The first chill of autumn crept into the wind, brushing over the trenches and stone ramparts of the Verentis border fortress. Leaves danced in the air, carried across the battered soil like forgotten memories. Though the battles had lessened in intensity, Achilles Verentis knew peace was a fleeting illusion—a calm before the inevitable resurgence.
Inside the command tent, the flicker of candlelight cast shadows against an aging war map. Achilles stood alone, clad in his obsidian armor, the cape of crimson swaying lightly with the breeze that slipped through the folds of the tent.
A knock came.
"Enter," he said, eyes never leaving the map.
It was Kael, the ever-loyal strategist who now bore a thin scar on his jaw—a token from the last skirmish. In his hand was a sealed letter.
"From your father, Caldus," Kael said, offering the parchment. "The supplies are en route. Three convoys. Personally guarded by knights of House Verentis."
Achilles finally looked away from the map, breaking into a faint, appreciative smile. "Good. Then we will endure this winter as well."
Kael hesitated. "There's more."
Achilles raised a brow.
"The court remains silent. Not a single word from the central military or the Kingdom of Valeriand. It's been over two months since the last formal correspondence."
Achilles folded his arms, gaze sharpening. "They're distracted. Or someone wants them distracted."
Kael nodded grimly. "Could be political struggles. Perhaps even sabotage."
"No matter," Achilles said. "So long as my family stands strong in the capital, and the supplies come, we do not falter. The men depend on stability. If they see me worry, they will crumble."
Kael grunted. "You're too composed for a man still in his twenties."
"You forget, I grew up on the battlefield."
---
That night, Achilles walked the outer defenses.
The stars above were sharp and unclouded, cold as steel. Below them, soldiers gathered around small fires, sharing stories and bread, polishing swords and repairing torn cloaks.
Achilles walked in silence. They saluted as he passed. Some whispered his name like a prayer. Others merely nodded, their respect beyond words.
He stopped near a younger unit—fresh recruits who had arrived just weeks ago. One of them, a boy of barely sixteen, stood and saluted clumsily.
"Commander!" he barked.
Achilles studied him. "What's your name?"
"Aren, sir! First-born of Blackwall village."
"First war?"
"Yes, sir."
Achilles handed him a sheathed dagger from his side. "Keep this close. Your sword may fail. Your allies may fall. But this... this is your final answer to fear."
Aren's eyes widened as he accepted it.
"Thank you, Commander. I won't let you down."
Achilles placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Don't let yourself down. That's harder."
Then he moved on.
---
Back in his chambers, Achilles opened the letter from his father. Caldus's writing was elegant, assertive, and warm.
"My son,
The court grows colder. Whispers now fill the halls where declarations once rang. The king ages faster than he admits, and the council is split between pride and paranoia.
Your mother and I continue to shield the name Verentis with all we have. But should the day come when the kingdom turns a blind eye to the border, remember this: Valeriand is more than a capital. It is its people, its families, and the blood that guards its soil.
We trust you. And we are proud beyond measure.
Caldus Verentis."
Achilles set the letter down.
And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to sit. Not out of exhaustion, but reflection.
He was not alone. His family remained steadfast. And as long as they stood—so would he.
Outside, the watch bells tolled midnight.
But within the heart of the border fortress, the flame of command still burned.