The camp's relative calm shattered with the sudden announcement of battle, the minor king’s desperation echoing in the urgency of his command. 'We strike tonight,' Aerith declared, his voice a steady force amid the chaos. Soldiers scrambled to gather their gear, the metallic clink of armor and the hurried whispers of preparation filling the air. Sylas, momentarily caught off guard, found himself lagging behind the swift-moving group. Aerith, however, paused atop his mount at the rear, a wide grin breaking the tension as he waited for Sylas to catch up. To his surprise, Aerith waited atop his mount at the rear, a wide grin on his face. As Sylas rode up to him, he felt a piercing gaze on his back. One man, eyes narrowed, had been watching him since his arrival. In truth, it wasn’t just him—nearly everyone harbored mistrust.

Sylas had joined on the blood of their former comrades, yet none had spoken against Aerith when he had slain his own men. This odd hypocrisy was something Sylas chose to ignore, focusing instead on his own survival. Since his joining, little had transpired. Sylas stepped cautiously through the ruins of the ancient castle, the stones weathered and crumbling under the weight of years. Ivy clung to the walls like a tenacious invader, and half-built structures stood as silent testimonies to abandoned efforts. Soldiers moved about with a practiced air of resilience, making do with tattered tents and makeshift shelters.

The occasional clang of armor and low murmurs of conversation echoed through the deserted corridors, a stark contrast to the grandeur this place once held. Under the shadow of crumbling walls, soldiers busied themselves with routine tasks. Some hunched over campfires, stirring pots of thin stew, while others repaired torn tents with clumsy stitches. Makeshift shelters crafted from salvaged wood and cloth provided scant protection from the elements. The flicker of firelight revealed faces hardened by hardship and eyes that darted warily at every sound. Despite their rough conditions, there was a sense of camaraderie in their shared plight, a silent understanding that bound them together. The eerie silence of the deserted castle, broken only by the occasional clink of armor or murmur of conversation, mirrored the unspoken tension among the men.

These weren’t the conditions Sylas had expected, but when he saw Aerith’s quarters, he understood. Even Aerith's space, located atop the castle in a part that still stood, was minimalistic. It was clear they could abandon their belongings quickly if needed, though they hadn’t yet faced that necessity. Sylas was given a spot far from everyone else on a wooden platform connected to the castle ruins where he could sleep and sit. It was all he needed. There was enough room for his swords to stand next to him, keeping a silent vigil.

Vyra had been the only one to talk to him since he settled into the ruins. Sylas hadn’t made an attempt to speak with anyone, but the girl seemed to find him annoying. She was a constant nuisance, pestering him about the smallest things. Their cook, a large man named Bro, prepared meals with little effort. The food looked as unappetizing as pig scraps. Sylas had eaten better in the desolate Sea of Reeds. The sight of that meal made him dump it straight out.

Bro’s sudden tears caught Sylas off guard, the sight of the burly cook sobbing incongruous with his rugged exterior. Awkward and unsure, Sylas scratched the back of his head, glancing around at the others. Their glares were sharp, almost accusatory, as if Bro’s outburst were somehow his fault. The weight of their stares made him shift uncomfortably, his earlier resolve wavering in the face of such raw emotion. As Sylas scanned the crowd, he sensed the weight of their glares, as if they blamed him for Bro's outburst. He half-expected to feel Aerith's piercing gaze upon him, but the leader was nowhere to be seen. Sylas, feeling uncomfortable, made his way out of the clearing, only to be trailed by the annoying girl he learned was the captain of the sellswords, second only to Aerith in rank. Sylas paid little heed to her attempts at conversation, whether it was about joining their game nights or having dinner together. He preferred solitude, often venturing out to hunt without seeking permission. On one occasion, when he returned from a hunt with two rabbits in hand, after spending far too long in pursuit of them, the reaction of the others surprised him. Jaws dropped as they stared at him incredulously. Aerith, upon seeing the rabbits, laughed and invited Sylas to share a meal with him and Vyra. One man, named Mlyke, stood out among the onlookers, his spiky hair and sneer leaving a lasting impression on Sylas. Despite the passing of time, Sylas couldn't shake the feeling that Mlyke harbored ill intentions towards him. The words Mlyke muttered to his friends behind Sylas's back lingered in his mind, a reminder of the underlying tension within the group.

"So the 'vysca' eats with the king now, does he?" Mlyke's words, spoken to his surrounding friends, perplexed Sylas. He didn't understand the common tongue spoken here, but when he asked Vyra, he wished he did. 'Vysca' was a term for a loner out in the fields of reeds, an outcast abandoned to wander the Sea of Reeds as punishment by the Gods. Though Sylas held no belief in such divine punishment, the mention of it still made his spine prickle with discomfort.

Sylas had been journeying there for the last two years in a futile attempt to locate the 'Dragon's Teeth' mountain range. Despite the grandeur described in the stories, Tarkan couldn't seem to find them regardless of which direction he ventured. No star, no map, no merchant had guided him correctly; most ended up lost like him, swiftly abandoning his company. It was no surprise that Sylas had little appetite that night.

Sylas rode into the impending clash, his mount’s hooves thudding softly against the marshy ground of the Sea of Reeds. The horizon was a flat expanse, devoid of the majestic peaks he had long sought. Instead, the landscape was a somber reflection of his own turmoil, the reeds swaying gently in a deceptive calm.

"Our discussed tactics are simple, as they always have been," Vyra informed Sylas. She had mentioned that Aerith was the ultimate strategist, but this plan appeared to be one of the most poorly conceived and lackluster strategies ever devised. It seemed classic yet hardly feasible, especially with their horses in the vicinity. The enemy must have sensed something amiss, but Aerith's reassuring smile somehow eased Sylas's apprehension.

"Do we take prisoners?" Sylas inquired of Aerith. The man's countenance remained stoic, his eyes narrowing under the glare of the sun.

"Their general is a traitor to our minor lord, so we must take him captive. But you are free to deal with anyone else as you see fit," Aerith replied calmly.

"How will we recognize the general?" Sylas queried, a hint of curiosity in his tone as he absently touched the hilt of his blade.

"He's an ugly brute we've been hunting for a year. Bushy eyebrows, a mustache, and cold eyes. He wears a hat that looks like a white onion atop his head, which only adds to his absurd appearance," Aerith explained, eliciting a faint chuckle from Sylas at the mental image. Aerith turned to him with a smile.

"Why do you ask?" he inquired, nudging his steed forward slightly. As he did, Sylas noticed a rope necklace around Aerith's neck, a detail he hadn't previously observed.

Stolen novel; please report.

"He seems like quite the adversary. Few have survived a year with their heads intact, if the tales are to be believed," Sylas remarked, matching Aerith's pace. As they approached the forest ahead, Aerith's sellswords parted to allow him passage to the front, prompting Sylas to follow suit, though unsure if he had the right to join Aerith at the head of the group.

"I and Kor'zil shall remain on foot at the opposite end of the forest, while the rest of you will proceed according to our plan," Aerith declared, drawing his sword with a fluid motion. He pointed it towards one of the smaller men in the crowd, who bore a resemblance to a dwarf but fell just short. This man had shaggy, dirty blonde hair, mismatched eyes, and a protruding tooth. "Roy, I want you to select a group to accompany you into the center of the forest, as we discussed," Aerith instructed, receiving a wink from the almost-dwarf, whose smile caused another tooth to slip out. Aerith then turned his attention to two other men. One was impeccably dressed, resembling someone attending a ball rather than preparing for battle. Armed with a cutlass that appeared to have been gilded with gold, this man was addressed as Lancel. The other man, bald with a head wrap, wore silver armor that seemed almost too heavy to bear. A claymore was sheathed at his belt. Known as Stone, his name suited him, with his steely gray eyes. Aerith directed Lancel to take the rear of the forest, while Stone was to remain at the forest's entrance.

"At worst, they'll exit from the left; we'll pursue them up until that point. Kor'zil and I will attempt to draw them away, particularly since Mehmet will likely recognize me. Hopefully, he'll perceive it as a trap and refrain from following us into the forest. That's why I want Vyra positioned in the trees to observe whether he'll give chase. Once she signals, the rest of you will come to our aid from the opposite side for the battle," Aerith explained, outlining the plan. Sylas couldn't help but feel it was the most haphazard battle strategy he'd ever heard. Recollections of his childhood surfaced briefly, memories of a man—perhaps his father—crafting plans with meticulous detail, considering every aspect from the soldiers' mounts to the blades of grass beneath their feet.

Compared to that, this plan seemed lacking. However, if they had survived this long with such tactics, there must be some merit to it, Sylas reasoned. At the very least, he was confident he could survive the battle alongside Aerith if need be. Both were skilled warriors, far beyond the norm, and Sylas possessed a determination that would never allow him to yield. "We are the Skyguards, descending from the heavens," Aerith declared, raising his falchion into the air. His horse reared back, emitting a powerful neigh that echoed in Sylas's ears. The sellswords before them let out fierce battle cries, a mixture of familiar and unfamiliar voices. Then, without much semblance of the organization Aerith had described, they dispersed into the forest, their hoofbeats resonating like thunder. As the three of them remained, Aerith led them around the left side of the forest instead of through it.

"Why are we going around instead of through?" Sylas questioned, his voice carried off by the wind. Vyra rode up beside him, as though it were her sole purpose to annoy him.

"Aerith knows what he's doing. It's not our place to question him," she retorted, her tone tinged with a hint of superiority. Sylas rolled his eyes and brushed off her comment, but Aerith laughed heartily, the wind barely stifling his amusement.

"Why can't you see I'm not talking to you?" Sylas snapped, irritation evident in his voice. Vyra shot him a glare, but she didn't seem offended.

"You don't need to talk to me since you talk around me. Just so you know, I don't see anything that says I can't talk when you do," she replied, turning her head away with an air of haughtiness.

"You two bicker like two songbirds," Aerith remarked, reclining on the side of his horse with his head resting against his hand. Sylas felt a mixture of confusion and embarrassment wash over him at Aerith's observation.

“More like a falcon and sparrow.” Vyra chittered in. Sylas nodded his head quickly, finding himself agreeing with her for the first time.

“Well, maybe that’s just true,” Aerith said with a grin, pulling his horse to a halt. Sylas realized with a start that they had reached the opposite edge of the forest. What had seemed an expansive breadth now appeared to be a narrow strip extending into the distance. The plan began to make sense to him: a thin forest with scattered fighters, forcing close combat and rendering many horsemen useless. Vyra’s eyes roved over the empty field, her posture tense with anticipation. Sylas followed her gaze, the silence stretching between them.

“Can’t you see no one is here yet,” he muttered, sliding off his horse with a practiced ease. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud, and he surveyed the surroundings, every nerve on edge. He felt the weight of the waiting moments, each second stretching into an eternity as they stood poised on the brink of battle.

“Get on your horses; their hooves send tremors through the Earth,” he said urgently, disappearing into the forest’s shadows. Sylas and Vyra quickly followed suit, mounting their horses again. In the distance, Sylas saw an approaching army smaller than expected. They had brought fewer men than anticipated, but that was no disappointment to him.

Once, Sylas had found himself in the midst of a battle that had nothing to do with him. Swords clashed and curses flew around him, yet he remained trapped. Three armies charged toward each other, and Sylas stood in the middle, gripping his swords tighter as they closed in, seemingly indifferent to the lone man caught in their path. Realizing escape was impossible, he slammed his swords together and steeled himself for the inevitable. The armies descended upon him like falcons.

Sylas spun in a deadly circle, thrashing away attackers with fluid precision. He accepted his fate without a scream or a shout, locking himself into the rhythm of battle. Soldiers fell, only to be replaced by others as swiftly as grass grows over graves. Blades sang through the air, missing their mark as Sylas danced among the chaos, cutting men down with lethal grace. An ugly brute with a bald head swung a war hammer toward Sylas. The hammer came down with a mighty force, but Sylas blocked it, his other hand slicing through the man's legs. The brute collapsed, screaming, as Sylas moved on, a relentless whirlwind in the heart of the battlefield.

In the end, the battle concluded with no clear victor. Within half an hour, most troops lay dead, their banners burnt to ashes. Survivors gathered their remnants and retreated to their kingdoms, leaving Sylas alone to witness the aftermath. Sylas walked through the battlefield, the stench of blood and charred flesh assaulting his senses. Bodies lay strewn like broken dolls, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. Smoldering fires crackled ominously, the flames licking hungrily at the remnants of fallen banners and discarded weapons. Each step he took squelched in the mud, now a gruesome mix of earth and blood. The air hung heavy with the groans of the dying, a chilling reminder of the carnage that had unfolded.Sylas, unscathed, surveyed the carnage. His sword in hand, he turned away from the desolation, resuming his journey with a silent resolve.

That day, Sylas made a vow to himself: he would never raise a banner again. The battle had been senseless, devoid of purpose or honor. There were no stirring speeches, no calls to valor—only the cold, indifferent clash of steel against steel. It had been a frenzy of violence, each soldier driven by orders they barely understood, fighting for causes that had become meaningless in the chaos. Sylas remembered the look of fear and confusion in the eyes of the dying, their lives extinguished in a maelstrom of blood and fire.

He had seen enough to know that such battles served no true cause, only the ambitions of those far removed from the bloodshed. As he walked through the aftermath, the air thick with the stench of death, Sylas felt a profound disillusionment. The once vibrant field was now a graveyard, bodies strewn like broken dolls, their blood soaking into the earth. He saw men he had fought against, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain. The ground was littered with discarded weapons, the fires crackling in the background, consuming what little remained of their fleeting existences. Sylas couldn’t shake the sense of futility. All those lives lost, and for what? The banners that had once flown proudly were now nothing more than tattered remnants, indistinguishable in the charred landscape.