Three weeks passed in a blur of frantic preparation.
Leon stood in the expanded training grounds north of Rallegard, watching the latest group of mercenaries run through formation drills. Two hundred men and women from various territories, experienced fighters who'd sold their services to Aldoria for Free Cities' gold.
They were competent. That was the best Leon could say. Disciplined enough, skilled enough, professional enough to do the job they'd been hired for.
But there was a difference between hired soldiers and defenders fighting for their homes. Leon could see it in how they moved, how they held themselves. These were people doing a job, not fighting for survival.
"They're adequate," Aldric said, appearing beside Leon with a training report. "Better than raw recruits, certainly. The formations come naturally to experienced soldiers - they understand tactical positioning already."
"They also understand when to cut their losses," Leon replied quietly.
Aldric paused. "You also think they'll flee if things go badly."
"I think they're mercenaries. Loyal to gold, not kingdoms." Leon watched a squad execute a defensive formation with professional efficiency. "If the gate opens and it's as bad as we fear - if creatures pour through in impossible numbers - these soldiers will calculate whether their contract payment is worth dying for."
"And conclude it isn't," Aldric finished.
"Can't blame them," Leon said. "Self-preservation isn't cowardice, it's rational. The impending doom means nothing to them. It's not their kingdom, not their families, not their problem beyond the contract they signed. We can't expect them to die for Aldoria."
"Then we use them for what they're good for - skilled support," Aldric said pragmatically. "Let them hold secondary positions, provide ranged support, handle logistics. Save the riskier missions for people who have actual stakes in survival."
It was a cold calculation, but accurate. Leon made a note to discuss mercenary deployment strategies with the war council.
The training continued. More mercenaries arrived daily - small companies, individual fighters, all who saw opportunity in Aldoria's desperation. Each one added to the numbers, but Leon couldn't shake the feeling they were building an army on a foundation of self-interest that would crumble the moment real pressure was applied.
Still no word from the other kingdoms.
Ishmar, the Eastern Coalition, the various independent territories they'd contacted - complete silence from all of them. Either they didn't believe the threat, didn't care, or had concluded like the Free Cities that Aldoria was doomed and not worth investing in.
The countdown continued its inexorable march.
Just over six weeks. He would have to march soon to get in position on time. An advance army had been sent ahead, to set up platforms and solve the swamp terrain problem. They numbered over thirty thousand, with just close to ten thousand left behind, a troop Leon would march with east. They had to wait, the Solmaran ships had not arrived yet.
Leon was reviewing supply manifests in his quarters when Lord Casimir knocked and entered without waiting for permission. His face was ashen.
"We have a problem," Casimir said, closing the door behind him.
Leon set down the manifests. "What kind of problem?"
"Solmara." Casimir pulled out a letter, hands shaking slightly. "This arrived via message bird from our diplomatic contacts in the Empire. It's... not good news."
Leon took the letter and read.
Then read it again, certain he'd misunderstood.
He hadn't.
The Solmaran Imperial Council was debating whether to withdraw support. Whether to recall their commitment and preserve Imperial forces for defending Solmaran territories instead.
"They're discussing abandoning us?" Leon said, his voice hollow.
"The debate is ongoing," Casimir said. "Our contacts report it's split - roughly half the council favors honoring the commitment to Aldoria, half argue for strategic withdrawal." He paused. "The primary argument for withdrawal is that no other kingdom has committed support. The council questions why Solmara should risk Imperial forces when the rest of the world has concluded the battle is unwinnable."
Leon felt ice forming in his stomach. "When is the council expected to reach a decision?"
"Unknown. Imperial politics move slowly - debates could take weeks."
Weeks. Leon did the math with mounting horror.
They were already seven weeks past Kaelis's departure. She'd estimated six weeks to mobilize forces after the decision was made. If the council was still debating whether to send forces at all -
"They haven't even started mobilizing," Leon said. "They've been debating for six weeks while we've been assuming forces were gathering."
"Possibly," Casimir confirmed. "And even if the council concludes today to honor the commitment, adding six weeks of mobilization puts us - "
"Twelve weeks total," Leon finished. " After the gate opens."
The silence in the room was suffocating.
"They might not send anyone at all," Leon continued, the reality sinking in. "And if they do send forces, they'll arrive after the gate has already opened. After the initial surge. After-"
He stopped, unable to finish the thought.
After we're already dead.
"The king wants to send another envoy," Casimir said. "Someone to argue Aldoria's case directly to the Imperial Council. Though at this point..." He trailed off.
At this point, what argument could possibly work? Every rational calculation said Aldoria was doomed. The silence from other kingdoms proved it. Even the Free Cities, who'd sent a delegation, had concluded fighting was futile and opted for loans instead.
Why should Solmara be different?
Leon stood and walked to his window, looking out over Rallegard. Training grounds filled with soldiers drilling in formations he'd designed. Supply depots stacked with equipment bought with borrowed gold. Boats in the harbor being fitted for a combined assault that might never come.
An entire kingdom mortgaging its future, grinding itself to exhaustion, all based on the assumption that Solmara would keep its word.
"How long can we hold without them?" Leon asked quietly.
"Hours, perhaps," Casimir said. "Maybe a day if your formations perform as well as projected and casualties are acceptable. But without Solmaran reinforcements-" He shook his head. "We don't have the numbers, High Archmage. Not even close."
Leon pressed his forehead against the cool glass. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a strong, visceral desire to flee.
Just leave. Walk away. He wasn't really the High Archmage - he was an engineer who'd stumbled into a role he never asked for, maintaining a fraud through desperate improvisation. These weren't his people, this wasn't his kingdom, this wasn't his responsibility.
He could disappear into the chaos. Find passage on a merchant vessel heading far from the eastern territories. Let someone else handle the impossible task of defending the indefensible.
No one would blame him for surviving.
The thought was so tempting it hurt.
"High Archmage?" Casimir said quietly.
Leon turned from the window. Looked at Casimir - exhausted, desperate, still trying to hold everything together despite the mounting evidence of futility.
Thought about Aldric, who believed in Leon's genius completely. About the Sword Saint, about King Alderon, making impossible choices to save his people. About the thousands of soldiers training in formations Leon had designed, trusting that the legendary archmage knew what he was doing.
About all the people who would die when he fled.
"We continue preparing," Leon heard himself say. "Solmara might still honor their commitment. The council might vote in our favor."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we fight with what we have." Leon moved back to his desk, picking up the supply manifests again. "The mercenaries, our own forces, the formations. Maybe it'll be enough."
He didn't believe that. Casimir clearly didn't either. But what else was there to say?
Casimir nodded slowly and departed, leaving Leon alone with his manifests and his cowardice.
Because that's what it was. Not staying because he was brave or noble. Staying because running would mean admitting - to himself if no one else - that he was exactly the fraud he'd always known himself to be.
At least here, dying while pretending to be the High Archmage, he could maintain the fiction to the end.
Leon worked through the night, because sleeping meant thinking, and thinking meant acknowledging the growing probability that everything he was doing was futile.
The week crawled by.
Five weeks until the gate opened.
Still no word from Solmara. No message birds confirming the council's decision.
Just silence, and the countdown, and the frantic preparation for a battle they'd likely fight alone.
Leon threw himself into training with manic intensity. If Solmara wasn't coming, then every Aldorian soldier needed to be perfect. Every formation needed to function flawlessly. Every mercenary needed to understand their role completely.
He barely slept. Barely ate. Just moved from training ground to training ground, war council to supply meeting to tactical planning session. Maintaining the facade of confident expertise while internally screaming at the futility of it all.
The desire to flee never fully left. Some mornings Leon woke up and seriously considered just walking out of the castle, out of the city, away from the grinding countdown to extinction.
But he didn't.
Couldn't.
Wouldn't let himself.
"We need to march soon," Captain Vorin said at the war council. "Even without Solmaran forces, we need time to establish positions at the gate. Waiting any longer-"
"Waiting might bring Solmara," the king interrupted, though his tone suggested he no longer believed that.
"Your Majesty, with respect," Vorin pressed. "We have perhaps forty thousand soldiers, the thirty plus the ten still here, our own forces plus the mercenaries. If we depart now, we can at least prepare adequate defenses. If we wait for ships that might never come - "
"Two more days ," the king said. "We wait two more days for word from Solmara. Then we march regardless."
Two days to cling to false hope before accepting reality.
Leon said nothing. What was there to say?
The days passed in agonizing slowness. Every morning, Leon checked the harbor. Every morning, the horizon remained empty.
Solmara wasn't coming.
The council met again. The decision was made. They would depart at dawn - march east, establish positions as best they could, and pray it was enough.
Leon returned to his quarters and methodically packed his belongings. Books, notes, formation diagrams. Everything he might need for the battle that would almost certainly kill him.
He tried not to think about the ships that never came. Tried not to imagine the Solmaran Council concluding that Aldoria was a lost cause. Tried not to calculate how long they'd survive when the gate opened.
Tried not to think about fleeing.
Failed at all of it.
Leon slept poorly, woke before dawn, and made his way through the dark castle toward the assembly grounds where the army was gathering for departure.
The corridors were quiet. Most of the castle still slept, unaware that today marked the beginning of the end.
Leon stepped out into the pre-dawn darkness -
And stopped.
The castle grounds were in chaos. Not the organized chaos of army assembly, but genuine confusion. Soldiers running. Officers shouting.
"High Archmage!" A guard appeared, breathless from sprinting. "Ships! Ships on the horizon!"
Leon's heart lurched. "Show me."
They ran to the harbor, Leon's robes tangling around his legs. Dawn was just breaking, painting the sky in shades of gray and pink.
And there, silhouetted against the rising sun-
Ships. Dozens of them. More appearing as the light grew stronger, a fleet stretching across the horizon.
Solmaran ships.