The Aftermath

It was a warm afternoon, the skies were clear almost as if the gods themselves wanted to bear witness to one of the greatest even in history, the sounds of nice cool winds could be felt throughout the lands. A land once known to be a paradise in the north was about to become a land drenched in the blood of its own people. A battle so devastating that it would become a symbol of fright in minds of the people in the north. Never to be talked about again in history.

The King and his army of 10,000 strong had matched to the land of Rod also known as the ancestral lands.

As the King and his army continued matching onwards, they were horrified by the sight they saw. 

The bodies of the other lords of the North hanged on sticks and impaled with swords. Their heads were cut off and placed upon their stiff hands with their eyes, mouth and ears gouged out. Their backs were ripped open and made in the form of wings to further defile and mock their deaths.

Losing attention on their main priority, the King and his army suddenly heard a loud sound coming from all corners of the ancestral lands. 

This was the sound of a war cry done by worshippers of the new gods. The meaning of the sound from the horns translates as, "o death, come forth once more. Become our sword and claimeth the souls of all those that deny their fate. May their death become the foundation on which our scarifice is made. o death o death".

As soon as the sound from the horns were lowered down, it was said the entire lands became as still as a calm sea. No sound could be heard not even from the birds.

Bring up your shields now, screamed King Sigfrid.

Arrows were launced from the fron, flank and rear corners of the land. The arrows were so fast that the King and his army were unable to bring up their shields in time and just like that they were caught up in a pincer attack. With almost no room to breath or strategise, the entire rebel army jumped from the woods and all out war had started. The very thing that the King wanted to prevent.

Now caught in a pincer attack with no room to escape and reposition themselves, the King and his army were basically caught in the trap that Augustus had laid up. 

Augustus Knew that the King would pass through the ancestral lands as this was more of a family heritage. Therefore, in order to fully crush them he needed a terrain where he would be able to position his army in places were it will be more easier to trap them and basically slaughter them like pigs before the King and his army would even be abe to properly strategise and come up with a way to effectively use the terrain.

Everything had gone according to Augustus plan with the Kings army basically being caught in a spider net. Well this would have successfully worked out if it was any normal King but this was Lord Sigfrid Frostbourne. This is the man that was named King in the North at the age of 12 and together with his friend and now Emperor of Reach led the rebellion against the now extinct house of Aeltharyn. This was the man that was said to be one of the greatest war generals of his time. The man that rejected the Golden throne of Reich because he only cared about his people in the North. This is the man whose name not only invokes respect but fear in the heart of men.

Sigfrid looked at his two children and asked them a very intersting question. This was during the middle of the war as they were not only being overwheled in a pincer attack but also in numbers.

What makes a great general, he asked.

The two children gave an answer which any average human would give. This answer being strengh and wisdom.

You are right and wrong at the same time. A great general is, first and foremost, a master strategist. They see the battlefield not as a mere collection of terrain and troops, but as a living chessboard, where every move must be calculated, and every decision ripples through the tides of fate. Strategy is the art of foresight, of understanding not just the strengths and weaknesses of one's own forces, but of anticipating the enemy's moves, predicting their intentions, and outmaneuvering them with precision. A great general knows when to advance, when to retreat, and when to hold the line. They understand that victory is not always won in a single battle, but through a series of well-timed, deliberate actions that turn the tide in their favor.

But then Dad wouldn't a great general know that the best strategy currently would be to retreat, regroup and develop a new plan, said Jace.

Yet, but strategy alone does not make a great general. Equally important is their ability to inspire. A general's power lies not in the authority of their rank, but in the trust and loyalty they command from their soldiers. Great generals lead by example, sharing in the hardships of their troops, and showing that they are willing to bear the same risks and sacrifices. They are motivators, instilling in their armies a sense of purpose that goes beyond mere orders. They make their soldiers believe that they are not just fighting for land or glory, but for something greater—whether it be freedom, justice, or the survival of their way of life.

Right now all of these people, my own men are willing to lay down their lives for me. Most of them knew that they woouldn't make it back to their families yet they believed in me, they believed in my words. Even as of now that I am standing on a pile of corps they still urge me to push onwards, their voice still echoes to me not to give up. These are men that still believed in their general even after death. 

Moreover, a great general possesses an unyielding resolve. War is often a test of endurance as much as it is of skill. The path to victory is rarely straight; it is fraught with setbacks, losses, and unforeseen challenges. In such moments, it is the general's resolve that steadies the course. They must remain calm under pressure, making difficult decisions with clarity and conviction. They must show resilience in the face of adversity, turning failures into lessons, and never losing sight of their ultimate goal. It is this resolve that keeps the army unified, focused, and determined, even when the odds seem insurmountable.

But above all, a great general is guided by a deep sense of responsibility. They understand that the lives of thousands, if not millions, rest in their hands. They know that each decision they make has profound consequences, not just for their soldiers, but for the civilians who are often caught in the crossfire of conflict. A great general balances the demands of war with a commitment to humanity, striving to achieve their objectives with the least possible suffering. They recognize that true greatness lies not in the conquest of land, but in the preservation of life and the restoration of peace.

In essence, what makes a great general is a unique blend of strategic genius, inspirational leadership, unshakable resolve, and a profound sense of duty. These qualities are what distinguish the tactician from the visionary, the commander from the leader, and the conqueror from the hero.

The Kings speech was heard by most of his men. This helped to boost their morale to fight back. Within a blink of an eye something that was supposed to turn into a defenceless slaughter was now changing into a counter attack.

Sir Duncan and the other member of the council almost as if they were psychicly communicating with the King knew exactly what he had planned.

The King already knew they would be casualties to this war. Therfore he had already made counter-measures to keep it a bit to the low.

Sir Duncan commanded all the army to move back almost as if they were retreating. 

Augustus seeing this started laughing to himself thinking he had already won and then

"A thunderous, resonating blast that echoes through the lands a deep bellow like the roar of a hundred ancient beasts, followed by a sharp, piercing note that rises high into the sky. As the banners unfurl, the sound shifts to a chorus of clashing metal and fluttering fabric, like a thousand swords striking in unison, proclaiming the house's might to the world."

Augustus looked up and what he saw shook him to the core. A sight that made Augustus come to a single realisation, "He may be one who claims to be a messenger sent from the gods but Sigfrid is one that threads the path of death. One who sees a path that other can see. One who was a combination of both an operational and Stratefic General. The great General, Lord Sigfrid Frostbourne the man that walks with death".

The night before the march on the rebel army, Sigfrid had already plan for an ambush attack with his council. He knew Augustus would attack them at the ancestral lands as its terrain was more suitable for a pincer and ambush attack. 

The ancestral lands was a great terrain that is dotted with rolling hills interspersed with shallow, meandering valleys. These valleys provide natural cover and concealment, ideal for setting up ambushes. The rolling hills create multiple vantage points and obstacles that can be used to maneuver and execute a pincer movement. Patches of dense woodland and thick brush are scattered throughout the terrain. These areas can obscure movements and hide troops until they are in the perfect position for a surprise attack.

The underbrush can also be used to conceal archers, allowing them to remain hidden while having a clear line of sight to target enemies. Large boulders and rocky outcrops are strategically placed throughout the landscape. These natural features provide excellent cover for archers, who can use them as defensive positions while maintaining a clear line of fire. The rocks also make it difficult for the enemy to easily discern the positions of your forces. here are narrow passes and hidden trails snaking through the terrain. These can be used to secretly move troops into position for a pincer attack. By utilizing these less obvious routes, you can surprise your opponents from unexpected angles.

Several elevated ridges rise above the surrounding terrain, offering commanding views over the area. These high points are ideal for placing archers, as they provide an elevated firing position and a broader range of visibility. From these ridges, archers can rain arrows down on the enemy while being less exposed to direct attacks.

Small streams or shallow rivers can traverse the terrain, creating natural barriers and choke points. These water features can be used to funnel enemy forces into more vulnerable positions or to limit their movement, making them easier targets for both ambushes and archery.

This made the ancestral lands the perfect slaughter house.

Sigfrid being a strategic mastermind as he was knew that Augustus would not attack him until he reaches the ancestral lands but also that begs the question of, "Even if he has a right plan of attack and a way to corner us how will he know the size of their army". 

Coming to the realisation that there might be a traitor amongst their ranks, Sigfrid made Sir Duncan select a group of 5,000 men strong that he trusts to go and liberate the other town in Northernheim. These men were to slaughter the rebel army and leave no man alive. 

With the 5,000 men slaughtering all of the other troops occupying the other towns and leaving no trace behind, Augustus was never informed of a separate group making their way towards them.

The next morning the King marched to Confront the rebellion with an army of 10,000 men strong. With the spy informing Augustus about the size of the Kings' army, he decided to send out a call for all his men. Augustus got a little bit suspicious as only 12,000 out of 14000 showed up but he brushed it off thinking they will come later on.

The night before the battle, the King was successfully able to find out who the traitor was. This was Norwin the cunning. A middle-aged man with a face that could best be described as forgettably unattractive. His features are sharp and angular, with a slightly hooked nose that gives him a hawk-like appearance. His skin is pale, with an almost unhealthy pallor, and his complexion is often marred by a permanent shadow of stubble, no matter how often he shaves. His black hair is thinning at the crown, slicked back with an excess of gel that only emphasizes his receding hairline. Despite his unremarkable looks, his striking blue eyes stand out—cold, calculating, and always shifting, as if he's constantly assessing his next move.

Duncan along with the other council members suggested for his immediate execution to which Leon declined.

The entire council were very shocked not because someone wanted to keep a traitor alive but rather this was a "boy". A boy that is not even half of their age telling them to not execute a traitor. Something that is part of the tradition of not only the North but the whole of Reich.

We need him, he said.

And why is that, asked the father.

If he is a spy for the rebel army won't it be better to use him against them. By misfeeding them with information we will just have the upper hand.

The King thought of the boys words very deeply and decided this was the right call to go with. Even though most of the council members were in disagreement they also believed this was a bit right.

As his name goes, Norwin didn't even hesistate and took upon the Kings offer.

With all the neccessary preparations being made, all that was left was the war.

The scene now shifts to present time.

In the waning light of dusk, the battlefield stretched out like a canvas of chaos and smoke. The sky was a bruised purple, streaked with orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. The clash of steel and the cries of wounded men filled the air, a cacophony of war that seemed almost symphonic in its intensity.

King Sigfrid stood atop a small rise along with his two sons, his silhouette framed by the dying light. His regal armor, though dented and smeared with mud, still gleamed with an undeniable authority. His cloak which had the sigil of his house billowed behind him like a banner, a vivid splash of color against the somber landscape. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the battlefield with a mixture of determination and concern.

To his left and right, his trusted generals and advisers waited in tense silence, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of the campfires and the occasional burst of fire from the ongoing battle. Sigfrid's gaze fell upon the narrow valleys that cut through the battlefield, where his archers were positioned, hidden among the rolling hills and rough terrain.

With a voice that cut through the din of battle like a blade, King Sigfrid issued his command. "To the valleys!" he roared, his voice carrying the weight of command and conviction. "Archers, prepare for a counter-attack!"

His words rippled through the ranks, and the archers—clad in green and brown, blending with the landscape—moved with practiced precision. The sound of bowstrings being drawn back was almost melodic, a counterpoint to the clash of swords and the thunder of warhorses.

From the heights, Sigfrid could see the volley of arrows as they arced through the air, their wooden shafts catching the last rays of sunlight. They descended like a deadly rain upon the enemy forces, striking with a precision that spoke to the years of training and discipline among the king's archers.

The enemy, momentarily taken aback by the sudden barrage, faltered under the relentless onslaught. King Sigfrid's eyes never wavered from the scene before him, his face set in a grim expression of focus. As the enemy lines struggled to regroup under the hail of arrows, a grim smile touched his lips. His gambit was paying off, and the tide of battle was beginning to shift in his favor.

Amid the chaos, the king remained a beacon of control, his presence a steadfast reminder of the indomitable will that drove his troops forward. The valleys, once mere features of the landscape, had become the turning point of the battle, their purpose fulfilled through the king's unwavering resolve and the skill of his archers.

With the arrows destroying the formation of Augustus army, the other 4,500 men descended unto the battlefield with their chariots. An absolute bloodbath and slaughter by anyone that witnessed it. A battle that seemed to had been lost had now become a batttle were victory can be assured. This was a "miracle".

out of the 5,000 men that were sent to deal with the other rebel army, only 400 had died. 100 was placed on the tops of the valley for a couner-attack with the other 4,500 leading the frontal assault.

A perfectly well crafted plan with almost no flaws.

With the now new 4,500 men joining the battle, it became completely one-sided. The King and his army began sweeping their way through the battlefield completely breaking their enemy formation and slaughtering them. 

The King knew that the only way to bring an end to this rebellion and keep casualties to a minimum was to kill Augustus but he was occupied with leading the charge.

Seeing that he might loose this battle, Augustus retreated to his camp alongside a few of his men and his right hand man as his last line of defence. 

Looking at Jace and Leon, he screamed at them to go do what must be done.

Seeing how their Dad had placed his hopes in them, they rode their horses straight into the enemy line, slamming into their formation and killing anyone that comes in their way. Almost as if they were being possessed by the God of war himself.

Everyone was shocked at this sight including the King, his army and even the rebels as they knew that these two kids might end up becoming the start of a new Legend.

Seeing this, Augustus ordered his right hand man Sir Thorne Blackwood to go bring the heads of those two boys.

Sir Thorne was no pushover as he was a former knight of Reich who had now turned mercenary due to unkown reasons.

Sir Thorne engaged the two kids in a duel. A duel that led to the birth of two boys whose name shall forever be etched in the annals of history.

In a dimly lit forest clearing, the former knight, clad in battered plate armor and wielding a longsword, stands as an imposing figure. His eyes, hardened by countless battles, reflect the moonlight. The knight's opponent? Two brothers, barely on the cusp of adolescence, their faces smeared with dirt and determination.

The older brother, Jace, age 13, grips a blood socked steel sword, his knuckles white with the effort. His younger brother, Leon, 12, is armed with a blood socked but rusty steel hammer, his eyes filled with a blend of fear and resolve. The air is thick with tension, the day silent save for the distant rustling of leaves.

The former knight begins with a fierce swing, his sword cutting through the air with practiced precision. Jace the blow with his sword, the impact sending him staggering back, but he quickly recovers, positioning himself between Leon and the knight.

"Go!" Jace shouts, his voice trembling but resolute. "Find the leader. I'll hold him off!"

Leon hesitates, glancing at his older brother. "No, I can—"

"Go!" Jace insists, his voice carrying a sense of finality. "He's too strong for both of us. Do it now!"

With a final, reluctant nod, Leon dashes into the darkness, vanishing among the trees. The knight's eyes follow the boy briefly, then return to Jace, who stands his ground, a fierce glint in his eye.

The knight advances, his sword swinging with relentless force. Jace's sword moves in a flurry of defensive strikes, but the knight's blows are too powerful, each one driving Jace back. The boy's arms ache with the effort, sweat pouring down his face, but he grits his teeth and fights on, determined not to let his brother's sacrifice be in vain.

Despite his youth, Jace's movements are surprisingly agile and strategic. He ducks beneath a sweeping arc of the knight's sword, then counters with a quick jab of his sword. The knight, though momentarily surprised, responds with a graceful spin, his blade clashing with Liam's sword with a resounding clang.

Jace's face is a mask of grit and determination. He dodges and strikes, his every move a testament to his bravery. The knight, though initially intent on ending the fight quickly, finds himself grudgingly impressed. The boy's spirit and skill, despite his limited experience, are admirable.

With a powerful overhead strike, the knight finally disarms Jace, sending the sword skittering across the ground. Jace, breathless and battered, falls to his knees, his head bowed. The knight stands over him, sword poised for a final strike.

Yet, there's a moment of hesitation in the knight's eyes, a flicker of respect. He lowers his blade, taking in the boy's defiant stance and unwavering spirit.

"You fought well, boy," the knight says, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. "Your bravery is commendable."

Jace, despite his exhaustion and pain, looks up at the knight with a fierce glint in his eyes. "My brother… he's the one who you should have stopped not me. He'll do what's necessary. Once he sets his mind on something nothing can stop him from moving."

The knight nods, a faint smile touching his lips. "I see. Very well."

He steps back, sheathing his sword. "I'll give you a chance to escape. But know this: you've earned my respect tonight along with your brother. I shall remember your names for as long as I live" 

Jace, though defeated, rises slowly, his head held high. He watches as the knight turns and walks away, disappearing into the forest. As Jace picks up his Sword, he knows the fight isn't over, but his brother's chance at success—and their cause—remains alive, thanks to his sacrifice.

Jace's collapses on the ground due to exhaustion placing all of his hopes on leon.

In the forest's shadows, the brother's sacrifice and the knight's respect weave a silent story of valor and honor.

At a far distance, Augustus notices a figure coming up to his camp. At first he thought it was his knight but he sooner realised that it was none other than the "Bastard son of King Sigfrid".

He orders the last of his men who were the last line of defence in the chance that someone was able to break through his army to fire their arrows.

Leon determined to end this gallops his horse so fast that the sound could even be heard by Augustus's men.

Leon was able to successfully evade all the arrows with only one piercing his shoulder but he never let go of his saddle. With the horse galloping so fast, Leon was finally able to reach Camp's barracade and break through.

As the horse jumped above their heads, all what the men could see was an image of "Greatness". This caused them to drop their weapons and loose the will to fight leaving only Leon and Augustus on a one on one duel.

In a dimly lit room, shadows danced across the walls, cast by a single flickering fire touch hanging precariously on the walls. The air was thick with tension, as if it could be sliced by a knife. At the center of the room stood a twelve-year-old Leon, sweat glistening on his forehead, clutching a hefty, old-steel hammer. His eyes, wide and fierce, locked onto Augustus facing him. Augustus, a priest of middle age with a gaunt face and shifty eyes, stood behind his remaining henchmen, his facade of intimidation crumbling in the face of Leon's resolve.

Augustus, who had thrived on lies and manipulation to maintain his grip on power, now faced the consequences of his deceit. He had used his men as shields, hiding behind their brute force to protect himself. But now, with nowhere to run and his deceit laid bare, the only option left was to fight or face utter humiliation. Leon's presence was a stark reminder that justice and courage came in all sizes.

The fight began with Leon charging forward, his hammer swinging with a surprising force. Augustus, though not physically formidable, had the agility to dodge and duck, his movements more akin to those of a cornered rat than a seasoned warrior. Leon's strikes, fueled by a mixture of anger and desperation, hammered into the leader's defenses, shattering any illusion of invincibility the man once held.

Augustus attempted to use his remaining henchmen as pawns, trying to create distractions. But Leon, despite his young age, was driven by a sense of righteousness that cut through the chaos. He managed to dodge the henchmen's clumsy attempts to interfere and focused on Augustus. Each swing of the hammer was calculated, aimed with the precision of someone who had trained in secret, driven by a fierce determination to end Augustus's silly rebellion.

The battle was grueling. Augustus, though not physically strong, relied on deceit and cunning to stay in the fight, but his tricks were futile against Leon's relentless willpower. As the fight dragged on, Leon's strikes became more measured, his breathing ragged but determined. With each hit, Augustus's bravado waned, his movements becoming more desperate, his confidence eroding.

Finally, the moment of reckoning came. With a powerful, unrelenting swing, Leon struck Augustus's head with the hammer. The blow was decisive. Augustus's head crumpled under the force, the hammer carving a grotesque indent into his skull. A sickening crack echoed through the room as the hammer crushed the leader's skull, ending his life in a brutal, final display of Leon's resolve.

The room fell silent, save for the soft thud of the leader's lifeless body hitting the ground. Leon stood over him, breathless and battered but victorious. Leon's eyes, though weary, held a spark of triumph. He had faced a powerful enemy not through strength alone but through courage, and in doing so, had restored a measure of justice and integrity to a his Kingdom marred by deceit and fear.

Taking Augustus's own sword, Leon cut his head off as a symbol of victory. 

Walking out with the head of their Leader, all the rebel army at the camp could do was surrender. Jace recovering a bit of stamina was able to make his way to his brother. Jace felt that he had let his brother down. Believing that his brother shouldn't have been the one to witness a sight like that. 

He hugged Leon. "I'm very sorry brother. If only I wasn't so weak maybe- just maybe I could've spared you from this fate", said Jace as he was sobbing in his brother's arms.

Leon comforted Jace telling him that, "it is not his fault and that an instance like this would have come sooner or later anyways".

Jace accepts that fact and together they bring the head of the rebel leader to the battlefield to finally bring an end to the Long Winter.

At the battlefield the battle rages on with both sides refusing to admit defeat.

In a rugged valley carved between two towering mountain ranges, the clash of swords and the roar of battle echo through the air. The valley, once a peaceful expanse, now hosts a brutal conflict between two armies locked in fierce combat. The ground is churned to mud by the relentless advance of warriors, and the sky above is darkened with the smoke of war.

Amidst the chaos, a young figure stands out. At the crest of a steep ridge, Leon son of King Sigfrid emerges. Clad in his blood socked steel armor, his small frame is dwarfed by the grandeur of the scene around him. In his hands, he holds an ornate horn, its surface intricately adorned with royal insignia of House Frostbourne. The boy's presence is a stark contrast to the brutality unfolding below.

With a determined expression, he raises the horn to his lips. As he blows into it, the sound that emerges is not just any noise—it's a deep, resonant call that pierces through the cacophony of battle. The note is clear and powerful, cutting through the clamor of clashing steel and the cries of the wounded. The horn's tone carries an unexpected gravity, its echo reverberating off the valley walls and across the battlefield.

Instantly, the fighting begins to falter. Soldiers on both sides pause, their weapons lowered as they turn towards the ridge. The once-unyielding momentum of the battle slows, and a profound silence falls over the valley. The horn's sound seems to cast a spell, capturing the attention of every soldier and officer present.

The armies, now momentarily united in their curiosity, gaze up at the boy. The sight of Young Leon, standing alone yet commanding such attention, has an almost mystical quality. The symbolism of his act transcends the immediate context of battle—his presence and the horn's call seem to represent a plea for peace, an appeal to reason amidst the violence.

As the echo of the horn fades, a murmur of awe and confusion spreads among the ranks. The commanders on both sides, recognizing the unprecedented pause and the significance of the moment, begin to deliberate. The young prince's simple yet profound gesture stands as a beacon of hope and a powerful reminder of the possibility of reconciliation.

In this pivotal instant, the valley holds its breath. The scene shifts from one of relentless aggression to a moment of collective introspection, offering a chance for dialogue and a glimmer of hope in the midst of war.

In the midsts of the silence, another young figure emerges behind Leon.

At the crest of the steep ridge, Jace eldest son of King Sigfrid emerges. Also Clad in his blood socked steel armor, his small frame being dwarfed by the grandeur of the scene around him. In his hands, he holds the head of Augustus, With the blood dripping from the head leaving a trail from the camp to the top of the valley. 

The presence of these two young boys could be felt throughout the entire lands. Lifting up the head of Augustus as symbol of victory the men of the rebel army suddenly drop their weapons and admit defeat. 

The purpose for their surrender not being because their leader was killed but rather an image of two great legend in the making that they could all be apart of. 

This thought caused everyone to lay down their weapons and just like that a war that was started by two adults was ended by two kids who never even had anything to do with the war.