27 Tavorhel. The eighth day of the eighth month.

Dozens of small delicacies lay before Amovishel on the long, gold-plated dining table. Fresh fish sourced from the Trevheru River, assortments of fruits from the royal orchard, and meat preserved with exotic spices from the far south were only a small part of his daily nourishments in the royal palace. Meanwhile, dancers spun elegantly in an attempt to attract his attention, their movements flowing smoothly like water. His attendants surrounded him, guards who served only a singular purpose: to protect their master, their future king from any possible harm.

Yet in all this lavish luxury, Amovishel’s blue eyes were fixated on a map, carried back all the way from the lands of Prentdor in the east. Symbols of cities, fortifications, troop placements dotted the scroll of paper, each scribbled with various notes from his generals still stationed there. It had only been three months since he returned from the front, but his plate armour, fully repaired, was already tempting him beside his throne.

‘I shouldn’t be here…’ he muttered, brushing back strands of his long white hair that were blocking his view of the map.

He was supposed to be there, commanding his armies in the sweltering heat, proudly carrying the flag of Trelven on his spear. Leading thousands of able-bodied men fighting for the kingdom to their deaths every time… he was supposed to bear that responsibility. As he had for the past three years.

Instead, at the eve of the summer campaign, his father recalled him back to the capital, citing that ‘it was too dangerous to head to the thickest of fighting’. He knew it was complete bullshit. He had fought in Prentdor in multiple campaigns, every single time coming out unscathed. As the most promising commander on the field, there was no logical reason to recall him right before another major campaign. But alas, none could defy the orders of the king, orders from a capital so far removed from the bloodshed and screams of the battlefield.

If only the queen was still alive to balance the weakness of his father.

He looked at the dancers, and sighed.

The doors opened and a guard entered, in his hand a letter. Without disrupting the dance, he quietly handed the paper to Amovishel. Unlike the usual patterned seals, this letter was wrapped with a thin rope with a simple knot at the end.

‘Your Highness,’ the guard whispered. ‘It’s from your aide.’

Amovishel nodded. ‘Thank you.’

As the guard retreated back outside, Amovishel untied the knot and opened the letter. Inside it was a single sentence: meet at the usual pond.

‘She’s always like this,’ he stifled a smile. As he stood up, the dancers paused, knowing that this was the end of their short encounter with him. As he passed by, the group parted into two columns, their heads mostly bowed and facing the ground, though a few snuck some glances at him. Two guards went to open the doors, standing still with their pikes to the side as Amovishel approached them.

‘Should we follow, your Highness?’ a guard asked.

‘No need,’ Amovishel answered. ‘It’s just a quick conversation with a friend at the Queen’s Pond. But if there’s anything urgent or a letter for me, just come.’

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Amovishel arrived at a pavilion overlooking the Queen’s Pond, the nearest to his palace and the one he frequented most often. Already there was a relatively short girl with a pile of documents, her lively, amber-coloured eyes lighting up the moment she caught sight of him. A stark contrast to the usual bleak expressions from the battlefield and the scheming blue eyes of the Trelvenese royal court.

Barheila, Amovishel’s only aide and daughter of a former war captive from Rhinn, came to greet him with open arms, as she always had for the past ten years since they first met as master and servant.

‘You’re late, Crown Prince of Trelven,’ she teased.

‘Please, stop with that title,’ he responded. ‘You’re not one of those officials who’s only met me once or twice in their lives.’

‘Am I wrong in calling you that?’

‘Not necessarily… It is my official title, after all,’ he relented. There was sometimes a quick wit to Barheila in her speech which caught him slightly off-guard. ‘Anyway, what do you have for me?’

‘Just a few reports on the progress of your students, recent uprisings, and of course, your favourite updates from the Prentdor battlefront.’

‘I just worry about the soldiers, you know.’

‘Of course I know. Who do you think I am?’

As they returned to the pavilion, Barheila began displaying the documents on the large stone table. Most of it was just lines and lines of text, but from them, a few were boxed and marked with bright red paint. Amovishel sat and examined each of them, a serious air now surrounding him and Barheila compared to the casual atmosphere earlier.

‘From the reports at Prentdor, it seems just similar to last year: another stalemate,’ Amovishel said, resting his head on his hand as he looked at the maps and the brief, scribble-like reports. ‘Charge after charge, we’re not making any progress at all.’

‘Both sides are too familiar with the terrain. It’s been, what, two years since we launched our first campaign to retake the region?’

‘And before that, it’s been taken and retaken multiple times already.’

‘Look here,’ Barheila pointed at a report. ‘They’re trying to use the Foresters’ magic to blow up the ground enough for a slight dip in elevation, and hoping to somehow confuse the enemy…? They must be grasping at straws.’

‘So this is what the high command’s doing while I’m gone,’ Amovishel complained. ‘Do they not know the Foresters’ magic, their literal life force, can be used in far more efficient ways that doesn’t rely on enemy stupidity?’

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

‘Sadly, probably only you in the entire high command cares about them enough to use them correctly,’ Barheila sighed. ‘They’re so cheap the generals don’t even have to think before sending them to their deaths. How does the Guild even offer such low prices over these years? Where does their money even come from?’

‘Probably stolen from the Rhinish treasury, maybe even our own treasury as well,’ Amovishel half-jokingly remarked. ‘And to think the Foresters are most likely fighting their own kind as well…’

It wasn’t far from the truth. There were always rumours of high-ranking court officials having close ties with members of the Mercenaries’ Guild, not that he could ever launch an investigation without being forced out of power by those officials. His father probably knew about this, but being King of Trelven did not mean completely absolute power. The old noble families, descendants of the key founders of the kingdom, could simply not be ousted without causing some sort of massive upheaval.

The Foresters, meanwhile… It was a surprise they hadn’t started a major rebellion by this point. Granted, they were purposefully uneducated with the Guild’s machinations and had little notion of freedom, but certainly keeping anyone at bare sustenance while requiring them to fight each other to the death had to lead to some sort of mutiny at the very least. And for seven decades they had fought for both Trelven and Rhinn without any sort of compensation.

‘It’s crazy they haven’t banded together and revolted,’ he said.

‘If you claimed your Forester heritage, you could easily lead them in revolt,’ Barheila mentioned. ‘I haven’t seen anyone mobilise them as well as you did, after all—’

‘Stop,’ Amovishel sternly closed her down. ‘Please, I don’t want any more doubt on my loyalty to the crown just because of a different hair colour.’

‘Trelven doesn’t deserve you,’ Barheila lamented. ‘But hey, at least you have me by your side.’

‘As if a seventeen-year-old can help me fight against the influence of the old officials,’ Amovishel said.

‘But I did help you with many other things, didn’t I?’ Barheila shot back. ‘You’d be drowning in those documents instead of fighting on the front lines if you didn’t have me as your aide, you nineteen-year-old.’

‘So long as the Foresters aren’t as properly equipped as the professional Trelvenese army, there would be no chance for a revolt to succeed,’ a voice suddenly appeared, catching both Amovishel and Barheila off-guard.

Amovishel wheeled back, and before his eyes was a man nearly a whole head taller than him yet possessing a frame so fragile it seemed his bones might shatter any moment. Dressed in a simple white tunic, he posed a stark contrast to Amovishel with his elaborate robes.

And on his face… were a pair of dazzling green eyes.

‘Tarigen, what was that?’ Amovishel playfully shoved the man, sending him backwards a few steps. ‘You scared me there.’

‘Heh, looks like it worked well,’ Tarigen chuckled. ‘How’d you feel being ambushed by one of your students, Teacher?’

‘Not good… Weren’t you supposed to be in your study?’

‘I figured I wanted some personal tutelage, so I looked for you where you’d usually meet Barheila. So, uh, here I am.’

‘Please don’t sneak up on me next time like that,’ Amovishel lightly scolded. ‘On a more serious note, though, don’t wander around like that. You already know how hard I had to advocate to my father to let you into the palace. I don’t want my best and only student to be accidentally executed as an intruder at the hands of an unknowing guard.’

‘Considering that, in this pavilion, we have a mixed-blood, the daughter of a prisoner, and a literal Forester, we’re almost on the same page in terms of being… different from the usual inhabitants here,’ Tarigen answered. ‘But yes, I’m sorry.’

Only seven days younger than Amovishel, Tarigen was an extremely rare talent in the kingdom of Trelven. Two years ago, when Trelven suffered a heavy defeat at the hands of Varaphan, Rhinn’s greatest cavalry general, Tarigen’s contingent organised themselves and held Varaphan back, turning what would’ve been a rout into a relatively organised retreat. When the Trelvenese cavalry, led by Amovishel, finally came to the rescue, Tarigen was still commanding his companions, exuding a calmness like that of a seasoned general. For a man who wasn’t nearly the most physically fit, Tarigen more than made up for that with his awareness and intellect, all while being uneducated and illiterate.

He was the first and only one to be recommended by Amovishel to learn military strategy and governance in the royal palace with him. Despite the two practically learning the same things, Tarigen still referred to Amovishel as ‘Teacher’ for teaching him the Trelvenese script and basic maths.

‘Just stay safe away from trouble,’ Amovishel said. ‘You can always send a letter, and I’ll come over with Barheila.’

‘But isn’t being exploited a part of being a Forester? Heh,’ Tarigen asked. Despite the short laugh that came after, it was clear this was not a good joke in the slightest, not even for dark humour.

Barheila shook her head.

‘... Sorry,’ Tarigen bowed his head.

‘Your Highness,’ a guard suddenly appeared, in his hand another letter. ‘Many apologies for the disturbance, but there’s urgent news.’

‘From Prentdor?’ Amovishel inquired. ‘Surely the Rhinish didn’t mount some all-out offensive?’

‘No, from the plains of Eril,’ the guard answered. ‘General Arael in the letter explicitly said he wanted this to be delivered to you first in fear of an overreaction from Commander-General Esiel.’

This was puzzling. ‘Why would Arael fear a reaction from Esiel so much that he wants the news to be delivered to me first?’

‘... It’s an uprising. The Foresters in the region revolted en masse. And according to General Arael, they’re being led by a white-haired Forester woman who claimed to be a god. They’re calling themselves the Kingdom of Foresters.’

A white-haired woman. A mixed-blood, the same as Amovishel.

He looked at Barheila. She was breaking into a cold sweat, already regretting her words earlier.

He looked at Tarigen. The man was pale, his body shaking from disbelief. And in those green eyes of his, Amovishel saw fear.

‘The General finally requests your presence in Eril,’ the guard said, handing the letter to Amovishel. ‘Please read the rest, but the messenger told me to give a quick summary report to your Highness first due to the urgency of things.’

A Forester uprising. On one hand, it felt understandable, almost expected due to their hellish conditions. On the other hand, after seven decades of fighting as mercenaries and being removed of any other choice or possibility by the Guild and the kingdoms, the chances of suddenly resisting the status quo for some fanatical reason felt almost impossible. Almost.

But why would Arael choose to send the message to him first? It wasn’t as if the two were very good friends. If anything, Arael was a classic example of exploiting Foresters till their deaths. The two men disliked each other. Arael had even openly criticised Amovishel once at court.

He looked at the guard again. It suddenly clicked.

The state of the situation was more dire than the guard had received. With most of the Trelvenese elite troops locked in battle at Prentdor, there was little left to stop the Foresters’ rampage. As the only high-ranking individual with some sort of tie to the Forester race, Arael would’ve thought Amovishel as a chance to appeal to the Foresters and sue for peace.

Sue for peace with the Foresters. This was the level of desperation for Arael and the local Trelvenese troops.

Amovishel ran down the steps, sprinting towards the stables. He couldn’t even think of a proper plan. There was no time for one. Once Esiel received the message, he would likely gather all troops in the area and massacre the rebellion… as the man had always done for previous revolts. But with such a scale of moving around armies and supplies, the frontline at Prentdor would likely soon collapse. The war would end, but with a Trelvenese defeat. All because of a Forester revolt.

Peace, or at least a ceasefire with the Foresters, was the only option on the table.

‘Barheila, protect Tarigen and deal with my father while I’m gone!’ he shouted. ‘There’s no time left!’

‘Wait—’ Before Barheila could finish uttering that word, Amovishel was already gone.