The horns of war did not sound.
That was the first sign that something was wrong.
Men stood in formation along the Ghalmarch-Mysandor border with raised shields and banners flowing proudly in the coastal wind. The north was notorious for its vicious cast, and the Ghalmarchians were experiencing it first handedly.
They wore green cloth over their steel armor. Helmets covered their faces so no fear would be found.
Across, maybe a couple thousand feet, the army of Mysandor stood. Known for their unwillingness to retreat, and battlehardened soldiers—the gripping northerners of the homeland continent of Aleusimai.
One soldier stood in the middle of his battalion in Ghalmarch's army, hands shaking and awaiting his doom. There was only one thing he could pray for.
The commander rode his steed at the front, raising a spear—readying both him, and his frontal assault for the battle.
The soldier watched—every move and every word with each passing second. He may never get to see his family again. The beautiful land of Ghalmarch, and its capital—Lakonia. The image of his wife in bed with his newborn, his teenage son practicing with a sword to become a soldier like him… he had to come to terms with these thoughts, for there may not be another chance.
It all changed with a simple order. A horn bellowed—deeper than the advance command.
"Ninelight Duel!" the commander shouted, raising a fist in pride.
His prayer had been heard.
At the second, thousands of soldiers drove their spears hilt into the ground in a unified thump. A tradition across empires and kingdoms in Aleusimai. Loud grunts and shouts filled the air.
The soldier turned—his spear still hitting the ground like a beat—before he saw it. A woman. But not just any woman.
The chosen one of the Goddess Serathiel—the Summoner and crowned princess of Ghalmarch, Ghalstoria.
She rode a horse painted white with silver armor, the same as herself. Her dark brown hair was complimented by smashing green eyes. A determined look consumed her face as she rode forward. The army split at her sight, leaving a clear path to the front.
The commander bowed instantly, which she waved off.
In the distance, the Mysandorians followed suit, and inching toward Ghalstoria, was the Summoner of Mysandor. He rode a dark steed, and wore a cloak that masked his identity cleanly. The two summoners grew ever closer, while the armies remained stagnant—for it was tradition, and all empires had agreed to follow it.
Ghalstoria slowed to a halt, hand on the hilt of her sword as the other summoner stood still.
"My greetings," she started, her voice proud with the might of Ghalmarch. "Xel of Mysandor. Champion and Summoner of Asypholaun."
The man did not answer immediately. His hands rose to his hood, before he finally showed face. There, a teenage boy, likely nineteen years of age, sat in quiet confidence. Black hair topped his head, and striking silver eyes tore into the soul of Ghalstoria. An inviting smile crossed his lips in a challenge.
"A pleasure, my lady." he said in a deeper tone. "It is an honor to see you again."
Ghalstoria didn't budge. "I wish I could say the same," she started. "However, I never have been able to tell between your trickery, and honesty."
The smile on his lips stayed. Soldiers on both sides watched in eagerness—for a battle of the divines' chosen was of the biggest importance in Aleusimai.
"You'd expect any different?" he responded, pulling a large scythe from thin air. Its razor edges gleamed in the sun's glow. He didn't move, but the battlefield had shifted.
Ghalstoria now wore a smile of her own. "I guess not."
She pulled her sword from its sheathe, and gave it a warming swing. The wind shot in that direction in staggering force, causing soldiers in formation to stumble.
"Now," she continued, "I'm afraid we've got matters to attend to. For we wouldn't want to disappoint our armies, now would we, my dear Xel?"
He gave a knowing nod, before dismounting his horse with a backflip. The horse bolted forward following his departure directly beside Ghalstoria, who stood on the ground as well. Xel's horse disappeared into sparkles—like it never even existed.
"I'm afraid," Xel began, holding his scythe out to his right side, "that Mysandor isn't willing to be put under new rule. And it's my job to ensure your power-hungry empire gets a taste of our hospitality."
Ghalstoria smirked. "So be it."
They lunged at one another, and in a fury of sparks, the soldier in the battalion gazed upon a tale he may soon tell his wife and newborn son.