Year 1466 AD, Royal Knight Academy
Two weeks flew by in a blur of preparation.
When the day of departure finally arrived, the Academy courtyard was a chaotic sea of shouting students, neighing horses, and creaking supply wagons.
Instructor Hargan stood on a raised wooden platform, his voice booming over the noise without the need for a magical amplifier.
"Quiet!"
The noise died down instantly.
"The First Year War Game is not a field trip," Hargan announced, his eyes scanning the crowd. "It is a simulation of real combat deployment. You have been divided into four Battalions: North, South, East, and West."
He began reading the lists.
Alaric stood with his arms crossed, waiting. He watched as the names were called.
"Battalion 3: The East Army."
"Alaric." "Silan." "Jarik." "Darsia." "Kael..."
As the names continued, Alaric noticed a pattern. Every single name called for his battalion was a commoner. There wasn't a single family name among them.
He looked across the courtyard. The nobles were grouped into the North and West armies, high-fiving each other and sneering in his direction. It was clear they had refused to cooperate with the "peasants of Section A," and the Academy, likely wanting to see what would happen, had allowed the segregation.
"Section A has two student in Battalion 3," everyone said. "Alaric. Since you are the highest rank,why not you organize this unit?", Silan suggested.
Alaric glanced at everyone else and they all seem to agree.
The thirty commoner students looked at Alaric. There was no hesitation, no political maneuvering. They knew Alaric. They knew he was the strongest.
"We follow you, Alaric," Silan said simply, cleaning his fingernails with a small knife.
"Right," Alaric nodded. "Form up."
Then came the mage assignments. The Magic Academy students filed in.
Alaric scanned the crowd instantly, looking for silver hair. He found her.
Lucia was walking toward the North Army.
Walking beside her, looking smugly satisfied, was Roland. The son of Marquis Varcrest had secured the Saintess for his team. She didn't even glance in Alaric's direction, keeping her head bowed.
Alaric tightened his grip on his scabbard. Focus on the mission.
"Listen up!" Hargan shouted again. "There are no carriages for you. An army marches on its stomach and its feet. Your destination is Ironhold, the capital of the Thorne Duchy. It is weeks of march."
The nobles groaned loudly.
"And," Hargan smiled a cruel, wolfish smile. "This is a race. The first Battalion to arrive at Ironhold will take the role of the Defenders in the War Game, occupying the fortress. The latecomers... you will be the Attackers, sleeping in the mud outside the walls."
"Move out!"
The march began.
For the first three days, the North and West armies sprinted ahead. They all used confirma to boost their speed and forced the commoners from the lower sections to take their baggage.
Alaric didn't panic.
"Maintain pace," Alaric ordered from the front of his column. "Do not use magic. Do not run. Just walk. Left, right, breathe."
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He knew something the nobles didn't. Magic exhausted the mind. Sprinting exhausted the body.
By Day 7, the landscape began to change. The lush, rolling green plains of the Royal Capital gave way to rocky, grey terrain. The air grew colder, drier, and thinner.
By Day 10, they passed the noble battalions.
The North Army was camped by the roadside, nobles arguing among themselves. Half of them were exhausted, and the other half were blistering from the unaccustomed walking. Roland was shouting at his teammates, his face red. It seems they had a carriage
She is probably in there Alaric thought to himself.
Alaric’s battalion marched past them in silence.
Alaric touched the hidden pouch at his waist. Inside were ten vials of his potion and a few standard healing drafts. At his hip hung a standard-issue Academy sword. He hadn't bought a fancy blade. He kept it simple. Sharp, steel, reliable.
By Day 18, the air was biting cold. This was a land that lived in constant readiness for war against demons. Every village they passed had high walls. Every farmer carried a knife. Alaric researched the terrain beforehand and told everyone to bring their winter gear.
The fortress city of Ironhold did not look welcoming.
It didn't have the white marble or gold spires of the capital. It was built of dark, grey stone, cut from the mountains themselves. The walls were 40 feet high, lined with heavy ballistae towers.
The soldiers patrolling the ramparts weren't the polished as the knights of the capital. Their faces bore the scars of claw and fang.
Alaric’s battalion marched up the final incline.
"Halt," a gate guard grunted. He looked them over, counting heads. "Battalion 3?"
"Yes," Alaric said, his voice raspy from the dry air.
The guard looked down the road behind them. It was empty.
"You're the first ones here," the guard said, sounding mildly impressed. "By two days, I'd wager. Enter."
A cheer went up from the commoners. Jarik slapped Alaric on the back. "We beat them! We actually beat them!"
It took another two days for the other battalions to trickle in. The noble teams looked ragged, their unity shattered by weeks of bickering and blame. The commoners under them seem depressed.
The students were gathered in the massive central parade ground of Ironhold.
A horn blew.
Duke Thorne stepped onto the high podium.
He wore a suit of matte black plate armor, a heavy fur cloak draped over his broad shoulders. He didn't need a crown or a scepter. His presence alone was suffocating, the heavy, crushing aura of a Grandmaster who had killed more demons than most people had ever seen.
"Welcome to the Border," Duke Thorne’s voice carried across the silent square.
"Here, titles mean nothing," he said, his gaze sweeping over the noble students who were trying to straighten their messy uniforms. "Your bloodline will not stop a demon's claw. Your money will not bribe a beast. Only survival matters."
He paused, letting the cold wind whistle through the silence.
"The War Game will test if you are knights... or just children in costumes."
Alaric stood at the front of his formation, his eyes locked on the podium.
Standing just behind the Duke, in the shadows was Lucia.
She was dressed in formal Church vestments, a high-collared white robe with gold embroidery, holding a ceremonial staff. It emphasized the distance between them. She looked like a statue, pale and untouchable.
She kept her eyes on the ground.
Look at me, Alaric willed her.
Finally, as if feeling his gaze, she glanced up.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, the mask cracked. She looked incredibly sad, her eyes shining with an apology she couldn't speak.
Alaric clenched his jaw.
"Dismissed to your barracks!" the Duke ordered.
As the students began to disperse, chattering nervously about the imposing fortress, Alaric felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders.
He stopped and looked back up at the podium.
Duke Thorne hadn't moved. He wasn't looking at the crowd.
He was looking directly at Alaric.
The Duke’s eyes were the same blue as Lucia’s, but they held none of her warmth. They were cold, calculating, and piercing. It wasn't a glare of hatred, it was worse.
"Alaric!"
Instructor Hargan walked up to him, holding a scroll sealed with the War Game emblem. He was grinning.
"Good work on the march," Hargan said, loud enough for Roland and the other noble leaders to hear. "While the others were fighting over who gets to sit on the horse, your lot actually marched like a unit."
Hargan shoved the scroll into Alaric's chest.
"Since Battalion 3 arrived first, you win the objective."
Hargan pointed to the massive central keep of the fortress.
"You are the Defenders. You hold the castle. The other three armies... they're coming to take it from you."
Alaric looked at the scroll, then at the massive walls of the keep, and finally back at the Duke, who was still watching him.
To defend meant to be trapped. But it also meant he held the high ground.
"Understood," Alaric said, his eyes darkening. "We'll hold it."
