By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

No Glory Left

The field was still in the wake of the charge. Campfires crackled in tight rings, banners drooped without wind, and scouts moved like ghosts through the deepening dusk. Marshal Dareth had ordered the army to halt and camp on the plain, setting a tight perimeter and sending riders ahead to confirm what was already obvious.

He hadn't needed the scouts. Even before they returned, the truth was clear: the fortress Ronan had abandoned now flew Beastkin colors.

The command tent rose quickly, canvas snapping into place under the urgency of a dozen aides. Ronan and his surviving officers were escorted under heavy guard, but Dareth waved them all away. No need for an audience. The boy would answer to him first.

Only Ronan remained inside the tent. He stood stiffly near the center, eyes flicking toward the empty chairs, then to the flap as it closed behind the last soldier. Marshal Dareth lowered himself into a seat across from him, gauntleted hands folded atop the campaign table.

Ronan tried to look composed, but it was an effort. His shoulders were drawn tight, his back rigid. His clothes were mud-streaked, his boots half-unlaced. He looked, for the first time in weeks, exactly what he was—a boy dressed in command.

Dareth said nothing. He simply stared.

The silence stretched long enough to make Ronan shift his weight.

Then Dareth spoke, voice low and cold. "What did you think, boy?"

Ronan swallowed hard, but lifted his chin. "A messenger arrived. Said the Second Army was under attack. I… I gathered the men to help. That's all. We charged to support the king's army. I thought we were doing the right thing."

Still no response.

Ronan pressed on, trying to keep his tone steady. "We ran for thirty minutes. Saw smoke. Fires. Then we saw figures in black—civilian robes, I realize that now—but from a distance, they looked like enemy scouts or casters. And the wyvern…" His voice wavered. "When I saw it, I thought they'd loosed a Beast. I thought it was a trap."

Dareth didn't blink.

"I didn't mean to attack our own people," Ronan added quickly. "We only wanted to help. I—my men—they followed me because they believed we were saving the front."

Dareth leaned back slightly, the leather of his coat creaking. Still silent.

Ronan hesitated, then looked down. "I know what it looks like. But I swear on House Ashford's honor, I had no ill intent. I just… I thought…"

He trailed off. The words felt too small.

Across the table, Dareth's eyes gleamed like tempered steel.

"Did you know what you did?" the marshal said, voice low and cold. Not a shout. A whisper, fevered and sharp. "I bet you think we can clear this up as a misunderstanding. I bet you think the civilians your cavalry trampled are just collateral. That the wyvern your men nearly killed was just a misstep."

He leaned forward slightly, never breaking eye contact. The maps on the table crinkled under his gauntlets.

"I bet you thought your name would protect you. That the words House Ashford were some kind of shield. But let me make something clear to you, boy: when you carry that name into disgrace, you don't defend it—you stain it."

Ronan opened his mouth to speak, but Dareth didn't let him.

"Your intentions mean nothing," he hissed. "Your ignorance, even less. And since no one else seems willing to explain how things work in a war, let me do you the courtesy."

He stood.

The movement was sudden, and before Ronan could react, Dareth's armored hand came down like a hammer.

The slap cracked through the tent. Ronan's head snapped sideways, a spray of blood following as his nose broke clean. He dropped to one knee with a groan, one hand catching the edge of the table, the other clutching his face.

"Lesson one," Dareth said coldly, looming over him. "You may be the heir. But you're no duke. You're no king. And out here, I am the only law that matters. So don't think I can't touch you."

Ronan whimpered, breath coming in short bursts, blood dripping between his fingers.

Dareth didn't flinch. He spat on the ground beside the boy.

"Lesson two," he continued. "You don't deserve that title, but you're going to keep it. I'll make sure of it. Because the realm needs an Ashford heir. Even if that heir is a dumb little shit who nearly cost us more than he'll ever grasp."

He turned slightly toward the tent flap, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful.

"And as the lucky bastard you are… you get to watch lesson three."

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His voice sharpened. "Bring him in."

The flap opened. A pair of grim-faced guards pushed Steve of Redlane inside. His coat was still dusted with frost, his sword unbelted, expression confused as his eyes adjusted to the firelight.

He blinked, then frowned at the sight before him.

"Wait—what? Ronan? What happened? Did you not know he's the heir of Ashford and the—"

Dareth moved without a word. One smooth motion. No hesitation. He turned, reached for the blade on the campaign table, and drove it into Steve's throat.

The knife punched through skin and windpipe with a wet crunch. Steve staggered back, eyes wide, hands flying to the wound as blood sprayed across the tent wall. He gasped—tried to speak—but only a choked gurgle came.

He collapsed to his knees. Then to the floor. Twitching.

Ronan stared, stunned, breath frozen in his throat. It took a second before he truly understood what had happened. And when he did, something broke.

He scrambled to his feet with a cry, stumbling toward Steve, reaching for him like he could stop it. "Steve—!"

But Dareth's gauntlet met him halfway.

A brutal backhand cracked across Ronan's face, sending him sprawling to the floor once more. His jaw hit stone, teeth rattling.

"Lesson three," Dareth said coldly, standing over him, voice like gravel. "As high nobility, you never admit failure in front of others. And if you did make a mistake—you didn't."

Ronan whimpered, one hand trembling as he tried to sit up. His gaze flicked back to Steve's corpse, and fresh tears filled his eyes.

"You see your friend Steve here?" Dareth gestured to the body with the blade still dripping. "He was your second. That makes him responsible. He fed you false information. He proclaimed the Second Army was under attack. He failed to confirm the reports. That's the story. Do you understand?"

Ronan didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved in shallow gasps.

Dareth stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Ronan's collar, and hauled him just enough to force eye contact.

"Do you understand?" he growled.

Ronan nodded frantically, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Y-Yes… yes, I understand…"

"Good." Dareth shoved him back down. "Remember this. He's only lying on the ground because you were born lucky. Because your father had more power than his. That's all it takes to survive, boy. Blood and names."

Ronan crawled toward Steve, hands shaking, grief and guilt choking his throat. He didn't dare speak again.

Dareth looked down with open disgust. "You should all hang," he said. "You killed three hundred and twenty-four innocent people today. Civilians. Noncombatants. And fucking stabbed my wyvern."

He walked to the table and picked up a sealed letter. The wax bore the royal crest. Without ceremony, he tossed it at Ronan's feet.

"Lucky for you," he said, voice hollow, "you're a damn fortunate bastard. This arrived from Duchess Liliana, you will leave tomorrow the front."

The letter landed with a soft slap on the bloody floor beside Steve's outstretched hand.

Dareth turned toward the tent entrance. "Guards. Strip him of command. Get him cleaned up. I'll write the statement."

He paused at the flap, speaking without looking back.

"And if he opens his mouth to anyone but me for till he leaves… break his jaw."

Then he was gone and only Ronan remained.

On the cold ground, bloodied and broken, next to a friend who died for a mistake neither of them had been trained to survive.

The tent flaps whispered shut behind Dareth. Silence fell, thick and absolute.

Ronan didn't move. Couldn't. The blood on his lips had dried sticky, his head rang with the echo of steel and failure. His breath came in shallow, broken shudders. Beside him, Steve's body was cooling.

The letter lay between them.

For a long time, Ronan stared at the seal. The Ashford crest pressed into wax. The final mockery of what he still was.

His fingers trembled as he reached for it.

He broke the seal with numb hands and unfolded the parchment. The words were crisp, penned in his stepmother's hand—elegant, controlled, unmistakable.

To Lord Ronan of Ashford,

You are expected at the citadel without delay. The Duke of Velmire has requested the betrothal proceed immediately. I have agreed. The marriage shall take place within the month.

The guests are already on their way.

I trust you will make the proper preparations.

—Duchess Liliana of Ashford

Ronan read the lines twice. Three times. Then he let the letter fall from his fingers. It fluttered to the floor like something light, meaningless, landing in a splash of Steve's blood.

He knelt there in silence, beside a dead friend, a broken command, and a future he no longer wanted.

--::--

The fires in the fortress still smoked.

The stone walls, dark with old blood and firelight, rose like broken teeth against the sky. From their crown, the Ursin stood—silent, vast, unmoving. His white fur stirred in the cold wind, the golden armor across his chest catching the rays of the sun.

He looked down.

No bodies. No resistance. Just silence. A human stronghold, fully intact… and abandoned.

Behind him, the Bearkin warband waited. Dozens on the wall. Hundreds more down below. And thousands more stretched along the pass like a coiled mountain river—Wolfkin, Catkin, scaled kin, and dozens of banners lifted to the wind.

None of them made a sound.

The Ursin's eyes moved slowly across the empty fort.

Unburned. Unbroken. Left in a rush.

Strange.

Footsteps approached, sharp claws on stone. One of his scouts bowed low, a lean Lynxkin with blood still drying on his cloak.

"They ran," the scout said, voice tight with disbelief. "Not even a fight. The whole garrison left the walls behind and charged west. Toward the valley."

The Ursin didn't speak.

The scout hesitated, then added, "Our trackers say they met the human reinforcements. The great host from the lowlands. They didn't join them. They… attacked."

Another pause. "Their own kind."

The Ursin's gaze didn't shift.

A trick, then? A sacrifice?

He let the wind pass over him, crisp and sharp at this height. The scent of smoke and oil still clung to the courtyard below. The humans had fled in such haste that pots still boiled in the kitchens. Armor lay scattered. Maps pinned to walls.

It didn't feel like retreat. It felt like collapse.

He turned, slowly, letting his gaze sweep south, over the pass, over the valley beyond. No more stone gates. No more towers. Just road. Unbarricaded. Open.

A door. And no one guarding it.

He spoke quietly, voice deep as old earth. "So. They leave the gate wide."

Behind him, a younger Bearkin stepped forward, half a head shorter, though still massive by any other race's measure. His fur was gray-brown, his gauntlets engraved with tribal glyphs.

"It must be a trap," the younger said. "No army leaves a fortress untouched."

The Ursin said nothing. Just looking down on the fortress below him.

Then, at last, he spoke. "If it is a trap, it is a weak one. The kind built from panic, not planning."

He stepped down from the battlement. The stone groaned faintly under his weight.

"Gather the warbands," he ordered. "Tell the shaman-seers to ready the bloodflames. We march."

"But—"

The Ursin's gaze turned on him, quiet and final.

"We march."

A silence followed. Then the younger Bearkin bowed deeply.

"Yes, High Voice."

The Ursin's cloak swept behind him as he walked the length of the wall, watching the sun between the mountain teeth.

The humans had left the door open. Now they would learn what walked through.