The plains shook beneath the march of the Lot Kingdom's army.
Eighty thousand men stretched in a winding column that seemed endless, banners flying like storm clouds and spears rising like a steel forest. The earth groaned under their boots. To the frightened villagers watching from afar, it looked as though a mountain range had begun to walk.
At the head of this tide rode King Lot IX, his armor shining faintly in the light. Beside him was his seventeen-year-old son, the crown prince, his young face lined with unease.
"Father," the boy said, leaning close, "why are we here? Prince Ragnar only sent a letter, and you brought the whole strength of our country against the Ross Kingdom. I've heard their army is nearly gone—just a few thousand left. Surely the Nord army could crush them without us. Why did we come?"
Lot IX sighed. His expression was heavy, as though he bore a weight far beyond his years.
"Because in their last battle," he said quietly, "the Rossians fought with magicians. A thousand men defeated fifty thousand Nord soldiers."
The boy's eyes widened. "Magicians? Then perhaps we should turn back—"
"No." Lot IX cut him off, his voice firm but bitter. "Ragnar's teacher, Leander of the Tongsley Empire, has placed his hand upon this war. Leander is no ordinary mage—he is a grand magician, a man tied to the very Dragon Knight Legions themselves. Offend him, and a single letter could summon dragons to destroy our kingdom."
The prince paled. He knew what that meant. Dragon Knights were the pinnacle of war, warriors as powerful as armies, riding beasts of fire and wings. Against them, ordinary knights were nothing but children with sticks.
Lot IX's lips twisted. "I did not come for Ragnar. I came because we cannot afford to insult his master. Better to send our troops, even if it bankrupts the treasury, than to risk the wrath of the Tongsley Empire. But…" He glanced at his son, lowering his voice. "…if Leander takes notice of you, if he were to accept you as a student, then our kingdom would rise forever."
The boy swallowed, realizing why his father had brought him to this campaign: not only to fight, but to be displayed like a token before a man of power.
---
Sloan Town – The Gathering of Armies
Five days later, the Nord army reached Sloan Town first. Ragnar himself led them, his runed armor glowing faintly in the winter sun. Behind him, 30,000 Nord soldiers marched grimly, the sound of drums and hooves echoing through the air.
Sloan Town itself was eerily empty. The streets were deserted, the homes abandoned. Ragnar stared at the emptiness, his mouth curling into a snarl.
"So, Gavin Ward," he muttered, "you emptied the place before I arrived."
Indeed, Gavin had ordered every civilian evacuated back to Lowes City. He knew what armies of this era did—they were not soldiers so much as wolves. Bandits with banners. Wherever they marched, they burned, looted, slaughtered. Ragnar had planned a massacre to quench his hatred, but now there was no one left to kill.
He grit his teeth, frustration burning in his chest. "Coward," he spat. But still, the thought of Gavin's army ahead made his blood boil with anticipation. Soon, he promised himself. Soon.
Two days later, the Lot Kingdom's host arrived. Their 80,000 soldiers swelled the Nord force until the combined army reached a staggering 110,000.
When King Lot IX rode out to greet Ragnar, his voice was respectful to the point of servility. "Prince Ragnar, please allow me to pay my respects to Lord Leander."
Ragnar gave a small nod and gestured toward the older mage riding behind him. Lot IX's eyes lowered, not in respect for Ragnar, but for the teacher who commanded even dragon riders.
Ragnar raised his arm. "Then let us march. To Ross. To annihilate Gavin Ward's pitiful army. And when the city falls, I will slaughter every soul within it to sate my hatred."
---
The Letter
But before the armies could depart Sloan, a messenger galloped into camp, dismounting before Ragnar. He held up a sealed parchment.
"Your Highness Ragnar," the man said, bowing, "a letter. From King Gavin Ward."
"King Ross?" Lot IX murmured. "Surely this must be his surrender…"
But Ragnar tore open the letter, scanned its contents, and suddenly threw back his head in wild laughter.
"Hahahahahaha! What madness! What arrogance! That fool actually invites me to a decisive battle on the plains!"
He ripped the letter to pieces, scattering them into the wind. His laughter turned to a roar. "What is he but an insect? Very well—if he wants to die in the open, I will grant him his wish!"
Lot IX frowned deeply. "A field battle? Has the man lost his mind? With a few thousand against one hundred thousand, he will be crushed within half a day!"
Still, Ragnar's expression was twisted with joy. "I will see him beg. I will see him broken. And when his army is ash, I will watch him scream before I sever his head."
The mages around him smirked cruelly. The knights grinned. Only Lot IX kept silent, his stomach twisting. He knew something was wrong. But with Leander looming in the background, he dared not question.
---
The Wally Plains
The chosen battlefield was the Wally Plains, once the grazing grounds of Ross's herds before Nord burned them bare. Now the grass grew sparse, the land wide and empty—perfect for cavalry charges.
The flags of both armies rose high, snapping in the cold wind. The air was sharp with tension, the smell of sweat, steel, and fear hanging heavy.
From the sky, one could see the vastness of it all:
On one side, the Nord–Lot alliance stretched across the horizon, 110,000 soldiers spread like a black sea upon green earth. Their formation was so wide it blotted the landscape, like storm clouds devouring the sky.
On the other side, the Ross Kingdom's army stood in a tight block of just 2,000 men. A single dark spot on the vast green plain, insignificant compared to the mass facing them.
It was a sight almost comical in its contrast. A giant versus an ant. A mountain versus a pebble.
And yet, those two thousand stood firm. Their black uniforms gleamed. Their rifles caught the light. They did not waver, they did not tremble.
The ground between them was silent, but every heartbeat in the plains knew: the battle was about to begin.
---