Down South At the Outskirts of Fereya
General Joash Marcus signaled a halt, raising his hand.
Beneath the ridge, nestled between a river and the plains of Centuria, lay the bustling town of Fereya. Its people had long been used to the increased number of soldiers, and so they continued with their daily lives. Farmers still tending fields and preparing for market, and metalsmiths forging tools and weapons.
General Malik had spread news that there were movements from the Estalis Army but they had assured the townsfolk that the war would be swift. They should still be ready to evacuate if needed.
Perhaps it was the general’s assurance that made most people complacent. But there were also those who were cautious and had prepared in case of an evacuation.
But eastward, beyond the tree line, a darker truth unfurled: pale tents like teeth, rows of them, their spines straight under the weight of Estalis banners snapping in the wind.
"They made it before us," Joshua muttered.
His father, Joash narrowed his eyes. "But they haven’t taken the town. Not yet."
"Maybe they’re waiting for orders."
"Maybe, not." Joash mutterd silently.
That same afternoon, a caravan of fifty merchants rolled into Fereya, their carriages creaking under bolts of cloth and crates of herbs. They took rooms at Bernard’s inn, their presence blending seamlessly into the bustle.
"Brother," Aramis said, handing his horse to a stable boy, "why does it feel as if no one here understands a war is at their doorstep? Shouldn’t they be running?"
Angus, his voice calm but edged with purpose, replied, "Take another soldier. Find out why."
The Phoenix Legion had been clever in their approach. Leaving Carles, they splintered into four separate paths—two groups disguised as merchants, another threading through the Alta-Sierra passes, and the last floating down the Centuria River under the guise of humble laborers. All would converge on Fereya by the fourth day.
Night fell hard over the eastern plain, and with it, came the sound of steel.
Joash rode beneath a white banner into the no-man’s-land between the Estalis and Phoenix camps. He came without an army—only his son, two unarmed scouts, and the ghost of an old friendship. He had sent word to Abner Gabor, once a comrade, and prayed the man would answer.
The general did come, but Abner Gabor did not come unguarded.
The Estalis general stood at the edge of the campfires, surrounded by mailed soldiers. His armor was burnished and ceremonial, his eyes sharp beneath an orange sun-crested helm. The two men locked eyes, and for a moment, the world felt still.
"You’re supposed to be dead," Abner said flatly.
"But I am alive and kicking," Joash replied. "We need to talk."
"I see no friends here."
"I see no enemies yet," Joash returned.
Abner gestured to a tent nearby. "Then speak. Before I decide."
Inside, tension burned hotter than the brazier between them.
"You raised your blade against Estalis," Abner said, voice low. "You walked away from command. Now you ride with a banished prince."
"I ride to stop a tyrant."
"You call the crown prince that? Don’t you know you can be charged with rebellion?"
"I am not talking about him. He is just a puppet. I am talking about Turik and the princess consort from Zura.."
Abner leaned forward. "You swore an oath to defend the kingdom."
"And I kept it—until the crown prince forgot that it was worth defending."
A beat passed. Neither blinked.
"I didn’t come to fight you, Abner," Joash said. "But I will. If you march on Fereya."
"Then you’ll be remembered as the man who saw truth and turned back before it was too late."
Abner’s silence stretched. Memories of a war two years past flickered in his mind—arriving too late to fight, losing a war without raising his shield and sword. Would history repeat itself and brand him a coward?
Will he go down in history as a general who did not fight in a war?
At last he rose. "My allegiance is to Estalis and the crown. You have until tomorrow. Change your mind, and stand with your brothers—not your enemies."
Joash rose as well. "Fereya isn’t a fortress. It’s farmers and children. Remember that when you look at your battle maps."
Joash and his company left the tent.
But peace never comes easily in the shadow of war.
As Joash, Joshua, and the two scouts rode back toward their camp, the forest exploded with sound.
A hidden Estalis ambush, launched without Abner’s order by a young captain seeking to prove loyalty to Zura. Arrows hissed from the dark. A spear clipped Joshua’s shoulder, throwing him from his horse. The two Calman scouts fell instantly.
"Cover fire!" Joash shouted, dismounting and dragging his son behind a tree.
Phoenix Legion’s archers fired back from the ridge, their shots clean, disciplined, methodical. The skirmish was brief—but bloody. Flames from a tipped oil flask lit part of the lower wood alight, throwing orange against the trees. Fortunately, it rained earlier that day, the leaves were soaked in water, and the flame was extinguished before it can spread.
Within moments, Estalis horns blew for retreat.
Joash stumbled to his feet, blood on his sleeve, and fury in his chest.
"That wasn’t Abner," he said through clenched teeth. "That wasn’t a sanctioned attack."
Joshua groaned, clutching his shoulder. "Then he’s lost control."
Joash looked east, to the Estalis camp where confusion now rippled like heat through their ranks.
Or worse—Abner had sanctioned it but pretended otherwise.
He stared into the star-lit dark.
"I need to speak with Commander Angus"
By the next morning, Angus and his main force had reached the edge of the southeastern hills. His officers gathered around a map tent—General Joash and his son who stood with hands still bloodied from tending the wounded.
"What happened?" Angus asked without preamble.
"There was a skirmish. Not under Abner’s command—or so he claims. Someone within his ranks launched an unsanctioned ambush."
Joshua growled. "Cowards playing both sides. Zura’s hand is already in their camp."
"Though Abner said no, I know he is gentleman enough to honor our agreement of no attack," Joash said, "but he’s surrounded by younger officers who serve more ambition than honor."
"He’ll be pushed to strike soon," Aramis added. "Before he loses face."
Angus nodded slowly. "Then we strike first."
Joash looked surprised. "You mean to attack?"
"No." Angus reached for a razor, shearing away his beard and mustache in slow, deliberate strokes. From his backpack, he drew a robe and slipped it over his fatigues.
His eyes were steady. "It’s time they meet their true prince."