The camp was a hive of activity, a controlled chaos as soldiers hastily packed away the remnants of our temporary home. Tents were being folded and rolled into bundles, thick canvas and wooden poles slung over weary shoulders. Men moved through the camp with mechanical efficiency, their faces grim, checking supplies—bags of dried rations, water skins, and bandages carefully stowed away. Weapons were sharpened with a steady rhythm, the scraping of metal against whetstones filling the air as each sword, spear, and arrow was inspected with meticulous care. Horses, already saddled, snorted impatiently as they stamped at the ground, sensing the tension that thickened the air.
I watched as men, already bruised by battle, tightened straps on their armor and shouldered packs that seemed heavier with the knowledge of the fight to come. The scent of damp earth and sweat clung to everything, mixing with the metallic tang of steel. It was the smell of war, and it was suffocating.
As we began the march, boots crunching against the rocky path, the scenery shifted from the relative comfort of the camp to the harsh reality of a kingdom in collapse. Villages we passed were barely standing, their thatched roofs sagging, walls cracked, and chimneys cold. The villagers stood by the roadside, gaunt faces framed by sunken eyes that held no light, only the dull resignation of those long accustomed to suffering.
They wore rags, clothes torn and patched too many times to count, clinging to their emaciated bodies. The children clutched their mothers' skirts, their cheeks hollow, eyes wide and empty, like ghosts trapped in frail bodies. The men, what few remained, leaned against broken doorways, their gazes following us—not in hope, but in bitter silence. It was as if they knew we were just more soldiers, part of the machine that had ground their lives into dust.
There was pain in their eyes, pain that no words could capture, etched into every wrinkle and every tear-streaked face. War had stolen everything from them—homes, families, their dignity—and now, as they looked upon us, the very army that was supposed to protect them, there was nothing left but quiet despair.
We kept marching, leaving behind the misery of the villagers, their eyes still burning into our backs long after they disappeared from view. This war had left no one untouched, and I wondered how much more we could take before we broke too.
The army came to a slow halt in the open field, the sound of clinking armor and creaking leather fading into an eerie silence. We had marched for hours, the weight of anticipation growing heavier with each step. Now, spread across the vast stretch of pasture, knights on horseback lined the front, their polished armor gleaming under the clouded sky. In front of them, the noble lords, seated high atop their warhorses, watched the horizon with a mix of arrogance and unease.
One of the lords, a man named Lord Branthor, his voice sharp and dripping with entitlement, commanded Gideon with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Send your scouts ahead, Captain. We need eyes on the other side of that hill."
Gideon didn't flinch, his jaw tight as he turned to his men. "Silas, you're up."
Silas, a seasoned scout known for his sharp instincts and keen eyes, nodded silently and disappeared over the crest of the hill, his movements swift and silent like a shadow slipping through the tall grass.
We waited, the minutes dragging on painfully, the tension thickening as every eye stayed fixed on that hill. My heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and dread, knowing that whatever Silas found would shape the battle to come.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Finally, Silas reappeared, sprinting back with a look on his face that sent a chill down my spine. He was breathless as he reached Gideon, his voice low but urgent. I couldn't hear what he said, but Gideon's face darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing. Without a word, Gideon turned and strode straight to Lord Branthor, his stride purposeful, tension radiating from every step.
Beside me, Rylan muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper. "This is about to go down, isn't it?"
Lyra, her eyes scanning the field, nodded, gripping her staff tightly. "Feels like the air before a storm."
I could feel it too—the weight of something inevitable, something dangerous, lurking just beyond the hill. My hand instinctively wrapped around the hilt of my sword, the leather grip familiar and comforting against my palm.
Then I saw it. Cresting the hill, like a dark wave, came the enemy. The banners of Varyn fluttered in the wind, their blood-red sigils visible even from a distance. An army ten thousand strong, marching in perfect formation, their weapons glinting ominously in the fading light.
My breath caught in my throat. We had five thousand soldiers at best—three thousand knights, two thousand royal soldiers, and a scattering of peasants armed with crude spears and shields. And then there was my hundred. A hundred souls looking to me for guidance, for leadership. This was it. The moment I had been training for my whole life.
As the enemy forces stretched out before us like an endless tide, I felt the weight of history pressing down on me. This was where I would either rise or fall, where my name would be etched into the annals of this world—or forgotten entirely.
I glanced at Rylan and Lyra. Rylan's knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword, his usual smirk replaced with grim determination. Lyra's eyes met mine, her quiet resolve steadying me.
The battlefield lay before us, vast and unforgiving.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the distant sound of war drums.
"Steady yourself, Lucan," I whispered to myself, my pulse pounding in my ears. "This is where it all begins."
The sky darkened, and as Gideon returned to the front lines, his face unreadable, the tension reached its breaking point.
"Prepare yourselves," he shouted.
And then, from across the field, a deafening war horn sounded.
The enemy was coming.
And there was no turning back.