Blood feud(1)

Thousands of tents blanketed the earth, a sprawling sea of canvas rippling in the faint breeze. The camp was a living, breathing beast—smoke billowing from countless torches and campfires, forming a thick, grey haze that reached for the heavens as if to challenge the gods themselves.

Beyond the encampment, the city of Baarsha loomed on the horizon, its towers glinting in the distant sunlight. The capital of Arlania was close—so close it felt like they could touch it—yet the bustling activity in this military camp made it seem a world away.

"Arlania's like a brothel," one of the younger Rolmian scouts muttered as they observed the camp from their vantage point. "Show them a coin or a blade, and their doors swing open faster than a morning bloom."

The older soldiers often repeated this crude proverb, laughing at the supposed cowardice of the Arlanian nobility. Most campaigns here were bloodless—more about posturing than war. The soldiers loved them. After all, there was little risk of death and plenty of chances to pillage under the guise of "honor."

But today, things felt different.

"Look at that," one scout said, squinting at the camp below. "How many do you think are down there?"

"Judging by the tents? Around 8,000, give or take," another scout replied, scratching his chin. He chuckled, the sound carrying a note of dismissive arrogance. "Peasants with sticks, no doubt. No real danger. I bet they don't even know which end of a spear to hold."

"And how many do we have?" the first scout asked, more out of habit than concern.

"Fourteen thousand. Maybe more. Didn't bother counting—it's enough to crush them," the second one answered with a shrug.

Still, a note of unease crept into the conversation. "You think the nobles went behind the emperor's back? Gave the prince support?"

"Doubt it," the second scout replied, shaking his head. "When was the last time Arlanian nobles actually fought in a battle? They'd sooner cut each other's throats at a banquet "

"Then how do you explain their numbers?"

"Simple. The prince emptied his coffers. Hired anyone willing to swing a sword—"

"Shut your mouths," the older scout growled, his voice cutting through the banter like a blade. The two younger scouts snapped their heads toward him, startled by the authority in his tone.

"If you've got enough energy to flap your gums," the veteran continued, "use it to squint your eyes and look." He jabbed a calloused finger toward the camp below. "Check the heralds."

Confused, the younger scouts complied, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the distant figures.

"I don't see anything unusual," one of them said, his voice tinged with frustration.

The older scout let out a sigh heavy with exasperation. "Mercenaries," he muttered. "The prince drained his treasury to hire them."

"So what?" the first scout said, still not grasping the weight of the revelation. "He's broke. If he had that much gold, he could've paid the empire's taxes for three years straight! Why waste it on—"

"The Order of the Betrayed," the veteran interrupted, his voice grim and cold.

Silence fell like a hammer blow.

The younger scouts exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale as the name sank in. They all knew what that meant.

One scout swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "T-the emperor. We need to tell the emperor. Immediately."

"No shit," the veteran snapped, his face twisted with urgency. Without another word, he spurred his horse, slamming his iron-clad heel into its side. The animal whinnied in protest but surged forward, kicking up a spray of dirt and gravel as it bolted down the hill.

The younger scouts scrambled to follow, but the veteran didn't look back. He didn't need to. They all knew the truth: this wasn't a normal campaign. This was a storm brewing, and the emperor needed to know before it was too late.

———————

A rough, guttural voice sliced through the tense air like a blade. The veteran scout knelt on the scorching ground, beads of sweat carving paths through the dirt on his face before disappearing into his silver-streaked beard.

"Repeat that. Every word," the emperor growled, his tone low and dangerous, like a storm rumbling on the horizon.

The scout swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. "Y-Your Grace, we've just returned from our mission and bring urgent news," he began, his voice trembling. "Ahead of the city, we spotted a military encampment—no more than 8,000 strong. At first, we assumed they were noble forces, but as we drew closer, we realized…" His words caught in his throat, but he forced himself to continue.

"We realized they weren't nobles but mercenaries. Their banners gave them away—black and silver, a dagger on a black field alongside a headless eagle. Your Grace… it's the Order of the Betrayed."

A cold silence gripped the room like a vice.

"They weren't alone," the scout pressed on, desperation edging his voice. "I also spotted the banners of the Rapid Company and the Golden Cl—"

The emperor's fist came crashing down onto the table. The wood cracked, then splintered, sending goblets and a pitcher of wine flying. The scout froze as shards of wood peppered the air.

"OUT!" the emperor bellowed, his voice thunderous. The scout scrambled to his feet and fled the room as if his life depended on it.

The nobles inside the tent stood motionless, their gazes fixed on the ground. None dared meet the emperor's eyes. They understood too well that this was not a moment for words. 

"HOW?!" the emperor roared, his voice shaking the very air. He turned to one of the older nobles, a man with a single, steely eye, his other hidden behind a black patch. "HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THE GODS DID THEY GET THERE WITHOUT YOU KNOWING?!"

The old noble flinched under the emperor's glare. The memories of his lost eye—ripped from its socket by Zazanians in the Battle of the Shifting Sands—surged to the forefront of his mind. He still recalled the searing agony of the knife, the smell of burnt flesh as the wound was cauterized. Even now, the phantom pain haunted him, making his remaining eye twitch under the emperor's unrelenting gaze.

"CAN YOU HEAR ME?! OR ARE YOUR EARS JUST DECORATION?!" The emperor advanced, each step a threat in itself.

The spymaster, Julian, took a cautious step forward, his head bowed low. "Your Grace, I—my spies"

"YOUR spies?" the emperor interrupted, his voice dripping with venom.

"Our spies, Your Grace," Julian corrected hastily, the words tumbling from his mouth. "They reported nothing. We had no indication—no whispers—of this force. I can't explain—"

"Can't?" The emperor's voice turned ice cold, more dangerous than his earlier shouts. "I don't pay you for can't. You are my eyes, my ears. You are supposed to see and hear everything. What good is a spymaster who knows NOTHING? Get out of my sight. Now!"

Julian bowed deeply and left without another word, his face pale. He had seen the emperor angry before, but never like this.

Suddendly one of the younger nobles, whose family saw fit to have him have his first experience in war couldn't help but be confused by what was happening, and so he whispered to one of his fellow

'What is the problem?'

The room fell into an even heavier silence. That questions wasn't as low as he wanted it to be.

The answer came swift and brutal, but not from the one at his side.

The young man was on the ground before he realized what had happened, his lips split and his teeth scattering across the floor. Above him, the emperor stood, his steel prosthetic hand raised high, glinting in the firelight. A few crimson drops slid down the cold metal, no one dared say anything, there was a reason why he could act like that without fear of reprisal, it certainly wasn't because he was emperor, instead it was on how he became one.

"THIS IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM!" the emperor roared, his voice raw and thunderous as he slammed the prosthetic into the air beside the young man's head.

The room recoiled as the emperor loomed over the trembling boy. He thrust the prosthetic hand toward the noble. "SEE THIS?!" he bellowed "SEE THIS FUCKING THING? AND THIS CROWN ON MY HEAD? BOTH WERE GIFTS—" His voice broke into a bitter growl, "GIFTS from those bastards. The same bastards flying their banners just outside that city."

He straightened, the rage in his eyes burning like wildfire. "That Order of the Betrayed took my hand and my fucking father. And now they march under that prince's flag, breathing down our necks."

The nobles remained silent, their faces pale as the emperor's words hit home.

"I will not let this insult stand," he snarled. "Not again. Not while I still draw breath.Fate has given me that opportunity I searched for a long time"

The young noble whimpered quietly on the ground, and for a moment, the emperor's gaze softened—just barely—before hardening again.

"Clean him up," the emperor ordered one of the guards. "And get back to work. We march at dawn.By tomorrow I want every lieutenant of that band on a pike."