The battlefield roared beneath a sky strangled by smoke.
Not the clean kind that rises and vanishes.
Thick, choking smoke that crawled low and clung to armor and hair and the back of the throat. Steel collided in a grinding chorus that never seemed to end. Horses screamed. Mud swallowed boots and bodies alike.
The Great Army of Ardenfall pressed forward across the ruined plains of what had once been the prosperous land of Ashborne, blue banners cutting through the black tide of Dravenholt.
And at the front of one charging wing—
A horse rode too fast.
On its back, a man driven by fury and something dangerously close to desperation.
Rowan Ardenfall did not look back to see if his men held formation. He did not slow down to measure the field. He leaned low over his horse's neck, blade already stained, breath burning in his lungs as he drove straight into Dravenholt's infantry.
A soldier lunged for his reins.
Rowan cut him wide — hard, direct. The blade caught the man's collarbone and stuck for half a heartbeat before tearing free with a wet sound. Blood sprayed across Rowan's cheek, warm and metallic. He tasted iron.
He did not wipe it away.
He kept pushing.
His horse trembled beneath him from overexertion. Foam flecked its bit. Rowan felt it — but ignored it.
He was not here to ride safely.
He was Rowan Ardenfall.
Second Prince of Ardenfall.
And today he would not remain the second anymore.
Another knot of infantry closed in. Rowan carved through them with aggressive, overreaching swings that forced space open through sheer momentum. His wing struggled to match his pace, blue cloaks flashing through smoke behind him.
He heard someone shout his title.
He barely registered it.
Across the battlefield, a streak of silver cut cleanly through the chaos.
Armor caught the dying light and hurled it back at the world, each plate gleaming like forged moonlight. Beneath it, a white stallion thundered through smoke.
Lucien Ardenfall.
Crown Prince of Ardenfall.
He wasted no strength.
No frantic movement.
Where Rowan forced openings, Lucien created them effortlessly. One precise thrust. A shift of the wrist. An enemy folded cleanly. Men adjusted instinctively around him. He did not need to shout to be followed. He moved — and the line moved with him.
Rowan saw it.
Felt it.
And drove his horse harder.
He wanted to match that.
He had to.
Ahead, the center convulsed.
Two towering figures in black armor tore through Ardenfall's frontline like collapsing walls.
Xavian and Veyric Dravenholt.
The Butcher Twins.
Mountains of iron and muscle.
Their axes were massive — blades nearly the height of a man. Xavian moved with crushing precision. Each downward strike split shields like brittle wood. He did not roar. He did not waste breath. He advanced step by deliberate step, pressing Ardenfall inward with suffocating weight.
Beside him, Veyric fought wider, heavier. His sweeping arcs cleared entire pockets of soldiers. A low, almost pleased sound escaped him as men fell beneath his blade.
The twins did not rush.
They pressed.
And where they pressed, Ardenfall bent.
Then the deep blue and gold banner surged forward.
King Edmund Ardenfall entered the fray at the head of the central wing.
He did not glide.
He broke through.
His blade came down like a hammer against Veyric's axe, and the impact shuddered through the ground. Sparks spat sideways. Edmund leaned into the clash, jaw set, forcing the giant back half a step.
Half a step was enough.
Edmund fought with the weight of decades behind him. Each strike landed heavy and deliberate. He did not chase glory. He placed force exactly where it would matter most.
Where he stood, the line steadied.
Where he moved, space opened.
He raised his sword toward the twins.
Then angled it toward his sons.
Converge.
Lucien shifted instantly, white horse pivoting smoothly as he cut toward the center.
Rowan saw the signal—
But before he could act, the sky tore open.
A crack like the world splitting in two.
Black lightning ripped sideways across the battlefield, tearing through Ardenfall's cavalry and flinging horses into one another. Fire followed in unnatural angles, consuming men before they could scream.
The entire field recoiled.
Every gaze lifted.
High atop the broken tower of fallen Ashborne stood a solitary figure against the smoke-choked horizon.
Valerius Dravenholt.
Archmagus King.
Black robes stirred in a wind that touched nothing else. Sigils crawled across his sleeves and into exposed skin, pulsing faintly.
He did not shout.
He did not strain.
When he lifted his hand, the air bent to obey.
Five to one did not matter.
As long as Valerius stood, the war answered to him.
Rowan felt the pressure of it — the way the battlefield tilted around that single figure.
Strike the head.
End it.
Lucien and Father could break the twins together.
But if Rowan reached the Archmagus first—
He pulled his horse sharply toward the eastern rise, separating from the pack.
He did not look back.
---
The battlefield noise began to thin as he broke away — not silent, but distant. Screams blurred into a low, constant roar behind him. The ground dipped into shallow valleys carved by wind and rain, narrow paths leading toward the tower.
Rowan urged his horse faster.
If he reached the base unseen—
If he struck before Valerius noticed—
The tower loomed larger with every breath. Smoke trailed along broken stone. Black sigils flickered faintly along its upper walls.
He could see him now.
Valerius.
A dark figure against the fractured sky.
Just a little farther—
The air shifted.
Not violently.
Just colder.
His horse faltered mid-stride.
Black lightning cracked downward.
It did not explode.
It struck.
The animal screamed once before collapsing beneath him, bones snapping like brittle wood. Rowan was hurled backward, armor ringing as he hit the earth hard enough to see white.
Blood filled his mouth.
His ears rang.
The battlefield noise felt flattened.
Slowly, stubbornly, he forced himself upright.
Lysander Dravenholt stood between him and the tower.
The youngest son.
The prodigy.
He had not announced himself.
He was simply there.
Pale skin. Dark hair loose against a face too composed for the carnage around them.
The air near him felt empty.
Rowan's breath fogged faintly in the sudden chill.
Lysander's did not.
"Move," Rowan snapped.
No answer.
Rowan lunged.
His blade struck fast, driving toward a gap beneath Lysander's guard.
At the last instant, Lysander shifted. A small flick of the wrist redirected the strike.
Rowan pressed harder.
Left. High. Low. Drive.
Lysander adjusted.
Half steps.
Minimal turns.
Every opening closed before Rowan reached it.
No taunt.
No counterattack.
No strain.
He was not fighting to win.
He was containing.
"Fight me."
Lysander's expression did not change.
It was like striking a wall that absorbed impact without returning it.
Rowan lunged again, committing fully.
The blade brushed fabric.
Then Lysander pivoted. Rowan's momentum carried him forward into empty space.
A hand caught his wrist — firm, steady — then released.
Measured.
Contained.
Confusion edged into Rowan's anger.
Behind them, a roar split the battlefield.
Rowan turned.
Xavian staggered.
Edmund's blade crashed down against the giant's shoulder with bone-splintering force.
At the same instant, Lucien's sword drove cleanly beneath Veyric's black plate.
The twins fell almost together.
For a single breath, the battlefield stilled.
Then Valerius moved.
The tower did not crumble.
It seemed to release him.
He stepped from its height as though descending a staircase only he could see. The air bent around him. Smoke recoiled. The ground beneath his boots cracked the moment he chose to touch it.
Heat rippled outward.
Not flame.
Pressure.
The Archmagus King had left his perch.
And he was furious.
The sigils across his robes flared violently, crawling like living veins beneath his skin. The air warped in jagged pulses as he raised one hand.
Edmund met him head-on.
Steel struck magic.
The impact split stone beneath them.
Lucien circled, precise even now, searching for weakness between bursts of unstable force. Valerius did not fight like a cornered man.
He fought like something that refused to fall.
Black arcs lashed outward from his body, forcing both Ardenfall's King and Crown prince back step by step. The earth fractured beneath his feet. The air screamed.
He was not retreating.
He was consuming.
Then Edmund shifted his stance — subtle, deliberate.
Lucien saw it.
A gap opened between flaring sigils.
Lucien struck.
Steel drove deep into flesh marked by burning runes.
Valerius staggered.
For the first time, he faltered.
He fell to one knee.
A cheer broke across Ardenfall's ranks.
Rowan felt something loosen in his chest.
It was over.
Lucien had done it.
Father still stood.
He lowered his sword.
Valerius coughed.
Dark blood spilled across his lips.
He looked up.
Not broken.
Amused.
"You let your guard down," he rasped.
Lucien stiffened.
Edmund moved—
Too late.
The sigils across Valerius' body ignited violently.
Not in control.
Not shaped.
They burned erratically, carving into flesh.
He was no longer shaping the magic.
He was feeding it.
The air convulsed.
The spell did not form in his hand.
It burst outward from him.
Chaotic.
Unstable.
Black light tore across the battlefield in jagged fractures. The ground buckled violently. Armor crushed inward under invisible force. Horses were ripped from their footing and thrown screaming into stone.
Valerius' veins blackened as the magic devoured him from within. Blood streamed from his eyes, nose, mouth.
He was not casting.
He was burning.
Using his own life as fuel.
The blast devoured everything near.
Rowan was thrown backward, armor scraping across shattered stone.
When he forced himself upright, he was unburned.
Unbroken.
King Edmund still stood.
Barely.
Blood spread steadily beneath split metal.
Lucien reached him first.
"Father."
Edmund staggered, fighting gravity.
Then his knees buckled.
Lucien caught him before he struck the ground.
Rowan ran.
His boots slipped in mud thick with blood.
Edmund's gaze fixed on Lucien.
"Lucien…" His voice was rough but steady. "The crown… is yours."
Lucien's grip tightened. "Do not speak of that."
"Guard Ardenfall."
"I will."
A pause.
"And your brother."
Rowan crawled closer, disbelief choking him.
He opened his mouth.
The word Father never came.
Edmund exhaled once more.
The sword slipped from his fingers.
The light left his eyes.
Lucien lowered him carefully to the earth.
Rowan touched his father's body, still searching for warmth.
Then he looked at his own hands.
They had mud on them and Edmund's blood too.
The battlefield smelled of scorched flesh and wet iron.
He rose slowly.
Anger gathered, sharp and desperate.
He turned—
Lucien was already standing.
Already composed.
Ardenfall soldiers formed a tightening ring around a lone figure amid drifting smoke.
Lysander Dravenholt stood within it.
Untouched.
Unharmed.
For a heartbeat, Rowan expected defiance.
Another spell.
Another catastrophe.
Instead—
Lysander knelt.
Unhurried.
He placed his sword on the ground.
Lifted his empty hands.
"I surrender."
No tremor.
No plea.
Just fact.
Chains were brought.
He did not resist.
The tyrant was ash.
The king was dead.
And the last son of Dravenholt knelt in chains.
The war had ended.
But something else had begun.