CHAPTER 2
The Endless War of a Weak Nation
Era 1441, Highsun — Highcrest 5th, Suncrest
The heat had grown monstrous that year.
Highsun had always been a season of aching days and harsh light, but in Era 1441 it felt as if the sky itself had chosen Barivein as an enemy. The wind came dry and unkind, rolling over the plains and scraping the land raw. Fields bowed beneath the pressure of sun and time. Wheat stalks bent, begging for mercy. Rivers shrank into thin, muddy paths a child could cross without wetting his knees.
Yet despite the misery of the season, it wasn't the heat that people whispered about.
It was war.
Not a border skirmish fought for pride.
Not a noble dispute that lasted a week.
Not even a clash of kingdoms that ended when both sides had grown tired.
This was the slow, suffocating war of a weak nation struggling to breathe against a giant whose shadow smothered everything beneath it.
The weak nation was Barivein.
The giant was Loronoce, the Iron Empire.
And Highsun, a season already known for suffering, was about to gain a new name:
The Season of Blood.
Highcrest 6th — The Summons
Dust clung to the air like a second skin. The southern training grounds were packed with conscripts—hundreds of them—swinging dull blades at straw dummies that leaked hay with every strike. Armor clattered, rusted and patched with leather. Helmets sat crooked over sweaty brows. The scent of exhaustion clung to the soldiers like smoke.
Arlen Vaelor stood among them, sharpening his breath as much as his focus.
At fifteen, he had already lived enough hardship to age a man twice his years. He was lean—built from hunger, discipline, and anger—and the faint scars across his forearms told stories he rarely spoke aloud. The sun glared harshly against his face, but he didn't flinch. The heat was nothing compared to the memories he carried.
Beside him, Cerian tightened his grip around his spear until his knuckles whitened. Fironie, standing on Arlen's other side, mumbled a string of complaints about training in the hottest hour of the hottest month of the hottest year Barivein had known.
Arlen let him ramble. He was used to it.
Then, without warning, a horn blared across the grounds. The sound cut through conversation, slicing the heat-heavy air clean in half.
"All units, stand for royal decree!"
Every soldier in the yard snapped to attention.
Commander Verin rode forward on his dark mare, armor glinting beneath the sun, a scroll in his hand sealed with the crest of Barivein. He unrolled it slowly, letting the silence stretch.
His voice came steady but carried the strain of urgency.
"By command of the Crown, all able men of fifteen and above are hereby summoned to defend Barivein.
The Empire of Loronoce advances on our southern border.
Stand. Fight. Protect your homeland."
A murmur rippled across the yard—fear, steel, resignation.
Cerian swallowed hard. "This is it, isn't it?"
Arlen nodded. "It begins."
Fironie smirked despite the tension. "About time we did something."
None of them slept that night.
Highcrest 7th — March to Lioness Ridge
The conscript army marched before sunrise, forming a long, ragged line across the eastern road. Families gathered at the edges of their villages to watch them pass—mothers with trembling hands, fathers with hollow eyes, children who did not yet understand why the air felt so heavy.
Barivein's soldiers wore armor that had seen too many repairs and too few victories. Shields rattled loosely. Spears bent under their own weight.
In contrast, the tales of Loronoce described armor polished to mirror brightness and soldiers who marched as if each step had been carved by an artisan.
Arlen walked near the front with Cerian and Fironie, sweat already breaking across their brows as the sun climbed.
Commander Verin rode along the moving column, barking orders:
"March steady! We reach Lioness Ridge before dusk!"
That cursed ridge had been Barivein's bleeding border for generations. The soil there was stained deeper than any map could show.
Arlen lifted his gaze to the horizon. Dust clouds rose in the distance.
The empire waited.
Highcrest 8th — The First Clash
Dawn broke in a smear of red as the army approached the ridge.
Loronoce's forces were already there.
They stood in rows of perfect formation—shields gleaming, armor straight as drawn lines, banners snapping in the wind like wings of a predator.
Barivein's soldiers felt like brittle sticks beside them.
Verin raised his spear.
"SHIELD WALL!"
Loronoce answered with a horn so deep it vibrated through bone.
The first clash did not arrive—it crashed.
Shields cracked like thunder.
Spears split.
Men screamed, fell, drowned beneath armored boots.
Arlen fought in the thick of it, blocking a blow before driving his sword into the gap of an enemy's armor. His arms shook, but he did not retreat. Cerian remained glued to Arlen's right side, fierce and steady. Fironie moved with swift calculation—awkward, but smart, landing strikes where they mattered most.
After an hour, the front line buckled.
Then it broke.
Men scattered, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades.
Arlen saw the center collapsing in real time—one more push and the empire would carve through them like rotten wood.
He grabbed a fallen banner pole and slammed it into the ground.
"WITH ME! HOLD THE LINE!"
Seventy men—shaken, bleeding, terrified—stumbled toward his voice.
They formed around him.
The empire slammed into them like a wave of iron.
Arlen didn't yield an inch. His blade carved arcs of survival. Cerian fought with the precision of a man protecting his own heartbeat. Fironie shouted instructions, turning chaos into order.
And something impossible happened.
The imperial advance slowed.
Staggered.
Stopped.
Just long enough for Barivein's second army to crest the ridge.
Verin stared in disbelief at the sight of a fifteen-year-old boy anchoring a collapsing front with nothing but a broken banner pole and stubbornness.
Highcrest 9th–15th — Seven Days of Hell
War stretched into a week.
A week of nights lit by fire, and mornings that tasted of ash.
A week where the air smelled of blood and sorrow.
A week where sleep was something men remembered, not experienced.
The empire attacked relentlessly—morning, evening, deep into night. Barivein pushed back with the desperation of a nation fighting off its own extinction.
Men slept with weapons in hand.
Wounds festered.
Food dwindled.
Water became a treasure greater than gold.
Arlen grew sharper each day—quicker, stronger, more dangerous. His movements became instinct. His anger became focus.
Rumors spread through the army:
Sword Demon.
War Pup.
The Deathless Boy.
Arlen ignored the names.
He fought for something far older and more painful than glory.
On the seventh night, tension filled the command tent.
"We hold the ridge until they suffocate," Verin insisted. "It's all we can do."
"No," Arlen said. "We strike their supply lines."
The room fell silent.
Verin narrowed his eyes. "You would abandon the ridge?"
"Just fifty men," Arlen said. "Me among them. Cut their supply, and the empire starves."
Fironie rubbed his forehead. "It's stupid. It's reckless. It's also brilliant."
Cerian grinned. "We've survived insanity before."
Verin exhaled slowly, then nodded.
"Take fifty. Destroy their supply. And come back alive."
Highcrest 16th — The Night Strike
The moon hung thin and sharp, a sliver of silver above the imperial camp.
Arlen led his fifty through the forest shadows—silent as wind, disciplined as wolves. They slipped between tents, ducked behind barrels, and moved beneath wagons toward the supply heart.
Cerian took a guard down without a sound.
Fironie pointed to crates soaked in oil.
Arlen lifted a torch.
Flames licked upward, slow at first, then hungry.
In moments, fire raced across wagons and tents.
Imperial soldiers shouted, scrambling for water that did not exist.
Arlen's men melted into the trees, leaving chaos behind.
Fifteen imperial guards followed.
None returned.
Highcrest 17th — Dawn of Victory
The next dawn rose beneath a sky blackened with smoke.
Barivein watched in disbelief as Loronoce's first army retreated—starving, disoriented, unprepared without supply.
Barivein had won.
Not through strength, but through refusal—through a boy who dared to strike an empire's spine in the dead of night.
Highcrest 20th — Promotion
Commander Verin called Arlen forward.
"You held a line that should have shattered. You led fifty into the empire's camp and returned with nearly all. You saved Barivein."
He set a hand on Arlen's shoulder.
"For this… I name you Captain of Barivein."
The camp erupted in cheers.
Cerian nearly crushed him in a hug.
Fironie nodded with rare respect.
Veterans bowed their heads.
Arlen did not smile.
He felt the weight settle—heavy, cold, real.
Becoming a king never starts with a crown.
It starts with surviving long enough to earn one.
Highcrest 21st — Nightfall After Victory
The cheers of victory drifted across Lioness Ridge long into the night. Fires glowed in broken circles, warming hands and boiling thin soup scraped from the last of their supplies.
Arlen sat apart from the celebration, letting the wind cool the sweat on his skin. Stars glittered overhead like fractured shards of glass strewn across a black sea.
Cerian approached and sat beside him, armor dented, knuckle torn.
"You led them," he said softly. "Truly led them."
Arlen rested his elbows on his knees. "I didn't do it alone. If we had hesitated even once…"
"That's what leadership is," Cerian replied. "You made them believe they could hold. They believed you."
Fironie stumbled over, dropping onto a log with dramatic exhaustion.
"Just so we're clear," he said, "you're both insane. No sane people attack an empire's supply camp with fifty half-starved soldiers."
Arlen allowed himself a faint smile. "It worked."
"And that's the problem," Fironie muttered.
Cerian laughed quietly.
Arlen's smile faded, replaced by the familiar weight on his shoulders.
Highcrest 22nd — The Quiet Burden
Morning brought silence—not peace, but aftermath.
Bodies were wrapped in cloth and buried on the hill where the wind blew strongest. Horses limped. The smell of burnt wood lingered.
Arlen walked through the camp with a small notebook, writing the names of the fallen.
Tharon, age 27.
Belkin, age 39.
Damus, age 16.
Sixteen.
Barely older than Arlen himself.
He closed the notebook.
Cerian placed a hand on his shoulder. "We carry them. All of them."
Arlen nodded, though the heaviness pressed deep.
Highcrest 23rd — New Orders
By midday, the commanders gathered around a long wooden table.
"The empire has retreated," Verin said, "but they're not finished. Scouts report reinforcements at Redstone Ravine."
He raised a sealed scroll.
"The Crown orders immediate reorganization. Prepare defenses along the southern line. Barivein depends on our readiness."
Then he faced Arlen.
"Captain Vaelor."
Arlen straightened. "Commander."
"You will lead the central defense squad. Fifteen men. Train them. Strengthen them. The next attack may fall directly upon your line."
Arlen bowed his head. "Understood."
Verin's voice softened. "Remember—war does not end with one victory. It ends when a kingdom no longer breathes."
Arlen met his gaze.
"Then we make sure it keeps breathing."
Highcrest 24th — Forging a Squad
Training began at dawn.
Arlen gathered fifteen soldiers—some scarred veterans, others boys fresh from their first taste of battle. All looked to him with expectation.
Cerian led drills with ferocity.
Fironie sketched formations in the dirt with teacher-like impatience.
Arlen moved among them.
"Your shield is your second heart," he said. "Guard it like one."
"Strike with purpose. Not with rage. Rage kills judgment."
Sweat. Dirt. Bruises.
But also discipline.
And trust.
Unity bloomed—fragile, but real.
Highcrest 25th — Reflection
That night, Arlen walked away from camp, seeking quiet.
Fireflies drifted above tall grass. The wind carried pine-scented air. He stared at the distant stars, letting the world still around him.
Captain.
The word echoed inside him.
Memories rose:
His village burning.
Chains cutting skin.
Cold stone floors.
Endless drills.
The moment he tasted freedom.
Each pain had led him here.
Cerian eventually found him.
"You think too much," he said, sitting beside him.
"Someone has to."
"No," Cerian replied softly. "Someone has to lead. And that someone is you."
Arlen said nothing.
He simply looked at the stars—silent witnesses to a life too stubborn to break.
Highcrest 26th — A Captain's Promise
Dawn spread orange across the horizon as soldiers rose.
Arlen stood before his squad—fifteen determined faces, fifteen sets of scarred hands.
"You are Barivein's shield," he said. "Our kingdom is weak. Our armor thin. Our numbers few. But weakness does not decide defeat—will does."
He looked at each of them.
"When Loronoce returns, we will be the first they face. And we will not break. Not here. Not ever."
Cerian grinned.
Fironie nodded.
The rest straightened with steady resolve.
Arlen placed a hand on his sword.
"By my blade, I swear I will not fall while Barivein stands."
"And neither will we," Cerian said.
"Neither will we," the others echoed.
A shift stirred inside Arlen—heavy, but no longer crushing.
Responsibility.
Acceptance.
Strength.
He was no longer a foot soldier.
He was a captain.
And this was only the beginning of a rise that would one day shake the entire continent of Camberien.