CHAPTER 58: A DREADFUL WARMTH

The smell of war was always a bitter tang in the air.

The scent of iron and fear lingered in the chill bite of the winter breeze, and the undercurrent of smoke only grew stronger as fires began to flare.

By Aric’s command, the Byzeth soldiers marched into the settlements, dragging families from their homes before promptly setting the houses ablaze. Men pleaded for their families, women pleaded for their children, and the little ones could only cry and scream, adding to the symphony of disaster as their homes crackled in flames.

The dark winter night was painted orange by fire, and as Aric gazed upon the chaos he had wrought, his dark mask glowed gold with the flames reflected upon it.

He could hear the screams of the community and their desperate pleas, but he remained indifferent, his heart and mind as cold as the winter wind that bit through the steel of his armor.

At some point, one might consider that perhaps, in chasing his own goals, the prince had gone too far. Now, he bore the blood of soldiers from a loyal empire’s kingdom upon his hands. Was his conquest over Byzeth worth a war with other kingdoms?

Perhaps not, but Aric’s conquest would not end with Byzeth alone.

He looked down at his sword, a sturdy and swift blade. The blood of the men he had slain that night still stained its silver steel.

Aric had slaughtered many men in war, perhaps too many to count, and many of them were good men, many with families they would never return to. Yet when standing on the battleground, there were no good or bad men, only enemies and allies.

And it was kill or be killed.

That, in itself, was the nature of war’s brutality.

Aric sighed, his breath cold as he moved from where he stood, watching as nearly the entire settlement was now engulfed in flames, so much so that it lit the night as though it were day.

Those within the settlement were gathered outside the town, weeping and clinging to one another as they watched their homes burn to the ground in an unexpected raid from an army that flew the banner of a kingdom under their own empire.

Aric walked before the community of nearly three hundred people. He climbed atop the platform his soldiers had fashioned from crates as every eye turned toward him.

They needed no second look to know this was the man—the one who had ordered the destruction of their homes and the slaughter of their protectors. His face was masked; had it not been, they would have engraved it into memory and sworn vengeance. They did not know his name, or else they would have cursed it with every waking breath. And his armor... well, that only deepened their fear—an imposing figure that silenced their audacity.

Aric regarded them in silence, and though none could see it beneath his mask, he felt pity.

Regardless, he did what he must. Perhaps, if the Northern Legionaries were not soon to arrive, he would not have touched their homes. But Aric had told the king, and his words had been truth—the Northrenders demanded action, raids, and communities burned.

How would it seem if they arrived to find the settlement still living happily and normally?

He was merciful, not a fool—and his mercy was the air they yet breathed.

"I can only imagine the dread you all must feel," Aric began, all of them lifting teary eyes toward him as he addressed the community. "To watch your world crumble before you, and be powerless to oppose."

"It isn’t fair... but life has never been such a thing," Aric sighed. "None of you will die, not by my blade at least... nor that of my men. By morning, you will depart for the Kirik Kingdom. On foot, the journey should not take more than a day, and there are towns along your way. When you reach the first, you may rest, eat, and warn them of our arrival. Let the civilians flee, and you must continue deeper into the kingdom to relay what happened here."

The crowd’s laments slowly began to quiet. Their homes still burned, but they were alive and promised survival. If they journeyed inward into Kirik, so long as they kept their lives, there was still hope.

And hope was a rarity in war.

"Rest, and let the flames of your burning homes offer you warmth... for tomorrow you embark upon a long journey."

Aric stepped down from the platform, his men beginning to fortify their base at the former garrison outpost as the fire raged on.

———

The prince took the former chamber of the garrison leader. He zipped the large tent shut behind him, ordering he not be disturbed. Moving to the center, he drew his sword from his back, gazing at it briefly before setting it beside the small mattress.

He sat upon it, his armor clanging as he did.

’Status window.’

—————

Name: Aric Valerian

Title: Forgotten Prince, General

Race: Human

Level: Martial Knight (1) / Tier 1 Mage (Second Circle)

Martial Mage Level: 2

Health (HP): 90/90

Stamina: 90/90

Ki: 70/100 (Restricted)

Mana (MP): 20/20

Attributes:

Strength: 54

Agility: 47

Endurance: 45

Intelligence: 6

—————

The difference was significant since his last check. It seemed after Serina had broken through to the next circle, in the last session alone, she had healed him quite significantly. His health was now only ten points shy of a hundred, and so was his stamina.

More importantly, his Ki was now only thirty percent restricted, down from the original eighty percent limitation back at his estate. He had already felt the change—he was faster, stronger, and had dispatched enemy soldiers with an ease he had never known... so much so that no martial skill had been necessary.

What intrigued him most, however, was the mage level. He had somehow advanced to the second circle without doing anything, and as a result, both his mana and martial mage level had risen.

For Serina, she had explained that her advancement was determined through a system of sacrifice and reward, which made sense as she was tethered to the Weaver of Balance.

So for him, bound to the Weaver of Fate... how did his advancement function?

’And the subspace Serina accessed... how do I reach my own?’