"Up, up!" a voice called to Torik as he stirred from sleep.
He blinked into the pale morning light spilling across the stone floor of his chamber. The usual quiet hum of the keep had turned to a frantic pulse. Feet pounded the hall outside. Voices barked commands. Armor clinked. War had finally come.
Torik rolled from bed and stood barefoot for a moment, letting the coolness of the flagstones soak into his skin. Today wasn't just a battle. It was something else. A line. One he was about to cross.
He got dressed quickly, pulling on the custom-forged armor made by the smiths of Valebast. It wasn't plate. Too heavy. Too slow. Instead, it was a series of reinforced leathers, light chain at his ribs, and metal bracers designed not to hinder the speed he relied on. Even now, he carried the dagger. The same one he'd kept since the slums. The smiths had cleaned it up for him though, now it had a clean edge and shined.
He looked at himself in the small mirror bolted to the wall. Not a thief. Not just. But still that, too.
When he stepped into the hall, the keep buzzed with motion. Servants rushed with food and cloth. Soldiers moved in disciplined formations toward the outer city. A boy no older than twelve ran past clutching a sword that looked twice his size.
Torik made his way to the stables and mounted his horse. The ride through Valebast was eerie. Crowds gathered but didn't cheer. They watched. Silent, tense, wide-eyed. Children sat on rooftops. Old men leaned on canes. No jeers. No prayers. Just breath held in one long collective wait.
The outer gates opened, revealing the gathered host.
Seven thousand strong.
A sea of banners, armor, sharpened steel and steel-like resolve. The early light made it all gleam. Torik dismounted and approached the command platform, where Kell and Lord Farris stood side by side.
Farris spoke first, lips curling with sardonic humor. "You know, I heard stories about you all my life, Kell. I truly thought more men would come to your call."
Kell frowned. His expression was carefully measured, but something behind his eyes flickered. "I did too. Not just for me. For Highlady Ysara. She stood for more than a banner."
They both fell silent as Torik approached. He caught the quick shift in their posture that attempted to mask worry with composure.
"You don't think I can read your expressions?" Torik called out as he hopped from his horse. He landed firmly, like someone ready to fight gods if it came to it. "Don't forget, Kell. You have me."
Kell blinked, caught off-guard. He opened his mouth, failed to find words, and closed it again. Then, slowly, he smiled. Not wide. Not triumphant. But something steady. Real.
A runner appeared, breathless. "Sir-Captain-Lord… I mean…" he stammered.
Farris smacked the man on the back. "Out with it, lad."
"They've arrived," the soldier gasped. "The king's army. Twenty thousand, as expected. Camped beyond the southern rise."
Kell nodded once, solemn. The runner departed.
Farris stared toward the horizon. "So, this is where it ends." He said nothing for a moment. Then, quieter, "Tell me honestly, Kell. If we won would I actually be allowed to love who I choose? Or would the zealots still come?"
Kell met his gaze. "Of course you would. Religion's a choice. Not a weapon."
Dama joined them with her arms folded. "More importantly, we're outnumbered seven to twenty," she said. "And they have Bound Knights. Our best steel won't be enough."
Farris scowled, eyes scanning the hills. "Where are the others? Trellion? There were promises."
Kell exhaled slowly. "There's still time. There is always time."
A long pause.
"Have you even heard from Maribel?" Torik asked.
"No," Kell admitted. "But Trellion is a man of principle."
From the other side of the field, Highlord Galrick stood tall as he looked over at the great city of Valebast. He wore his arrogance like a second cloak, crimson velvet draped over darkened armor.
"We counted about seven thousand men, Highlord," a soldier reported.
Galrick chuckled as he drank from his waterskin, the contents stank of something strong and old. "It's only wine if you believe it is," he said with a grin to his high-ranking officers, who exchanged glances of mixed amusement and unease.
General Gerin stepped up beside him, his face stern. "Seven thousand seems low. Are you sure it's not a trap, Highlord?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the circle of officers.
Galrick shook his head and let out a deep laugh. "If you know Kell, you know he's too damn honorable for traps. Too honest to lie, too loyal to mislead. That's why he's there instead of bending the knee like a proper dog. It's a shame. I'm fond of that man. Not many like him left."
He took another drink, then added, almost wistfully, "But sometimes, you have to put down your favorite pup when it bites."
Gerin frowned. "Honor is a binding. We were meant to be bound."
Galrick waved a lazy hand. "Oh, enough of that doctrinal babble. Honor, faith… they're all tools. Means to ends. The king trusts me because I get things done. The Bound trust me because I let them whisper their rot in his ear."
He looked across the field again. "That's the game, boys. Play both sides until one forgets you're the enemy. Then take what you want."
His officers shifted uncomfortably. Galrick often spoke in riddles, in contradictions. But no one could deny his brilliance on the battlefield. That brilliance bought tolerance.
And dread.
As evening fell, the campfires lit up the valley like stars fallen to earth.
Torik sat on a boulder overlooking the valley, dagger in hand, watching the reflection of flames dance across the steel.
Dama approached, holding two cups.
"Water," she said.
He took it, nodded. "Thanks."
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked, sitting beside him.
He didn't answer. But his hand clenched.
"The musclebinding. It's always there now. Like the world's waiting for you to sprint."
He glanced at her. "I didn't ask for it."
"Neither did I," she replied. "None of us do. But we use it. Or it uses us."
He turned back to the valley. "You think it makes me like them? The Bound Knights?"
"No," she said simply. "Because they were forged by zealotry. You were forged by choice. That's the difference. And it matters."
They sat in silence a while.
Then Kell called out from the wall.
Torik stood.
Kell beckoned him over.
"Come see," he said. "Before the dawn."
They stood side by side as the horizon turned red.
"I never thought I'd see this," Kell said. "A kingdom without Ysara. Without the king. Just us. And a choice."
Torik looked out at the enemy banners.
"Let them come," he said. "I've run all my life. But not today. Today, I'm standing."
Kell clapped his shoulder. "That's all I need."
The horns sounded in the distance.
The march would begin.
And with it, the war for the realm.