Aldrin stood high on the stone balcony, overlooking the training fields of Fort Valemount. He had visited this border fortress many times as a child—his mother’s homeland was right next to it. It was the place where Alparcan banners always fluttered beside Lancephil’s. But never like this. Never with so many bodies packed into the dirt, every square patch of ground claimed by another soldier.

From above, the field looked like a storm of movement. Captains barked orders until their throats went raw. Men sprinted in tight ranks. Others drilled spear walls again and again until their arms shook. There were no lazy steps… no resting hands. Not when the sound of war drums was already echoing deep in the kingdom.

Most of these soldiers had never seen a real battlefield. They didn’t know how blood smelled when it hit dirt. They didn’t know how loud dying men screamed. But they could feel something heavy pressing toward them.

Aldrin knew it was going to be soon. Because he had paid the price to know.

His purse had groaned every time he drafted more gold for his communication network—avian beasts trained to carry encrypted messages faster than any courier rider. He’d bribed border smugglers for information routes. He’d placed silent watchers in every major city weeks before the crown fractured.

Knowledge was his blade.

Yet… every report lately cut him instead.

His brothers were tearing into each other as expected, wearing themselves thin. By Aldrin’s calculations, they should have weakened each other slowly—over months—until he could strike the final blow and take what he deserved.

But the letters painted a different picture now.

Some lines advanced too fast. Some victories were too clean. Some names—one name especially—kept appearing where they shouldn’t.

Arzan Kellius. The wild card.

Aldrin gripped the balcony rail, fingers turning white. He had planned for rival princes, corrupt nobles, foreign meddlers… but not a single Duke ripping through battlefields like a spell of divine judgment.

His soldiers trained below, still believing war had not yet reached them.

But Aldrin knew better.

War was already running at them.

Although Thalric had taken several cities and forts already, Aldrin wasn’t worried about his second brother—not really. Thalric’s army was stretched thin, and Eldric would grind him down soon enough. That part of the war was moving just as Aldrin expected.

What unsettled him… was the outlier.

Arzan Kellius.

The one piece on the board that refused to move the way he predicted.

Aldrin flipped through the latest coded reports again in his mind. Two border forts were already taken. And Solmere City was lost before anyone even understood what hit it. The last whisper from his informers there had mentioned explosions that had shook the city, then there was silence.

Either his man fled… or he was lying dead in the rubble.

Arzan’s advance wasn’t surprising. The man’s reputation had been built on impossible victories. But the speed? The lack of losses? That was not part of Aldrin’s neat little timelines.

Battles were supposed to drag on. Enforcers and Mages were supposed to suffer attrition, bleed energy with every clash. That was the entire point—wear Arzan down long before he arrived at Valemount.

Instead, forts were falling like knocked-over game pieces.

Aldrin tightened his jaw.

He had planned for a war of erosion. Arzan was delivering a war of beheadings.

And every fortress that toppled without costing him strength only pushed Aldrin closer to a truth he didn’t like: If Arzan kept this pace… their confrontation would come far sooner than Aldrin had wanted.

And if his real plan failed?

Then surrendering might be the only intelligent move left.

Better to bend the knee to a rising storm than be swept away by it.

If Aldrin’s projections were right, he and Arzan would clash far sooner than he had planned. The speed of it was the only thing that worried him. Everything else—Arzan’s victories, his movement across the map, his growing conquered territory—had all been calculated, expected, accounted for in his grand design. He had prepared several ways to bring the man down. And if every single one of those plans failed… well, then Aldrin would surrender and swear loyalty. There would be no shame in kneeling to a force that could not be stopped. Only fools fought the tide.

His thoughts were cut short by firm footsteps behind him.

Aldrin turned, schooling his face back into calm just as his cousin, Prince Vhailor of Alparca strode toward him, wrapped in one of his usual showy robes—dark silk stitched with golden feathers, each gleaming at the slightest shift of light. Strength radiated off him with every step.

Four Royal Mages followed in formation.

One was a sharp-boned man with crackling, seal-marked arms; static danced over his skin, and the scent of lightning followed him like a warning. Next came a tall Mage whose staff was taller than his body. The third wore a heavy set of armour and looked more like a Knight. The last Mage was an old man who looked at Aldrin over as if evaluating him.

Vhailor reached him and immediately pulled him into a crushing embrace.

Aldrin’s ribs strained. He tried to push free without looking too desperate, but the prince’s grip made every hug feel like a wrestling match with a bear. When he finally managed to slip loose, Vhailor let out a booming laugh.

“You always make that face when I hug you, cousin,” he said, grinning wide. “You’re too delicate for your own good. You should spar with me sometime. I’ve been training with a foreign weapon—a trident. It's like a spear, but far better.” He mimicked a stabbing motion for emphasis.

Aldrin forced a faint smile, rubbing his ribs. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “But… you know the complications I have.”

Vhailor snorted, planting a hand on Aldrin’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze that almost pushed him off balance.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Your frail body, your careful steps.” His tone softened for a breath—only a breath. “But that doesn’t excuse you from being a warrior, Aldrin. Spells are good… but war needs more than hands and words. You must move. Strike. Bleed. No Mage survives by standing still.”

Aldrin lowered his eyes, jaw tightening. He wanted to snap back. I could, if your family had given me the potion.

The Vermion Elixir—that cure he’d never been allowed to touch.

His weakness wasn’t a mystery. He carried more than a few drops of Alparcan royal blood in his veins. An old bloodline that came from the blood drinkers, ancient beings stronger and faster than humans. But centuries of mixing had thinned the line. Those born outside the true royal branch—like Aldrin—didn’t gain strength from it.

They suffered from it.

His heart worked harder. His muscles tired faster. Every spell burned him more than it should. But the potion… the Vermion Elixir was designed to strengthen the body so the blood drinker lineage could finally awaken—turning weakness into advantage.

His mother had begged for it.

They had refused.

“Tradition,” they said. “Rules,” they said. “It is only for pure heirs,” they said.

Aldrin knew the real reason. It was leverage. A chain they wrapped around his throat. A tool they would use when the time came. When he finally rose up to the throne. Blood ties meant nothing to the Alparcan court unless they led to profit.

To the world, they acted like his loyal allies. His mother’s proud family. But Aldrin wasn’t fooled. They wanted a king in Lancephil they could control.

He forced his voice steady.

“I’ll… do what I can,” he said. “With the body I have.”

Vhailor simply grinned—confident, careless, completely unaware of the battles Aldrin fought inside his own skin every single day.

Even the terms of Alparca’s support had been steep—almost insulting. But Aldrin had signed anyway. The civil war had ignited faster than any prediction, and his careful plans involving Arzan had been kicked right off the board. He needed powerful allies, and Alparca had stepped forward with open arms and swords hidden behind their backs.

He fell quiet, thoughts looping again, until Vhailor bumped his shoulder.

“What are you brooding over now?” his cousin asked with a lazy grin. “You could’ve joined me for lunch with Lady Seraphine. She dressed really nicely today.”

Aldrin let out a small sigh. “I was reviewing our reports on Duke Arzan’s march. His army has taken Solmere already. It means they’ll be pushing toward the next strongholds soon. We need to discuss defenses.”

Vhailor’s eyebrows twitched up—surprised, if only for a heartbeat. “That quickly? I thought I’d have more time with Seraphine.” He huffed. “Those men of his are more capable than I expected.”

“I told you,” Aldrin replied. “You underestimate too often.”

Vhailor grinned. “Because most Mages are nothing special next to me and mine. You know that.”

From behind him, one of the Royal Mages—Aldrin thought his name was Specter—spoke up, pride sharp in his voice.

“With Prince Vhailor leading us, we could crush Arzan’s entire army. There’s no need for concern, Prince Aldrin.”

Aldrin’s gaze slid toward the Mage—flat, unimpressed—before returning to Vhailor.

“Confidence is fine,” he said. “Blindness is not. Arzan is a Fourth-Circle Mage who has already defeated a Magus And not just defeated—crippled. You remember how terrified you were of Magus Veridia.”

That struck. Vhailor’s smile tightened at the edges.

Aldrin let the silence linger a moment. He needed Vhailor confident… but not careless.

Vhailor snorted and stamped one foot, the sound sharp on the stone. “That was three years ago,” he said. “Back then I hadn’t learned the Alparcan arrays. Now I have. One Mage—no matter how bold—won’t stand before me. He’ll fall.” He straightened, eyes bright with confidence. “Honestly, I don’t think you need more help than that. I promised I’d kill him the instant he reached the fort.”

Aldrin kept his voice low. “Wars aren’t won on promises, Vhailor. You want one victory, fine. But you must plan for the next ten after that. Backups for backups.” He paused, watching a line of men run drills below. “Do not forget why your family came here. The Alparcan court wants the aethum mines and you helping me would also strengthen your position for the crown.”

Vhailor waved a hand, half laughing. “And the mines, and the forests, and the rivers—yes, we’ll talk about them once you sit on the throne.” He grinned, eager and impatient.

Aldrin only nodded. “We’ll talk about that later. There’s a long road before the throne. If we beat Arzan now, my other brothers will be easier to handle.” He met Vhailor’s gaze steadily.

For a moment Vhailor’s face hardened. “Is Arzan really that important?” he asked. “He’s a Duke, a capable Mage, yes, but you’re giving him too much credit.”

Aldrin’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the drills, the soldiers moving like a single living thing, and remembered the crack of wood and stone in the arena. “You weren’t there when the arena collapsed,” he said quietly. “Arzan isn’t just strong on paper. He reads battle. He finds the weak points no one else sees. Meeting him in the field is how you truly know him and how terrifying he could be.”

Vhailor’s smile thinned into something colder. “I don’t have to meet him beforehand to kill him,” he said. The words came easy, like a promise he had already made to himself. The heat left Aldrin’s face, replaced by a small, careful silence.

One of Vhailor’s Mages stepped forward then, voice smooth and sure. “The prince has bested Mages above his circle before. You need not worry, Prince Aldrin.” He spoke as if victory were a fact already written.

Aldrin gave a short, polite nod. “I wish you the best, cousin.”

The words did not sit well with Vhailor. He slammed both hands on the balcony rail and glared at Aldrin, jaw tight. “I don’t like you doubting me,” he said. “You should be the one who knows my power best.”

Aldrin held the prince’s stare without blinking. “I do know it,” he said quietly. “That is why I want you to take this seriously, Vhailor.”

For a moment the prince’s face hardened, then brightened with a dangerous light. He straightened his shoulders and turned on his heel. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll train harder. I’ll change your mind when I hand you his corpse. When I kill Arzan, you will know I am the strongest Mage, not just in the kingdom, but in the world.”

He strode off in long, eager steps, his retinue falling in behind him. Aldrin watched his cousin go and the corner of his mouth lifted into a small, private smile. Riling up Vhailor had always been easy; the prince treated anyone taller and stronger than him as a target. He did not like warnings. He liked conquest.

Aldrin wondered, not for the first time, why the royal house did not post an elder to temper the prince’s heat. But he guessed it was because Vhailor disliked being guided; he resented restraint. The family had long learned to let his temper burn—it was useful theatre for their aims.

That suited Aldrin fine.

He did not expect Vhailor to finish Arzan. The man couldn’t do it, even if he wanted to. He only needed the prince to strike recklessly enough to wound or slow the Duke. A careless thrust, a poorly timed duel—something to leave a mark. If Vhailor drew blood, Arzan would be far easier to deal with. That would be the opening Aldrin wanted.

He turned his eyes back to the drilling men below, feeling the plan settle again like a set of stones. Let Vhailor rush and make a show. Let Arzan be nicked and angered. Then Aldrin’s true moves—the ones he had built for months—could begin.

***

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