a field stretched wide an open, a muted expanse of churned earth and trampled grass that bore the scars of many a journey: dark and uneven from countless hooves, and relentless rain that had drenched it during the night. deep grooves carved by wagon wheeled criss—crossed the terrain, filled with murky water which reflected the steel—grey sky above.

here and there, clumps cling stubbornly to life, their dark blades slick and bent beneath the heavy wight of the morning dampness. the rain had softened the land, and where the grass had been stripped away, the soil was a mixture of mud and stone, stick and treacherous underfoot.

the morning was silent, broken only by the groan of leather, the whine of metal, and the distant flapping of banners in the wind. sir aldrich stood at the edge of the battlefield, the cold metal of his helmet resting under his arm, as he stared into the mist—draped plains where death would soon claim its prize. the ground under his boots clung to him stubbornly.

in the pale light of dawn, the two armies took shape like shadows against the horizon. house rathmor's banners of gold and crimson snapped in the breeze, their lion crest boldly flying in the wind. across the field, the dark banners of house ashvale loomed like storm clouds, their black stallion rearing against the deep crimson colour the made up their fabric.

the space between them was a quiet void, one soon to be filled with blood and the clash of steel.

aldrich adjusted the leather straps of his pauldrons, his fingers trembling slightly as he cinched them tight. his armour was old, but well—kept, its once—brilliant shine dulled by years of wear and wars. dents and scratches bore witness to battles fought and survived, though not without a cost. his left knee ached, from that of an ashvale spear from a skirmish two summers past. he clenched his jaw and straightened his posture, forcing the pain from his mind.

the men of rathmoor prepared around him, silently. pages moved swiftly between the lines, handing out freshly whetted blades, and checking armour. horses snorted and stamped their hooves, their riders softly whispering under their breaths to their mounts. some knights stood quietly, others knelt with their heads bowed, lips parting in prayer. aldrich, however, stood where he remained, his eyes scanning the horizon. he had long since stopped praying before battle. the gods, he had come to believe, rarely listened.

his thoughts were not free of doubt. he thought of his wife, elys, and her widened smile he saw the previous morning. he thought of his daughter, and how pure her laughter sounded, it ringing like bells, as pictures came to mind of her chasing butterflies in a meadow. would he see them again? or would his name be spoken in solemn tones beside a burning fire, as a memory burned into the hearts of those left behind.

❝ ser aldrich, ❞ a voice jolted his thoughts.

he turned to see therran, a younger man who squired for him over the seasons, now turned knight, stood a few paces away from him. the boy — no, the man, aldrich corrected himself — looked every bit the part of a knight in his freshly polished armour, though his hands seemed to betray him. they gripped the hilt of his sword too tightly, his knuckles pale against the steel and his hair was damp with sweat.

❝ are you ready, therran? ❞ aldrich asked.

therran hesitated, then nodded. ❝ yes, ser, i am, ❞

aldrich studied him for a brief moment, noting a slight flicker of fear in his blue eyes. he placed a hand on his shoulder, firmly gripping it. ❝ fear is... natural, ❞ he said, ❝ but do not let it rule you. remember our time in training. watch your shield and your footing, and stay close to me, ❞

❝ i will, ser, ❞ therran nodded again, his jaw tightening as he ground his teeth together.

the sound of a horn shattered the short conversation, long and low, carrying over the plains. knights of rathmor shuffled, forming into ranks: archers to the front, their bows wielded in arm: the cavalry behind them, atop their horses with their swords in hand: a platoon of knights on foot, an array of weapons in their grasp. chainmail rattled at they moved, and boots clicked with each step.

aldrich donned his helmet, straddling his saddle, and drawing his sword from its sheath. the blade was well—balanced, an extension of his arm, and as familiar as an on old friend.

a second horn blared, sharper than the last, and more urgent, signalling the advance. aldrich dug the balls of his feet into his horses side, edging the mare onwards toward the front of the formation, his shield bearing the golden lion propped high.

the rathmor line began its slow march ahead, and the mist slowly parted before them, revealing the darker shapes of the ashvale army waiting in silence. their armour glinted like blackened silver, and their spears and weapons stood tall like a forest of death.

aldrich's heart thundered, each beat bouncing off of his ribcage like a beating war—drum. the gap between the two narrowed with each step, and the pace of each being quickened. soon, there would be no silence, just chaos.

aldrich took a shallow breath, steadying himself. ❝ for rathmor! ❞ he shouted.

❝ for rathmor! ❞ echoed those behind him, their voices rising like thunder.

the charge began. the ground shook beneath them, the air filled with the growls and roaring of men and the pounding of hooves. aldrich gripped his sword tightly, twisting his grip to get a better feel for his blade, his eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. there was no room for fear.

the war had begun.