41- The Massacre at Dawn

The cold spring air carried the scent of damp earth and burning torches as the bandit scouts watched the approaching convoy from their vantage points. Their leader, a grizzled man named Varik, grinned as he crouched beside his second-in-command, a wiry man with a long scar running down his face.

"Just like we planned," Varik muttered. "That fool Marquis Gustov always sends his supply trains the same way. We strike now, wipe them out, and leave nothing behind."

His men nodded eagerly. They had no idea they were walking into a slaughter.

From the cover of the trees, they waited, watching the wagons roll forward, their wheels creaking along the well-worn dirt path. The guards rode in loose formations, unaware—or so the bandits thought—of the death waiting for them.

Varik raised his fist to signal the attack. Then, everything went wrong.

Just as the first wave of bandits rushed forward, a deafening explosion tore through their ranks. The ground beneath them erupted in a plume of dirt and fire as carefully placed alchemical charges ignited. Shrapnel ripped through flesh and bone, sending bandits tumbling backward, screaming in agony.

Before they could recover, arrows rained down from the trees, striking with deadly precision.

"AMBUSH!" one of the bandits shouted, but it was already too late.

Red led the first charge, his blade a blur as he carved through the disoriented bandits. He moved with graceful lethality, his strikes precise and efficient.

Mara was a phantom, appearing and disappearing between groups of enemies, striking at weak points before vanishing into the chaos.

Tobais perched on a rocky outcrop, his longbow in hand. Every arrow he fired found its mark, dropping bandits before they could even raise their weapons.

Royce and Gerrod struck from the flanks, their movements in perfect sync. Royce cut through the bandits' formation with twin daggers, severing tendons and opening throats, while Gerrod smashed through defenses with raw strength.

Amidst the chaos, Aldric was at the forefront.

His sword slicing through the enemy ranks, his movements efficient, calculated. He was no noble who sat behind a desk and gave orders—he led by example.

A bandit lunged at him from the side. Aldric twisted, caught the attacker's wrist, and drove his blade through the man's chest. He pulled it free and moved onto the next target, his armor stained with blood, his mind focused solely on the battle.

Even as the bandits fell in droves, he remained aware of his men.

"Hold the formation! Push forward!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the battlefield. His soldiers rallied to his cry.

Varik, realizing the battle had turned into a massacre, tried to rally his remaining men.

"FALL BACK! REGROUP—"

An arrow pierced his throat. He gurgled, clutching at the shaft as he collapsed, eyes wide in shock.

The remaining bandits, seeing their leader dead and their numbers dwindling, began dropping their weapons, falling to their knees.

Some tried to flee, only to be cut down without mercy.

By the time the sun rose higher in the sky, the battlefield was silent, save for the moans of the dying.

Aldric stood amidst the bodies, his armor spattered with blood.

Around him, his forces moved through the carnage, finishing off wounded enemies and tending to their own injured.

Mara approached, wiping her blade clean. "It's over."

Aldric exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the battle settle over him. It wasn't over for the men who had died.

They had won, but not without loss.

Eight of his own men lay among the fallen. He knew their names.

Marcus, Elric, Dain, Oliver, Rowan, Theo, Gregor and Sebastian

Gustov rode up beside him, surveying the battlefield. "Aldric… this was an overwhelming victory. We lost so few compared to them."

Aldric didn't look away from the bodies. "I trained those men. I knew them. Their lives weren't numbers to me."

Gustov was silent for a long moment before nodding. "Then let's bring them home properly."

Aldric gave the order. The dead would not be left behind.

The battlefield had gone eerily silent. The stench of blood and burnt flesh lingered in the morning air as Aldric's men moved among the bodies, retrieving their fallen comrades while ensuring no enemy bandits remained alive.

Aldric stood at the center of it all, gripping his sword tightly before finally sheathing it. His muscles ached, his armor felt heavier than before, and though the victory was undeniable, he took no joy in it.

The dead would not celebrate.

Mara approached, her expression unreadable. "The men are gathering the bodies. What do you want to do with the prisoners?"

Aldric turned his gaze toward the bandits who had surrendered—a pitiful sight. Many were injured, hands raised in surrender, their weapons discarded.

Gustov rode up beside him. "They deserve execution." His voice was cold, decisive.

Aldric exhaled. "Interrogate them first. Some may have useful information. The rest…" He paused. "The rest we deal with accordingly."

Mara nodded and signaled a group of soldiers to separate the captives. Some would be spared to serve as examples, but most would not leave the battlefield alive.

Royce and Gerrod moved among the bodies of Aldric's fallen men, their expressions grim as they helped load them onto a covered wagon.

Tobias stood near the edge of the battlefield, scanning the treeline with his bow still in hand. Red approached Aldric, pulling his mask down just enough to speak clearly. "We should move soon. We've already drawn enough attention with this."

Aldric gave him a nod before turning back to the fallen.

Marquis Gustov had been watching Aldric closely throughout the battle, and now, as the younger commander moved with calculated efficiency, ensuring every fallen soldier was accounted for, Gustov felt something unexpected—genuine admiration.

He had initially doubted Aldric's methods. The level of preparation, the meticulousness of his strategy—it had almost seemed excessive. But now, with only a fraction of their own forces lost while the enemy had been completely annihilated, Gustov understood.

"Aldric," he finally said.

Aldric turned, his blue eyes sharp yet weary.

"You've proven me wrong," Gustov admitted, his voice carrying none of the arrogance it usually did. "I expected a victory, but not like this. Your level of preparation… it was absolute."

Aldric met his gaze. "War is not about pride or brute strength. It's about ensuring that our people go home alive. That's why I planned so thoroughly."

Gustov let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Damn, your father raised you well."

Aldric stiffened slightly but didn't respond to the comment about Duke Alaric.

Gustov continued, "But tell me—what's next?"

Aldric's expression hardened. "We're not done yet. The bandits were just a symptom of a larger problem."

Gustov's eyes narrowed. "Aye, House Velthorn."

With the battle over and the land secured, Aldric and his forces turned their attention to the greater enemy lurking in the shadows.

This war was far from over.

And Aldric Ravensbourne was just getting started.