CHAPTER 55: THE SMELL OF WAR

The next morning at dawn.

Aric had met with Aszer at the castle some hours earlier. From there, he and the king rode to the Miredis stretch. Aside from Ezra’s Path, which ran through the heart of formidable kingdoms, Miredis also offered them a passage to the kingdoms north of Valeria.

This northern road passed through the outskirts of three of these northern realms, and when goods were carried to them, they were then transported to other kingdoms through Ezra’s Path. Beyond those lands lay the Northern River.

The Northern River emptied into the Stygian Sea, the body of water dividing Valeria from the Northrend Empire.

The prince now stood, his face masked as his armor was being strapped to him, and around him stood an army.

Men, horses, and banners—it stank of war.

Yet the prince stood unshaken in the vast sea of soldiers, the Byzeth forces stretching in all directions, close to a thousand men strong.

The morning sun barely crept above the horizon, casting a pale glow on the gleaming armor fastened onto his body. His own plate, polished steel with golden inlays, caught the rising light, making him appear like a figure from legend.

Around him, horses snorted and shifted, banners snapped in the wind, and the murmurs of soldiers blended with the clinking of steel.

The armor was heavy, yet Aric bore it with ease that made the burden seem nothing. Each piece was carefully fitted by the armorers, the breastplate etched with faint symbols of Valeria—symbols that now carried little meaning to him—at least, that was what he made them believe.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the press of the gauntlets, and listened to the sounds of the army preparing for battle. His eyes stayed forward, his mind sharp, though none could see the calculations hidden beneath the mask.

Tension rose as King Aszer Hait approached, mounted on a massive black warhorse draped in royal blue cloth bearing the sigil of Byzeth. His armor was less ornate, more practical, yet imposing all the same. Aszer’s eyes gleamed as he studied Aric, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Do you like the armor, Valerian?" Aszer’s voice cut through the noise, carrying a subtle challenge.

Aric nodded, gaze steady. "I am thankful for it, your grace. It is... fitting."

As the final clasp was secured, Aric turned and mounted his own steed, a powerful black stallion with muscles rippling beneath its dark coat.

The horse was restless, its breath fogging in the crisp air, but Aric’s steady hand kept it calm. He was then handed a thin, razor-sharp sword, its polished blade blazing with light. Without hesitation, he slid it onto his back, the weight resting between his shoulders.

Aszer studied him with an appraising look. "Tell me, Valerian—how familiar are you with war?"

Aric’s masked face turned toward him. "I understand the concept," he answered smoothly.

"Strategy, formations, logistics." His voice stayed neutral, though in truth, Aric had fought in more wars than he cared to remember in his past life. Battles where rivers ran red, where lives were extinguished like candles in a storm. He knew war intimately—perhaps better than most here.

The king raised an eyebrow, sensing something beneath Aric’s tone, but said nothing. Instead, he straightened in his saddle and faced the assembled host. His voice thundered across the ranks as he raised a hand, commanding silence.

"Men of Byzeth!" Aszer roared. "This day marks the beginning of our strike against Valeria, an Empire that has neglected its northern borders and left its people exposed. We shall remind them of our strength!" The soldiers erupted in cheers, weapons raised high.

Neglected? What bullshit, the prince thought.

Aszer gestured toward Aric. "This man—your general—will lead this raid among your commanders. He shall be known only as ’General.’ His name is not to be spoken, and for those who know it, it shall never be revealed. His purpose here is singular: victory."

The title, though simple, carried weight. None but Aszer, a few guards, and select councilors knew the masked figure’s true identity.

To the soldiers, he was only the General—and the mystery served Aric well. His presence was meant to instill fear and unease, both in the enemy and within his own ranks.

Aric stayed silent as the king’s proclamation echoed over the crowd. Aszer gave a curt nod, signaling the march. Banners lifted, soldiers rallied, and the army began to move, the thunder of hooves and boots rolling like a storm across the land.

Their destination: the northern settlements of Valeria.

A fragile cluster of towns lying by the northern river, far from the empire’s heart, yet vital to its trade routes and defenses. Aric had chosen these targets carefully—outskirts that, if shattered, could cripple Valeria’s hold on the region.

They were ripe for conquest, and the strike would send a clear message to the Valerian Empire.

That was what the prince had made the king believe.

Aszer, riding beside him, turned. "Your targets, Valerian. Do you truly believe the northern settlements will draw the Empire’s eye?"

Aric’s gaze remained forward, calculating. "A strike from the north will raise alarm of the men of winter demanding appeasement. It will stir commotion, and the hesitation we require as well."

The king considered this, then nodded. "Very well. We strike as you say." His eyes swept the marching host before returning to Aric. "But remember, Valerian—this is your test. Fail, and the cost will be dire. Succeed, and you may yet prove yourself."

Aric’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. "I never fail."

The storm of war was rising, and Aric was ready to unleash it.