I. The Numbers Game of Death
Vael was rushed from the Royal Court to the barracks, his heavy, ornate robes dragging along the dusty ground. He was still reeling from King Aerion's final, devastating command.
I just convinced a King to send me to my death. I didn't want the budget cut, but I certainly didn't want the war!
His five warrior wives and Princess Kira were already in full battle gear, their enthusiasm terrifying. Vael was introduced to his immediate second-in-command: Captain Rylan, a square-jawed, overly confident man whose uniform was meticulously clean.
Vael grabbed the Captain by the sleeve, his voice strained. "Captain, I need figures. Exact numbers. How many soldiers are defending Stonegate, the city under siege?"
Captain Rylan smiled confidently. "Around 200, sir. Brave men, but exhausted."
Vael felt a surge of hope. "Good! Excellent! And how many are we taking? If we take, say, 400 of your best men, along with my wives, we'll outnumber them! We can flank them, push them out, and I can stay safely at the rear, observing the strategy!"
Captain Rylan's confident smile didn't waver. "Sir, we are taking 100 of the best Royal Guard. With you and your five Captains, that makes 106 dedicated warriors."
Vael's brain seized. "Wait. Wait. 106 against 200 defenders plus the enemy besieging them? How many enemies are we facing, Captain?"
"A standing army of roughly 1,000 enemy warriors, sir," Rylan stated proudly. "But fear not! Three hundred of us will smash a thousand of them! We believe in you, Commander!"
Vael's knees almost buckled. One thousand? One thousand organized, battle-hardened soldiers? This is not a battle; this is a funeral with flags. The King is trying to assassinate me! He needs me dead so his daughter can mourn the 'Heroic Poet' instead of divorcing the 'Skinny Mouse' for political gain.
II. The Futile Plea for Reinforcements
Vael was forced to seek out King Aerion, who was busy trying to draft a "Poetic Decree on Budgetary Allocation."
Vael knelt dramatically. "Your Majesty! With all respect to your Divine Wisdom, I must implore you! Send more men! A thousand, maybe two thousand! My unit is too small!"
King Aerion looked at Vael with a pained, loving expression. "My Divine Consort! To ask for so many! You shame me! Our Kingdom requires those men to defend other borders! What if a second Kingdom attacks? Where would we be then?"
"But Majesty," Vael pleaded, "three hundred men against a thousand is suicide! I'm not a warrior!"
The King put a hand on Vael's shoulder. "My beloved Son-in-Law! Did you not win my daughter's heart with nothing but words? Did you not win my respect with only your courage? Show them the power of your destiny! Go, and let your presence alone frighten them!"
Vael slumped. The charm didn't fail. It worked perfectly. He's not in love with me; he's obsessed with the idea of me dying a glorious, poetic hero.
Vael closed his eyes and whispered into the air: God Aethel! Are you watching this? Is this the plan? I refuse to believe my life is just a dark comedy orchestrated by a bored deity! Send me a useful power! A sword skill! Anything!
He heard only the faint, mocking sound of distant laughter in his mind.
III. The Morale Boost of Doom
Vael returned to the barracks where his entire command unit—the 100 Royal Guards—were assembled. They were brave, tough, and looked at Vael with terrifying anticipation.
Captain Rylan stepped forward. "Commander! The men are ready! They await your final words of inspiration!"
Vael, fueled by sheer, nihilistic despair, stood tall. I will not die a screaming coward. I will die a confident idiot.
"Soldiers!" Vael announced, his voice surprisingly firm. "You are the best! You are going against impossible odds! I trust you completely!"
One of the Guards called out, "Commander! How will you use your divine powers? Will you stand on the front lines and lead us to glory?"
Vael felt his resolve snap. "I... I will be leading from a position of strategic observation! But don't worry about me!"
Captain Rylan stepped in, beaming. "Yes! Our Commander is too valuable! We will secure the battlefield, and we will place him on a tall rock so he can observe safely! Then, we will clear the enemy!" Rylan turned to Vael. "Sir, we are honored to fight this battle for you! We fully expect you to watch and document our victory! We have every confidence that you will fight alone."
Vael stood watching his tiny, doomed army prepare for a mass slaughter. He saw the General watching from a distance, smiling. He saw his wives readying their weapons.
Tears pricked Vael's eyes—tears of sheer, overwhelming absurdity. He was going to war, and everyone around him was certain he was either a tactical genius or a divine hero.
The wives approached Vael, forming a protective V-formation around him.
Astra patted his shoulder, grinning. "Don't worry, Commander. We'll put you right where you can see the whole thing! We won't let a single enemy come close to your strategic rock!"
Vael simply sighed, defeated. The army was ready to march. His fate was sealed.
"Thus began the march to Stonegate. Vael, the Poet-Commander, knew two things for certain: he was going to die, and he was taking three hundred innocent men with him."