"An army without food is an army without swords."

  -Gulvian Proverbs

  My P.O.V

  Pain flared through my side as Aria pressed a damp cloth against the wound. I clenched my teeth, but a groan escaped before I could stop it. She raised an eyebrow, amused despite the situation.

  "This is the first time I've heard you make a sound when wounded," she said, a slight smirk playing at her lips.

  I forced a breath through my nose. "Maybe because this is the first time you’ve been the one patching me up."

  "Or maybe because the wound is deeper than you let on," she countered, pressing a little harder. I sucked in a breath, refusing to give her the satisfaction of another reaction.

  Her hands worked quickly, securing the bandage with practiced ease. "You're reckless," she muttered. "Running into the thick of battle like a madman."

  I exhaled sharply. "And if I hadn’t? How many more men would’ve died?"

  Aria paused, her expression shifting to something more serious. "I know," she admitted. "But that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder everything alone."

  She tied off the last knot and sat back, studying me with that same concern she always carried. "There. Try not to get stabbed again anytime soon."

  "No promises." I pushed myself up, ignoring the dull ache in my ribs.

  Aria sighed. "You should rest."

  "I need to check on the others," I said, voice firm. The moment I was upright, the world spun slightly, and I had to steady myself against the edge of the makeshift cot.

  She caught my arm. "You’re impossible," she muttered, shaking her head. But instead of arguing, she slipped an arm under mine, helping me stand. "Fine. But don’t blame me when you collapse halfway through camp."

  The night air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood, the dim glow of campfires flickering across weary faces. Our men moved sluggishly, exhaustion weighing on them like an iron chain. Some sat hunched over their weapons, silently cleaning blood from their blades. Others lay on thin bedrolls, whispering prayers or staring blankly at the dark sky.

  "Leo? The Queen?" I asked as we walked.

  "Fine," Aria replied. "Ser Midryn, too. They were at the center of the column, away from the worst of the fight."

  Of course, they were.

  I glanced around, noting the gaps in our ranks. Some men were missing—some had been left behind, buried hastily in shallow graves along the road. Others clung to life, wrapped in bloodied bandages, their fates uncertain.

  A steward approached, his face pale in the firelight. "My lord," he said hesitantly. "I bring the latest count."

  I braced myself. "Go on."

  "Seventy dead from today’s ambush," he reported. "Fifty more wounded—some won’t last the night. That brings the total losses since we left Elria to nearly two hundred."

  I inhaled slowly, pushing down the weight in my chest. "And the bandits?"

  "We killed most of them, but a few got away." The steward hesitated. "Some men think they’ll return."

  "They're not wrong," I muttered. "We need to be ready."

  The steward nodded and left, disappearing into the gloom.

  "Two hundred," Aria murmured beside me. "We’ve lost too many."

  "And we’ll lose more," I said grimly. "Tomorrow, we need to be vigilant. I didn’t expect forest bandits to be this organized."

  She frowned. "Or someone is using them."

  I turned to her. "What do you mean?"

  "Bandits don’t just grow bold overnight," she said. "They knew when and where to strike. What if they weren’t just desperate criminals?"

  The thought unsettled me. If someone was controlling them—if Eadric had a hand in this—then we were in even more danger than I realized.

  But right now, our men needed rest. Tomorrow would be another fight, whether by steel or survival.

  "Come on," Aria said, pulling me gently toward my tent. "You’ve done enough for today."

  I hesitated but let her lead me.

  Tomorrow, we’d face whatever came

  next.

  And I’d be ready.

  Duke Eadric's P.O.V - Somewhere neae Lion's Crest

  The fortress of Lion’s Crest faded into the distance, and I did not look back. It had served its purpose, but I had no desire to rot within its walls any longer. The damp stone, the thick air of sickness, and the cries of dying men were things I would not miss. My path led forward, and every mile that passed under my horse’s hooves was a step toward claiming what was rightfully mine.

  Iza was my destination.

  If Alaric reached Duchess Irene first, she might grant him sanctuary—and worse, her army. That could turn this war into something far more complicated. But if I arrived before him, I could force her hand, convince her to stand with me. Irene was no fool—she knew where true power lay. If she refused?

  Then Iza would be mine, by force if necessary.

  It was a risk, I knew. Opening another front when I had yet to secure the Crownlands could stretch my forces thin. Some urged me to take Elria instead, claiming that seizing the royal stronghold would break the morale of my enemies. But Elria was a symbol, and symbols did not win wars—armies did. My goal was not to sit in the empty halls of a fortress while the remnants of House Feldyn gathered strength elsewhere. No, I would strike where it mattered.

  But war was a game of numbers, and I did not like mine. I rode at the head of eleven thousand men—enough to win battles, perhaps, but not enough to crush the royal army entirely. Reports placed their numbers at eleven thousand, though many were wounded and weary.

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  It should have reassured me. It didn’t.

  Because Alaric had survived worse.

  I had fought alongside him once, long ago, in the Third Border War. I had seen firsthand how he endured, how he fought like a man who had nothing to lose. He was not invincible, but he was dangerous. I had underestimated him at the Lion’s Crest, and that mistake had cost me time and men. I would not make it again.

  That was why I had sent Edward back to Auria. My son would raise another host, another army to crush the last remnants of House Feldyn. With fresh troops, I would have the strength to end this war.

  A movement in the corner of my vision pulled me from my thoughts. A rider approached through the ranks, his armor marked by dust and travel. Ser Hector.

  I watched him as he neared, his expression calm, unreadable. He was a mystery to me. A bastard knight, once sworn to Alaric, now sworn to me. He had yet to swing his sword in this war, yet his reputation preceded him. Alaric had trusted him once—that alone made me wary.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. "I want to fight in the next battle."

  I arched a brow. "Do you doubt my protection, Ser Hector? Are you restless?"

  "I want to prove my loyalty," he said plainly. "To you. To the men."

  His words were carefully chosen, but I could hear what was left unsaid. He knew that some in my camp doubted him, that they still saw him as Alaric’s man. He wanted to erase that doubt in blood.

  I considered him for a long moment. "And why should I trust you?"

  "You have my sword."

  "Words are cheap," I said. "I've seen men swear loyalty in the morning and betray it by dusk."

  Hector met my gaze without flinching. "Then let me prove I am not one of them."

  I could see it in his stance, in his voice—he was not a man who begged. He was offering me something, not asking. If he fought in the next battle, if he bled for my cause, there would be no more doubt. My men would accept him. I would accept him.

  But a part of me still hesitated.

  "You fought beside Alaric," I said. "Rode with him, bled with him. Tell me, what kind of man is he?"

  Hector exhaled slowly, as if considering his words. "Alaric is a man who refuses to break, no matter the weight placed upon him." A pause. "That makes him dangerous."

  I nodded. It was what I had suspected.

  "Very well," I said. "You will have your chance, Ser Hector. But know this—if you betray me, I will cut you down myself."

  A flicker of something crossed his face. Amusement? Resignation? I couldn't tell.

  "I expect nothing less, my lord," he said simply, then fell back into the ranks.

  I watched him go, a knot of uncertainty coiling in my gut.

  Was he truly loyal?

  I did not know.

  Duchess Irene’s P.O.V. - City of Divina

  The council chamber was filled with the scent of burning firewood, but even the warmth of the hearth did little to ease the cold weight pressing down on me. My ministers had gathered once again, their expressions mirroring the uncertainty that loomed over us like a storm cloud. The news had reached us—Duke Eadric was marching toward Iza.

  The question that hung in the air, unspoken but understood by all, was simple. What did he want?

  Ser Rodirik, my Grand Marshal, wasted no time in voicing his concerns. "We should have never entertained Alaric’s request," he grumbled, his armored fingers tapping impatiently against the wooden table. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the room. "This has forced Eadric’s hand. Had the bastard not sought shelter here, we would not be in this situation."

  I folded my hands on the table, keeping my voice steady. "And what would you have me do, Rodirik? Slam the gates in his face? Cast aside an ally when the crown itself is crumbling?"

  Rodirik met my gaze, his expression hardened by years of war. "I would have you think carefully about whom you call an ally, Your Grace. Alaric may fight for the crown, but that does not mean the crown fights for him. He is a man cast aside, a man whose claim to any kind of power is as uncertain as our own safety. And now, because of him, Eadric marches."

  Solomon, my steward, sighed heavily. "The reality is that we are now entangled in this war, whether we wished it or not. If we turn Alaric away, we make an enemy of him. If we refuse Eadric, we make an enemy of him as well. And the crown…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "The crown does not seem eager to prove itself a worthy protector."

  Gendry, my diplomat, spoke next, his voice calm and measured. "We still have time before Eadric arrives. A message could be sent, inquiring about his intentions. If he seeks a negotiation, we may yet avoid open conflict. If he comes with steel, we will at least be prepared."

  Rodirik scoffed. "And if he views our inquiry as weakness? Eadric is not a man known for his patience. He strikes when the advantage is his, and we would be fools to think we could stall him with parchment and ink."

  "Then what would you have us do, Rodirik?" I asked, tilting my head slightly. "Shut our gates and hope for the best? Raise our banners and declare war before we even know his demands? We are not Auria. Iza is not a fortress prepared for prolonged siege. If we stand alone in this, we will not last long."

  Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating. It was Solomon who finally broke it. "There is another option," he said carefully, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. "We welcome Alaric, but we do so on our terms. If we are to take this risk, it cannot be for nothing. We must secure assurances from the crown, written and binding. And if they refuse…" He looked at me meaningfully. "Then we reconsider where our loyalties lie."

  Rodirik stiffened at the suggestion, but he did not immediately object.

  I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. "House Stiedry has always kept its word. If we offer sanctuary, we will not go back on it. But I will not lead Iza into ruin for the sake of a lost cause. The crown must prove it is worthy of our loyalty. If it does not, then we must do what is best for Iza."

  Rodirik frowned but gave a slow nod. "Then we prepare for all possibilities. If Eadric comes as a conqueror, we will not bow easily. If Alaric expects our support, he must give us reason to believe he can win."

  I surveyed the faces around the table—men who had served my house for years, men who had advised my father before me. I saw doubt, but I also saw resolve. They would follow my lead, even if they questioned it.

  "Send the message to Eadric," I ordered. "And another to Alaric. I want to know what both sides intend before their boots reach my gates. We will not be a pawn in this game, gentlemen. Iza will decide its own fate."

  The council murmured their assent, and one by one, they rose from their seats. As they left, I remained where I was, staring at the flickering fire. No matter how this played out, war was coming to my doorstep.

  And for the first time, I was no longer sure if Iza could stand in the storm alone.

  But for now, I had no choice but to trust him.

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  My P.O.V. - Military Camp

  Five more days of grueling travel, and at last, we crossed into the Duchy of Iza, leaving behind the endless sprawl of the Great Forest. The journey had drained us—physically, mentally, and in spirit. The cold that had tormented us before was now replaced by relentless heat. The men stripped away their heavier layers, yet the sun still bore down on them with merciless intensity. Armor became a burden rather than protection, and more than once, I saw men collapsing from exhaustion, only to be dragged back to their feet by their comrades.

  The road had been far from quiet. At night, we slept with swords in hand, wary of the ever-present danger. The Forest Bandits had grown bolder, striking at our flanks, ambushing small scouting parties, and slipping away before we could properly retaliate. The crown had neglected them for far too long, and now we were paying the price. But it was not just the bandits—disease, injuries, and sheer exhaustion had already claimed more men than I cared to count. Each loss weighed upon me like a stone, yet I had no time to grieve.

  As dusk settled, we made camp by the banks of a slow-moving river. For the first time in days, there was the semblance of comfort. The men eagerly filled their waterskins, washing the dirt and sweat from their faces. Fires flickered throughout the encampment, their warm glow illuminating the weariness in every soldier’s eyes. Some still had the strength to mutter prayers, others to joke and laugh in low voices, but most simply sat in silence, too drained to do anything but rest.

  I had just removed my gauntlets when the sound of hooves pierced the quiet night. A lone rider, his horse lathered with sweat, approached our camp at a steady but urgent pace.

  "A message from Duchess Irene, Lord Alaric," the rider announced, dismounting and bowing as he extended a sealed letter.

  His tone was formal, respectful. That was a good sign. Irene had not dismissed us outright, nor had she refused us entry outright. Aria, standing beside me, gave a small nod of approval. I broke the seal, my eyes scanning the parchment.

  Her words were careful—calculated. Why have you come to Iza?

  I let out a slow exhale, folding the letter in my hands. This was not a refusal, but neither was it an acceptance. She wanted to test me, to see if I wavered in my conviction.

  "Lord Varus already sent word ahead, explaining why we needed sanctuary," Aria said, her brow furrowing. "Surely she hasn’t forgotten?"

  "She hasn’t forgotten," I murmured. "But she needs to hear it from me again. She wants to see if I hesitate."

  Aria sighed, running a hand through her hair, still damp from washing in the river. "Then what will you say?"

  I turned back to the messenger, who stood waiting patiently, his expression unreadable. "Tell your lady that I have already given my reasons. The crown has sought sanctuary, and it is only right that she grants it. Remind her not to forget the late Lord Aldrick Stiedry’s unwavering fealty to King Valero of House Feldyn."

  The messenger hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the parchment in my hand, expecting me to put the words in writing. I did not.

  "Go," I commanded.

  He swallowed hard, nodded, and mounted his horse. The moment he vanished into the night, Aria folded her arms across her chest.

  "You should have written it down," she said quietly.

  "No," I said firmly. "This way, she will wonder why I did not. It will force her to think, to question, to remember her father’s loyalty. She will know that we are not here to beg."

  Aria pursed her lips. "Or she will see it as arrogance and refuse you outright."

  "She won’t," I countered. "Irene is many things, but she is not reckless. She would not have summoned her council if she had already made up her mind. She’s playing a game, and if I seem too desperate, she will think she holds the power."

  "And if she does hold the power?" Aria challenged. "We are the ones who came seeking sanctuary, Alaric. We are the ones in need."

  I turned my gaze toward the flickering campfires, watching the shadows dance. The smell of roasted meat drifted in the air, but I had no appetite.

  "No," I said, my voice quieter this time. "She thinks she holds the power. But in truth, she is just as afraid as we are. She fears Eadric’s wrath. She fears making the wrong choice. If we appear weak, she will hesitate. And hesitation will cost us everything."

  Aria studied me for a long moment, searching for something in my face—doubt, fear, regret. She would find none.

  Finally, she sighed. "You’re too much like him, you know."

  "Who?"

  "Our father."

  I turned to look at her, but she had already stepped away, walking toward her tent without another word.

  I wasn’t sure if she had meant it as a compliment or a curse.

  "He who fights for the crown wears it, he who fights for another digs graves."

  -Gulvian Proverbs