Miguel stood on the wall, lost in thought. The cold wind cut through the morning air, and he could feel each gust against his skin, despite the layers of clothing he wore. As he gazed at the horizon, his mind wandered to a distant place, a place that seemed increasingly unattainable. He wondered if all this was nothing more than a nightmare from which he would wake up in his room, on planet Earth, in his former life. The idea that at any moment, he would open his eyes and find himself back in his daily routine, where weapons and wars were distant things, now seemed almost comical.
He lowered his gaze to the sword at his side. The blade's reflection gleamed in the morning light, and Miguel wondered how he had ended up here, how a thirty-year-old engineer had become a warrior and now, a king. He had never imagined himself wielding such a weapon or any other. It was as if a part of him was still trapped in the world he had left behind, a world where battles were fought with words and calculations, not with steel and blood.
As he was absorbed in his thoughts, a soft and familiar voice pulled him out of his reverie. "Are you scared?" Miguel quickly turned his head, surprised. It was Amélia. How had she approached without him noticing? He watched her for a moment, trying to understand how this woman, who had always been a distant figure in his life, was now beside him on the brink of a battle.
"It's natural to be afraid," he replied, his voice calmer than his heart. "The chances of survival are low." He didn’t expect a direct response, but the laughter that came from Amélia surprised him. She was dressed in armor that shone in the dawn light, something between gray and silver, with reinforced plates covering her shoulders and chest. There was a symbol embroidered on a cloak that hung from her neck to her waist, the crest of her house. Behind all the hardness of the metal was a woman he barely knew.
"You're doing well so far for a rebel king," Amélia said with a mischievous smile, crossing her arms. "I've never seen a king join the soldiers on the front lines." There was a tone of approval in her voice, something Miguel never expected to hear from his sister. "The King of Ardia, many years ago, was once a great warrior, you know? It was a time when neither I nor any of our siblings were born. I remember Father telling stories of how he and the king fought side by side. But today... The king is just a fat old man who has lost much of the respect he once had."
Amélia paused, looking at the horizon as if she were reliving old memories. "If you want to be a king, Miguel, start with the small things," she continued, with the same firmness as before.
Miguel remained silent for a moment, taking in her words. "I never imagined you had feelings, Amélia," he said, trying to break the tension with a joke. The light tone of his voice contrasted with the seriousness of the moment. Amélia responded with a light punch on his shoulder, laughing. There was something genuine in that moment, something Miguel didn’t know existed between them.
However, the silence was abruptly broken by a loud and unmistakable sound. A trumpet blared, resounding across the field and echoing through the trees. It was the sound of the duchy's troops approaching. Both Miguel and Amélia recognized that sound. Their bodies reacted instinctively, with Amélia quickly turning to face the source of the noise.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"It's them," Miguel murmured, his voice now filled with tension. He felt adrenaline begin to course through his veins. Then, he shouted for the soldiers to prepare, ordering them to sound the alarm trumpets. The shrill sound filled the air, and Miguel felt his heart race faster.
He looked at Amélia, who stood with a firm expression, watching the horizon. "It seems it's about to start," he said, almost to himself.
Amélia kept her eyes fixed on the tree line, where the duchy's soldiers began to form, like a shadow slowly spreading across the field. She said nothing, but her gaze was enough to convey what was coming. The battle they had so feared was about to unfold, and Miguel knew that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same.
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Miguel stood firm atop the wall, the first rays of morning sun illuminating his face with a golden light that sharply contrasted with the growing tension in the air. His eyes were fixed on the approaching army, an imposing line of soldiers advancing in organized formation. They were about 400 meters away, marching in unison, like an unstoppable war machine. Behind the infantry line, Miguel could see the mages, enigmatic figures cloaked in robes, whose presence added a layer of menace to what was already a terrifying sight. In the middle of it all, mounted on a white horse that seemed to shine in the sunlight, was Augusto, Miguel's brother, leading the army with an authoritative posture.
The cold wind blew against the faces of the Drakmoor soldiers and the beastmen, bringing with it the smell of damp earth and the whisper of the surrounding trees' leaves. The silence among the defenders was heavy, interrupted only by the commands that Miguel shouted with a firm voice. "Prepare the ballistae for firing!" His voice echoed over the wall as soldiers rushed to adjust the massive automatic ballistae that were lined up and ready for combat. "Load the catapults with ceramic spheres!" The orders continued as the men worked frantically to load the catapults with projectiles filled with flammable vegetable oil, prepared to burst into flames over the enemy troops.
As Miguel gave the orders, his eyes caught movement ahead of the enemy formation. He saw a rider emerging from the line, slowly riding toward the wall. The man wore simple armor, without adornments suggesting great importance, but he carried a white flag, signaling his intent to parley. Miguel raised his hand, ordering his soldiers not to fire. The rider stopped a few meters from the main gate, raising his voice to be heard by all.
"Message from the provisional regency," he began, his voice clear but laden with an almost automatic authority, as if the words he spoke were not truly his own. "We demand the unconditional surrender of Miguel and Amélia. You will be judged and condemned for the crime of treason against the royal crown of Ardia."
Miguel remained silent for a moment, processing the rider's words. Beside him, Amélia let out a dry laugh, muttering to herself, "Those bastards tried to kill me, and now I'm the traitor?" There was a latent bitterness in her voice, something Miguel couldn't help but notice. Even amid the tension of the moment, there was an irony she seemed to savor.
The rider, undisturbed by Amélia's comment, continued, "Anyone who allies with the traitors will face the same punishment." His words resonated like a death sentence, each syllable impregnated with the threat of imminent violence.
Miguel, however, was not intimidated. He took a few steps forward, leaning over the parapet of the wall to face the rider directly. "Send a message to my brother, Augusto," he began, his voice filled with unshakable determination. "This place has been neglected for many years by the duchy and the kingdom. That's why the people voted and chose to be free from the oppressive grasp of the king and the duke. There are no traitors here, only common people wanting to live in peace. I do not accept your terms."
The rider, surprised by Miguel's evident courage, lowered his head in a gesture of respect before turning his horse and returning to the formation. As he rode back, Miguel watched the line of soldiers stretching out before him. The formation was impeccable, a wall of shields and spears that seemed to extend to the horizon. Behind the infantry, the mounted knights waited, their armor gleaming in the rising sun, ready to advance at any moment. The silence that followed Miguel's speech was oppressive, as if the very earth were holding its breath, awaiting the inevitable confrontation.
Miguel felt the tension in his chest increase, but his expression remained impassive. He knew that the next move would be crucial, that the fate of Drakmoor was about to be decided. Beside him, Amélia remained silent, her eyes fixed on the enemy formation, sharing in the same tension. The battle was about to begin, and there was no turning back.