Two weeks had passed since the calamity at the Southern Flank.

  The Shersian Army moved like a rising tide, pushing into the territories that had once belonged to the Kingdom of Horsin but were now occupied by Buckland. The resistance was brittle. The Buckland forces were retreating en masse, spooked by the rumors of the "Demon in Black Armor" and the collapse of their command structure.

  Duke Thorne marched with the main army, but he had made a calculated decision before leaving camp. The heavy artillery batteries, the devastating steam cannons Alaric had designed were left behind, hidden in the mangroves under heavy guard.

  "Why leave our strongest weapon, Father?" Lucia had asked.

  "Because the King is watching," Thorne had replied grimly. "If I reveal the full extent of that power now, Shersia will fear us more than the enemy. We overwhelm them anyway. We need to keep the ace up our sleeve."

  Alaric was back on his feet. The fever had broken, and though his eyes still held a shadow of deep exhaustion, he didn't stay in his tent.

  Nobody has officially reclaimed the position of Vice commander Selzer, yet the 1st Battalion and the other Grand Captains naturally gravitated toward him. The Order had been leaderless and quiet since Selzer’s death, drifting without direction. Alaric simply... started working.

  He could be found in the logistics tent at morning, coordinating supply lines. He was seen correcting patrol maps with terrifying accuracy. He organized the watch shifts.

  "Sir," a captain asked, handing Alaric a report without even thinking. "Should we route the scouts through the valley?"

  "No," Alaric said, not looking up from the map. "Too exposed. Use the ridge line."

  "Understood."

  Nobody complained. Nobody questioned his authority. Even Duke Thorne watched from a distance, satisfied. Alaric wasn't ruling through fear but simply through his competence. He was functioning within the Central Command structure led by King Eryndor, playing the role of the perfect soldier to mask the chaos inside him.

  The chase ended at the jewel of the region.

  The Shersian Army crested the final hill and looked down upon the former capital of Horsin, the Walled City of Krons.

  It was a fortress disguised as a metropolis. Even though Horsin had lost nearly half its population to death and refugee waves, Krons was still bustling. It was the logistical heart of the Buckland occupation, a city of over two hundred and fifty thousand souls.

  But what stopped the Shersian generals in their tracks were the defenses.

  The city was an island fortress. It was surrounded by a massive, man-made lake, a moat that was thirty meters wide and deep enough to drown a horse. Rising from the water’s edge were sheer stone walls, fifteen meters high that were formidable.

  There was only one bridge, and it had already been drawn up.

  Inside the Royal Command Tent, the atmosphere was suffocating.

  King Eryndor sat at the head of the table, flanked by Prince Lucian. The Dukes Thorne, Larethin, and Osborne stood over the map of Krons.

  "We starve them," Duke Larethin slammed his fist on the table. "We encircle the lake. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out. They will surrender in three months."

  "Three months?" General Kael shook his head. "Our soldiers are conscripts, Your Grace. Farmers. They need to return for the harvest, or Shersia starves next winter. We cannot hold a siege that long."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "And the supplies?" Duke Thorne added, his voice low. "We don't know how much food is inside Krons. If we force a famine, the quarter-million citizens will revolt. We are supposed to be liberators, Larethin, not butchers. If we kill the civilians through starvation, we create an insurgency that will last for decades."

  "Then what?" Larethin snapped. "We don't have the rations to wait them out, and we can't breach a wall that sits behind a lake! Do you suggest we ask them politely to lower the bridge?"

  Silence fell over the table. The tactical situation was a deadlock.

  Alaric was standing near the entrance, dressed in his standard armor, acting as Duke Thorne’s personal guard. He had been listening intently.

  "Your Majesty," Alaric spoke up.

  The room froze. A commoner, a guard interrupting the War Council was unheard of. Prince Lucian sneered, opening his mouth to reprimand him, but King Eryndor raised a hand.

  The King looked at the boy who had killed Marius Vallen. "Speak, Alaric."

  Alaric stepped forward, ignoring the glares of the other nobles.

  "A siege is not viable," Alaric stated calmly. "We need to end this within days, not months. The only way to take Krons intact is to open the gates from the inside."

  "From the inside?" Larethin scoffed. "Did you miss the lake? Or the fifty-foot walls?"

  "If we can organize a highly skilled strike team," Alaric continued, looking directly at the King, "we can infiltrate the city under the cover of darkness. Once inside, we can sabotage the gate mechanism to lower the bridge for the main army. Or, if the opportunity presents itself, assassinate the commanding general."

  King Eryndor leaned back, an amused smile playing on his lips. "And tell me, Ward of Thorne... how do you propose crossing a thirty-meter lake and scaling a fifteen-meter wall without being seen by the thousands of archers on the ramparts?"

  "I can cross it," Alaric said. There was no arrogance in his voice, only the cold certainty of a man who knew his strengths. "I will run a line across. Once the rope is secured, I can lead the other knights across."

  It sounded insane. Heavily unrealistic. A suicide mission.

  The King chuckled. It was a cold sound. "Why not? If you succeed, Shersia wins a great victory. If you fail... well, you die."

  The King waved his hand dismissively. "Permission granted. Plan your suicide mission."

  As the council adjourned, a breathless scout burst into the tent, falling to his knees.

  "Report!" The scout barked.

  "Your Majesty! High Command!" the scout gasped. "We have confirmation on the retreating Buckland forces!"

  "Did they return to the mainland?" Prince Lucian asked.

  "No, Highness. Of the one hundred and eighty thousand soldiers that retreated... only one hundred thousand returned to Buckland."

  The room went deadly silent.

  "Where are the other eighty thousand?" Thorne asked, a pit forming in his stomach.

  "They are inside Krons, sir," the scout replied. "Commander Edric Ashcroft has garrisoned the city with eighty thousand fresh troops."

  The blood drained from Duke Larethin’s face.

  "Eighty thousand?" he whispered. "Behind those walls?"

  It was a masterstroke by Ashcroft.

  With one hundred thousand men protecting the Buckland motherland, he ensured Shersia wouldn't dare invade their actual country and they can ambush from behind as well if Shersia tries to do so. By garrisoning eighty thousand in Krons, he had turned the city into an impenetrable meat grinder.

  He was forcing Shersia's hand. If they attacked Krons, they would be slaughtered against the walls. If they retreated, Buckland would simply recuperate and re-invade Shersia next spring.

  "He wants us to break ourselves against that city," Thorne realized. "Or retreat in shame. Either way, Ashcroft wins."

  Outside the tent, Alaric stood looking at the towering silhouette of Krons in the distance.

  Eighty thousand soldiers, Alaric thought. Plus the city guard.

  His plan to sneak in had just gone from difficult to nearly impossible. Even if he crossed the lake, moving unnoticed through a city packed with nearly a hundred thousand enemy combatants was madness.

  But there was no other choice. A siege would fail. A direct assault would be a massacre.

  Alaric tightened his gloves. The impossible was the only option left.

  I have a plan, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he calculated the speed off the water. It’s crazy. But I think it will work.