Chapter 1: The Field That Swallowed Kings
The war smelled like iron and bad decisions. Aldric Vance could pick it out of any wind, in any season, after six years of it — the metallic tang of fresh blood mixing with the acrid rot of old. Even now, miles behind the front, holed up in this drafty excuse for a command tent, that stink coated his tongue. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to rub away the phantom sensation. No use. It was in his clothes, his hair, ground into the very skin of his hands. He was starting to think it would follow him to his grave.
"Captain Vance?" A young voice, barely old enough to shave, poked through the tent flap. Private Thalen, the newest, greenest addition to his rotating staff. They didn't last long, not usually. Aldric tended to chew through them, wear them down to frayed ends with his temper and his demands. "Courier from the Third Division, sir. Urgent orders?"
Aldric sighed, the sound heavy as a tombstone. Urgent was never good. Urgent usually meant more bodies to count, more ground to lose. "Send him in, Thalen."
The courier was just as green as Thalen, probably fresh out of training. He saluted, a little too crisp, and thrust a sealed scroll at Aldric. "By order of General Horth, sir."
Aldric took it, unimpressed. Horth was a glory-hound, all bluster and no brains. He probably wanted to launch some suicidal offensive to impress the brass back in the capital. Aldric broke the seal with his thumbnail and scanned the contents. His stomach dropped. Not an offensive. Worse. "They're pulling us back," he said, more to himself than the courier.
"Sir?" Thalen asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.
"Karth Fields. They're abandoning Karth Fields." Aldric read the words again, just to be sure. The Third and Fifth Divisions were to be rerouted south, to bolster the defenses around the capital. The First, Second, and Fourth were to hold the line at Karth Fields, or what was left of it, until further notice. Which, Aldric knew, meant until they were all dead. Karth Fields was a meat grinder. Everyone knew it. But it was a strategic chokepoint. If the Fae broke through there, they'd be at the capital's gates within a week.
"But…sir, that's suicide," Thalen whispered, his face pale.
Aldric didn't bother to sugarcoat it. "Pretty much, yeah." He crumpled the order in his fist. "Get the men ready to move. We leave at dawn."
The next morning dawned gray and grim, mirroring the mood of the men. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. A light rain had started to fall, turning the already muddy ground into a slick, treacherous mess. Aldric stood at the edge of the camp, watching his men pack their meager belongings. They moved with the weary resignation of those who had seen too much, too soon. He couldn't blame them. He felt it too, that bone-deep weariness. He just couldn't afford to show it. Not yet. He had to get them to Karth Fields. He had to keep them alive, at least for a little while longer. He owed them that much.
He mounted his horse, a sturdy warhorse named Breaker, and surveyed the column. Three hundred men, give or take. A fraction of what he'd started with six years ago. But they were his men. And he would lead them into hell, if that's what it took. "Alright," he said, his voice rough. "Let's ride."
The ride to Karth Fields was silent. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of hooves on the muddy ground, a grim drumbeat counting down the minutes to their doom. As they neared the battlefield, the air grew heavy with the stench of death. Charred bodies lay scattered across the fields, picked clean by scavengers. The ground was churned and soaked with blood. Aldric swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat. He'd seen worse, but it never got any easier. Never.
A scout rode back to the column, his face grim. "Captain, the line has broken. The Fae are pushing through the center. It's a slaughter."
Aldric closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself. This was it. The end he'd been expecting for years. "Form up!" he barked. "Swords out! For the King! For the Realm!"
The men roared in response, a ragged, defiant sound. They knew what they were riding into. But they would face it together. Aldric drew his own sword, the steel gleaming in the dull light. He spurred Breaker forward, leading the charge into the heart of the carnage. The Fae were waiting for them, a tide of silver and steel. They crashed together in a whirlwind of violence, the air filled with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying. Aldric fought like a man possessed, cutting down Fae warriors left and right. But they just kept coming, wave after wave. He felt a searing pain in his side, a Fae spear piercing his armor. He ignored it, pressing on, driven by adrenaline and desperation. He had to hold the line. He had to buy time for the others to retreat.
But it was no use. They were outnumbered, outmatched. The line crumbled around him, his men falling like wheat before a scythe. He felt Breaker go down beneath him, screaming as his legs were taken out. He went down with him, landing hard in the mud and blood. Dazed, he rolled free of the dying horse, his vision swimming. The Fae were all around him, their silver eyes cold and pitiless. He raised his sword, ready to meet his end with defiance. But he knew it was over. He was alone. He was going to die here, in this forsaken field. Another casualty in a war they were destined to lose.
He saw one coming at him, face concealed behind an ornate silver mask. He steeled himself for the blow, but it never came. The Fae warrior paused, staring at him with what almost seemed like…pity? Then, without a word, the warrior turned and walked away, disappearing into the chaos. Aldric frowned, confused. Why hadn't he killed him? Was this some kind of Fae trick?
He didn't have time to ponder it. Another spear slammed into his side, this one finding its mark. He gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He stumbled backward, falling into a shallow ditch. He lay there, gasping for breath, the blood seeping from his wound, warm on his skin. The sounds of battle faded around him, replaced by a ringing in his ears. His vision narrowed, the edges going dark. He was dying. Here, alone, in a ditch filled with mud and blood. Fitting, he supposed. A soldier's death. Not glorious, not heroic. Just…death.
As the cold crept up his legs, a figure approached through the carnage. Not Fae. Too…soft. A woman, or something like one. Silver hair gleamed in the gloom, and her pale face was unsettlingly still. She knelt beside him in the bloodied mud, her silver eyes cold.