"The land is familiar to me, and it'll be to your advantage as well, your grace. There's a plateau up ahead, rocky terrain. The enemy's cavalry will slow down there. With the right positioning for our archers, we can halt their advance without a full assault. We can pick them off and make them feel the weight of their mistake."
Alaric's eyes gleamed with an almost predatory satisfaction. He knew this land like the back of his hand, and Richard's plan was sound. The trap was set. The enemy would march right into it.
"Then we'll move as soon as they enter the pass," Alaric commanded, his voice deep and commanding. "We fight with precision, not force. Let the chaos work for us."
As the armies of Wyfn-Garde advanced forward, the sound of hundreds of boots marching in unison created a thunderous rhythm.
The cavalry thundered in the front, the powerful warhorses kicking up the dust as they prepared to charge. Behind them, infantry and archers followed, the weight of their armor glinting like a sea of iron.
The warriors' faces were set in grim determination; they knew what was at stake. The kingdom needed this victory. And they would have it.
At the edge of the battlefield, Alaric's vampiric senses stretched out into the air, tasting the scent of the wind and feeling the vibrations in the ground beneath his feet.
He could feel the presence of their enemy — the clamor of their marching soldiers, the sharpness of their fear, and the anticipation of the bloodshed to come. But it was not fear that gripped him.
No, it was the hunger — a bloodlust that surged through his veins. A call to battle that no mortal could ever truly understand.
As they drew closer to the enemy's line, the tension rose, crackling through the air like a storm on the horizon. Alaric's eyes narrowed. They were almost there.
The first clash came like a storm breaking against a cliff, the enemy's forces meeting the warriors of Wyfn-Garde with a deafening roar.
Steel rang against steel as knights engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat, swords flashing, shields shattering. The battle was in full swing, and yet, Alaric was not with his men.
He moved like a shadow, darting between the chaos with vampiric speed, his blade flashing in the moonlight as it cut through the enemy's lines. His eyes burned with an ancient hunger as his strength shattered the defenses of those foolish enough to stand in his way.
A warrior lunged at him, but before the man could react, Alaric was already behind him, a deadly strike slicing through the air to sever his neck in one fluid motion. The enemy soldier crumpled to the ground, and Alaric's red-tipped blade danced through the air, already moving to the next.
The chaos of the battlefield swirled around him, but Alaric was a force unto himself, a living storm of death and destruction.
His speed was unmatched, his strength unparalleled. He moved through the enemy like a blade through water, his every movement an embodiment of lethal grace.
He tore through their ranks, his sword cleaving through flesh and bone, creating an opening for his soldiers to pour through.
Behind him, his men followed, emboldened by his unrelenting assault. The enemies, caught off guard by the sudden and violent intrusion, faltered in their lines.
Panic began to ripple through their ranks. It was a chaos Alaric reveled in, the kind of disarray that was his very domain.
Alaric's roar pierced through the fray, a signal for his men to press forward, and they surged, a wall of iron and steel crashing into the disoriented enemy. Archers on the hill rained arrows down, their aim precise, as the rocky terrain turned the enemy's formations to mush.
But Alaric did not stop. He advanced deeper, cutting through their forces with ruthless efficiency, creating more chaos. Every slash of his sword invited his warriors to follow, the floodgates opening for a relentless onslaught.
His vampiric senses let him anticipate every move, every attack. He was everywhere at once — a ghost, a wraith, a nightmare made flesh.
Through the chaos, his eyes sought the enemy's commander — the one who could turn the tide of battle. He moved toward him, a predator sensing his prey.
Blood dripped from his blade, but Alaric's thirst was far from quenched. His enemies were breaking, but the battle had just begun.
In the distance, Richard and the archers were executing their plan, the narrow pass slowing the enemy's cavalry just as Alaric had hoped.
But it was far from over. The battle was still raging, the air thick with the screams of dying men and the clash of weapons.
Alaric knew that the war was not won in a single fight. But this battle, this battle would be remembered. And it was only the beginning.
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The castle's corridors felt suffocating, the stone walls echoing Beatrice Velthorne's wails as she stumbled through the halls, her gown trailing behind her like a cloud of mourning.
Her face was streaked with tears, eyes swollen, mascara running down her cheeks as she cried for her husband, Prince Spencer, who was far away at the front lines of battle.
Her hands were clutching at her chest as if the pain in her heart could be soothed by holding herself together, but it was futile.
"Why?" she cried, her voice a strained wail. "Why must he go? Why must he risk his life? Half-blind—half-blind, Lilian!" Her voice cracked as she turned toward the woman standing across the room, watching her with a tight-lipped, stoic expression.
Lilian Velthorne, the Fifth Princess and Crown Princess by marriage, stood silently, her arms crossed in front of her.
She had been standing there for what felt like hours, watching Beatrice's outburst with an expression that was a mixture of pity and irritation.
It wasn't the first time Beatrice had come undone over Spencer's participation in the war, but today it was more frantic, more desperate.
Lilian stepped forward, trying to keep her tone as calm as possible despite the irritation gnawing at her. "Beatrice, you must calm yourself. Your hysteria will not help Spencer."