A lot of people said that winning a fort was the hardest part of war. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t right either. Taking a fort was simple compared to what came after.

You had to round up every soldier, throw them in the dungeons carved beneath the stone, and make sure no Mage inside tried to turn clever. Every hall, cellar, and shadow had to be searched for survivors hiding with daggers or courage left in their teeth. It was the kind of work that never felt like victory. More like cleaning.

And Kai had done it all with barely a hundred men.

Even then, a few enemies had managed to slip into the forests, hoping to reach the next border forts to sound the alarm. Kai hadn’t wasted time chasing them. He’d sent a few riders for form’s sake and left it at that. Let them run. The other forts could know him and method, but it wouldn’t change anything. None of them had the strength to stand against him, and even if they tried, he could crush their wards himself, mana cost be damned.

For now, his focus was elsewhere.

Two tasks mattered more than anything: rebuilding the shattered gates, which had crumbled under the drones’ bombardment and Feroy’s flaming spear, and questioning Orlen.

Kai had a feeling the man knew more than he let on.

Prince Aldrin was no fool. Among all the royal brothers, he was the one who planned furthest ahead. And the ease of this victory—how little resistance he’d faced—only made Kai more certain of it.

Something was moving behind Aldrin’s silence. And Orlen, bound and silent in the dungeon below, was the key to uncovering what.

Kai had expected another battle the moment he stepped through the gates.

Caelond Kingdom was a magocracy—its power built on Mages, not armies. Every report said the same: their spellcasters were trained for war, their towers full of men and women who lived and breathed mana. Rumor even claimed that, beyond the publicly named Magus, there were others—hidden and far more dangerous.

He had thought Aldrin would call them in, especially after what had happened with Veridia. The prince wasn’t foolish; if he wanted Kai dead, that was how he’d do it—strike fast, with strong Mages instead of soldiers.

But no one came. No army. No spell. Only silence.

It bothered him more than he liked to admit.

Orlen had refused to speak. Even drained by the Syphon stones clasped around his wrists, the man’s jaw stayed set, his tone the same each time. He was here to defend the fort. He knew nothing else.

Kai didn’t believe a word of it.

It made him sure that Aldrin was preparing something, something larger than a single battle. But for now, there was no way to know what. Kai wasn’t one for cruel methods and it was sure that it would take time to break the fort captain either way. There would be other prisoners, other chances to uncover what the prince was weaving. The war had only just begun.

By evening, the fort was slowly getting into order. Scaffolding lined the inner walls, and workers were already reinforcing the broken gate with charred beams. The smell of burnt metal still lingered in the air.

Kai stood beside Feroy, watching the last of the soldiers drag their captives down to the lower levels.

“We’ve put the important ones in separate cells,” Feroy reported, rubbing at the dirt on his hands. “The rest are sharing. But there aren’t enough jails, so we’ve converted some of the storage halls into holding rooms.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Just make sure you seal off the windows. I’ll work on some detection wards before we move to Fort Eldovar.”

He gestured toward one of the drones hovering nearby, its surface glinting faintly in the dusk. “Send word of our victory to the others. Use the messenger drone.”

Feroy gave a curt nod and turned to shout for one of the handlers, his voice fading under the wind.

Kai looked around the fort, mind moving over how easily they had won the battle. Then his gaze drifted to the horizon, where the dying sun drew a thin line of gold over the distant forests. Beyond that, somewhere past the treeline, lay the Caelond Kingdom.

“Any word from the border?” he asked quietly.

Feroy exhaled, turning back to him. “We sent Watchers. They saw patrols—probably heard the screams and came to check. But they didn’t engage. It looked like a routine round. Nothing strange. I don’t think Caelond will attack now. If they do, it’ll be deep in the night, when we’re resting. They don’t know how easy it was for us to take the fort, but they’ll have some idea.”

Kai nodded slowly. He’d been thinking the same thing. “I’ll spend the night here. In case they decide to try. But I doubt they’ll make a move while I’m still around.” He turned to Feroy again. “Call up reinforcements from Veyrin. I want two hundred stationed here before the week’s done. I’ll take twenty-five with me to the next fort. It’s smaller, so it won’t need more than that.”

Feroy hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Do you think they’ll send their Magus?”

Kai’s gaze went back to the horizon, thinking about fighting another Magus. “Probably not,” he said after a pause. “Veridia was dangerous enough among the Fifth Circle Mages, and I defeated her. If Caelond sends someone, it’ll be quiet—an assassin, maybe. They’ll want to strike when I’m not looking.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “But if they come here… The Magus will be in for a surprise.”

Feroy gave a short laugh and nodded. “For sure, my lord.”

The next hour passed in the dim orange glow of lanterns as Kai and Feroy discussed everything that came after victory—the tedious but necessary parts no one sang about. They talked about ration supplies, inventory ledgers, and what could be sent to the frontlines where Killian and Duke Blackwood led the main charge.

“The storerooms here are full,” Feroy reported, flipping through a dirt-stained logbook. “If we move it fast enough, we can resupply the frontline troops before the next push. I’ll have carts ready by dawn.”

Kai nodded. “Do it. If Caelond decides to strike back, the first thing they’ll do is burn the stores. Let’s not make it easy for them.”

Burning rations was a classic tactic—every soldier knew it. Destroy the enemy’s food, and you starve them before the fight even begins. It was exactly what Kai would’ve done in their place.

Once they finished with the fort’s immediate needs—gates, walls, prisoners, and storage—the discussion shifted toward the frontlines. The real war.

According to reports, Duke Blackwood’s forces had already advanced into the southern region of the kingdom, alongside Killian. Together, they were pressing toward Solmere City, a key stronghold under one of Aldrin’s allied counts; Count Arvellen. Capturing it would cut off supply routes from the west and open the road straight to Fort Valemount where prince Aldrin currently stayed.

Kai didn’t need to ask how difficult that would be. Every Count’s household was centuries old like the Dukes, and those families had built their estates into fortresses—layered with wards and relics no ordinary siege could crack. Even a small city under their control was a mountain to climb.

He remembered Veyrin and the wards that were engraved on its walls. If not for Rubert, he would have been fighting for entry for a while. Solmere would be worse.

But if anyone could pull it off, it was Killian. The man had a talent for battle and an instinct for war that couldn’t be taught.

Kai leaned back against the parapet, staring into the night. The wind carried faint traces of smoke and salt from the edge. Somewhere far ahead, beyond the gates and the borders, Killian was probably already in the thick of battle.

***

Killian wished he was in a battle right now. Steel in hand, blood in his mouth, the rush of mana in his veins—that was where he belonged. Not here. Not in a tent thick with sweat and candle smoke, listening to nobles and Mages argue over and over again.

But war wasn’t only just a string of glorious fights. It was one long chain of meetings, reports, and waiting. Endless waiting. He understood that. It didn’t mean he liked it.

This was his third meeting of the day. The only reason he hadn’t walked out yet was because the long-awaited reply from Count Arvallen—the lord of Solmere City—had finally arrived.

Leopold, seated to his right, unfolded the letter and spoke in his usual dry tone. “It’s like we thought. He’s calling us traitors. Says we’ll be burned to the ground for the kingdom. And apparently, our Watchers ‘forged reports’ about the Alparcan knights and Mages inside his city.”

Killian let out a low breath through his nose. “So, the usual,” he muttered.

Across the table, Baron Casten Drel leaned back with a wry smile. “Count Arvellen’s always been intense in public showings. He would never willingly give up the city and betray Aldrin.”

Killian’s gaze swept the tent. A dozen men sat around the table, armored and stiff. Behind them stood Knights and guards. Other than the ones, a handful of Mages—their robes marked by the colors of their noble houses—sat on the council.

The Sorcerer’s Tower had sent a few of their own battle ready Mages with two of them leading: Klan and Jacks, who hadn’t stopped rubbing their fingers since they’d sat down. Both of them looked nervous. More from being among nobles than the upcoming battle, he guessed.

And then there was Ryn Vorr—their most powerful Mage. The only Third Circle Mage among them, loyal to Duke Blackwood’s command. He sat near the head of the table, opposite Killian, shoulders drawn tight as if he expected to be struck at any moment. His robes were spotless, but everything else about him gave off squeaky energy.

Killian didn’t trust him. Not because Ryn wasn’t powerful—he was—but because power meant nothing if the man wielding it froze when the sky lit up with spells.

Still, Ryn was the only one who could match the enemy’s Third Circle Mage when the fighting started. At least that’s what he was here for. And Killian would need him, whether he liked it or not. Though, he himself wanted a chance against the enemy Mage.

Duke Blackwood’s voice cut the murmur. “It doesn’t matter if he’s intense. Aldrin ordered him to hold. We break Solmere, we push deeper.” He looked at each man in the tent like weighing a scale. “That’s the point.”

“How?” Baron Hadrian Vellmore asked. His hand hovered over a map rolled on the table. “They have soldiers on the walls. Mages. A ward rings the city tight. We’d need a day of full effort to punch through—bombardment from every mana cannon and Mages flinging spells. And that assumes the enemy doesn’t snap back at us.”

“Not a day,” Killian said. “Hours.” The words landed like a thrown knife. Heads turned. “You forget, we have the siege breaker with us.”

Silence fell hard and few heads nodded. They had all seen and admired the giant golem they’d hauled across two marches. Of the three breakers they planned, one stood ready now. It could smash a gate in seconds that would take men hours to burn through.

Leopold folded his letter away slowly. “Even with the breaker,” he said, voice careful, “we’d need the Mages to form a shield ring. The golem would be bombarded by the enemy spells otherwise and won’t be able to do its job well. That puts our Mages in harm’s way. We can’t lose a breaker or half our Mage force this early. We don’t have any reinforcements coming anytime soon.”

Ryn Vorr shifted in his seat. “He’s right,” he said. “Mages have value when fought from distance. We fire from safety. We do not stand under walls to be smashed. We can shield, we can strike, but we keep distance. That’s the way Mages fight.”

Killian almost spoke up, almost tore into Ryn’s logic with the memory of Lord Arzan’s fighting style. Lord Arzan would never stay behind soldiers just firing from a distance, afraid of getting hurt. Knowing that, Klan and Jacks exchanged a look, probably thinking the same thing he was, but it wasn’t the time to start a disagreement with Ryn.

They needed a plan to get inside Solmere city and capture it.

That was exactly what they did. They spent the next hour chewing through strategies while Duke Blackwood took the lead. The duke spoke with the authority of someone who’d bled in half a dozen campaigns; his plans were solid, but slow. Most would need a week or more to put into motion. Killian felt that time as a weight. He couldn’t afford it.

He didn’t want Lord Arzan to come help because then the victory wouldn’t be his. After the duel in the capital, the power gap was obvious between the two of them. He felt happy he served under such a strong man, but felt like he was only a Knight in name since he wasn’t strong enough yet. Killian wanted to prove he could win on his own. Still, the sensible part of him kept warning: rush a war and you bury your men.

As the arguments rolled on, a shape of a plan began to warm in his head—one of those old lessons his father had drilled into him during evenings on the training field. He let the talk wash over him and worked the pieces quietly in his mind, timing and pieces slotting into place.

When Duke Blackwood and Ryn hit a sharp point of disagreement, Killian leaned forward and cut through the noise. The tent fell silent.

“I think I have a way,” he said, voice steady.

Eyes turned towards him. Duke Blackwood’s gaze pinned him. “What is it?”

Killian leaned over the map and tapped a line with his finger. “One of my father’s old battle tactics—always give the enemy a way out. If they can leave without dying, they won’t fight as hard.”

***

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