CHAPTER ONE : SIEGE OF KAZA'THAR

He stopped counting the enemy torches and oil lamps.
The thoughts had been torturing him; it was chaos inside his mind. Eight thousand torches, eight thousand soldiers, eight thousand men standing between war and peace.

Imperious stood on the ridge of Kaza'thar and watched the valley drown beneath a sea of flame. The Vanvarian fortification was spread across the opposite land like a wound of fire carved into darkness; every soldier, every torch sat exactly where it was supposed to be.

For Imperious, the river is unseen in the dark but heard well enough, water against the stone, the sound it always made before the war and will always make after the war. He had one question that wouldn't leave his mind:

"Whose blood will this river carry tomorrow?"

"The Vanvarians' or the Velthorans'?"
As he stood there, the cold was sneaking through his armor; hunger gnawed at him from within, and the wind tugged his crimson cloak, but he barely noticed. Three years of war sharpened the body and the mind.
Behind him waited four thousand men.
Half the number.
Twice the burden.
And all he was thinking about is how to ask them to follow him into hell.

All of this was interrupted by the second man in command, Captain Tyrek, who approached with steady footsteps.

He cleared his throat. "My lord, the scout reports more than six thousand."

Imperious remained silent and did not turn back. Tyrek spoke again, his tone carrying concern. "My lord?"

Imperious kept his gaze fixed on the enemy fortification.

"The number isn't important. Have you learned nothing in these three years of war?"

Tyrek had no answer. Imperious continued tracking a torch moving across the river.

"Look at that river. It has always been wide enough to bury our men. They let us come to them, and they bleed us."

Tyrek lowered his voice. "What are you referring to, my lord?"

Imperious turned, looked at Tyrek, and pointed at a crack in his armor.

"We will cross the river, but not by the usual path."

Tyrek tried to speak, but the words failed him. His expression, and the way his hand drifted to the scar on his jaw, revealed his doubt.
"Say it."
Tyrek exhaled and put his hands behind his back, while keeping his eyes on the ground, with a low, fragmented voice. "The river runs deep on both banks, my lord; the old tunnels have been sealed for a century; the seals would collapse on us. Even if they held long enough, what makes you sure that the Vanvarians won't be expecting us?"
Their grey eyes met.
"You're telling me the cost, Captain; we already know that."
"My lord, we cannot risk that; it is certain death."
Imperious turned back, looking at the moon and the Vanveries fortification.
"Certain death, you said?" he said.
"Then let it be their death; prepare the men."
Tyrek didn't negotiate; he simply nodded. "Yes, my lord." His fifteen years of service at his commander's side had taught him to trust this man; everyone did, as he is not only the Prince of Velthora, he is the light and the hope of the kingdom.
He always pulled his people out of the mud.

He stood there alone in the dark on the ridge. He thought of his men who would not see dawn. He had memorized their names—not all of them, but enough: the young sergeant from the northern garrison who always sharpened his sword, the scout who had lied about his age because he was told that the First Royal Legion was the pride of the kingdom. He pulled his crimson cloak tighter, crossed his arms over his chest, and felt the lion symbol carved into his armor. He was trying to contain the pressure of what he was about to ask them to do.

Below, the Vanveries' oil lamps glowed, the wind whispered, and the fire crackled from the torches. They stood there, the silver dragon symbols on their black armor reflecting the light. They waited patiently.

Late at night, at the Velthorian camp, Tyrek gathered the soldiers. Everyone was aligned and organized—four thousand men standing rigid, one hand on a weapon; some on their heavy swords, some on their smoothbore long guns, some on their spears. The other hand was clenched into a fist against the chest, over the golden lion symbol carved into the blue armor, while heavy, rounded metal shields were strapped to their backs, representing Light and Pride. No one moved a finger or even whispered. Only the campfire crackled and the flag of Velthora billowed. Everyone kept their gaze on the prince's tent that stood on the high ground.

As Imperious finally showed up, light glinted off his thick emerald knight armor, the raging golden lion symbol carved on the chest, golden lion head pauldrons, his stern face and gray hunter's eyes, and crimson billowing cloak as he walked in; everyone was tense. On the rostrum between the oil lamps, where everyone could see him and hear him, he finally broke the silence as he tapped his chest with his fist three times. The sound echoed from his armor across the entire camp as the army followed suit.

"Brothers," he said in a heavy, loud tone.

He exhaled and continued, "Three years of war, three years of hunger, three years of death. I know you are exhausted; so is the enemy."

As he started walking back and forth between the lamps:

"Your brothers' blood stains that river. Each one of them had hopes and dreams, all of them gone as they lay dead. But this does not mean that their lives were wasted. Their lives were the greatest example of sacrifice. Knights of Velthora, the 1st Royal Legion, the Ascended of the Light—as we march to hell, we will avenge our brothers. Their names and ours will be carved into the Great Wall of Kaeldwin."

As he glared toward his soldiers:

"As we march, we will reshape history and destiny."

Imperious drew his sword from its sheath and raised it.

"Through the gates of hell, we will make our way to heaven."

Every soldier raised his weapon and all shouted in one voice,

"For the Light!"

After midnight, the old quarry tunnels beneath Kaza'thar.

Total darkness, cold still water, fungus spreading through the walls like a disease, the smell of mud mixed with wet limestone, and the echoing drips of water between the moments of silence. Six hundred men moved through it, where breathing became labored due to damp and stale air, one hand on the guide rope, the other on a weapon. Some men held torches in their other hand that, instead of lighting the path, exposed ancient carved statues of knights in the walls. Each man moved slowly on a war footing. The cold from the water was sneaking through their armor and eating their bones, the mud making walking harder with every step, yet no one showed a sign of weakness.

Imperious led from the front like he always did. He kept moving until the tunnel floor tilted upward. The air changed, and finally they were there. They reached a wooden seal. He turned back and looked at his men; everyone was silent and tensed up, each one knowing that hell awaits on the other side where death will be their salvation, and he nodded. They nodded back. He secured his shield on his forearm, stepped back, and charged toward the seal. He burst through it with his shield, and his men followed.

They found themselves in the central yard of the fortification, the big iron gates right in front of them, Vanveries surrounding them as they drew their swords and started charging without hesitation. Without panicking, they had been trained for this kind of situation.

Imperious was already shouting, "Shields!"

The Velthorians spread into four groups. Three groups formed a tank-like formation with their shields while the fourth group, covered by the others, moved toward the gates. Vanveries soldiers shouted, "We have been breached!" while the others attacked quickly, landing heavy strikes on shields, swords, and spears, and using their pistols—anything to stop them from reaching the gate. Some shields failed, and with them, some men fell.

On the other side, on the edge of the river, Tyrek and more than three thousand soldiers waited in complete darkness, standing like still water, their gaze fixed on the gates.

The silence broke with the war horn from the watchtower. The soldier who sounded it watched thousands of torches break free from the darkness across the river.

Tyrek shouted, "For our brothers, death and glory!"

Then he shouted even louder, "For the Light!"

Everyone charged forward with a war cry.

At the exact same moment, Imperious and his men managed to reach the gate and open it. Waves of whistling arrows fell upon the Velthorian tide from the crenels of the fortification, finding their marks with a sickening thud, piercing deep into their chests, necks, and skulls. As they fell, their successors kept moving, and those who had opened the gate held their ground.

The Vanveries reorganized very quickly under their leader's orders, yet Imperious did not give them enough time to plan. He simply charged toward them without considering his life as his men followed.

Both sides pulled their smoothbore long guns, making the air thick with gunpowder smoke as the acrid smell of sulfur choked everyone. Armor and flesh shattered all around, yet swords still clashed, and spears met shields.

Outside the walls, twenty large thundering cannons were positioned as they started the bombardment. As both armies engaged in a slaughter, the explosions shook the earth under their feet, muting the screams of the battle as it left a deafening ringing in their ears and sent iron fragments flying in every direction on both Vanveries and Velthorians; the sound of tearing flesh dominated the battlefield.

One of them lost both his legs and lay screaming in pain and shock. Another soldier crushed the skull of his enemy with a shield. Another blinked and became a headless body. Another, outnumbered by five, was stabbed all over his body with spears. One man, impaled by a spear through his leg, was prevented from moving while he could smell his own burning flesh; his screams of pain and despair meant nothing as the fire consumed him alive.

Flames and the blinding smoke surrounded both armies, burned eyes and choked men as they started to consume the watchtowers as well. The sky turned red, golden lions reflecting the light, silver dragons absorbing it.

In the middle of this chaos, Imperious had only one thought: how he could cut his way to the enemy leader. But he was interrupted. He reacted quickly, dodging a sword stroke and cutting the man's throat. He pressed forward as they continued to charge toward him, blocking with his shield and carving his blade into their hearts.

Two men charged toward him at the same time, one with a spear and the other with a sword. He blocked the spear with his shield, twisted his body to dodge the swordsman's swing, and cut his throat. He repositioned himself and, with his sword, cut off the man's right hand; the man screamed in shock. Then he cut off his arm, seized the man by the head, and snapped his neck. The bombardment doubled. Walls failed, crashed, and buried soldiers. Explosions spread mud, blood, and guts everywhere.

A Vanverian soldier moved to flank Imperious, attacking him from his blind spot. Imperious glimpsed him and tried to move his heavy shield, but he was too slow. The spear was about to reach his chest.

In the blink of an eye, the spear was deflected and the enemy sent flying. Imperious looked at him; his chest was open, every bone broken, instant death.

He turned back. It was Tyrek, who had charged the man with his war hammer. Imperious nodded to him, and he nodded back and kept pushing forward.

Imperious took a moment to look around him. He saw both his men and the enemy falling, the flames eating both life and land, making the air scorching hot, the shattered Velthorian shields on the ground, and the flag of his kingdom burning as the flames devoured the lion symbol.

Suddenly, two bodies of his men were thrown in front of him. One of them had his neck, both arms, and both legs snapped in the opposite direction. The second was cut in half; only his upper body remained. More mangled corpses kept being tossed all around.

The smoke slowly cleared while he heard the desperate screams of his comrade; he held his gaze and saw a long heavy black sword, black armor with a black cloak that had a raging red dragon symbol, long black hair, so burly that she was lifting the man with one hand choking him, twisted her wrist, and with it the man's neck snapped and she sent him following the other corpses, realizing this confirmed his scout's words.

It was her.

The leader of the Vanveries.

Mayr Cal'drath.

"With this it will be seventy-five," she said in a low, serious voice.

She held her gaze on him as she wiped the blood of his men from her face and pointed her sword toward him.

"Would you care to join them, heretic prince?" she said.

Imperious gritted his teeth and roared her name,

"Mayr!"

She smiled and took her fighting stance.

Right before she charged at him, a young soldier interrupted her. He was one of those whose names Imperious had memorized.

She blocked his sword strike with her forearm. Her other hand thrust toward his face and gouged out his eyes. She flung him aside.

At that exact moment, Imperious closed the distance, and their swords clashed.