The smoke from the village upstream still lingered in my lungs, though the wind had carried most of the stench away. I returned to Kaeldor's encampment under the pale, watchful moon, my boots sinking into the mud of the riverbank. The men were silent, tending to the wounded and counting the dead. I did not ask their names anymore; in war, names were fleeting, and lives were fleeting in turn. Only numbers remained—and numbers could be manipulated.
By the time I reached the main pavilion, the King's council had convened. Candles flickered against the tent's canvas walls, casting long shadows on the faces of men who were supposed to embody wisdom, loyalty, and strategy. Instead, they looked tired, hungry, and calculating, the weight of fear pressing on their shoulders as heavily as any armor.
I bowed stiffly, though the gesture felt hollow. They barely noticed. King Aldric, seated at the center of the semicircle, lifted his gaze toward me, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
"Cairos," he said, voice low and steady. "Report. And spare me ceremony. Our enemies are not waiting for etiquette."
I nodded. "The river crossing is held—for now. Qashir's cavalry attempted a probe at dawn and were repelled. Draeven forces have not advanced significantly, though they hold the southern plains in formation. Casualties are heavy on both sides. The village upstream… is lost. I gave the order to burn it. It was either them or us."
A silence fell across the room, thick enough to choke on. I could feel the eyes of the council upon me—not the King's, but the others. Some were angry. Some relieved. Some calculating whether my decision would weaken their own position. Velmora's envoy, a man named Lucien, stirred in his seat, his thin fingers tracing the edge of the table.
"Lost?" he said finally, his tone measured. "The villagers? Not merely lost, I hope, General. Do you mean they are dead?"
I did not flinch. "Yes. Most of them."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "And the King approved this?"
I met the King's gaze. Aldric's expression was unreadable, though I knew him well enough to see the flicker of approval in his eyes. He did not need to speak. The council knew where the weight of responsibility lay.
The tent seemed smaller suddenly, crowded with judgment and secrecy. I had fought for this kingdom, bled for it, and yet here, in this chamber, my victory felt fragile, already questioned by those who would rather play politics than wield swords.
"We cannot afford sentiment," the King said finally. "Every moment of hesitation costs lives, and every village spared strengthens our enemies. Cairos, your actions were necessary."
Still, Lucien's voice cut through the affirmation. "Necessary… yes. But what of the alliances, Your Majesty? Velmora watches, as always. Solenna profits from every battle. And Draeven… their zealots will remember every corpse. Do we invite further wrath upon ourselves?"
The King leaned back, hand on his chin, eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Do we wait for them to strike, or do we act first? That is the question, Lucien. And General Valen has already chosen to act."
I shifted uncomfortably. Acting first, yes, but with what advantage? The river crossing had been defended, but the larger war was just beginning. Supplies were thin, morale was fragile, and our enemies—Qashir's riders, Draeven's zealots—were already testing every weakness we had.
A map was unfurled on the table, parchment worn and frayed at the edges. I traced the lines with my fingers, familiar now with every ridge, every river, every forest. Velmora lay to the west, their forests deep, their spies clever. Tharak to the north, mountains jagged and iron-rich, their armies slow but formidable. Solenna to the south, controlling the seas and mercenaries. And to the east and south, the ever-present threat of Qashir and Draeven.
The council's discussion grew heated as strategies were proposed, alliances considered, and threats weighed. One noble suggested opening negotiations with Solenna, offering trade concessions to secure their neutrality. Another advocated for sending envoys to Qashir, appealing to their greed rather than honor. Yet another argued that Draeven must be crushed before they gain strength. Each plan carried risk, and each risk could mean death—on the battlefield, or in the political halls of Kaeldor itself.
I listened, weighing their words against the reality I had seen on the river. Theory was cheap; blood and mud cost more. Every suggestion reminded me of the village, of the cries that had haunted my steps back to camp. I thought of Ril, the boy who had trembled beside me, and wondered if he would remember the council as harshly as the river.
Finally, I spoke, my voice steady even as my mind raced. "We cannot negotiate with enemies who do not think as we do. Qashir and Draeven will not be swayed by gold or words. Solenna will always profit from conflict. Velmora will manipulate as they always do. Our advantage lies here," I said, pointing to the central plains, "and in the loyalty of our men. We hold the river. We fortify the crossings. We control the food. And we wait. Not because we are weak, but because the enemy must come to us."
A murmur of approval ran through the council, though Lucien's expression remained unreadable. "Patience," I continued, "is a weapon more precise than any blade. Strike too soon, and we scatter our strength. Strike too late, and we are crushed. We must be both shield and sword."
The King nodded slowly, folding his hands. "Cairos speaks with wisdom beyond his years. We will follow this course—for now. But understand this: the enemy watches every move, and so must we. If we falter…" His voice trailed, leaving the threat hanging in the air.
We discussed supplies, reinforcements, and intelligence reports until the candle flames guttered low. Every decision was a thread in a web, every word could ripple across the continent. I left the council with the map still in my mind, planning, calculating, measuring the enemy as though they were pieces on a chessboard. But unlike chess, each piece bled, cried, and died.
The camp outside was quiet, though the groans of the wounded echoed across the mud. I walked along the rows of tents, stopping where I could, nodding to men who barely recognized me in the dim moonlight. Ril was tending to a dying comrade, hands trembling but resolute. I placed my hand on his shoulder. "You are stronger than you think," I said. Not a comfort, but a command. Strength was necessary; hope was optional.
Later, I retired to my tent, drawing the canvas flap tight against the chill night. I knelt, not in prayer, but in thought. I reviewed the day, the choices, the cost. Every decision I had made was justified by necessity, yet every action left a mark, invisible but heavy. I wondered if the King, if the council, if even I, truly understood the burden of command. Perhaps not. Perhaps command was never understood, only borne.
I pulled the map close, tracing the rivers, the mountains, the enemy lines. A new letter had arrived, sealed with the mark of Velmora. Their words were courteous, polite, neutral on the surface, but I knew their intent: observation, manipulation, subtle threats hidden beneath flowery phrasing. I read the lines three times, then crumpled the parchment, tossing it aside. Velmora's games would not dictate the movements of my men—not yet.
Outside, a cold wind whispered through the camp. I could hear the river, carrying with it the echoes of the day's violence, the cries, the arrows, the fires. The plains were quiet now, but I knew the calm would not last. Tomorrow, the enemy would probe again, stronger, bolder, hungrier. And I would be waiting, sword in hand, mind sharpened, conscience frayed.
Sleep was fleeting. I dozed in spurts, haunted by visions of fire and mud, by the faces of those I had failed to save. The river's silver surface haunted me, a mirror of both hope and death. And yet, in that restless darkness, one thought anchored me: Kaeldor must endure. The kingdom's survival outweighed my fears, my doubts, my humanity.
I awoke to the first light once more, the smoke of distant villages painting the horizon in shades of gray and red. Letters had arrived from the northern passes: Tharak was on the move, moving through the mountains with slow inevitability. The cavalry reports confirmed my fears: Qashir's horsemen were gathering beyond the eastern hills, their movements bold, almost reckless. Draeven priests were urging their armies to march, declaring holy sanction for the lands we called our own.
The war had begun in earnest, yet we had only fought the first skirmish. The river crossing was merely the opening act. And I, Cairos Valen, would be at the center of what was coming—a commander, a strategist, a witness to the cost of ambition, loyalty, and survival.
I rose, drawing my sword once more, its steel catching the pale sunlight. The plains stretched before me, empty and waiting, and I knew that today, as yesterday, as every day until this war ended, I would have to make impossible choices. And tomorrow, the river would again flow with blood.