Ashguard

A soft creak of hinges. 

Steven turned to find his uncle, Lord Durwin, standing in the doorway. Age hung on him like a heavy chain, but his eyes gleamed fiercely.

Steven dipped his head in respect. "You could not sleep?"

Durwin stepped in, boots echoing on the flagstones. "I sleep less with each passing winter, lad. Besides, there is talk between us that we cannot wait."

Steven gestured to the hearth, tossing in another log. They sat across from each other, the flames casting long shadows that danced behind them like the phantoms of the old hall.

For a time, they said nothing. They just listened to the wind, the distant clank of a patrol guard changing posts, the hiss and crackle of resinous wood.

Then Durwin spoke, his voice slow as grinding stone. "I remember when this hall rang with song and steel. My father would host feasts that could rival the great noble houses. The bannermen would line these walls, each one vowing the same thing: that no blade would ever breach Talvace lands."

Steven said nothing — only waited.

Durwin continued, a glint of a smile beneath the weariness. "But oaths are like summer frost. They vanish when the sun comes. When my father passed away and your mother died… I let myself believe that the king would save us."

A silence passed, filled with bitterness. 

Durwin twisted the hem of his cloak.

"I see now how blind I was," he continued. "Boy, you have done in half a year what the rest of us failed to do in twenty. You have purged the rats, gathered our banner under honest hands."

Steven let out a soft breath. "I had to be ruthless. We cannot afford rot in the walls, not when Atkins and Ramsey mean to gut us."

Durwin nodded, eyes drifting to the banner pinned above the map. "It takes a butcher to save a herd from the wolves. Maybe this house needed that more than we ever wanted to admit."

He leaned forward, the light catching the fine lines carved into his brow like runes on old stone. "My days in Headow have been completed. Tonight I ride to repay those debts and mend the wrongs."

Steven tightened his throat. "You are going alone?"

Durwin gave a gruff laugh. "Who would I take? Half the Ashguard would stand out like white wolves in a coal pit. And you need every man here, the battle against Baron Atkins will be fierce."

He stood, resting a hand on his nephew, and for a moment, Steven felt a familiar love engulf his heart. "You have a good mind for this new world, boy. Use it. Make the name Talvace a lasting legacy. When I return, I will host a grand feast like my father."

Steven rose as well, shoulders squared. "Then ride fast. If the roads turn red before you come back, you know where I will be."

Durwin squeezed his arm once, an unspoken promise, and then turned and vanished into the darkness. A moment later, Steven heard the distant creak of the main gate, the hoofbeats swallowed by the mist that wrapped Headow like a mourning shroud.

Steven knew, deep down, that not all debts could be repaid.

The first shred of dawn spilled over the ridge, and Steven stood at the gate, cloaked in his hardened cuirass, the Talvace sigil stitched boldly across his breastplate. The army was ready, no longer a ragtag band of farmers and half-broken knights but a real host, the Ashguard core polished to a steel edge.

They assembled in tight blocks: the shieldbearers with their tower shields strapped on their backs, spears bristling like a thorn hedge; the archers in their new leather jerkins, quivers full of arrows tipped with the black-fletched heads Wilson had forged; the handful of old Talvace knights with battered helms newly burnished, swords belted tight to their hips.

Clinton stood at the right, his greatsword sheathed but resting easily in his palm like an extension of his will. His eyes swept the rows, nodding now and then when he spotted familiar faces among the newest recruits.

On the left hovered Jeremy, he held a leather-bound folio at his side, the ink on the parchment within still drying from the last-minute routes he had sketched out for the march. He looked like he barely needed to shave, but his mind for tactics had already saved them twice from costly missteps in the trade roads.

Steven stepped forward, and he caught their eyes one by one. He called, voice carrying clearly over the murmurs of horses and clinking armor. "We march on Eastbrook. They will expect us to be broken, scared, and weak. They will find instead an army of steel."

A rumble answered him, a raw growl from men who swore to defeat their honor and people.

Steven flicked his eyes to the rear, where a line of wagons sat under watch — barrels of salted meat, sacks of grain and dried peas, crates of newly forged blades, and the spare chainmail.

He looked at Clinton. "Supply wagons?"

"Loaded and chained," Clinton answered. "No more leaks in the manifests, thanks to the purge."

Jeremy unrolled his map, holding it tight against the wind that tugged at the corners. He pointed to the twin ridges that flanked the route east. "We will cut through the lower pass here. Easier terrain, fewer spots for scouts to set up ambushes. Once we cross the thick forest, we will have a clear ride to Eastbrook."

A flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth. Steven turned back to the army, as the horses were led forward, the entire army marching in formation.

A single banner rose at the front — the Talvace silver hawk, wings spread wide against a field of deep blue.

Steven lifted his sword, its point catching the first gold of dawn. "Onward!"

And so they did, steel bristling like a tide of knives. The gates of Headow swung wide, and the people gathered to watch them pass. Women clutched children to their skirts, men doffed battered caps. And though not one voice raised a cheer, in every gaze was a single, quiet belief: This time, Talvace would not fall.

At the rear, as the last wagon rolled out, Beaver stepped from the shadows by the gate, eyes narrowed as he watched the army disappear into the mist. His blades were cleaned, his spies scattered ahead like wolves before a hunt.

Steven did not look back — only forward, toward the hills that would lead him to Eastbrook. Toward the storm, he meant to ride straight through.

The dawn over Eastbrook, a vast field of grass and rippling hills. Beneath that pale light, men took their places, thousands of boots trampling the churned mud. It was the first test of the Ashguard army, holding its breath between the beats of the marching drums.

Eastbrook had been a choice, a gamble that few understood at first. His uncle, Lord Durwin, had once fought here in the old rebellion; the open plains had become graveyards for arrogant knights who thought a fortified keep was always the better plan. 

Steven was no fool, and he would rather meet Baron Atkins on the field. He gazed through the entire field, and he felt his chances of victory were slightly improved. 

He stood at the head of his line, helm under one arm, wind tugging at his dark hair. Clinton rode up alongside him, mounted on a battle horse thick with scars.

"The ground here is soft," Clinton murmured, scanning the distant ridges. "If their cavalry charges us hard, the mud will slow them enough to break formation."

Steven nodded. The fields of Eastbrook sloped gently toward the north, then dipped into a shallow depression. 

He had chosen his position at the southern rise, so the enemy would have to ride uphill into the heart of his unbreakable wall. 

To his left, a small brook carved the earth into a muddy obstacle. To his right, a fringe of leafless trees offered cover for his archers.

Infantry lined up behind wooden stakes driven deep into the sodden earth, spearmen forming four long ranks with their shields locked. At the flanks, the cavalry was positioned behind the infantry wedges, ready to hammer the sides of any reckless push.

Further back, archers took their places along the edge. Rosina was there, directing squads to string their bows and knock arrows. Her voice, clear but never harsh, carried oddly across the field. "Hold your breath. Loose when the wind dips." 

Three banners fluttered in the wind, and the drums announced their presence. Like a slow flood, the Raging Boar Army emerged from the mist. 

Through the drifting mist, Steven glimpsed the tusked crest on blue silk and a mounted knight with a horned helm, rumored to be the Crimson Knight, Sir Dawson.

A line of cavalry, clad in dark armor, formed the head of the spear. Behind them, infantry stretched in a sea of tarnished steel and burnished helms.

Steven spat into the grass. "Look at that pride. They think the open field favors them."

"It does," Clinton said quietly. "If we fight on their terms."

Jeremy reminded the prince. "We hold here or we lose the archers. Simple as that."

Twyford came striding up through the ranks, unsettling calm that only came to him before steel sang. "The men are ready. Spirits are high, though they are shivering like wet pups."

Steven allowed himself to smile. "Let them shiver. Fear keeps men sharp."

Twyford spoke to his men. "Spears ready, boys. Keep them low, or else we will be buried under the cavalry charge."

A single crow called from the trees. 

Somewhere beyond the mist, steel rattled like distant thunder.