too great. Swords rang on swords, some shattering in the process, while shields splintered, and the streets of Ebonreach ran with blood.
Aleric fought there too, shoulder to shoulder with Jaren. They cut through the chaos, the younger brothers of House Deryn carving a path through the rubble. They saw knights of Roderic's household fall one by one, banners trampled into mud, cries for honour drowned in the slaughter.
By evening, the gates of the keep itself were broken, its defenders slaughtered. Smoke curled from burning houses, screams still echoed from alleys, but the banner of the Crown Prince flew atop the central tower.
Duke Roderic was dragged before Renard.
The once-proud lord's armour was shattered, his face streaked with blood and ash. Yet his eyes still burned with hatred as he spat at the prince's feet.
"Usurper's whelp," he rasped. "You'll never hold this kingdom. You'll drown in it, just as your father did."
Renard did not flinch. Before the gathered host, he drew his blade.
"By my hand," he declared, his voice carrying across the ruined square, "the traitor falls. So ends rebellion."
With a single stroke, he severed Roderic's head. A roar rose from the army, the sound of twenty-five thousand voices exulting in victory, echoing against the broken walls.
One by one, Roderic's retainers were dragged forth and executed beside him. Their bodies were left in the dust, a warning to anyone who would dare defy the Crown.
Yet even as the cheers rose, a shadow lingered.
Lord Marvin, the Grand Tactician, was nowhere to be found. Scouts searched the city, but he had vanished in the chaos or on the previous night, slipping through cracks like smoke.
And so, while the rebellion lay broken, the mind that had orchestrated its guile lived on—somewhere, plotting, waiting.
The war was over. But peace, Aleric realised, might be far more elusive.