Entering the city(1)

Alpheo gazed down at the swaying mane of his horse, its rich brown coat glistening under the golden sunlight as they trotted along the worn stone road. He had never owned a horse before—never had the luxury nor the station to do so—and now, with this magnificent creature beneath him, he felt a swelling sense of pride.

There was something exhilarating about the way it moved, powerful yet graceful, every step firm against the earth. His fingers brushed over the reins, and a faint smile tugged at his lips as he watched the animal lower its head to nibble at the grass, its playful nature shining through. His eyes gleamed with the same wonder as a child with a brand-new toy.

He had read accounts of mischievous warhorses in medieval texts—steeds with a mind of their own, creatures too intelligent and stubborn to be mere tools of war. Now, he understood exactly what those old scribes meant. His own new steed was no exception.

One morning, having wandered off for a piss, he had foolishly left the horse unroped, assuming it would stay put. When he returned, however, the beast was gone. Panic struck him for a brief moment before he caught sight of the animal a short distance away—head buried deep in a sack of oats it had somehow managed to tear open with its teeth. By the time he and two others reached it, the damned thing had eaten its fill, looking as pleased as a well-fed noble at a banquet. It took three men to finally wrestle it away from its feast.

Still, for all its antics, the horse was well-trained, responding to his commands with discipline. It was a strong and sturdy warhorse, bred for battle—a necessity for the army he was building. This one was part of the fifty-nine steeds he had received for his cavalry, with another forty promised to arrive later. He could still recall the thrill that had shot through him when they first arrived, rows of powerful beasts stamping their hooves, their muscled bodies a testament to their breeding. He had many plans for them.

In his past life, he had studied war. He knew well that battles were often decided by the thunderous charge of heavy cavalry—armored titans crashing into enemy lines with earth-shaking force. These bulky, disciplined warhorses, trained for combat from birth, were some of the most formidable weapons on the battlefield. Yet, in that sea of steel and flesh, another force was often overlooked—the light cavalry.

Used mainly for scouting and reconnaissance, they were often dismissed as lesser, unfit for the brutal clash of war. But history had proven otherwise. Hannibal had shown the world the devastating power of elite light cavalry. His Numidian riders, swift and elusive, had danced around their foes, striking with deadly precision. Armed with javelins, they weaved in and out of enemy lines, skirmishing with expert control—always maintaining their speed, always keeping just out of reach.

Alpheo longed to replicate that success. He envisioned his own cavalry, modified and honed to fit his needs, an extension of his strategy. But for now, with his current numbers, it remained a distant ambition.

For now, all he could do was prepare for that dream.

As they rode toward Yarzat, seventy other riders followed in their wake—sixty from their own army and ten guards lent by his employer. The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed like a war drum against the stony pathway beneath them, a steady beat that carried them closer to the city.

Ahead, Yarzat loomed in the distance, its stone walls rising against the landscape. It was not the grandest of cities, but it would serve its purpose. They would be living there for a few weeks at best, a few months at worst, as their employer prepared for his expedition. The wait would be tedious, but at least they were on the invading side—his men lusted for the opportunity to raid and pillage, and soon, they would have their fill.

Egil, ever unimpressed, exhaled sharply. "I expected something bigger," he muttered, resting an elbow on his knee as his horse trotted forward. He looked as if he were lounging in a tavern rather than riding into a city, completely at ease in the saddle.

Alpheo had heard enough of Egil's boasts about his homeland's riders—how they could fight, drink, and, supposedly, even fuck on horseback. At the time, he had dismissed it as nothing more than drunken bravado. Now, watching the man's effortless balance, he wondered if there might have been a grain of truth to the absurd claim.

He shot Egil a sideways glance, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Make sure not to mention that in front of our new employer," he advised dryly.

Egil shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, it's fine when you throw around insults, but not when I do?"

"I'm the leader of the company," Alpheo said, his tone growing serious. "I can afford to be reckless. You, however, cannot. I'd hate to see your head rotting on a pike just because you decided to insult the wrong man." He placed a hand on his chest in mock distress, his expression exaggeratedly pained.

Egil scoffed. "Oh, come on, they need us. They wouldn't dare."

"They need me," Alpheo corrected sharply. "Not some minor officer who thinks his cock is the biggest in the world." His gaze hardened, making sure Egil understood his place.

Egil huffed, then flashed a grin. "Well, you'd convince them otherwise, wouldn't you?" His grin faltered slightly when Alpheo didn't respond. He nudged his horse closer, repeating, "You would, right?"

Alpheo remained silent, only allowing a slow, knowing smile to form as he trotted ahead.

"Come on, stop jesting. You would, right? Five years together must be worth that ..." Egil pressed, a hint of urgency creeping into his voice.

The other riders chuckled at the exchange, though Alpheo ignored them. He urged his horse forward, maneuvering through the ranks until he reached the front of the formation, where the knight rode with stiff posture and an air of authority.

"Sir Robert," Alpheo greeted with an easy smile as he pulled up alongside him.

The steward barely spared him a glance. "Do you need something?" he asked curtly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Alpheo's smile widened. "Actually, I do," he replied, his tone light and conversational. "Just a question, really—something to satisfy my curiosity. Would you mind enlightening me on the cause of hostilities between your prince and the ruler of...?" He paused, searching for the name.

"Oizen," Sir Robert supplied tersely. His mouth twisted slightly before he added, "What reason do brutes have to raise their swords against more civilized men?" The disdain in his voice was unmistakable.

Alpheo hummed, tilting his head slightly. Sixty kilometers separate you at most , yet they are the savages? Spare me the bullshit.

His smile remained fixed, his voice as smooth as ever. "Ah, of course," he murmured. "And yet, surely even brutes have a pretext—some justification they cling to while they sharpen their blades?"

"That there is," Sir Robert confirmed, his voice gaining an edge of bitterness. "Those bastards from Oizen still insist that the cities of Hervia and Aratale belong to them. They claim it was the bride-price they paid to the previous prince—Prince Arkawalatt's father."

The old steward spat onto the dusty road, his expression twisted in disgust. "And what did they give us in return? A barren womb. A woman who couldn't fulfill her duty. And when my liege made the obvious choice—when he divorced the woman and took a proper wife—they had the gall to demand the cities back. As if they were owed anything after such an insult!"

Alpheo nodded slowly, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "I see, I see. What a bunch of uncultured savages," he agreed, his voice carrying the right blend of casual disdain.

Inwardly, though, he found himself sympathizing with the Prince of Oizen. If I gave away my daughter in marriage, only for her to be cast aside like spoiled meat—while they still clung to the dowry I had paid? I'd march my armies too. The reasoning was clear enough. What father wouldn't be outraged?

But he kept such thoughts to himself, offering only a knowing smile before easing his horse back from Sir Robert's side. He had no desire to linger in conversation with the old oaf any longer than necessary.

As he rejoined his previous company, the city of Yarzat grew closer, its worn stone walls standing against the horizon. It was no great fortress—Alpheo estimated the walls at no more than three and an half meters high. Not nearly enough to keep a determined enemy at bay.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the five hundred men riding behind them, dust rising in thick clouds beneath their horses' hooves. A month of marching had left them restless, their tempers short and their desires unchecked. He could only hope that, once inside, they had the decency to vent their frustrations in a whorehouse rather than causing trouble among the common folk.

Perhaps I should give them coin for the night, he mused. A man emptied of his lust is a much happier one.

His gaze returned to the walls, his mind already calculating. I could take this city easily. The defenses were laughable. Not a single trench dug before the gates, no forward barriers to slow an assault. Aren't they preparing for a war?

Oizen's prince could reach this place in four days' march if he truly wished. And yet they leave it so vulnerable? Either they were overconfident in their strength, or there was something Alpheo was missing.

Perhaps there are fortresses further out, guarding the key approaches. Or maybe they simply had more faith in their army than their walls.

Whatever the case, it was his business now. His road to glory would begin here, in this unimpressive little princedom. A place where lords waged petty wars and cities fell for the price of a bride.

He smirked.

It certainly is a nice place to start...