1222-11-01
11 years and 337 days. That's how long the war with UIK has dragged on. As the days blur together, my sense of time has slowed. I remember being 17 years old when I was first sent to fight.
So much for the Varvensi Agreement.
People will do anything to win. Countries are no different. They disregard treaties they didn't sign, breaking promises as long as there's some gain to be had.
What does UIK gain from this? What does Rali? What made Prescar so special?
I have no idea. Even as a general, I'm still on a need-to-know basis. The Merchant King rarely shares his plans. We're left to guess, to assign our own reasons. Some say they fight for family. Others for victory. Many want revenge.
I've never truly had a reason to fight. I was conscripted, and I've fought out of duty to my country. But as we enter the twelfth year of this war, my faith and willpower are at an all-time low. I wish someone would just tell us the truth—even if it was only a lie.
There are answers buried beneath the surface. Gold, perhaps. Something worth the bloodshed. The war between UIK and Rali is the longest in the new century, but no one really knows why it began.
I ride on horseback through the fields of Prescar.
My horse is tired, as tired as I am.
"Keep going, Arden," I whisper, patting his neck.
Over the years, I've had many horses. This one is no different, yet I've grown attached. He's lasted longer than most. I hope we both survive to see the end of this conflict, though I know how unlikely that is.
At the border in central Prescar, the fighting is relentless. Small skirmishes. Large offensives. A constant battle as each side tries to push the other back. I've been reassigned here, where the blood flows the thickest.
Prescar itself is a small continent in the eastern Central Sea. Its cities are little more than outposts, built by each country as taunts to the other. Nothing concrete. Nothing lasting.
I arrive at the camp, soldiers turning to watch me approach.
"General." They salute as I dismount.
I return the gesture, stiff and formal.
I don't know their names. Hope of familiarity faded long ago. These days, we only name our horses.
"Take Arden to the stables," I command.
They nod and lead him away.
The soldiers stand at attention as I dismount, their uniforms stiff with wear and dirt. The standard issue for Rali's army: dark brown leather armor reinforced with iron plating on the shoulders and chest. Beneath, thick woolen tunics provide some protection from the biting wind of Prescar's highlands. Each soldier grips a weapon—most hold spears with steel tips that gleam in the fading light, though a few carry swords or axes strapped to their sides.
One soldier steps forward. His face is gaunt. His eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He salutes again, his spear clutched tightly.
"It's good to meet you, General," he says, his voice steady but tinged with weariness.
"And you," I reply, glancing at the others. Their expressions are cautious, a mix of respect and uncertainty.
"Word of your arrival just reached us," he continues. "We've been without a general since… since General Malken died."
Malken. The name stirs a memory—a tall man with a booming laugh, always at the center of strategy meetings. He'd been stationed here for years.
"I'm sorry to hear about Malken," I say, my tone softer. "He was a good man."
The soldier nods, lowering his gaze. "Yes, sir. He held the line until the end. Is this your first time on the line?"
I pause, letting his words settle. "Five, maybe six years."
Hope is a scarce resource here. Rationed like food and water.
"Wow," the soldier said. "That long?"
"It's been a while," I replied with a faint smile. "Let's focus on winning as much as possible."
"Thank you, sir," the soldier says.
I glance around at the camp. The tents are patched with mismatched fabrics, their edges frayed from years of exposure. Fires burn low. Soldiers huddled close for warmth.
The soldier steps back, saluting once more before retreating to his post. I adjust the sword at my hip and make my way toward the command tent. My footsteps are heavy, and my thoughts drift to Malken and the countless others who've fallen.
This war has taken too much. And yet, here we are.
The air hung thick with tension, the distant hum of wind rustling the sparse grasslands of Prescar. The soldiers crouched low behind a shallow ridge, their breaths visible in the cold morning air. Spears and swords gripped tightly, their knuckles white.
"UIK patrol ahead," whispered one soldier, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Looks like twenty of them."
I peered over the ridge, my breath slow and steady. The UIK forces were advancing—a mix of light-armored warriors wielding longaxes and crossbows, their signature blue-and-gold cloaks fluttering. They moved in a loose formation, likely scouting.
"We hit hard and fast," I said, my voice firm but quiet. "Drive them back before they can call for reinforcements."
The soldiers around me nodded. No bravado, no unnecessary words. These were veterans, tempered by years of bloodshed.
"Move."
The line surged forward, boots crunching on the earth. Spears lowered, glinting in the pale light, as our formation tightened. The UIK patrol turned at the sound—confusion quickly replaced by shouted orders and the clatter of weapons being drawn.
I led the charge, my sword slicing through the gap between two UIK soldiers. The first staggered, his crossbow bolt going wide as he crumpled to the ground. The second swung his axe, but I sidestepped, driving my blade into his side.
Behind me, the Ralians crashed into the UIK line. Spears thrust forward, piercing shields and armor. The clash of steel on steel rang out. Cries of pain.
A UIK soldier lunged at me with his longaxe, its curved blade aimed for my chest. I raised my sword, catching the blow, and twisted my wrist to deflect it. The axe's weight threw him off balance, and I drove my shoulder into him, sending him sprawling. My blade found his throat before he could rise.
The fight was chaos. Soldiers worked in pairs, their movements practiced and deliberate. A spearman pinned a UIK swordsman's weapon, while his partner drove a dagger into the gap between armor plates. Another soldier swung his axe in a wide arc, forcing two UIK fighters to retreat before they were cut down by a volley of arrows from the ridge.
"Push forward!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the din.
The Ralians advanced, forcing the UIK soldiers to fall back. Their line was crumbling, disorganized and desperate. One of their captains tried to rally them, his blue cloak a bright target amid the melee. A spear from one of my men found its mark, the captain dropping to his knees before toppling face-first into the dirt.
A few UIK soldiers began to flee.
The battlefield fell silent. Blood stained the frosted grass, mingling with shattered weapons and torn cloaks.
"We held," one of the men said, his voice filled with both relief and exhaustion.
"For now," I replied, scanning the horizon. The enemy's retreat was a victory. Reinforcements would come, and the cycle would begin again.
"Regroup and tend to the wounded," I ordered. "We'll need to move before they return."
The soldiers nodded, their faces grim but resolute. They had fought hard, and they had won. For today, that was enough.