Dawn over Dara brought no light.
It brought an omen.
The wind, heavy with dust and the smell of iron, blew in from the southern hills, where the Empire had established its camp.
From atop the walls, the horizon seemed covered in shadows.
Golden tents stretched across the hillsides. Crimson banners fluttered in the wind, and between them, endless rows of spears reflected the first rays of sunlight.
The Imperial army stretched as far as the eye could see.
One hundred thousand men.
Disciplined.
Organized.
Silent.
Above them flew the eagles of Ferrussi.
Each division had a precise role: the heavy vanguard would break through the defenses; the shock cavalry would exploit any breach; the arcane artillery would reduce the fortifications; and behind them all advanced the magical cohorts.
The Imperial mages remained protected by translucent energy shields as they prepared the seals that, before nightfall, could turn part of Dara into ruins.
But Dara was no ordinary city.
It was a fortress built upon living stone, reinforced through generations of wars against the Empire.
Its walls were covered in ancient runes capable of absorbing part of the impact of magical attacks. Its towers had been designed to serve both archers and spellcasters.
The people of Dara had learned two things over the centuries:
how to endure...
and how to make a superior enemy bleed.
Atop the central keep, King Felipe Erkhan watched the enemy army.
His eyes carefully scanned the battlefield, following the movements of each division.
Beside him, Laurence Douglas studied a map spread across a stone table.
"If they advance from the front, they'll leave their rear exposed," Laurence said, pointing toward the roads to the west. "Our cavalry can attack the Imperial supply convoys."
"Exactly."
Felipe did not take his eyes off the army.
"They trust in their strength. We trust in their hunger."
Laurence nodded.
They did not need to destroy the Imperial army in a single day.
They only needed to prevent it from remaining on its feet.
Over the past few weeks, Caparthia's light squadrons had been attacking the southern roads.
A convoy disappeared during the night.
A warehouse burned before dawn.
An Imperial messenger never reached his destination.
It was a war of attrition, intelligence, and patience.
In such a war, a sack of grain could be worth more than a conquered banner.
The Empire had one hundred thousand men.
But one hundred thousand men needed to eat.
And its mages needed mana.
Caparthia could not defeat them in an open battle.
But it did not need to.
It only needed to make that army incapable of fighting.
Felipe watched the enormous Imperial tents.
"How long?"
Laurence made a quick calculation in his head.
"If they maintain this rate of consumption, no more than two weeks."
The king frowned.
"We won't have two weeks."
Laurence looked up.
"Then we'll have to make sure this battle gives us the two weeks we need."
A heavy silence fell between them.
In the distance, an Imperial horn pierced the air.
Felipe looked toward the horizon.
"Looks like they've already decided for us."
At noon, the drums of the Empire began to thunder.
BOOM.
The sound shook the walls.
BOOM.
A second time.
BOOM.
A third.
The Imperial lines began to move.
Golden banners rose above the army as the vanguard began its advance.
Behind them, the magical cohorts took up their positions.
Then the chanting began.
Hundreds of voices rose at the same time.
The highest-ranking mages barely touched the ground. Their bodies floated a few inches above the earth as circles of light revolved around them.
The air began to vibrate.
Felipe raised his gaze.
"They're coming."
A moment later...
the sky split open.
Lightning descended like divine spears.
The first bolt struck in front of Dara.
BOOM.
The ground exploded.
The second tore open a crater among the defensive lines.
The third struck so close to the walls that the entire fortress shook.
Stones and earth were thrown into the air.
For a moment, the battlefield was covered in fire and ash.
The soldiers on the walls ducked.
Some prayed.
Others gritted their teeth.
Felipe did not move.
"Now."
From the highest towers, the runic circles began to glow.
A blue light raced across the walls.
Then enormous energy domes unfolded over the most exposed sections, overlapping one another like gigantic shields.
The Imperial lightning crashed against them.
The impact illuminated the entire battlefield.
Dara's defenses held.
And then came the response.
From within the fortress, the Kingdom's mages began channeling their own spells.
Most of them were women, dressed in black and blue robes whose embroidery glowed with every pulse of mana.
One of them raised both hands.
The sky darkened.
The next instant, dozens of ice comets descended upon the Imperial positions.
Another spread her arms.
A storm of flames swept across the enemy's front lines.
The battlefield became a canvas of light and fury.
Ice.
Fire.
Lightning.
Explosions.
Caught between forces they could barely comprehend, the soldiers covered their faces as the world burned around them.
Then something happened that the Imperial mages had not expected.
Near the base of the northern wall, the containment seals began to glow.
One.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Dara's magical network had just activated.
It was a web of ancient runes hidden beneath the stone, stretching from the walls deep into the battlefield.
Its function was simple.
Drain.
Every time an Imperial mage came within range, the network slowly absorbed the mana powering their spells.
The first to notice were the lower-ranking mages.
Their flames lost intensity.
Their shields began to flicker.
Some seals shattered before they could be completed.
The chanting broke apart.
"What's happening?!" one of them shouted.
No one answered.
It took the Imperial officers several seconds to understand.
But those seconds were enough.
The Imperial formations began to lose cohesion.
From atop the walls, Felipe watched.
A barely perceptible smile appeared on his face.
"Now."
The gates of Dara opened.
The thunderous roar of the gates echoed through the fortress.
Thousands of soldiers poured onto the battlefield.
The battle had just changed.
On the right flank, the banners of the black wolf advanced through the smoke.
Laurence Douglas walked at the front.
The emblem of the black wolf fluttered above his Ætherion armor, whose dark engravings seemed to absorb the light around them.
His breathing remained calm.
His gaze, unwavering.
Around him, the Douglas warriors—old wolves hardened by a hundred wars—advanced in absolute silence.
None of them were afraid.
They had all been born, fought, and bled beneath that banner.
The first Imperial lines charged.
The ground shook.
They were men from conquered kingdoms, sent to the front by an Empire that promised them glory and rewards.
Spears collided.
Shields cracked.
Shouts mixed with the thunder of metal.
But the Douglas warriors did not retreat.
Laurence raised his sword.
A dark pulse swept across the battlefield.
The shadow of his blade extended far beyond the edge of the sword.
It cut through the air.
And the men standing before him fell before they even understood what had happened.
This was not a battle.
It was an execution.
"Hold the line."
The order was calm.
Almost emotionless.
Laurence wasted no movements.
Every strike had a purpose.
Every step brought him closer to his next target.
And every man who came within his reach died.
He showed no hatred.
Nor pleasure.
He killed with the same natural ease with which another man breathed.
As if death were simply another consequence of duty.
The Imperial warriors tried to stop him.
Flames.
Lightning.
Ice spears.
Mana explosions.
The flames, lightning, and ice spears rained down upon him.
Laurence dodged the first attacks and deflected others with precise movements. Some passed within inches of his body; others managed to break through his defense.
But none managed to wound him.
Everything that reached him was stopped by the Ætherion armor.
Laurence kept advancing.
Three Imperial warriors tried to block his path.
The first brought his sword down.
CLANG!
The blade shattered.
The second attacked from a blind spot.
Laurence pivoted on his heel and pierced through his defense before he could complete the movement.
The third barely had time to raise his sword.
A moment later, he was on the ground.
Laurence did not even stop.
Then, above the Imperial ranks, magical circles began to appear.
Three.
Five.
Eight.
All of them aimed at him.
"Finally."
The first spell fell.
Laurence stepped aside.
BOOM!
The explosion sent dirt and dust into the air.
A spear of fire came from behind.
He ducked.
The next spell descended directly upon him.
Laurence crossed his sword in front of his body.
KRAASH!
The ground trembled.
When the smoke began to clear, Laurence walked out.
The engravings of the Ætherion glowed across his armor. A small crack ran through one of them.
Laurence looked at it.
Then raised his eyes toward the mages.
"So you've learned."
He tightened his grip on the sword.
Mana flowed along the blade.
And he advanced once more.
From the hills, Princess Naira Ferrussi watched the battle through an arcane crystal.
Her eyes followed a figure moving through the smoke.
Laurence Douglas.
The man who had rejected her offer the day before.
Now she watched him advance through the Imperial soldiers.
One strike.
An enemy fell.
Another.
Then another body hit the ground.
There was no fury in Laurence.
Only precision.
He advanced, killed, and continued.
Naira narrowed her eyes.
"So this is the real Laurence Douglas..."
Behind him, the Douglas warriors advanced with the same discipline, forming a perfect unit.
Then Naira understood her mistake.
The Douglas were not simply a family of warriors.
They had made war a part of their blood.
Each generation had inherited experience, discipline, and techniques perfected over centuries.
Naira remembered their conversation from the day before.
She had mistaken Laurence's confidence for arrogance.
Now she understood that it was confidence.
He knew exactly what his family was capable of.
Naira rested her fingers against the crystal.
"Now I understand why my father values that bloodline so highly."
Her gaze returned to the battlefield.
Then she thought of Lusian.
If he had truly inherited that blood...
A small smile appeared on her lips.
"Then what kind of monster are you, Lusian Douglas?"
For the first time, Naira's curiosity became anticipation.
And yet...
As she watched Laurence, something else awakened within her.
It was not doubt.
It was anticipation.
If his son possesses even half of that strength...
The thought stopped her.
A nearly imperceptible smile appeared on her lips.
Perhaps that boy, Lusian Douglas, would not be merely a political tool.
Perhaps he would be someone worthy of her attention.
Maybe even...
he could one day challenge her.
At the center of the battlefield, Duke Bourlance struggled to keep his front together.
His mace was wrapped in golden energy.
Nearly two meters tall.
A torso as broad as a shield.
Every time the weapon came down, the ground cracked and bodies were sent flying.
His magical affinity—Physical Enhancement, Delta level—turned every muscle in his body into a weapon.
But all that strength could not be everywhere at once.
The formations of the lesser houses were beginning to break apart.
Shields failed to align.
Spearmen retreated without order.
Mages took too long to activate their defensive circles.
Bourlance ran from one flank to another, shouting orders and closing every gap with his own body.
"Hold the line, damn it!"
An explosion of fire illuminated his right.
An Imperial unit had managed to break through.
Bourlance turned.
He ran toward them.
His hammer came down.
BOOM.
The impact sent the first soldiers flying.
Bourlance advanced through them.
One.
Two.
Three strikes.
The breach disappeared.
But when he raised his head, he saw another one forming farther ahead.
He clenched his teeth.
Then he looked toward the right flank.
The black banners of the Douglas remained firm.
Their ranks advanced as a single entity.
A perfect war machine.
Laurence Douglas remained at the front.
Bourlance let out a bitter laugh.
"You elegant old bastard..."
He raised his hammer again.
"I won't let you embarrass me that easily."
The ground trembled beneath his feet.
Bourlance brought the weapon down.
A ring of golden energy spread across the front lines.
The nearby warriors felt magical pressure travel through their bones.
Their muscles tightened.
Their exhaustion disappeared for a few moments.
"Caparthia will not fall today!"
The soldiers answered the duke's roar.
The line began advancing again.
On the left flank, King Felipe Erkhan watched the battlefield.
Unlike Laurence's serenity, his presence was a living storm.
The electrical runes etched across his skin and armor flashed with every breath.
His spear glowed as if it contained the very heart of a storm.
Lightning descended from the clouds.
It struck the weapon.
Felipe raised it.
The discharge tore across the enemy lines.
Dozens of Imperial soldiers were struck down.
The smell of ozone and metallic blood filled the air.
"For Caparthia!"
His soldiers answered as one.
Felipe watched the enemy lines.
The Imperial assault had lost momentum.
But it had not stopped.
That was what worried him.
The enemy was adapting.
The units that had suffered the heaviest casualties were beginning to withdraw and be replaced.
The Imperial mages had stopped approaching the areas where Dara's network was active.
And new formations were beginning to surround the weakened sectors.
Felipe clenched his teeth.
"They're not retreating..."
His general looked at him.
"Your Majesty?"
"They're looking for another way in."
The king looked toward the center.
Bourlance was still holding.
Then toward the right flank.
The Douglas were advancing.
Finally, he turned his eyes back toward the Imperial army.
One hundred thousand men.
And now they knew how Dara's defenses worked.
"Order the reserves to prepare."
"Do you think they'll break the front?"
Felipe remained silent for several seconds.
"No."
His gaze hardened.
"I think they're going to try something worse."
The battle continued for hours.
The field that had been covered in grass at dawn was now an ocean of mud, blood, and ash.
The dead piled up.
Weapons broke.
The screams never stopped.
And while the commanders decided the fate of entire armies...
the soldiers simply tried to survive.
Among them was Edric Varn.
He had spent three hours wondering why he was there.
The battlefield was hell.
Mud.
Smoke.
Screams.
Around him, men who had been his comrades for years were dying beneath foreign blades.
Some called for their mothers.
Others shouted the king's name.
Others simply tried to stay alive.
Edric did not shout.
He no longer had the strength.
As he moved among the corpses, one question kept repeating in his mind.
Why are we here?
This was not a war they had chosen.
Prince Leopoldo Ferrussi had come to the kingdom to visit his sister, the king's concubine.
Then he had died.
And according to the rumors spreading throughout the kingdom, Lusian Douglas was responsible.
The heir of a family that had already left a trail of blood behind it.
Denisse.
Edric had heard the stories.
They said the Douglas had wiped out the county.
Men, women, and children had died.
Barely enough survivors had remained to tell the tale.
And now that same name had placed the entire kingdom against an enemy no one expected them to defeat.
The Emperor had declared war.
And the king, instead of handing Lusian over, had sent Edric and thousands like him onto the battlefield.
"Advance!"
Edric raised his sword.
He moved forward.
He did not believe in victory.
The troops from Sneider County were on the front lines.
Men who had lost privileges, land, and security because of decisions made far above them.
Men who were now paying with their blood for a war they had never chosen.
Edric did not hate the enemy.
He hated one person.
The man whom he believed was responsible for the war.
Lusian Douglas.
He advanced because behind him were his wife, his children, and everything he still called home.
An enemy soldier appeared through the smoke.
Edric raised his sword.
The blow came first.
He felt steel pierce his side.
He fell to his knees.
The enemy pulled out his weapon and kept running.
Edric tried to breathe.
He couldn't.
He looked at his hands.
They were trembling.
Around him, the screams continued.
The battle went on.
Edric closed his eyes.
A bitter laugh escaped his throat.
"Because of him..."
He coughed blood.
"Because of him, we're dying..."
The army continued advancing.
Edric fell onto his side.
In his final moments, he did not think of the Emperor.
He thought of Lusian Douglas.
A man he had never seen.
A man who was far away from that battlefield.
A man who would probably never know that Edric Varn had ever existed.
And that was the last injustice that crossed his mind.
It did not seem fair to die for someone who was not even there.
His hand closed around a handful of mud.
"Damn Douglas..."
Those were his last words.
Then he stopped breathing.
The battle continued.
The banners kept flying.
The generals kept giving orders.
And thousands of men kept advancing into a war none of them had chosen.
To the generals, this had been the first day of the war.
To Edric Varn, it had been the last.