How many months has it been since I got here? Well, my mind knew that I've only been here for mere months, yet my heart felt like I've been here for eternity.
Ridiculous. And I smiled at how I ridiculously loved it.
The Eastern Frontier of the Dominion. It was a harsh place that served as a bastion of defense against the mighty Holy Empire of Zendaria. But for all its grueling struggles and life-threatening challenges, I'd say that this place suited me. Unlike the glittering courts of the Dominion where mages flaunted their power and nobles whispered venomous words behind painted smiles, Fort Nivara spoke a language I understood: survival.
That word was all I knew as I grew up among the elites of society. Backbiting snakes that would even sell out their own kind for wealth and power.
I brushed away the memory as I stood atop the crumbling walls of the fortress city, surveying the land that stretched before me. Rugged plains, dotted with sparse trees, extended toward the distant Zendarian mountains—a jagged line on the horizon.
My family sent me here in an attempt to deny my existence among the nobility, expecting me to die a gruesome death at the hands of Zendarian warriors or the monsters that roamed these parts. However, what I received instead was a home. This place wasn't much, not yet, but it was mine to protect.
"Milord, the eastern patrols returned an hour ago," said Garth Thorne, my trusted aide and the man who had quickly become my shadow. His voice was gruff, befitting his weathered face and the scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
He may look serious at first glance, but when we first met, he gave me a tight hug and shed a tear or two from my story. A remarkable man.
"They cleared out a pack of wolves that had been trailing a merchant caravan. No casualties."
"Good," I replied, my gaze lingering on the horizon. "And the hunters? Did they bring back enough for the rations?"
"Enough to last a week," Garth replied. "Though I wouldn't say no to more."
Food had been a constant concern since I was stationed here. The Dominion had sent me to the frontier with little more than a title and a handful of supplies as a "courtesy". If I was any other noble, I would've undoubtedly keeled over. Fortunately, I managed to take a page out of the long-standing members of this city and through sheer necessity, I adapted with them.
Monsters has been their main diet for hundreds of years, even long before the Dominion took hold of this territory. Thus, monster hunting wasn't just a sport here; it was survival. Truth be told, I was hesitant to consume monster meat in the beginning. But after tasting one of their signature dishes, I was quick to change my mind.
The adventurers and hunters who frequented the frontier killed monsters for their parts. Skin for clothing, bones for magical ingredients or weaponry, and other odd internal organs used to bolster their strength. They came to these lands in an attempt to gain riches more than they could spend. To them, this city was a means to an end. But to us who lived here, they were blessings in disguise as their kills bolstered our stores.
Still, as much as they were reliable, I knew it wouldn't last. I remembered the words of the Elf I met in passing said, "Time changes all things. Everything is unpredictable." If we wanted to continue living, this city needed stability—a future.
I turned to Garth. "What do you think of the aqueduct I suggested?"
His brows furrowed as he considered the question. "Ambitious. But it'll cost resources we don't have and time we might not get. Zendaria isn't exactly sitting on its hands. One slip and they'd come invading."
"True." I folded my arms. "But without a reliable water source, we'll always be one dry season away from collapse. If we're going to make Fort Nivara more than a dying city, we need this."
Garth grunted, which was as close to agreement as he ever gave.
I needed more time to think, and Garth was as good as any to bounce ideas with. But before I could press the matter further, a soldier approached, his armor dusted with travel and rusted with time. Great. Another one to put in the list of things to do.
He saluted, short of breath. "Milord, news from the southern road. A party of travelers approaches."
I raised an eyebrow. "Travelers? Hardly news to report and be out of breath for."
"Well..." the soldier's words trailed before he continued. "They're actually the new hero's party that the King commissioned."
The words hung in the air like the toll of a bell.
"A hero's party?" I repeated, my voice steady though my mind raced.
"Yes, milord. They bear the Dominion's crest and among them is none other than Misha the warrior."
The name stirred memories I hadn't revisited in years. Misha, the Barbarian of the North. He was a terrifying combatant who has proved himself in the Coliseum as its undefeated champion. He was as excellent with swords as he was with magic. A truly terrifying existence.
And he was my master, my mentor. The man who had taught me everything I knew about combat and survival out of pity. Well, at least that's what I thought until he smacked me on the head when I told him that when I was a teen.
I smirked at the memory.
"Prepare a reception," I said, already turning toward the staircase.
---
The great hall of the fortress was modest, as was everything in Fort Nivara, but we did our best to make it presentable. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. My officers stood at attention, and the servants bustled about, setting out what little finery we had.
When the hero's party arrived, they cut an impressive figure. Five of them in total, their leader a young man with golden hair and eyes that seemed to shine with an inner light. He must be the hero of this party—the one destined to save us all. That was, if he could actually defeat the Demon King. Many parties have tried and died tragic deaths. Hell, with the success rate of the heroes, I had a better chance of becoming king than them exterminating the leader of all Demons.
And yet, when I looked at him, why did I get the vague feeling that he can actually do it?
I turned my sight to the other three. They were non-descript as they came, but being in the hero's party, they must be quite skilled. One was a mage evidenced by the robe she wore with pride, the other was a priest of the Holy Lord, and the one standing at the very back whose presence was quite unnoticeable was probably their alchemist from the amount of vials he sported on his belt.
Then finally, my eyes were drawn to Misha. He looked older than I remembered, though his broad shoulders and confident gait hadn't changed. He wore his usual leather armor, scuffed and scratched from countless battles.
"Adrian." His voice was warm, tinged with pride as he clasped my arm. "It's good to see you."
"And you, Master," I replied, the formality slipping into familiarity.
The feast, if it could be called that, was a brief affair. Food was too precious to squander, and the hero's party seemed eager to rest. But Misha lingered long after the others had retired, and together we sat by the fire, two men separated by time and fate.
"So," he said, breaking the silence. "The shame of the Lysvalen family, stationed on the Frontier. How does it feel to be here, far from the capital's grandeur and your daddy's money?"
I chuckled, shaking my head. "You know the capital never suited me. Here, at least, I know my place."
"And what place is that?"
I met his gaze, my expression serious. "The place of a warden," I replied. "I know I'm not the hero, Master. I know I'll never be the one who saves the world from the Demons. But if I can buy time—if I can hold the line here, keep the Zendarian army at bay, and protect these people until peace comes—then I'll have done my part."
Misha studied me, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. "It's not an easy path you've chosen. Most would never even think of taking on such an unreasonable task."
"Not chosen, Master. Remember, I was banished here," I said with a smile. "Also, most don't have you for a teacher so all in all, I'm way more suited for this 'unreasonable' task."
He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed in the hall. "True enough," he said, then his eyes locked with mine, burning with concern. "But remember, Adrian, even the greatest warriors can falter if they don't have a solid idea of what they're fighting for. So tell me, what drives you to hold the line, even knowing you may never see the fruits of your labor?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I stared into the fire, the flames dancing in my eyes.
"When I was a child, I heard the prophecies about the hero from my late mother. She was so radiant when she described how they would rise to defeat the Demon King and save the world. Because of her faith, I believed in those stories, Master. And I still do. But stories don't build walls, or feed people, or keep armies at bay. So, while the prophecy of the Holy Lord is being fulfilled, I will do what I can do with the people I must do it with."
Misha nodded, his expression somber. "Then hold fast to that belief, Adrian. Because the road ahead will only grow harder and most likely, only you will be able to remember your efforts."
As he retired for the night, I remained by the fire, lost in thought. The hero's party would leave tomorrow, venturing into Zendarian lands on their quest to defeat the Demon King. Their journey would be sung of in songs, their names etched into history.
And me? I would stay here, on the frontier, fighting a battle no one would remember.
But that was fine. I didn't need glory. All I needed was to hold the line.