Victor stepped into the council chamber, his presence met with an oppressive silence. The air was thick with tension, the weight of looming disaster palpable. At the centre, a long, polished table seated the Empire's most powerful lords and military commanders. Like the murmurs of a distant storm, their hushed conversations barely concealed the urgency that permeated the chamber.
It had been three weeks since his punishment. Three weeks of brooding silence and festering rage. Victor stood apart from these men, feeling like an outsider in his father's domain. This wasn't where he belonged.
Duke Arenthis, his father, stood at the head of the table, his tall, imposing figure commanding the room without effort. He looked fixedly at the map spread before him, his expression unreadable, as though the coming war was no more than an inconvenience. The councilmen sat around him like statues, their faces marked with lines of worry, yet their bodies were rigid with determination. No one was here to talk of victory; they were here to stave off inevitable defeat.
A grizzled general broke the silence, his voice gravelly from years on the battlefield. "The eastern provinces report heavy losses. The Blood Suns, led by Alrik, press further into our lands. Their guerilla tactics strike quickly and retreat to the mountains, where our forces can't follow."
Another commander, his face scarred from countless battles, slammed a fist on the table. "They leave nothing but ashes in their wake. Villages burned, no survivors. If we don't act now, the capital will fall next."
The name "Alrik" hung in the air like a curse. Victor stiffened at the sound of it. Alrik of the Blood Suns—more a myth than a man, said to be a giant or a demon, depending on who you asked. The stories of his ruthlessness were endless, and all of them carried the same ending: destruction. The Empire had never faced such a brutal enemy.
Lord Eddrin, ever the political tactician, leaned forward with a grim frown. "We've underestimated him. Alrik is no mere warlord. He's rallied an army from the outlying kingdoms. If we don't halt his advance within a fortnight, he'll reach the capital with an army too large to stop."
The silence that followed was chilling. Every man in the room felt the looming shadow of Alrik approaching, and none dared speak of what his arrival would mean. The Blood Suns weren't just an army—they were a death sentence.
Duke Arenthis finally spoke, his voice like iron, cutting through the tension. "We will reinforce the eastern front. We have no choice." His eyes briefly flickered toward Victor before returning to the map. "Caelora must not fall. We need fresh leadership on the front lines."
Victor's heart quickened. He sensed what was coming, and yet it felt surreal, like watching his own fate unravel from a distance. It was a role he had prepared for in theory, yet now, as the words left his father's mouth, the reality struck him with cold, paralysing force.
The Duke's gaze settled on him, cold and unwavering. "Victor will lead a battalion to the eastern front."
A wave of disbelief rippled through the room. Eyes turned to Victor, heavy with expectation. His breath caught in his throat. Lead? Command? He could hardly stand from the wounds of his father's punishment, and now he was to lead men into a war no one could win?
[What do they expect of me?]
His mind raced. The weight of his name, of his father's expectations, bore down on him. He thought of the stories of Alrik's brutality, of villages turned to ash. His insides churned with the realisation that he would be sending men to their deaths. His men. The lives of hundreds would rest on his command, and the battlefield did not offer second chances. He had spent years living in the shadow of his father, watching from the sidelines, and now, just as he had feared, he was being thrust into a war that was already lost.
General Thallian, one of the kingdom's most seasoned officers, hesitated. "Your Grace," he began cautiously, "with all due respect, your son is young and untested in battle—"
"He will do what is expected of him," the Duke interrupted firmly, his voice allowing no argument. "He is the Arenthis. This is his duty."
Victor's pulse raced, his fists clenched at his sides. Everything within him screamed to object, to beg for more time—but he knew better than to challenge his father's will in front of the council. The Duke's words were not an offer; they were an order.
Alrik's name lingered in the air, and the silence grew suffocating. Victor felt the walls close in around him. His father's gaze never wavered, as if daring his son to defy him.
From across the table, Prince Darius Ebonmere, son of the Emperor, smirked. "A bold decision, Your Grace. Let us hope the young commander fares better than his predecessors. Alrik's thirst for Caelora's blood knows no bounds."
Victor's jaw tightened as he met the prince's gaze, the unspoken animosity between them palpable. Darius's words dripped with thinly veiled disdain. His smirk was a dagger, twisting in Victor's chest.
The Duke gave no sign that he had heard the prince's barbs. "Victor will depart in three days," he declared. "Prepare yourself."
Three days. Victor felt the floor drop from beneath him. Without a word from him, they had decided his future and survival. A pawn in his father's grand game, just as he'd always feared.
The councilmen began murmuring amongst themselves, the gravity of the decision settling over them. But Victor barely heard them. He turned on his heel and left the room, his steps echoing down the long, cold corridor. The weight of what had just transpired hung heavy around his neck like a noose.
After council Victor found his father in his private study, standing before the tall windows that overlooked the castle grounds. He had his back turned, hands clasped behind him, treating the fate of his only son as if it were just another piece of statecraft.
Victor's voice was raw with barely contained fury.
"You decided my fate without so much as asking me."
The Duke didn't turn. "There was nothing to ask. Your place is on the battlefield, as mine was."
"I'm not ready!" Victor's voice cracked, the emotion spilling over. "You've kept me sheltered, made me watch from the sidelines, and now you expect me to lead men against Alrik?"
Duke Arenthis turned slowly, his eyes narrowing, his voice dangerously low. "Do not mistake my preparations for weakness, Victor. You are an Arenthis. This is your legacy, and you will bear it with honour."
Victor's breath hitched. "Honour? What honour is there in being sent to die for your pride? To fight a war we can't win?"
The Duke stepped closer, his gaze sharp as a blade, though a flicker of something—regret?—crossed his eyes. "The battlefield will teach you. It is where boys become men. You will lead, or you will die. That is your choice."
For a fleeting moment, Victor saw it—a shadow of something deeper in his father's expression. A weariness, an unspoken weight that hung behind his rigid facade. Perhaps the Duke wasn't simply sending him to die for pride. Perhaps, in his cold, unforgiving way, he believed this was the only path to survival for both Victor and their legacy.
Victor shook his head, disbelief turning to cold, simmering rage. "Is that all I am to you? Another tool to wield? Another piece on your chessboard?"
The Duke's composure wavered, if only for a moment. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, almost strained. "You are my son. And you will do what is required of you. The war doesn't care about your doubts, and neither do I."
Victor's heart pounded in his chest, his hands trembling with unspoken words. He met his father's gaze, searching for any sign of empathy, any sliver of understanding—but there was none. Only the same cold, unyielding command.
"If that's all I am to you," Victor said, his voice barely a whisper, "then maybe you've already failed."
Without waiting for a response, Victor turned and strode out of the room, the storm of emotions swirling inside him, his father's words echoing in his mind like the final toll of a funeral bell.
Victor stumbled into the cold stone corridor, his heart racing, breath ragged. He pressed his back against the wall, seeking refuge from the chaos that suffocated him. His hands trembled, clutching his hair as the weight of his reality crushed him.
"Why?" he whispered to the emptiness, his voice cracking. The walls felt like they were closing in, trapping him in a life he never chose.
Sliding down to the floor, he let the cold, unyielding stone remind him of the world he was forced to inhabit. Tears streamed down his face, born of frustration, fear, and the hopelessness that had festered within him. He was no longer the boy who once dreamed of adventure. He was now just a pawn in a game he despised, a soldier about to be thrown into a battle he had no faith in.
"What if I fail?" he choked out, the panic gnawing at him. Failure. To my father. Family. Myself.
Had he ever truly mattered to his father? Or had he always been just another tool for a future he couldn't bear? His childhood dreams of honour were buried beneath the crushing weight of duty. What had he done to deserve this?
"I don't want to die," he admitted, his body shaking with sobs. "I don't want to…"
His whole body trembled, the fear clawing at him from the inside out. Each sob felt like a betrayal of the ideals he had been raised to uphold—a rejection of the lessons his father had drilled into him from the time he could barely lift a blade. Honour, loyalty, strength. These were the pillars upon which his family stood. But Victor? He was crumbling. What use was loyalty when it demanded the sacrifice of his soul?
The irony cut deeper than any blade—he was destined to carry on a name he could no longer respect, to lead men into a fight he didn't believe in.
No matter how much he cried, how much he resisted, someone had already decided his future.
With a shudder, Victor wiped his face, but the weight of his confession still pressed down on him. The flickering torches cast long shadows, and he felt like a ghost—adrift, lost in a world that demanded too much. His father's promises of glory had never been meant for him. They were meant for the man his father wanted him to be, not the man he was.
With a heavy heart, Victor finally rose to his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But even as he stood, the weight of hopelessness clung to him like a shroud. Each step felt heavier than the last as he navigated the cold corridors, the world outside seeming more distant than ever.
He had no answers, no sense of purpose—only the gnawing fear. Whatever awaited him on the battlefield, he knew he would face it not as a hero, but as a broken man, a son who had lost his way.