The sound of the explosions still echoed in Count Arvallen’s mind as his ship drifted down the river, away from the burning city. Even the gentle slosh of the current couldn’t drown it out—the deafening roar of shattering walls, the crack of collapsing towers, the distant screams that had clawed through smoke and fire.

He could still see it vividly: himself standing in his estate, hunched over the plans of Solmere’s defenses with two retainers at his side. The ink hadn’t even dried on the last set of repositioning orders when the first blast went off—then another, and another, from every corner of the city. The walls had trembled. Windows had burst. The air filled with dust and flame.

By the time he staggered to the balcony, half the city was already alight.

He hadn’t waited long after that. The guards were shouting, the servants scattering, and somewhere in the distance someone was yelling that the gates had been breached. Arvallen didn’t even stop to gather his armor or rings—only his cloak and sword. He ran. Out of the manor, down the eastern road, his retainers at his side.

He didn’t look for his wife. Nor his children.

He told himself there was no time, that they would be safe under the enemy’s honor. Duke Blackwood was known to be a man of principle, and even in war, noble code dictated mercy for the families of defeated lords. That thought dulled the guilt clawing in his chest. Somewhat.

But as the ship carried him farther from Solmere’s smoke-choked skyline, that guilt refused to fade. He had left them behind. His family. His city. His people. All that his house had built for centuries now burned behind him.

Even now, as the wind carried the faintest echoes of clashing steel and roaring spells across the river, Arvallen gripped the rail tighter. His knuckles whitened. He didn’t dare look back.

Because he knew nothing could save Solmere anymore.

He grunted it under his breath, the words barely louder than the river. “I bloody hope the prince remembers what I sacrificed for him. He’d better keep his promises or I won’t be playing nice.”

His hands closed on the wet rail. The wood shook under his grip. Down below, the water pulled at the ship and threw back sparks of the city fire. He stared into that black ribbon until the flames blurred, then turned.

His men were waiting. His personal Mage stood with his fingers curled around a travel satchel, jaw tight. Two Knights kept their distance, boots planted, eyes flicking from Arvallen to the smoke still smoking on the skyline. One of the knights rubbed the back of his neck; the other kept his hand close to the pommel as if the sword might answer a question plaguing him. None of them smiled. None of them relaxed.

They had left in one order. No banners, no convoy—just the ship he’d had ready for this exact moment. The look on their faces said they understood the cost. Arvallen felt the weight of that on his shoulders like a heavy cloak that wouldn’t let go. If he wanted to reach Fort Valemount, he needed them. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried to make his voice steady.

“We’ll cut straight to Valemount,” he said. “We move fast. The city will not stay taken. When the prince’s plan comes true, Solmere will be the first to be taken back.”

One of the scarred Knights stepped forward. His voice came low and flat. “We follow you to our last breath, my lord. But it will not be easy. Once they notice you’re gone, they’ll send riders. And our reports about the enemies weren’t clear. What if they sent Enforcers?”

Enforcers, right. For a moment he saw it all, all the stories he’d heard recently about those ‘Enforcers’. How did they come to be in Arzan's hands? He didn’t know. He felt the cold tightness of it again. His hand left the rail to rub at his temple.

“I have heard those stories and they are probably the reason why the city fell so fast,” he said slowly. He did not try to deny their truth. Even Prince Aldrin had warned about them. The thought of meeting one in the open road made his stomach twist.

“If they are chasing us, then we make the chase not worth their trouble,” he said. “We run. We push until searching for us costs more than leaving us be.”

The Knights nodded. The Mage looked conflicted but bowed his head in agreement.

“We’ll be out of the river soon,” Arvallen said, forcing a thin smile. “Once we reach the next dock, we take the land route. Let the ship drift upstream after we’re off—it’ll buy us time. Those bastards will keep chasing shadows on the water while we’re already halfway to Valemount.”

The Knights nodded, a flicker of relief passing between them. One of them even managed a small grin. “That’s the best course, my lord. We’ll lose them in a day.”

Arvallen returned the smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Inside, his thoughts were already twisting ahead. What would he say when he finally met Prince Aldrin? The man might hear him out, yes, but the Alparcan delegation wouldn’t. They would sneer, lecture, and call him a coward for abandoning their Third-Circle Mage, Serat Vellin, and the men they’d sent. Let them. The Mages had been useless anyway. Couldn’t even keep the city from being blown apart.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to push the thought away, but before he could, the ship lurched hard.

“Damn it—!” His boots slid across the deck, and he nearly went over the railing before one of the Knights caught his arm. The boat rocked and groaned, half-tilted to one side.

“What in the hell is going on?” he snapped, steadying himself. “Why did we stop?”

He started toward the captain’s cabin, but one of the Knights shouted, “My lord, look ahead!”

Arvallen froze mid-stride, turning toward the bow. He leaned over the railing and his breath caught.

The river ahead was choked. What the fuck?! No, no, no, no no, it can’t fucking be! Massive boulders and tree trunks jammed together across its width, forming a wall that hadn’t been there hours ago. The water foamed and hissed as it forced its way through the cracks.

He’d sailed this river dozens of times in his youth; it was inspected every week by the trade unions and his men. Nothing like this should’ve been possible.

And yet here it was—a blockade, deliberate and heavy.

A knot twisted in his gut. “This isn’t natural,” he muttered under his breath. “Someone did this.” He turned to his Knights, voice rising. “Get me off this damned—”

Cold metal pressed against the back of his neck.

“Move,” a low voice said, close enough that he felt the man’s breath, “and I’ll cut that fat neck of yours clean off, Count Arvallen.”

Arvallen froze. His hand twitched toward his sword before he saw the rest of them—dark shapes on the deck, surrounding his men like wolves. His Knights stood still, each one with a blade to their throat. Even his Mage had both hands raised, trembling.

They hadn’t even seen them come aboard. How was that possible? How had they crept up on a moving ship without a sound? But questions could wait—this was not the time for pride or confusion.

Multiple solutions came to his mind, but none would work efficiently as—

“You should let me go,” he said, forcing his voice steady. It was time to talk things through. “We can’t have a civil conversation like this. You’re Duke Blackwood’s men, right?”

The blade dug in slightly as the man behind him said flatly, “Duke Arzan.”

Arvallen hesitated, then gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Same thing, isn’t it? Both of you are serving the same cause. Just… lower the blade, and we can talk like men.”

A new voice cut through the air—sharper, colder, and far too familiar.

“Men don’t run at the first sign of trouble,” the voice said. “They don’t abandon their families and cities like cowards, Count Arvallen.”

The voice came from the direction of the captain’s cabin. Arvallen’s heart sank as he turned his head slightly and saw the man stepping out of the shadows.

A tall figure in dark armor, blond hair tied back, eyes gleaming with restrained fury.

Leopold.

Duke William Blackwood’s son—someone Arvallen had seen countless times at court dinners and balls, always silent, always standing behind the Duke’s chair.

“How—how did you…?” Arvallen’s words tripped over themselves before he forced a strained smile. “Leopold. It’s… nice to meet you. I barely saw you in the capital during the assembly.”

Leopold’s expression didn’t change. The calm in his face only made the air heavier. A corner of his lips lifted, ever so slightly.

“And that… was because you were too busy cozying up to Prince Aldrin instead of my father. If you’d shown loyalty to him, you’d be sleeping in a soft bed, not a cold cell.”

Arvallen’s face tightened. “Even if I’ve lost, nobles aren’t criminals.”

Leopold’s eyes went hard. “A man who leaves his city to burn is.” He stepped closer. “I would’ve slightly respected you if you’d fought. But my father knew you’d run. Knight Killian even said so. We kept the explosions away from the river—made sure your escape route was clear. You walked right into our hands.”

Arvallen forced a step forward, trying to smooth the words like oil on troubled water. He needed to win Leopold over; that meant a lighter punishment and better treatment. He needed them to see him as useful, but the cold metal that pressed against his neck choked all his words. “Leopold—” he began. “Tell your men to lower his blade. I can't run out in the river, can I?”

The cold steel at his throat bit deeper. He froze.

“Lower the blade, Gareth,” Leopold said finally. The man with the knife obeyed and eased the point away. Arvallen sagged, relief filling his heart. He tried to hide it. His eyes met the man named Gareth, and couldn’t help but glare.

Doesn’t matter now.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered a bargain, voice smooth and practiced. “Listen. We make a deal. You get your father to let me be caged in my castle and I will stay out of the civil war. I’ll pay—gold, jewels, lands. I’ll give women and whatever you—”

Leopold let him finish only a moment. Then, without warning, pain exploded across Arvallen’s face. His world tilted. A fist or a flat blow—something hard—sent him staggering to the deck. He hit the wood and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Above him, Leopold stood hovering. He shook his right hand in the air and moved his wrist to the sides.

“Fucking unfortunate that I couldn’t break your nose. Just for offering me something like that, you should be rotting in the dungeons, Count Arvallen. Do you really think this is some backwater quarrel no one cares about?”

Arvallen’s glare burned through the blood streaking his cheek. “Watch your tone, boy. I’m still a Count of this kingdom.”

“Not anymore,” Leopold said flatly. “You’re just a noble who lost.”

He crouched, lowering himself until they were eye to eye. The ship rocked softly beneath them, ropes creaking, water slapping at the hull. His voice dropped lower and rougher.

“Do you know when even nobles start worrying about losing everything they’ve ever had?”

Arvallen opened his mouth to answer, but Leopold spoke over him.

“It’s during war. That’s when titles stop meaning anything. Your father might’ve been a Count. Your grandfather too. But when a war like this ends—the kind that could tear the royal line out of the kingdom—you’ll be lucky if anyone even remembers your name.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Arvallen the way a blacksmith might inspect a cracked blade. “You’re still treating this like a game. Like it’s a bet you could afford to lose because you think you’re too important to fall.”

Arvallen’s jaw tightened, veins standing out in his neck. “I am important,” he hissed. “No one can erase what my family has done for this kingdom!”

Leopold smiled—not kindly. “Maybe. But the thing about an illiterate population is, they forget. History fades. And Duke Arzan,” he said, straightening up, “doesn’t care much for the past. He looks at what stands now.”

He rolled his shoulders, the tension leaving him as he turned away. “I’ll just wish you luck for the coming days, Count. You’ll need it. Because I doubt you’ll like any of them.”

With that, Leopold stretched his back and looked toward his men, giving them a nod. The soldiers moved forward at once, rough hands pulling Arvallen to his feet and binding his wrists tight with rope. The Count didn’t fight this time. He just glared, chest heaving, as Leopold walked to the bow—calm, composed, as if the matter was already finished.

Leopold clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the quiet river air. “Does anyone here know how to turn a ship around? I knocked out the captain.” he asked, looking over at his men. “I’m certain my father and Knight Killian are wrapping things up as we speak, and I’m sure they’d love to show everyone how Count Arvallen here ran at the first sign of trouble.”

A few of the men chuckled under their breath, moving toward the helm. The boat began to creak as they shifted its direction, oars cutting against the current.

Count Arvallen’s frown deepened. “You—” he started, but the words died when Leopold turned his gaze on him. That glare alone was enough to silence him. The young man didn’t even need to speak. There was steel in his eyes, and Arvallen suddenly understood that another word might earn him far worse than a punch.

He looked away, jaw tightening. The ropes around his wrists bit into his skin. Savages, he thought bitterly. Every one of them. It wouldn’t surprise him if they decided to carve him up on the way back just for sport.

As the ship turned, he caught sight of the burning horizon. The smoke rising from Solmere, his city, his legacy. He felt something cold settle in his gut.

They had known. Every step, every decision—his retreat, his escape route, even the ship. They had predicted it all.

The realization hit him harder than Leopold’s fist ever could. The battle had been lost long before it began.

He swallowed hard, staring at the ruined skyline shrinking behind them. His only hope now lay with Prince Aldrin. If the prince could turn the war, maybe—maybe—he could be freed before this humiliation became permanent.

But deep down, as he remembered how easily Solmere had fallen, Count Arvallen felt a darker thought creep in.

He wasn’t sure if there would be anyone left to rescue him at all.

***

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