Honor Redeemed in Blood
It had been more than five years since the battle at the Rhaedorn breach.
In that time, Aric and Jered had become names known in every garrison of the kingdom. Every mission they undertook — from freeing captives from the hands of slavers to daring raids deep into hostile territory — became the subject of hushed conversations around campfires, where old veterans told stories to young recruits.
Aric was no longer just a soldier. He was a commander, a strategist, a man who could break superior numbers not with magic, but with mind, courage, and the sword in his hand. His runic magic was still like a shadow — a reminder of a power he could wield, but one he called upon only when life itself hung in the balance. That restraint earned him respect among those who believed honor was not born from shortcuts.
Jered had stood by his side through all those years. An inseparable pair who had endured battles, traps, betrayals, and victories together. They covered each other in the fight and in drunken brawls after battles, and no officer could ever convince them to leave the other behind in danger.
That day, Eldrathis was dressed in celebration. Streets were lined with banners, and fanfares announced the arrival of the kingdom's finest to the palace. Aric walked the long marble corridor, his steps echoing in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.
Tapestries depicting ancient victories lined the walls, but today… today he looked at them knowing that one day, his own deeds might hang among them.
When he entered the throne room, hundreds of eyes turned toward him. King Eldris sat on the throne, his gaze as sharp as a blade.
At his right stood the Grandmaster of the knightly order — a man who rarely spoke praise.
"Aric of Volaris," the king began, his voice filling the hall, "you have served this kingdom with courage, wisdom, and loyalty. You have survived battles that claimed even the most seasoned commanders. You freed those others considered lost. You have defended honor where others would have taken plunder. And you have stood against foes who are, to many, nothing but nightmares."
One by one, his achievements were recalled:
The liberation of the elven women from the slavers' caravan, where he faced overwhelming numbers and used his magic to break the bandits' final stand.The battle at the Rhaedorn breach, where he led an assault against thirty armed enemies and cleared the path for the supply lines.The night ambush at Deros Ford, where he and Jered destroyed a raider camp before sunrise without losing a single man.The defense of Dorrath Border Fort, when he held the walls for three days and nights without rest.
"For these deeds," Eldris continued, "and for the loyalty that cannot be bought or forced, I grant you the title of Commander of the Royal Company."
The hall erupted in applause and the stomp of boots.
Aric's eyes found Jered leaning against a pillar with his usual smirk, as if to say: Now you'll have to wear that damn cloak.
Aric accepted the gold-embroidered cloak and the commander's badge. They were not just symbols of authority — they were proof that the years of blood, sweat, and decisions that haunted his dreams had meant something.
And yet… inside, he felt this was not an ending. It was a beginning. His name… was only starting to be written into legend.
Flashback – Blood in the Snow
The palace celebration slowly drifted into late evening. In the midst of the noisy hall, filled with laughter and the clink of glasses, Aric and Jered sat at a side table, away from the courtly bustle. Before them stood a jug of strong red wine and a small plate of bread and salt — an old soldier's tradition before drinking after returning from battle.
Jered poured another cup and smirked.
"You know what I heard today? One of those young officers by the entrance said you've never fought in a situation where every single second your life was on the line. That you just have luck… and good men around you."
Aric took a drink, set the cup down, and gave him a faint smile. "Then tell them what happened in the Torsk Pass…"
Snow had been falling for three straight days. Trails vanished under the white mass, and the wind howled like a saw's edge. Our unit was ordered to investigate reports that a group of Kaldor steppe raiders had crossed into our lands. We expected a handful of starving vagabonds.
It was a lie.
"There were at least fifty," Jered continued, pouring himself more wine, "all armed to the teeth. No starving dogs — these were headhunters, Aric… and we'd just walked into their trap."
In the narrow pass, every strike bounced off the stone walls, every scream multiplied by the echo. Aric threw himself into the first wave, sword in his right hand and a short dagger in his left. He slashed, stabbed, dragged men to the ground, and anyone who got too close met his knee, his fist, or his skull in a brutal counter.
One raider reached Jered and caught him in the shoulder with a halberd. Jered dropped to one knee, but instead of retreating, he tore the weapon from the man's hands and drove it into his chest. Then he threw a dagger at another who was trying to get to Aric's back.
"Hitting you between the shoulder blades would ruin my day," Jered growled back then.
But more men flooded the pass. We realized we were cut off on both ends.
And there… there Aric reached for what he considered his last resort. The runes on his forearms flared with a white-blue light, sharp as lightning.
Everything went silent for a single heartbeat — and then a wave of energy tore from his hand, freezing snow and bone alike in its path. The air filled with the acrid stench of burned flesh and metal.
"It looked like the North itself had come to fight," Jered said, topping up his cup. "Nobody who saw it doubts you anymore… and they all remember you only did it because there was no other way."
Aric leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes darkening. "That's why I don't do it often. Sword, mind, and men at my side — that's what wins wars. Magic is just a knife you keep in reserve, not the foundation of your strength."
Jered smirked. "Yeah… but when you pull that knife, every bastard facing you shits himself."
They laughed, their cups clinking. In the background, the court's music played cheerful tunes, but between the two men lay the quiet memory of a day when snow ran red and every breath could have been the last.