Return of the General's Daughter

At dawn, the training ground of the palace quaked beneath the thunder of boots and hooves. Northem's banners—black trimmed with gold, emblazoned with the golden eagle wreathed in fire—snapped in the sharp morning wind.

At the heart of the tumult stood the Phoenix Legion. They rose like living flames against the pale sky, heralding the tide of soldiers flooding in from every district. The air was thick and raw with the mingled scents of sweat, oiled steel, and the acrid smoke of forges that had roared through the night without rest.

Prince Alaric strode among them, his presence enough to steady trembling hands and stiffen weary spines. Behind him walked Aragon and Vaskar—no longer the shadows of guards, but princes revealed, their bearing commanding respect even from those who doubted them. Yet the gazes that followed them were not all reverent; suspicion simmered in the eyes of certain officers, their whispers coiling like smoke.

General Odin, tall and broad as a fortress gate, approached with his two sons flanking him. His voice was gravel and iron. "The Phoenix Legion and the Northem soldiers stand ready, Your Highness. Ten thousand men await only your word. But know this—half the council whispers that you are putting Northem into grave danger."

Alaric met the general's gaze without flinching. "Let them whisper. I do not need their words. I need their steel."

At that, Vaskar's laughter rolled low, sharp with irony. Aragon, however, remained silent, his jaw set, his every step heavy with the burden of eyes measuring him, weighing his worth. The road to Estalis lay before him, but he knew the greater battle would be here—in the hearts of men who doubted his blood, his name, his claim. Only blood and fire would silence them.

High on the ramparts, Lara leaned against the parapet, her dark hair tugged by the morning wind. She looked down upon the swelling tide of Northem's might, her lips curving into a knowing smile as she focused on the two men she knew very well, Angus and Aramis."They march for Estalis," she whispered, "but their true battle lies not in the fields. It lies in the heart of Estalis soldiers who would meet them somewhere in the Alta-Sierra rang; in trust, or in betrayal."

At the edge of the courtyard, Shaya stood with Lazira, Aryana, Marjan, and Veronica. Their soldiers' uniforms were crisp and severe, cutting sharp silhouettes against the pale glow of dawn. To the untrained eye, they were just soldiers among thousands, yet to those who knew them, their presence carried the weight of quiet defiance.

They watched as Northem's army gathered like a stormfront—rows upon rows of men falling into perfect rank, armor flashing as if to blind the sun itself. Tension hung thick in the air, alive and biting, as though lightning trembled just above the fortress walls.

"If you change your mind, you can still back out," Lazira whispered to Aryana.

"Huh! Why should I? " Aryana smirked. "I have been dreaming of this all my life."

"How about you, Shaya? You seemed reluctant. Your gaze seemed glued to the direction of the infirmary." Lazira asked, a knowing smile on her face.

Shaya blushed and stepped away from Lazira.

The horns of Northem blared, long and mournful, calling the men to order. From every street leading into the fortress, more soldiers poured in, swelling the force until the courtyards overflowed. Armor clattered. Horses reared. Drums began to beat.

War was no longer a distant plan whispered in the Hall of the Council. It was here.

The palace gates groaned as they opened, ancient iron hinges shrieking like tortured beasts. Beyond lay the road to Alta-Sierra—a ribbon of stone vanishing into the mist, framed by jagged peaks and the wild expanse of the frontier.

The Phoenix Legion moved first, their scarlet cloaks billowing like living fire, banners raised high. Behind them, the army of Northem poured out in a river of steel and discipline. Ten thousand boots struck the earth in unison, each step shaking dust from the walls of the fortress as if the land itself trembled before them. The horns cried again, mournful and defiant, answered by the relentless thunder of drums.

From the ramparts, citizens had gathered—men, women, and children leaning over the stone battlements to watch the tide of warriors flow out of their city. Some wept openly, clutching loved ones' names to their lips like prayers. Others raised fists, voices raw with cries of glory and vengeance. Petals of crimson flowers were cast down from above, raining upon the soldiers like a storm of blood and blessing.

Prince Alaric rode at the head of the vanguard, his armor gleaming, the phoenix sigil burning across his breastplate. He did not look back; his gaze was fixed upon the horizon where Estalis awaited. At his side rode Aragon and Vaskar, their presence an unspoken declaration: Northem marched not only under one prince, but three.

General Odin rode behind them, flanked by his sons, his voice booming commands that rolled down the line. "Hold the pace! Shields high, eyes sharp! You march not for conquest, but for home!" His words surged through the ranks, binding soldier to soldier with invisible chains of resolve.

Among the armored river moved Shaya, Lazira, Aryana, Marjan, and Veronica. Their uniforms, crisp and unyielding, masked them well in the tide of men, yet their steps were lighter, charged with a purpose that burned brighter than fear.

Shaya's hand brushed the satchel of herbs and bandages at her hip, her heartbeat drumming to the same rhythm as the war drums. She had never marched to battle before, but already the air was alive with the scent of destiny. She was nervous but Lara rode beside them as Kane Mendel.

For Aragon and Vaskar, the road stretched wide before them, yet the world felt narrowed to a single point: Estalis. The land of their enemy. The land of their blood. Their inheritance.

Clouds rolled overhead, heavy and bruised, threatening storm. The sun broke through in fleeting shards, igniting flashes of gold on helms and spearpoints until the army looked like a river of fire snaking its way through the valley.

Alaric raised his hand, and the horns blared a third time. The legion answered with a roar that shattered the dawn—ten thousand voices raised as one, a cry that promised vengeance, honor, and fire.

War no longer waited at their doorstep.

Now, they carried it with them, step by step, toward Estalis.