The first light of dawn crept over the Kaeldor plains, pale and fragile, like a dying ember. Fog clung to the riverbanks, swallowing the shapes of the trees and the low walls of the bridge we were tasked to defend. I stood atop the embankment, steel gauntlets pressed to the hilt of my sword, and watched the haze as if it might tell me the future. It did not. The future, I had learned, was made in blood and mud, not omens.
The river itself ran sluggishly, swollen from the winter melt. Its waters glinted a dull silver under the faint sun, reflecting the scattered banners of my men. They were tired, worn from long marches and skirmishes that had already claimed too many lives. I knew their faces well—the youngest barely seventeen, clutching a spear almost taller than himself; the eldest, a veteran of the northern passes, scars marring his jaw, eyes dulled but sharp enough to pierce a man's soul. I had commanded them through campaigns where hunger and fear were often deadlier than the enemy. Today, they looked to me to decide which would come first.
I could see the east, beyond the meadows, where the Qashiri cavalry would emerge when they decided to strike. Their riders were fast, relentless, and merciless, their arrows capable of slicing a man from a hundred paces. The steppes had bred them into hunters and killers, and I had already learned not to underestimate them. The King had sent word that the southern nobles of Draeven had also mobilized; their priests claimed divine sanction to cleanse Kaeldor's plains, and their warriors would fight without hesitation, even into death. My kingdom's bread—the fields that fed half the continent—was now a battlefield, and I, a young general barely into my thirties, was its reluctant guardian.
I turned to the men around me. They were silent, but the tension radiated from them like heat from a forge. Each soldier knew what was at stake. Each soldier knew that hesitation meant slaughter. And I knew that hesitation was my own enemy as much as the Qashiri or Draeven forces.
A horn sounded from the far bank—a single, mournful note carried across the fog. My heart tightened. The enemy was near. I signaled to the archers on the walls to take position. "Steady," I called, though my voice felt strange even to my own ears. It carried across the plain and seemed to settle into the bones of my men. The youngest soldier, a boy named Ril, looked at me with wide eyes, trembling as he readied his spear. I wanted to tell him that courage was not the absence of fear but the mastery of it, but the words caught in my throat. There was no time for lectures. Only action.
The first Qashiri scouts appeared like shadows through the mist, their horses' hooves silent on the wet grass. I could make out the glint of their armor, the taut string of their bows. They were probing, testing, seeing how far they could push before the fight truly began. I observed them, calculating. The river was narrow here, shallow in some parts, deep in others. If I could force them to charge through the deeper sections, I could break their formation before they even reached our lines. Strategy mattered, always. But the battlefield had a way of mocking plans.
The Draeven banners were visible next—red and black, emblazoned with their sacred symbol. They moved slower than the Qashiri cavalry, disciplined, rigid, fanatical. They believed in holy justice, and their zeal made them dangerous. Once they began their march, nothing could stop them short of slaughter or retreat, and retreat was not in their minds. I cursed under my breath. Two enemies, converging from east and south, both stronger in different ways. I had to hold this position with men who were fewer, fatigued, and hungry.
I walked along the embankment, inspecting the defenses, checking the morale, measuring the ground. My thoughts wandered, as they always did in these moments, to the politics that had brought us here. Velmora had supplied the riverfolk with knowledge of the terrain, claiming neutrality but knowing that information could tip the balance. Solenna's ships, supposedly guarding the southern ports, had been spotted supplying arms to both sides—greed and gold above loyalty. And Kaeldor itself was fractured, nobles whispering in corridors, some secretly hoping for our defeat so they might seize more power. War was not fought only with swords; it was fought with lies, with silence, with the cold calculus of who could be bought and who could be broken.
The first charge came from the east. A small band of Qashiri horsemen attempted to ford the river at a shallow crossing, arrows raining from their bows. My archers responded immediately, letting fly a volley that thudded into horse and man alike. The fog caught the arrows mid-flight, turning them into fleeting streaks of light. Screams and the splash of horses broke the stillness of dawn. The first blood had been drawn.
I moved among my men, shouting orders, redirecting forces where the riverbank was weakest. I could feel the weight of each decision pressing on my shoulders. Every command I gave could save lives—or destroy them. Ril, the boy, faltered, but I gripped his shoulder, guiding him to cover. "Steady, lad," I muttered, not out of hope, but because fear must be shared, not hidden. Leadership was not about courage; it was about making sure your men had reason to follow you, even if it was into hell.
Hours passed in a blur of mud, arrows, and shouted commands. The Qashiri were relentless, but they underestimated the depth of the river in certain places. Several riders fell, swept away by the current. Draeven warriors appeared at the south edge of the field, forcing me to divert a portion of my men to hold the southern flank. It was a delicate balance—too few men on either side, and the lines would break; too many, and the other flank would crumble. I realized, as I always did in such moments, that victory was often a matter of timing and luck, not bravery or strength alone.
By mid-morning, the fog lifted slightly, revealing the extent of the battlefield. Bodies littered the banks, men from both sides and my own. I tried not to count them; counting the dead was a luxury for those who had not led men into slaughter. My mind focused on the next move. I had sent messengers to Kaeldor's central command, requesting reinforcements, but I knew in my heart that help would arrive too late. I was alone here, and I had to act as though the weight of the entire kingdom rested on my shoulders—because, in truth, it did.
Then came the decision that would haunt me for the rest of my life. A small village upstream, Kaeldorian in name but loyal to no one, stood in the path of the Qashiri cavalry's main advance. If I left it, the enemy would use it as a staging ground and break our lines. If I burned it, I would condemn innocent families, women and children who trusted Kaeldor to protect them. My jaw tightened. War had no morality, only necessity. I gave the order. Torches were lit. Smoke rose into the morning sky, and the cries of the innocent were carried by the wind. I could not watch. I could not allow hesitation to paralyze me. Survival demanded ruthlessness.
By afternoon, the river crossing was held, barely. The Qashiri cavalry had been repelled, Draeven zealots had faltered at our defenses, and my men were bloodied and exhausted. But the cost was visible in every shattered wagon, every broken body, every haunted look in the eyes of those who had survived. I walked among them, offering what words of comfort I could, though they felt hollow even as I spoke them. Victory at this stage was meaningless; survival was temporary, and war's shadow loomed long.
As night fell, I stood on the embankment again, staring at the dark waters of the river, lit faintly by the moon. The smoke from the village upstream still lingered, a permanent scar on the horizon. I thought of the king, of the nobles, of Velmora and Solenna, and I understood that this battle was but the first move in a larger game—one that would consume us all if we were not careful. Alliances would shift, betrayals would happen, and men I trusted would fall either to the enemy's blade or their own ambition.
And yet, in that moment, I allowed myself a brief, bitter satisfaction. My men had held. My command had not faltered. I had made choices no one else could, and they had survived because of them. But I also knew, deep in my bones, that survival was temporary, and that the war we had just begun was far from over.
I thought of Ril, the boy who had trembled at the riverbank, and I knew that he would remember today forever. So would I. And so would the plains, scarred by blood, fire, and the relentless march of war.
I turned from the river, walking slowly back toward our camp. My sword felt heavier now, not with steel, but with the weight of all I had done and all I would be forced to do in the days to come. War, I had learned, was not about glory or honor. It was about survival, and sometimes survival demanded the unthinkable.
And as the night settled over the Kaeldor plains, I whispered a vow—not to the gods, not to the king, but to myself. I will survive. I will endure. And I will do what is necessary, no matter the cost.
The river flowed silently beneath the moonlight, carrying with it the echoes of the day's carnage. And I knew that tomorrow, the war would continue, colder, sharper, and deadlier than ever.