It was breathtaking, the silence before thousands of soldiers began plowing towards each other. They stood, in the final moment of peace. The wind even slowed as a gesture of goodwill. It danced gently through the fickle blades of grass, causing them to tremble. The moment wasn’t very long but everyone held onto it. The moments before a huge battle were fueled by every emotion.

The air was cold and thin but the anticipation made it almost suffocating. Their breath was still until the enemy horn sounded. The loud billowing hollow noise covered the plains like a thick murky blanket of snow. A blurry dreary mask of confusion as the hysteria began. George’s mind was racing, filled with anticipation.

The next sounds were not considered as poetic, but the passion and dedication behind them served more than any sound within nature could.

The primal screams of those defending the honor of the innocent, the purest gesture of love.

Sent by their valiant kings, the armies of Edegear and Asiroth did not falter, not even in death. They were led by the sons of the two kingdoms, George and Henry. They glanced at eachother from their large white horses. It was their first battle, their first foray into power. They had begged for so long to be there, leading the army they spent so much of their lives training with. At that moment they began to understand their parents' hesitation.

They galloped, leading the crowds behind them. Henry felt responsible for their success, their colleagues and comrades trusted him. His father always said, "When one leads an army to war you must remember that you are leading them into a storm of pain and suffering, do not shy away from the truth, just remind them why they are following you."

George used all of his strength behind each blow of his sword. He thought he was powerful but he was a mere child among men. Their swords made horrific clanging noises that startled him. He was only sixteen years old, though not much younger than most soldiers, a sixteen-year-old against an eighteen-year-old didn’t seem like a big gap but two extra years of training and battles made those ages look like they were separated by a decade.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Their hot breath mixed with the cold air and created visible clouds that dissipated within seconds. A scentless tuft that traveled upward like smoke coming from a chimney in the spring. George's greasy hair had frozen and was no longer sticking back to where he wanted it to stay. Several thick strands had hardened and kept falling down against his cheeks. He shook his head back to keep them away from his eyes but it wasn’t working. While fighting off a soldier he unhooked his helmet and placed it on his head. He felt relieved as soon as he did. He wasn’t particularly a fan of wearing a helmet into battle; he liked to remain as lithe as possible and a helmet hindered his movement and field of vision, even with his specially made helmet. It wasn’t just a metal helmet, he felt metal helmets alone were pretty much unbearable and very dangerous to wear in the winter, his was mostly layers of leather and the inside was lined with fur. On the outer layer of the leather, there were pockets that fit pieces of metal so the helmet was more protective but stayed flexible and warm.

As they struck down more and more men George and Henry found themselves smirking unknowingly in the pleasure of victory. Their pleasure only lasted a brief moment, taken out of the true context of terror, but they felt it nonetheless. They separated and Henry began to quicken his pace, wacking at anything near him. There was blood everywhere, and bodies carpeted the ground. Henry's horse leaped over body after body as they laid more to rest beneath him.

One of the mouthpieces yelled.

The front foot ranks knelt down and hundreds of arrows shot out. Their arrows arched over the members of their party and struck the lines of enemies assaulting them. Fire-fueled torches were abandoned and bits of grass were set ablaze. After searing quickly through the dead grass the sky poured down its own gesture of bereavement and quelled the fire.

The soldiers were trained to eat on their horses so they could fight longer. It was an odd but successful tactic. The battle raged on until morning and, what was left of the enemy, began to retreat.

The enemy horn sounded and the remaining soldiers fled. The victors yelled excitedly. They were left in a celebratory pool of blood and exhaustion. Henry jumped off his horse and they began to loot the bodies. Looting was the most efficient way to get better gear and protect those left. It was also better to gather the supplies rather than leave them for the enemy to restock with. When they were done George led the troops back along the same plains to a patch that was clear of destruction.

“Success to Royalia!” The men and women cheered. They continued to chant for about a minute.