The three blasts of the war horn did not just echo in the mountains. They resonated across the continent, signaling the end of a ten-year lie called "Peace."
The war did not start because of a grand ideal. It started, as most wars do, with a map, a quill, and a surplus of ambition.
I. The Golden Plains – Kingdom of Westvale
Capital City of Greystone
Queen Elsbeth stood on the balcony of the Sun Spire, overlooking a city that looked too fat to fight. Greystone was a jewel of white marble and red tile roofs, surrounded by oceans of golden wheat. It smelled of bread and money.
"It is done, Your Majesty," General Kaelen said, kneeling behind her. He was younger then, his face not yet lined by the horrors of the Breaking Grounds. "The Silver Pass has been secured. The Northwatch garrison refused to surrender, as you predicted."
"And?" Elsbeth asked, sipping wine from a crystal goblet.
"And they were removed," Kaelen said stiffly. "To the last man."
Elsbeth turned. She was a woman of striking beauty, sharp as cut glass, wearing a gown of blue silk that cost more than a Northwatch village earned in a decade.
"Do not look so dour, General," she said softly. "King Aldric of Northwatch has sat in his mountains like a dragon on a hoard for too long. He controls the iron. He controls the copper. He strangles our trade routes to the east."
"He will retaliate," Kaelen warned. "Northwatch does not fight like civilized men. They fight like cornered badgers."
"Let them," Elsbeth said, her eyes flashing with a cold, calculating light. "We have the numbers. We have the food. We have the coin. Send the heavy cavalry to the foothills. Burn their outer villages. Starve them out of their fortress. I want the Ironhold to kneel before winter comes."
She looked back at the golden horizon.
"The truce was a cage, Kaelen. Today, I broke the lock."
II. The Storm Coast – Kingdom of Eastmarch
Capital City of Seaward Bastion
Three hundred miles to the east, the waves crashed against the black cliffs of Seaward Bastion with the force of cannon fire.
King Reynard stood in his map room, a chamber damp with salt spray. He was a man of ropes and tides, his beard braided with sea-glass beads. He stared at the large map spread across the table, weighted down by daggers.
"Westvale has moved," his spymaster reported, pointing to the red markers shifting toward the mountains. "Queen Elsbeth has struck the Silver Pass."
Reynard laughed. It was a barking, harsh sound. "The Lioness finally bites."
"Should we send aid to Northwatch, Sire?" an admiral asked. "If Westvale takes the iron mines, they will be unstoppable. They will build a fleet that dwarfs ours."
"Help Aldric?" Reynard spat on the floor. "Aldric charges us triple for timber. He mocks our sailors."
He pulled a dagger from the map and stabbed it into the eastern flank of the Northwatch mountains, right where the rivers met the sea.
"No. We do not help. While the Bear and the Lion tear each other's throats out in the west, we will take the riverlands in the east."
"That is Northwatch territory, Sire," the spymaster noted.
"It is my territory now," Reynard growled. "Mobilize the coastal raiders. While Aldric looks west to stop Elsbeth, we will stab him in the back. By the time he turns around, Eastmarch will control the trade rivers."
He looked out the window at his armada bobbing in the harbor—hundreds of warships ready to unleash hell.
"Chaos is a ladder," Reynard muttered. "And I intend to climb it."
III. The Frozen Citadel – Kingdom of
Northwatch
Capital City of Ironhold Keep
The atmosphere in the War Room of Ironhold Keep was suffocating. There was no silk, no wine, no laughter. There was only stone, fire, and fury.
King Aldric slammed his gauntleted fist onto the stone table, cracking the slate.
"They think us weak!" he roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Westvale burns our western villages. Eastmarch raids our eastern rivers. They think they can carve us up like a holiday roast!"
Aldric was a giant of a man, grey-haired and scarred, wearing simple iron plate armor. He did not wear a crown of gold; he wore a circlet of black steel.
"Sire," his High Marshal said, his face pale. "We are outnumbered three to one on the west front. And the Eastmarch marines are landing in the delta. We... we do not have the men to hold both fronts."
"We have the mountains," Aldric snarled. "We have the walls."
"Walls need men to man them," the Marshal countered. "Our professional legions are already deployed. We have no reserves. If we lose the mines, we lose the war."
Aldric went silent. He stared into the fire of the hearth. He loved his kingdom. He respected his soldiers. But he was a man of the North, and the North knew only survival.
"You say we have no men," Aldric said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "But the Shadow Pits are full."
The Marshal hesitated. "Sire... those are criminals. Debtors. Slaves. They are untrained. Many are children."
Aldric turned slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.
"Does a child not bleed when cut? Can a child not hold a spear? Can a criminal not die for his King?"
"Sire, it would be a slaughter. Sending untrained levies against Westvale knights..."
"Better they die than the Kingdom falls," Aldric declared, the decision hanging in the air like an executioner's axe. "Issue the Decree of Conscription. Every male capable of holding a weapon. Every debtor. Every slave. Every orphan."
"From what age, Sire?"
Aldric's eyes were hard as flint.
"If they can walk, they can march. If they can lift a stone, they can lift a sword. Set the age at ten."
The Marshal bowed his head, defeated. "As you command."
"Burn the draft orders," Aldric ordered. "Send them to every mine, every village, every pit. Tell them their freedom lies in victory. Lie to them if you must. But get me soldiers."
The Shadow Pits
The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.
Aris, Doran, Mira, Lenn, and Tova sat huddled by the riverbank, shivering as the adrenaline from their escape wore off. They watched as the massive iron gates of the main slave compound—usually locked tight—swung open.
But it wasn't to let them out.
A column of soldiers marched in. They wore the black wolf crest of Northwatch, but their armor was battered, their faces grim. They didn't carry pickaxes. They carried stacks of parchment and bundles of cheap, rusted spears.
A crier stood atop a crate in the center of the muddy yard, surrounded by hundreds of confused, soot-stained slaves.
"By order of King Aldric!" the crier screamed, his voice cracking. "The Kingdom is under siege! The treacherous dogs of Westvale and the vultures of Eastmarch seek to destroy us!"
A murmur of fear went through the crowd.
"But the King is generous!" the crier continued. "He offers you a chance to wash away your debts! He offers you a chance to earn your name! Every male above the age of ten is hereby conscripted into the 4th Penal Legion!"
"Ten?" Mira whispered, grabbing Aris's hand. Her grip was bone-crushing. "Aris... we just turned ten."
Aris watched the soldiers moving through the crowd, separating fathers from daughters, brothers from sisters. They were measuring heights. Checking teeth. Like they were buying horses.
"It's not an offer," Aris said quietly, watching a guard strike a man who refused to move. "It's a harvest."
He looked at his friends. Doran, big and terrified. Lenn, shaking like a leaf. Mira and Tova, trying to be brave.
The war hadn't just started. It had arrived to collect them.
"Stay close," Aris ordered, his voice shifting into that cold, iron tone he used when the world tried to crush them. "Whatever happens, do not let go of each other."
A heavy hand landed on Aris's shoulder. He looked up to see a soldier with dead eyes.
"You," the soldier grunted, pointing at Aris and then Doran. "Line A. Infantry fodder."
Then he pointed at Lenn. "Line B. Support."
"No!" Doran shouted, reaching for Lenn. "We stay together!"
The soldier slammed the butt of his spear into Doran's stomach. The big boy crumpled to the mud, gasping.
"You go where you are told, meat," the soldier spat. "Welcome to the King's Army."
Aris helped Doran up, his eyes locking onto the soldier's face, memorizing it.