The throne room was silent, save for the sound of Alaric's heavy breathing. The golden seat loomed before him, a hollow prize in the face of Valden's maneuver.
Victory had never felt so much like defeat.
Asher entered the room quietly, his boots echoing faintly on the marble floor. His expression was tight, his movements careful. "The scouts confirmed it. Valden's forces are marching toward the eastern territories. They'll reach Aelden Hold within days if they haven't already."
Alaric's hands clenched into fists. Aelden Hold. The eastern stronghold was the cornerstone of his supply lines, the heart of his army's resources. Without it, his forces in the capital would starve—and crumble.
"How many men did we leave there?" Alaric asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"Not enough," Asher admitted. "Most of our forces were pulled for this assault. Valden knew we'd leave it vulnerable."
Of course he did, Alaric thought bitterly. The bastard had been playing him all along, leading him into this trap. And now, while Alaric sat on a cold, empty throne, Valden was dismantling his kingdom piece by piece.
"Then we ride for Aelden," Alaric said, his voice sharp.
Asher's eyes widened. "You're serious? We've just taken the capital, Alaric. If we leave now, we'll lose our hold on it. Valden's allies could sweep in while we're gone."
Alaric turned to face him, his gaze blazing. "What hold, Asher? The people don't follow us. The soldiers here are scattered, leaderless. And Valden's shadow still hangs over every corner of this city. We didn't take the capital—we just walked into his trap."
"And abandoning it will only solidify his control," Asher countered. "We need to secure our position here before we move."
Alaric shook his head. "If Aelden falls, we won't have the strength to hold the capital—or anything else. This is bigger than one city. It's the survival of the entire rebellion."
The tension between them was palpable. Asher's loyalty was unwavering, but even he couldn't mask his frustration.
"And what happens if we fail?" Asher asked quietly. "If Valden's trap at Aelden is worse than what we found here? He could be waiting for us to divide our forces."
Alaric stared at him, his jaw tight. "If we fail, then we lose everything anyway. We don't have the luxury of caution, Asher. Not anymore."
The decision was made quickly. Alaric's forces—what little remained of them after the assault on the capital—were divided. A small contingent would stay behind to hold the city, while the rest would march east to intercept Valden's forces.
The journey was grueling. The roads leading to Aelden were rough and winding, cutting through dense forests and rocky hills. The soldiers were weary from the siege, their morale fragile. But Alaric's presence kept them moving. He rode at the front of the column, his back straight, his expression cold and unyielding.
Every step closer to Aelden brought the weight of his decisions crashing down on him. He could feel the eyes of his men on him, their silent questions cutting deeper than any blade.
Was this the right choice?
Would they die for nothing?
They reached Aelden Hold at dusk. The stronghold was a towering fortress of black stone, its walls scarred from battles past. But as Alaric approached, his heart sank. Smoke rose from within the walls, the faint scent of burning wood and flesh carried on the wind.
The gates were wide open, just like the palace in the capital.
"Valden's men were here," Asher said grimly, his eyes scanning the ruined walls.
"Then they're gone now," Alaric replied. "If they'd stayed, we'd already be under attack."
He dismounted his horse, his boots crunching against the dirt as he strode toward the gates. The soldiers behind him hesitated, their unease palpable.
"Search the hold," Alaric ordered. "Find survivors. Supplies. Anything."
As his men scattered, Alaric entered the stronghold, his sword drawn. The air inside was thick with the stench of death. Bodies littered the ground—soldiers and civilians alike. The attack had been brutal, precise. Valden's forces hadn't just taken Aelden—they'd destroyed it.
"Alaric."
He turned to see Asher standing in the doorway of the main hall, his expression dark. "You need to see this."
Alaric followed him inside, his heart pounding. The hall was in ruins, the once-grand banners of his rebellion torn and burned. But it was what lay in the center of the room that stopped him in his tracks.
A body, pinned to the floor by a sword. The man's armor marked him as one of Alaric's commanders, but his face had been mutilated beyond recognition.
Next to the body, a message was scrawled in blood across the stone floor:
"The throne will never be yours."
Alaric stared at the words, his chest tightening. This wasn't just a warning—it was a declaration of war.
"Valden's taunting you," Asher said quietly. "He wants you to lose control."
"He already has," Alaric muttered.
As night fell over the ruined hold, Alaric gathered his remaining forces. The mood was grim, the soldiers' eyes heavy with fear and uncertainty.
"We ride again at first light," Alaric announced, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Valden thinks he can break us, that he can scatter us like ashes in the wind. But he's wrong. This war isn't over—not by a long shot."
The soldiers murmured among themselves, their spirits flickering like dying embers.
"And where do we ride, Alaric?" one of them asked.
Alaric's gaze swept over them, his resolve hardening. "To Valden. To the man who thinks he can tear this kingdom apart and get away with it."
The declaration hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril.