The world seemed to hold its breath as the deadline drew near. For two days, the tension between House Verentis and House Marestel had stretched taut like a bowstring, every soldier, every noble, every spy knowing that the slightest slip would loose the arrow of war.
On the third morning, it finally snapped.
The March of Verentis
The banners of House Verentis fluttered proudly against the pale dawn sky. Rows upon rows of armored soldiers marched in disciplined columns, their boots thundering against the frozen soil. Spears glinted under the faint sun, shields overlapped in measured rhythm, and the chill air carried the steady cadence of war drums.
At the forefront rode Achilles Verentis, clad in blackened steel polished to a mirror sheen. His cloak bore no gaudy emblem, no flamboyant sigil. Only the wolf of Verentis stitched in silver thread across his chestplate marked who he was — the Warlord of the Border.
Beside him rode Captain Kael, his ever-reliable second-in-command, scarred from countless battles yet still sharp-eyed, his voice carrying weight among the men. Flanking them were the executives: veterans, strategists, and loyal officers who had survived the border hell with Achilles for two decades.
Behind the front ranks marched Skotos, the silent shadow. He had returned from his infiltration mission, bloodied yet alive, after ensuring that no word escaped the emptied mana stone mine. The enemy still believed their resource safe — a deception that would only deepen their downfall.
But today, none of them wore victory in their eyes. Only cold resolve.
Achilles broke the silence first.
"Kael. Report."
The captain adjusted the reins of his destrier and leaned closer.
"Ten thousand strong, counting reserves. Supply wagons secured. The mine is cleared of their watch, and no runners escaped. Our forward scouts confirmed Marestel's army is gathering beyond the ridge. Numbers — twelve to fourteen thousand."
A murmur rippled among the executives. Verentis was strong, but Marestel was wealthier, entrenched, and desperate to defend what they believed theirs. The odds were not in Verentis' favor on paper.
Achilles's lips curved into something between a grin and a snarl.
"Good. I want them to fight like cornered beasts. Let them bare their fangs — only then can we break them."
Kael shot him a glance. He had seen this before — Achilles thriving where others saw death, turning the battlefield into a butcher's yard through patience, deception, and ferocity.
But this wasn't just another border skirmish. This was war against a noble house backed by the throne. A single mistake could mean annihilation.
The Marestel Preparations
Beyond the ridge, within the fortified encampment of House Marestel, panic and determination wrestled for dominance.
Inside the war tent, Lady Ysoria Marestel sat in the Duke's stead. Draped in emerald silk beneath her armor, her beauty was cold and imperious, her eyes sharp with both fear and fury. With Duke Maren still missing — the Verentis holding him in chains — the burden of command fell upon her.
Around her, generals argued.
"They have Duke Maren. We must prioritize his safe return!" one barked.
"And lose the mine in the process? Without it, Marestel will crumble within the year!" another countered.
The mention of the mana stone mine sent ripples through the tent. Every noble knew its worth — wealth, magic, and leverage. To surrender it was to surrender Marestel's strength.
Ysoria slammed her gauntleted hand against the map table, silencing them all.
"Fools. If we falter here, there will be no House Marestel left to ransom him to. Verentis sent their deadline, but mark my words — they are baiting us. Lira Verentis may or may not be in their hands, and Duke Caldus's letter may hide Achilles's hand. We cannot allow ourselves to be toyed with."
Her eyes narrowed over the map of the battlefield.
"Double the defenses along the mine. Fortify the ridge. Mobilize the cavalry. We will meet Verentis at the pass and crush them before their claws sink deeper."
The generals bowed, though unease lingered. Lady Ysoria was shrewd, but Verentis' Warlord was no ordinary commander.
Still, they had numbers. They had wealth. They had reputation.
And Ysoria intended to show the realm that House Marestel remained unbroken.
The Battlefield — First Blood
The two armies met as the sun bled crimson across the horizon.
The ridge loomed ahead — a natural choke point. Marestel had entrenched their lines atop the slope, archers in staggered ranks, spearmen braced behind wooden stakes, cavalry ready to charge from the flanks once Verentis committed.
Achilles surveyed the field from a rise. His gaze swept across the enemy formation, noting the placement of siege weapons, the lines of supply wagons, the signals fluttering above their command tent.
"They expect us to break ourselves on their wall," Kael muttered.
Achilles's cold eyes never left the ridge.
"Then we won't."
He raised his gauntleted hand. A single signal banner lifted.
The Verentis infantry halted.
From the woods flanking the battlefield, hidden units emerged — siege carts bearing scorpions and mangonels hastily constructed during the march. At Achilles's nod, stones and bolts whistled through the air, crashing into Marestel's forward stakes.
Archers retaliated, their arrows blackening the sky. Shields locked, Verentis soldiers weathered the storm, their formations absorbing the first strike.
Then came the roar.
"Advance!"
The ground shook as Verentis infantry surged forward in disciplined blocks, their shields angled, their spears bristling like a wall of fangs. They did not charge recklessly but moved with ruthless precision, step by step, forcing Marestel's archers to adjust.
The clash was thunderous. Spears met shields, swords scraped steel, and blood painted the ridge. Screams mingled with the pounding of war drums.
Marestel's generals smirked at first. The slope favored them; Verentis soldiers were forced uphill, slowed, strained. Their arrows rained mercilessly, felling dozens.
But then the trap was sprung.
From the left flank, a detachment of Verentis cavalry burst out of the woods, sweeping into Marestel's archers before they could reset their ranks. Chaos erupted as bowstrings snapped under the charge.
Ysoria's eyes widened as she realized the mistake.
"Damn him. He held his cavalry back to bait ours—!"
Too late. Her own knights thundered out to intercept, only to be met with hidden caltrops and trenches dug overnight by Verentis sappers. Horses screamed as they toppled, riders crushed beneath their mounts. The proud Marestel cavalry scattered in disarray, their initial advantage wasted.
At the center, Achilles himself waded into the melee. His greatsword cleaved through shields like parchment, his strikes too precise, too brutal to be mere brute strength. Soldiers rallied at the sight of him, their chants echoing:
"Verentis! Verentis! Verentis!"
Each kill drove Marestel lines further back. The slope that should have been their fortress became a killing ground as Achilles turned terrain into a weapon.
Still, Marestel did not break. Their discipline held. Ysoria rallied her men from the rear, ordering reserves to plug the gaps, archers to reposition, mages to unleash fire and ice across the field.
The battlefield became a storm — fireballs bursting among Verentis ranks, mangonels crushing Marestel's fortifications. Smoke, screams, steel.
And through it all, Achilles never slowed.
The Stalemate
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, then dipped again, shadows lengthening over fields slick with blood.
Neither side had broken.
Marestel's losses were severe, yet their numbers still held, their defenses not fully breached. Verentis had outmaneuvered them, but each victory cost dearly in men and stamina.
As twilight approached, the armies pulled back slightly, both sides glaring across a no-man's-land of corpses and shattered steel.
Achilles stood atop a mound of bodies, his blade dripping, his armor dented but unyielding. His eyes were cold, calculating. He had tested Marestel's strength. They were weaker than they appeared, yet not fragile enough to shatter in one blow.
Kael approached, blood streaking his cheek.
"They won't last another day like this. But we're bleeding too."
Achilles nodded slowly.
"That's fine. Tomorrow, we end it."
Behind enemy lines, Lady Ysoria stared across the field from her command tent. Her face was pale, her hands trembling beneath the table where no one could see.