As the first light of dawn crept through the trees, the group came to a halt near a wooded clearing. The horses were unbridled and given time to rest and graze, their breath misting faintly in the morning chill.
Kane crouched beside his steed, feeding it dried grain from his palm. "So, Nolan," he muttered, "what's the grand plan?"
Nolan yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Still being finalized. We'll be briefed once we reach Vilmont. Three hours or so."
"And how long are you gonna keep up this charade? You know we'll get slaughtered if we leave it up to him."
Nolan looked up at the pale morning sky and sighed. "I know."
Kane cursed under his breath and walked off toward the stream, waterskin in hand, shoulders tight with frustration.
Nearby, Johan stood beside his white mare, brushing her gently. The animal nudged at him with quiet familiarity, and Johan smiled faintly.
"I know," he murmured. "You want something better than dry oats. You and me both."
He smiled, brushing along her neck. "No complaints though, right? We're royalty, after all."
The mare snorted again, and Johan laughed softly under his breath.
A faint crunch of leaves behind him.
"If I didn't know better," Johan said without turning, "I'd guess an assassin was sneaking up behind me."
"I wouldn't dare, Your Majesty," came Isha's voice—cool, steady, just behind his left shoulder.
Johan kept brushing his mare. "The hidden daggers say otherwise, Mrs. Maren."
She gave a soft, amused exhale. "A healer can't be left defenseless, can she?"
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Solarian-born?"
"No," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Virellan side of the southern border. That a problem?"
Johan shook his head slightly. "Not at all. Just explains how you move like a cat."
Isha raised a brow, amused. "A cat, huh? That supposed to be flattery?"
Johan gave a small shrug. "Better than snake, isn't it?"
She chuckled under her breath. "I'll take it."
Across the clearing, Nerim lounged on a rock, chewing something with her usual lazy grin.
"Why do you always chew that stuff?" Johan called.
Nerim laughed. "I think I'm addicted."
Johan raised a brow. "To mint?"
Before she could answer, Nolan spoke while adjusting his gauntlet. "Tera leaf. Widely used by soldiers. Helps them stay sharp. Or at least think they are."
Nerim winked. "Steadies my hands. And keeps me from strangling people."
Johan smirked. "That explains... a lot."
The gates of Vilmont stood tall but tired, their iron hinges groaning faintly in the morning wind. Archers watched from the battlements above, lowering their bows once the royal banner came into view. Dust clung to the cobblestone road as Johan's party approached.
Inside the walls, the town was unnervingly quiet. No marketplace chatter. No clatter of hooves or wheels. Just watchful eyes behind shuttered windows and guards standing stiffly at every corner.
Waiting near the steps of the inner keep stood Baron Valerius—a large man with a once-rosy face now drawn and pale. His richly embroidered sash strained slightly against his belly, and beneath his eyes, dark rings betrayed sleepless nights. The usual bluster in his posture was gone, replaced by an anxious stiffness.
As the group dismounted, Johan stepped forward. He wore no crown or cape, but the silence around him seemed to deepen. His silver hair shined with the sun, boots tapping softly against the stone path. Despite his age, he carried himself with an eerie calm.
Valerius gave a cautious bow, then straightened with a nervous breath. "Your Highness... we weren't expecting a royal envoy."
"Unexpected, but necessary," Johan said smoothly. "We've come to offer aid—no need to thank us."
The baron blinked, hesitating. "I—I must inform you… The Duke of Rhine has already dispatched a company. His son, Lord Cedric, leads them. If I allow royal intervention without consul..... He faltered.
Johan's smile fades his gaze locked onto his, steady and unblinking. Something in the boy's stillness made the air heavier.
"My father sent me personally, Baron Valerius." His voice didn't rise. "You wouldn't reject the Crown's aid... would you?"
The portly baron visibly flinched. For a moment, his eyes darted to the guards around him—as if seeking an escape—but found none.
Then, breathing heavily, he dropped to one knee with surprising speed for his size. His coat bunched awkwardly around him. "I apologize, Your Highness… for my insolence."
Behind him, his aging father mirrored the motion, his own knee trembling as it touched stone.
Johan paused, letting the moment stretch. Then, with a slow wave of his hand, he spoke. "Rise."
Valerius stood—wiping at his brow—and quickly motioned toward a nearby guard captain.
"Carl. Brief His Highness."
A thin man with ash-colored hair stepped forward, bowing. "Welc—"
Johan lifted a hand to stop him mid-sentence. "No need. Take me to the watch room. I want to speak to the scout first."
Valerius nodded hurriedly, gesturing his men aside as Johan walked past him and into the heart of the keep.
The watch room was cramped and cool, its stone walls lined with aging maps and brass-buckled scrolls. Johan stepped in first, followed by his squad. Kane leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded. Nerim lounged near the hearth, Isha stood silent near the window, and Nolan hovered close behind the prince.
Captain Carl gestured to a scout already waiting by the central table—a lean, sunburnt man with hollow cheeks and dirt still streaked down his cloak.
"They've taken the village of Redmarsh, just past the edge of Galdren Wood," the scout said briskly. "They moved in quiet, struck fast. Been over a week now. They've built crude walls, posted sentries. Locals fled before they finished digging in."
"How many do we have?" Johan asked.
Carl shifted slightly. "We have fifteen Navres at your disposal, Your Highness. Most are fresh recruits—trained in casting, but never seen a real fight. A few older ones served during the skirmishes near the eastern ridge, but nothing on this scale."
Johan nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the map. "And the enemy?"
The scout snorted. "Forty, maybe more. All Navres, no cowards among 'em. Been raiding since last winter—this ain't their first village. And those bloody Duskwood Brothers?" He spat on the floor. "Each whoreson's a Zol. Bastards fight like jackles and stink worse."
Johan was quiet for a moment. His gaze drifted toward the map of Redmarsh pinned on the far wall, then settled back on the scout.
"Then we'll plan tonight," he said evenly. "And we ride tomorrow".