"I would rather die than lost"

  -King Valero the Frail

  My P.O.V

  Two days had passed since we sent out our scouts, and when they returned, their faces told me everything before they even spoke. Oren, one of the more experienced scouts, dismounted his horse with unsteady legs, his usually sharp eyes dull with exhaustion. His clothes were dusted with dried mud, his lips cracked from days of travel.

  I was outside my tent, running a whetstone along my blade, when he approached. The look in his eyes made my stomach knot.

  “My lord,” he rasped, his voice raw from lack of water. “Norwick… is gone.”

  I stopped sharpening my sword, staring at him. “Gone?”

  He gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “The sickness. It took them all. The streets are lined with corpses. No one dares bury them. Those who survived fled east, but most…” He hesitated, his fingers twitching as if he could still smell the decay. “Most didn’t make it.”

  A cold weight settled in my chest. The body we had found in the river was just the beginning. This sickness was spreading, fast and mercilessly.

  “What of the other villages?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

  “The elders of Highbrook and Redmere have begun evacuating their people,” Oren continued, wiping sweat from his brow. “They’re terrified it’ll reach them next.”

  I exhaled sharply. This changed everything. Not only were we facing Eadric’s siege, but now an invisible enemy crept toward us, one we couldn’t fight with swords or shields.

  And the river—our lifeline—was now a potential source of death.

  “We can’t take water from the Drowning River anymore,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Not unless we want to risk the same fate.”

  Oren shifted uneasily. “There’s something else, my lord. On our way back, we passed through a smaller hamlet—Roth’s Hollow. The people there were sick. Coughing, feverish, barely able to stand.”

  I clenched my jaw. It was already here.

  “You’ve done well,” I said at last. “Get some rest.”

  He gave a weary nod before staggering away. I watched him go, my mind racing.

  We had to find a new water source, and soon. Otherwise, we’d all die—not from swords, but from thirst or disease.

  But I had no time to dwell on that before another soldier came running toward me, his chainmail clinking with each hurried step.

  “They’re here, my lord,” he panted.

  I didn’t need to ask who.

  I secured my sword and strode toward the ramparts, my heart hammering in my chest. The moment I reached the top, I saw them.

  Eadric had come.

  A vast sea of men stretched across the land, their banners fluttering in the cold morning air. Even from this distance, I could hear the clang of armor, the steady beat of war drums, the low murmur of thousands of voices. The sun gleamed off polished steel, an ocean of helmets and blades glinting in the light.

  And behind them, like sleeping giants waiting to awaken, stood the trebuchets.

  “He brought siege weapons,” I muttered. “That explains the delay.”

  Beside me, Ser Lanselot folded his arms across his chest, his gaze hard. “Eadric is no fool. He means to take his time.”

  Ser Midryn, standing a few paces away, scoffed. “Let him. Let him waste his stones and men on these walls. Lion’s Crest has stood for centuries—it won’t fall to some disgruntled duke.”

  I ignored him, scanning the battlefield. Eadric’s forces were vast, but well-organized. His siege engines were still being assembled, their crews working methodically under the watchful eyes of their commanders. His cavalry stood in disciplined formations, their horses restless beneath them.

  But something else caught my eye.

  A detachment of men stood near the riverbank. Too close to the water.

  I frowned. “What are they doing?”

  Lanselot followed my gaze, his brow furrowing. “Perhaps he means to ford the river?”

  I shook my head. “No. The Drowning River is too unpredictable. Even if he had rafts, he’d lose too many men to the current.”

  Midryn chuckled, leaning lazily on the stone parapet. “Then let them try. We’ll pick them off like game birds.”

  But I wasn’t convinced. Eadric wouldn’t waste men on a pointless assault. If those soldiers were there, it meant they served a purpose.

  A distraction? A feint?

  Or something worse?

  Lanselot shifted, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. “What do you think he’s planning?”

  I exhaled slowly, never taking my eyes off the battlefield. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  But whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

  The first horn blew, deep and thunderous, shaking me to my core. A second later, a low, distant rumble filled the air.

  From the horizon, the trebuchets unleashed their payload. The whistling of massive stones cutting through the sky was followed by a deafening crash as they smashed against Lion’s Crest. The impact sent cracks splintering across the old stone walls, chunks of rubble plummeting into the courtyards below. Soldiers scrambled for cover, some too slow—one man was crushed instantly, his scream cut short.

  A second volley followed. More stones. More destruction. Dust and debris filled the air, making it hard to see. The men panicked, shouts of fear echoing across the fortress.

  “This is hopeless,” someone muttered near me.

  This was just the beginning.

  I gritted my teeth, forcing my voice to steady. “Get the wounded away from the walls! Archers, hold your fire until my command!”

  Another horn blasted through the chaos. A second attack.

  I turned my gaze to the battlefield, and there it was—Eadric’s main force was advancing. A disciplined wave of soldiers marched toward the stone bridge, shields raised, moving with purpose. At their center, a great battering ram rolled forward, its wooden frame slick with water.

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  Water.

  I narrowed my eyes. They had soaked the ram. They knew we’d try to burn it.

  Clever. Damn it.

  The archers were already taking position, lining the towers and ramparts, bows drawn. But just as I was about to give the command, another movement caught my eye.

  Down by the riverbank, the soldiers Eadric had stationed there suddenly sprang into action. From a distance, I saw them pushing something into the water. A raft—no, not just any raft.

  A raft big enough to carry a siege tower.

  I stiffened. So that’s what they were waiting for.

  I bellowed, “Ser Lanselot! Move some men and head to the western walls! They will assault it!”

  Lanselot gave a firm nod, already in motion before I finished speaking. His heavy boots pounded against the stone as he disappeared into the stairwell below.

  I turned back to the archers. “Fire!”

  The sky darkened with arrows. The first volley rained down on Eadric’s soldiers, cutting through flesh and armor alike. Screams filled the battlefield as men fell, some clutching at their throats, others collapsing in heaps of bloodied steel.

  More arrows followed. Another wave of bodies crumpled, but Eadric’s forces did not slow. The battering ram surged forward, pushed by relentless hands.

  A loud crack echoed through the fortress as the ram struck the gate for the first time.

  The stone bridge was fully under Eadric’s control now. The battle had begun in earnest.

  I clenched my jaw. This was going to be a long day.

  ### **Chapter 13 (Continued): The Breaking Point**

  *Alaric’s Point of View*

  The first battle erupted on the western walls. A raft, laden with men, crashed against the stone, and Eadric’s soldiers poured onto our ramparts like a tide of steel. The defenders fought desperately, swords clashing in the cold morning air, but they were outnumbered. Blood painted the stones, bodies collapsing into the river below.

  Then, the second raft was pushed into the water. More men. More ladders. They were flooding the western defenses faster than we could hold them back.

  “This is bad,” I muttered under my breath.

  I turned to a nearby soldier, gripping his shoulder. “Find Midryn!! Tell him to send more men to the western walls!”

  The young man hesitated, eyes darting between me and the chaos unfolding behind him. He was scared. We all were. But hesitation meant death.

  “Go!” I barked.

  He ran, disappearing into the fortress.

  And then came the real horror.

  A deafening crash. A splintering groan.

  The gates fell.

  The iron-bound doors burst inward, sending splinters flying like daggers. Dust and debris clouded the entrance as Eadric’s forces surged through the breach. The defenders braced, but we were barely holding the western walls—now we had to fight at the gate, too.

  Steel met steel. Spears thrust. Shields shattered. The ground beneath us became slick with blood as men died screaming.

  I moved. I had to.

  Dodging falling rubble from another trebuchet strike, I barreled down the stairs, gripping the hilt of my sword so tightly my knuckles turned white.

  Damn it!

  I hit the ground running, shoving past soldiers as I reached the main gate. It was chaos. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the courtyard, blood pooling in the cracks of the stone. Our men were fighting with everything they had, but Eadric’s warriors were disciplined, unrelenting.

  I unsheathed my sword.

  And then I joined the slaughter.

  The screams of the dying, the relentless clash of steel, the scent of blood thick in the air—this was Alverton all over again. Soldiers were cut down where they stood, crushed under the weight of falling rubble, or sent flying by trebuchet stones that shattered upon impact. No matter how many enemy soldiers we killed, more came to take their place.

  Ser Lanselot fought like a demon at the Western wall , cutting through men with terrifying ease, but even he was forced to give ground.Ser Midryn, despite his arrogance, was proving to be nothing more than another sword in the chaos.

  The western walls were nearly lost, with Eadric’s men flooding in. The trebuchets pounded our defenses relentlessly. We couldn’t hold this position any longer.

  I seized a warhorn from a fallen soldier and blew a long, commanding note.

  The order was clear—retreat to the inner walls.

  I turned to the nearest commander, barely dodging an enemy spear as I barked out orders. “Hold the gate for as long as possible! We need to cover Lanselot’s retreat!”

  The men, already battered and exhausted, hesitated, They knew what I was asking. It wasn’t just holding the line—it was buying time at the cost of their own lives.

  One of the captains swallowed hard, gripping his sword with shaking hands. “We won’t last long.”

  “Then make them bleed for every step,” I said coldly.

  We formed a desperate shield wall, shoulder to shoulder, holding back the surge of enemies. Spears jabbed forward, cutting down those who dared to rush us. Arrows rained down from the ramparts, striking our foes, but it wasn’t enough.

  Men screamed as they were dragged into the enemy ranks, their throats slit before they could even raise a sword. Blood pooled at our feet. The line was breaking.

  I looked over my shoulder—where the hell was Lanselot?

  Through the smoke and chaos, I finally saw him—Ser Lanselot, his armor drenched in blood, leading the remaining forces from the western wall, cutting down enemies as he moved. But they were too slow.

  Eadric’s men, sensing weakness, pushed harder.

  A trebuchet stone crashed near the gate, sending a dozen men flying. The enemy roared, surging forward. They would trap Lanselot’s Forces if we don't hold the gate and let them retreat first.

  I had no choice.

  I threw my shield aside and charged straight into the fray, hacking through enemy ranks like a madman.

  “Lanselot! MOVE!” I bellowed, cutting down a soldier in my way.

  Lanselot saw me, nodding grimly, and redoubled his efforts. His sword flashed like lightning, carving a path toward the inner gate. Our men followed, but not all made it.

  I saw one of our captains get pulled down, his face bashed in by a mailed fist. Another man took an axe to the back, his body crumpling instantly.

  I clenched my jaw. We couldn’t save them.

  Finally, as Lanselot and the last of our men reached the inner gate, I gave the final order.

  “Shut the gates!”

  The great iron doors groaned as they closed. Men on the other side screamed as Eadric’s forces overran them. The sounds of slaughter followed.

  We had lost the outer defenses.

  I turned, panting, blood dripping from my sword. The inner walls were our last defense. The fortress burned around us, but as long as these walls held, we still had a chance.

  My P.O.V - Inner walls, Lion's Crest

  The battle was lost.

  Lion’s Crest, the fortress that had stood defiant amidst the Drowning River for generations, had fallen.

  The once-mighty walls were shattered, the gates splintered. Smoke filled the air, mixing with the iron scent of blood. The cries of dying men echoed between the stones, drowned only by the relentless crash of trebuchet fire.

  And yet, we still fought.

  I stood among the chaos, sword in hand, my breath ragged. We couldn’t hold any longer. We were cut down by the dozens, and for every enemy we killed, two more took their place.

  Through the haze of war, I saw Ser Lanselot, his face streaked with blood, carving through enemies like a force of nature. But even the greatest warrior in the realm couldn’t fight forever.

  "What do you think we should do?" I asked Lanselot.

  "Killing everyone of them seems a good option," The Greatest Warrior said. There is no fear hinting in his face.

  I turned to him, voice hoarse. “No! We have to go.”

  Lanselot barely spared me a glance. “Then go.”

  I shook my head, gripping his shoulder. “All of us, Lanselot. We leave together.”

  His eyes, sharp even in the chaos, met mine. For the first time, I saw it—he wasn’t leaving.

  “Take Devran and Leo. Get whoever you can and run.” His voice was steady, even as another enemy lunged at him. He cut the man down without blinking.

  I clenched my jaw. “I won’t leave you.”

  “This is not your choice, boy.” He grabbed my arm, squeezing hard. “It was never your choice.”

  I wanted to argue, but the walls behind us groaned and collapsed, sending rubble crashing onto both friend and foe alike. The inner keep was overrun. We had no choice.

  I sprinted toward Devran’s pavilion, pushing past soldiers locked in desperate battle. My legs burned, but I didn’t stop.

  When I reached the tent, I found Leo already mounted, his horse restless beneath him. Devran stood beside him, pale-faced, armor barely fastened.

  “We need to go!” I shouted, grabbing Devran’s arm. “Now!”

  Leo scoffed. “And where exactly are we running, Alaric? Have you forgotten we are surrounded?”

  “We are dead if we stay!” I snapped.

  Ser Midryn, ever loyal to Leo, sneered. “Cowards run, bastards kneel.”

  I ignored him. “Where’s Lanselot?” Devran asked, voice shaking.

  I hesitated before answering. “Holding the inner gate.”

  Devran’s face hardened. “He won’t last.”

  “No, he won’t.” I forced him toward a horse. “That’s why we need to go.”

  The ground trembled as another trebuchet stone crashed into the keep. Outside, I could hear the clash of swords, the screams of dying men.

  Lanselot had given us this chance. I wouldn’t waste it.

  “Go, now!” I ordered.

  Midryn grabbed Leo’s reins, spurring his horse forward. Devran hesitated, looking back at the keep. Then, with a sharp breath, he mounted.

  I turned for one last look at the battlefield. Through the smoke, I saw Lanselot still fighting, surrounded, bloodied—but unyielding.

  Then I saw Devran’s mistake.

  He turned too late. A blade flashed.

  A scream.

  Blood.

  I watched, frozen, as Devran collapsed from his horse. His lifeless eyes stared back at me, empty.

  Lanselot bellowed in fury, fighting like a madman. I wanted to run to Devran, to fight, but strong hands grabbed me—Aidan and Francis, dragging me away.

  “Alaric! You need to leave!” Lanselot shouted through the chaos. “You’re the last hope Gulvia has! Go!”

  I stumbled back, my heart pounding. Devran was dead. Lanselot was lost. The battle was over.

  We turned and fled.

  We rode through the night, the fires of Lion’s Crest burning behind us. Of the thousands who once stood at these walls, only a few hundred remained. They were young, inexperienced, surviving only by desperation.

  We retreated toward Elria with haste.

  Lion’s Crest had fallen.

  Gulvia would never be the same.

  Duke Eadric's P.O.V

  The battle was over.

  Lion’s Crest, once an unbreakable fortress, was now a graveyard. The scent of blood, charred wood, and death lingered in the air. Bodies lay strewn across the courtyard, royal soldiers and my own men alike. Crows had already begun to gather, eager for their feast.

  I dismounted near the shattered main gate, my boots crunching against the rubble and broken weapons. My victory had come at a great cost. Weeks of siege, thousands of lives lost, and yet—this was only the beginning.

  As I walked through the ruins, a question gnawed at my mind. *Did Alaric survive?*

  Something deep inside me wished that he had. A foolish thought, perhaps, but even now, after all these years, I could not completely erase our past. Once, we had been brothers-in-arms. Once, we had bled together on the battlefields of the Border War.

  But sentiment was a luxury I could not afford. If Alaric still lived, he would be a threat to everything I had fought for.

  I pushed the thought aside and stepped through the remains of the inner gate. My men were already securing what little remained of the defenders—wounded soldiers too weak to flee, servants who had surrendered, and a few stubborn knights who refused to die on their knees.

  Then, near the northern gate, I saw him.

  Ser Lanselot Hamilton.

  He knelt on one knee, his greatsword planted into the ground, his armor battered and bloodied. Dead men surrounded him, a testament to his final stand. His breathing was ragged, but his grip on the sword remained unbroken, even in death.

  A shame.

  Few men in this realm could match Lanselot in skill. Had he been on my side, he would have been a great asset. But he had chosen his loyalties, and now he would be remembered as a fallen legend.

  “Burn the bodies,” I ordered. “Including his.”

  The soldiers nodded, already gathering oil and torches.

  Then my eyes fell upon another body, lying a short distance away. This one did not carry the aura of a warrior. His armor was barely worn, his sword still sheathed.

  Prince Devran.

  I frowned. “How the hell did he die?”

  No honor in this death. No glory. Just another corpse in the mud. The man who would have been king had fallen like a common soldier. His golden cloak was stained with blood, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.

  I crouched beside him, studying his wounds. A clean cut—likely from a trained swordsman.

  My gut twisted.

  I scanned the battlefield once more, searching for a familiar face among the dead. But I did not see Alaric’s body.

  He was alive.

  I knew it.

  A slow breath escaped me as I rose to my feet. This victory, no matter how great, was not complete. As long as Alaric breathed, he would be a danger to me. He had the respect of soldiers, the experience of war, and more importantly, the will to fight.

  And I had just given him a reason to hate me.

  I turned to one of my captains. “Send riders. They’re heading for Elria.”

  The man hesitated. “Should we pursue?”

  I thought for a moment. The army needed rest. My men were exhausted. Chasing Alaric now would only lead to more losses.

  “No,” I said. “Let them run. They will have no choice but to make a stand at Elria.”

  The war was far from over.

  And next time, I would make sure there were no survivors.

  "Even the greatest warriors have their tales of disaster."

  -Gulvian Proverbs