The Immortal General

The air on the northeastern frontier was thin and sharp, tasting of pine and cold stone. A week after the tense audience in Sylabell, Arlan and his strike team arrived at their destination: Bastion Cael Jena. The fortress was a grim testament to the brutal war of attrition it had endured.

Its stone walls were blackened and deeply scarred from siege weaponry, with hastily made repairs visible along the battlements. The green and silver banners of the Northern Houses hung torn and faded, snapping defiantly in the harsh wind. Within the walls, Silvan soldiers moved with the weary efficiency of men who had forgotten what it felt like to rest, their elegant armor dented and stained.

Frej's eyes scanned the rugged peaks that loomed over the fortress. "The position is a nightmare," she muttered, her voice tight with disapproval. "The enemy can use the high ground to screen their movements. We're practically blind to anything beyond a thousand meters, and they can launch attacks from above with impunity."

Savage grunted, his gaze fixed on a squad of worn-down soldiers sharpening their chipped blades on a whetstone. "They know how to fight, but their blades are dull from it," he observed. "A strong wall is useless if the soldiers behind it are starving and their weapons won't hold an edge."

They were escorted through the courtyard to the central keep. The commander of the fortress, General Voron, met them in the war room. He was a tall, powerfully built elf, his face a roadmap of old scars, and his practical steel armor bore the dents of a hundred battles. His eyes held the deep weariness of a man fighting a losing war through sheer force of will.

He gave Arlan a long, skeptical look. "Grand Marshal Reeve," Voron began, his voice a low rumble that bypassed all pleasantries. "The Queen sends us a boy-general from Midland. I hope your reputation is worth more than the supplies she has failed to send us."

"My reputation is earned, General, not given," Arlan replied calmly. "And supplies are already on their way, from my own coin, not the Queen's."

Voron's eyebrow raised a fraction. He gestured to a large map spread across a stone table. "A noble gesture. Let's hope they arrive in time." He leaned over the map, his expression grim. "You want to know what you're facing? I started this campaign with twenty thousand of the North's finest soldiers. As of this morning, I command fifteen thousand. We lost an entire regiment two weeks ago when Ghor-Thak ambushed them with overwhelming force. The orcs are strong, fanatical, and they do not tire."

As the General spoke, Arlan quietly issued a command in his mind. 'Sophia, confirm his numbers. Full composition breakdown of his remaining forces.'

The ethereal voice of his Regalia answered instantly, feeding a stream of flawless data into his consciousness.

'The General is correct, my liege. His losses are accurate. The current force composition is as follows:'

3,000 Elven Heavy Infantry (2nd-tier white-core)

4,000 Elven Rangers (2nd-tier red-core)

3,000 Elven Spearmen (2nd-tier red-core)

1,500 Elven Light Cavalry (3rd-tier red-core)

3,500 Elven Conscripts (1st-tier white-core)

'Analysis: His defensive strategy, focusing on the veteran Heavy Infantry and Spearmen to shield the conscripts, has been remarkably effective. Statistically, this fortress should have fallen weeks ago. The man is a master of defensive warfare.'

Armed with this knowledge, Arlan looked at Voron with newfound respect. "Losing five thousand men is a heavy blow, General. Especially when you have so many first-tier conscripts to protect. Your Heavy Infantry and Spearmen must be exhausted from holding the line."

General Voron froze, his skeptical expression replaced by one of pure shock. He stared at Arlan, his mind reeling. He had given a top-level summary, but the boy had replied with an intimate understanding of his army's composition and tactical disposition, a truth known only to him and his most senior officers.

Arlan pressed his advantage, his voice calm and assured. "Your Light Cavalry is your strongest asset, but they are too valuable to waste in defensive skirmishes. You have held the anvil against an impossible foe. But an anvil alone cannot win a war." He met the General's stunned gaze. "I am not here to usurp your command. I am here to be the hammer."

The skepticism in Voron's eyes vanished completely, replaced by a profound and awestruck respect. He looked at Arlan, not as a boy or a foreign noble, but as a true master of war.

"Grand Marshal," Voron said, his voice now devoid of any challenge. "What do you propose?"

The skepticism in Voron's eyes vanished completely, replaced by a profound and awestruck respect. He looked at Arlan, not as a boy or a foreign noble, but as a true master of war.

Arlan met the veteran general's gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of his question. He didn't issue a command. Instead, he laid the foundation for their partnership.

"We minimize our losses and focus on engaging in short term defensive battles while I lead my banner in surgical strikes," Arlan stated, his voice steady and calm, cutting through the tension on the battlements. "We cannot win a war of attrition against that horde. We would be trading our soldiers' lives for inches of ground, and we would lose. We will win by out-thinking them, not out-fighting them."

He turned from the wall. "Assemble your senior officers in the war room. I have a proposal."

Minutes later, Arlan stood before General Voron and his five most senior commanders in the grim, torchlit war room. The elven officers were a reflection of their general—veterans, their fine features hardened by weeks of desperate fighting.

Arlan pointed to the large map on the stone table. "The enemy's strength—their sheer numbers and fanaticism—is also their greatest weakness. An army of fifty thousand consumes a mountain of food and supplies every single day."

"We send scouts and a side team to find their supply depot. Once we find it, we'll bait their left-wing band of 15,000 orcs into an early battle before their center and right-wing can respond." suggested Arlan. "

A grim murmur went through the elven commanders at Arlan's suggestion. One of them, a sharp-faced elf with the insignia of a cavalry leader, stepped forward, shaking his head.

"Grand Marshal, you propose to engage a force of fifteen thousand orcs? Our entire army here numbers the same. And as the General has stated, their warriors are all second-tier at minimum. We would be trading lives one-for-one, if we are lucky. You are asking us to commit suicide."

"I am not suggesting a pitched battle, Commander," Arlan countered smoothly, his gaze sweeping over the skeptical officers. "I am suggesting a controlled engagement. We will not meet them on an open plain. We will use the terrain—the very ravines and forests you know so well—to our advantage. We will bleed them, disrupt their formation, and then withdraw before they can bring their full numbers to bear."

He placed a hand over the center of his chest, where his Regalia resided. "The risk, I know, is immense. But I am not asking your men to die for a feint. My Monarch's Regalia has the ability to empower allied soldiers, to enhance their strength and mend their wounds in the heat of battle. I can guarantee you will suffer fewer casualties in this one decisive strike than you would in another week of holding these walls."

The promise of supernatural aid hung in the air, a concept so foreign to conventional warfare that the elven commanders were left speechless. General Voron, who had been listening intently to the entire exchange, slammed a gauntleted fist on the table, silencing any further dissent.

"For weeks, my men have been dying slowly on these walls, waiting for a miracle from a Queen who has abandoned us," Voron declared, his voice a low rumble that commanded authority. "The Grand Marshal has not only found a weakness in our enemy, but he has also offered us a way to fight without sacrificing a generation of our sons." He looked at his dissenting officer, then back to Arlan.

"Your caution is noted, Commander. But the Grand Marshal's strategy is the first I have heard that does not end with us buried under orc corpses." He turned fully to Arlan, his decision made.

"Very well, Grand Marshal," Voron said, his voice a low rumble that commanded the absolute attention of every officer in the room. "You have a plan that is more than just 'hold until you die.' We will be your anvil. My army is at your disposal for this operation." He met Arlan's gaze, the alliance now forged in mutual respect and desperation. "Show us what you can do."

Arlan gave a single, sharp nod. "Thank you, General."

While Arlan gambled with the fate of the northeastern front, his companions in Sylabell waged a war of a different kind. The grand hall of Lord Finian of House Solara's estate was a dazzling spectacle of elven opulence. Luminescent crystals dripped from the high, vaulted ceilings, casting a soft, ethereal glow on the assembled guests.

Lords and ladies of the Southern Great Houses, known for their neutrality and immense wealth, mingled with stern-faced matriarchs of ancient bloodlines and the ever-present, watchful eyes of Queen Alveri's Royalist spies. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and unspoken ambitions. This was a feast of whispers, where alliances were forged and broken in the spaces between words.

Thalion moved through the powerful neutral lords with practiced ease. He approached their host, Lord Finian, who stood observing the proceedings with a calm, measured gaze, his simple silk robes a statement of power that needed no lavish embroidery.

"A magnificent feast, Lord Finian," Thalion began, his voice smooth as polished river stone. "A testament to the prosperity the Southern Houses enjoy. One hopes such stability can be maintained."

Finian took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving the crowd. "Stability is the bedrock of prosperity, Lord Thalion. A lesson some seem to have forgotten in their haste for… 'progress'." The word was a subtle poison, a clear reference to Alveri's aggressive and wasteful tactics on the northern front. "It is difficult to maintain trade when the kingdom's finest soldiers are bleeding their lives away on a distant, ill-managed front."

Thalion nodded in solemn agreement. "Indeed. A war of attrition benefits no one, save the orcs. True strength lies not in the number of enemies slain, but in the vibrancy of one's cities and the loyalty of one's people. That is a lesson my sister, Queen Luell, understood well."

At that moment, Princess Emmeline entered the main hall, and a respectful hush fell over the nearby clusters of nobles. She moved with a grace that was both disarming and commanding, her presence a tangible reminder of Midland's power and honor. At her side was Yanie, a vision of regal calm in a simple but elegant gown of deep forest green that matched her eyes. She didn't need to speak; her quiet dignity was a living tribute to her mother, a silent rebuke to the usurper queen.

One of the elder matriarchs, Lady Elara of a respected Southern House, approached them, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "Princess Emmeline, your presence honors us. And Lady Yanie… you have your mother's eyes."

Yanie offered a graceful curtsy, her voice soft but clear. "You are too kind, Lady Elara. I only hope to be worthy of the memory she left."

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"Queen Luell was a beacon of wisdom," Emmeline added smoothly, guiding the conversation. "She fostered an age of peace that benefited all of Firane. It is Midland's greatest hope to see such stability return to our cherished allies, for the good of all our kingdoms."

Lady Elara's expression softened with a sad, knowing smile. "Peace is a rare treasure, Your Highness. One that must be guarded by those who truly understand its value." Her gaze lingered on Yanie for a moment longer than necessary. The seed was planted.

Across the room, Marie and Chrysta, a striking duo of fire and ice, found themselves the target of Lord Selin of House Vexia, a sycophant whose loyalty to Alveri was as loud as his garish emerald robes. "Baroness Balan! The famous Embercaller," he boomed, drawing the attention of those nearby. "I must confess, I expected you to be… breathing more fire. It is a pleasant surprise to see you gracing a peaceful feast instead of razing our enemies."

Marie's smile was razor-sharp. "My lord, I save my fire for things that are worth burning. Petty political squabbles rarely generate enough heat for a proper inferno," she purred, her eyes glinting. "Besides, one must be careful not to get burned when playing so close to the flame."

Lord Selin puffed out his chest, feigning offense. "Her Majesty, Queen Alveri, bravely defends our borders from a monstrous horde! A noble cause, would you not agree? Or does Midland no longer value such courage?"

Before Marie could unleash another verbal fusillade, Chrysta's cold, quiet voice cut through the air. "Is it noble to sacrifice your best soldiers on a losing front while your true enemies plot within your own walls?"

Lord Selin was completely flustered by her directness, his jovial mask slipping. "I-I don't know what you mean! Such talk is treasonous!"

Marie delivered the finishing blow with a sweet, venomous smile. "Of course you don't, my lord. It must be so difficult to see the board clearly from so far away from the game. Do enjoy the canapés." She turned away, leaving the sputtering lord in her wake, his face a mask of fury and confusion.

As Marie and Chrysta walked away, JD, who had been observing the exchange from a discreet distance, allowed himself a small, appreciative smirk. Never a dull moment with those two. His hand, which had reflexively moved closer to the hilt of one of his mithril longswords, relaxed. He gave a subtle nod to one of Lord Finian's household guards, a silent acknowledgment between warriors. The guard, a stern-faced elf with a scar over his eye, nodded back, his own posture relaxing slightly. They understood each other without a word; in a room full of politicians, they were the ones who saw the real threats.

While JD kept his watchful vigil, Fiala found herself in a quiet alcove, speaking with Lady Elara and two other matriarchs who had been drawn by her serene presence.

"The clerics of the capital seem to have forgotten their primary duty," one of the matriarchs lamented, her voice a low whisper. "They preach loyalty to the crown, but say nothing of the crown's duty to the people."

"A ruler's mandate is a sacred trust, granted by Numen and earned through righteous action," Fiala replied, her voice gentle but firm. "It is not a birthright to be squandered. A kingdom is a garden, and a true leader is its caretaker, nurturing all life within it, not just the flowers that please her eye."

Lady Elara looked at Fiala with deep respect. "You speak with the wisdom of the old faith, child. A wisdom that has been sorely missed in this kingdom." The unspoken connection between Fiala's words and Yanie's cause was perfectly clear.

Elsewhere, Lucius had escaped the stifling press of the crowd, finding refuge on a balcony overlooking the estate's moon-dusted gardens. He leaned against the polished stone, seemingly admiring the view. In reality, his artifact goggles were focused on the distant spire of the royal palace, The Arborea, which was barely visible against the night sky. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of corrupted energy pulsed from it, a sickly purple haze that only someone with his unique sight could detect.

There it is, he thought, his mind racing. A demonic seal, and a powerful one. It's feeding on the life force of the city, a parasitic enchantment. That's how she's empowering her Inquisitors. But the weave is… flawed. Almost arrogant in its design. He made a mental note of the specific thaumaturgical frequencies. It was a lock, and every lock had a key.

From across the hall, Thalion observed the results of their coordinated efforts. He saw Lord Selin being quietly avoided by other nobles. He saw the matriarchs speaking in hushed, serious tones after Fiala had left them. He saw the thoughtful, calculating look on Lord Finian's face. Every piece had moved as he'd intended.

He raised his glass in a silent toast to his niece, who stood with Princess Emmeline, a perfect picture of grace and strength. The game is set, Thalion thought, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. We have planted the seeds of doubt in the garden of our enemies. Now, we simply need to wait for the coming storm to water them.

As Marie and Chrysta walked away, leaving the sputtering Lord Selin stewing in his own impotent fury, his eyes scanned the room for a new target, a way to reclaim his honor. His gaze fell upon JD, standing stoically by Princess Emmeline's side, a silent mountain of polished mithril armor. An ugly, brutish idea formed in his mind. If words failed, perhaps steel would succeed.

He strode to the center of the room, his voice booming once more, this time addressed to the hall at large and, more specifically, to the high table where Lord Finian sat with his most honored guests. And seated there, a raven amidst pigeons, was Queen Alveri herself.

She was a vision of cruel beauty, her silver hair intricately braided with black jewels, her form-fitting gown the color of dried blood. A circlet of jagged obsidian rested on her brow, and her eyes, the color of a winter storm, missed nothing. She had been observing the verbal spars with a look of cold amusement, but now her attention sharpened.

"My Lords, Ladies, Your Majesty," Selin announced with a flourish, bowing deeply towards Alveri. "We are blessed this evening with the presence of our brave allies from Midland. We have heard tales of their prowess, particularly of the knights who guard their royalty. I, for one, would be honored to witness this strength firsthand!" He turned and pointed his goblet directly at JD. "I propose a friendly spar! A demonstration of martial pride between the knights of Firane and Midland! What say you, Lord Commander? Will you honor me?"

A tense silence fell over the hall. This was no friendly offer; it was a public challenge designed to humiliate. To refuse would be an admission of cowardice, bringing shame upon House Reeve and all of Midland.

JD's expression didn't change. He glanced at Princess Emmeline, who gave him a barely perceptible nod. Thalion's eyes twinkled with amusement. This was an unscripted, but welcome, development.

"I accept," JD said, his voice a calm, even baritone that carried easily through the silent room.

The center of the hall was quickly cleared. Lord Selin, beaming with arrogance, drew his elven longsword, its blade humming as he channeled his essence into it, causing it to glow with a faint blue light. He was a third-tier, respectable for a court noble, and clearly proud of it.

"Prepare yourself, Midlandian!" he shouted.

JD simply drew his twin longswords, the dark, unadorned metal of the blades seeming to drink the light around them. He didn't bother activating his core or taking a fancy stance. He just stood there, waiting.

Enraged by the perceived disrespect, Selin lunged, his glowing blade scything through the air in a powerful overhead strike meant to cleave a man in two. The crowd gasped.

The attack never landed.

In a movement so fast it was almost a blur, JD sidestepped. The glowing sword hissed through empty air. Before Selin could even process his miss, JD had flowed around him.

There was no clang of steel on steel, only a single, dull thump. JD had struck the back of Selin's neck with the pommel of his left sword. The noble's eyes rolled back in his head, his body went limp, and he crumpled to the floor in a heap, his glowing sword deactivating and clattering beside him.

Silence.

JD didn't even glance at the unconscious form at his feet. With an air of supreme boredom, he sheathed his twin blades and walked back to his post beside Princess Emmeline, resuming his duty as if he had merely stepped aside to let a servant pass.

The disgrace was absolute. He hadn't just defeated Selin; he had dismissed him as a complete irrelevance.

Every eye in the hall, including Yanie's, Emmeline's, and Thalion's, darted to the high table. For a fraction of a second, the mask of cold composure on Queen Alveri's face shattered. Her beautiful features twisted into a snarl of pure disgust, her eyes flashing with murderous rage at the utter failure of her champion.

Then, just as quickly, the mask was back in place. A slow, deliberate clap echoed in the silent hall. It was the Queen.

"Magnificent," Queen Alveri said, her voice like honey laced with poison as she rose to her feet. The charade was flawless. "Truly, a stunning display of skill! Lord Selin was clearly overcome by the honor." She smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes as she looked at JD. "My heartfelt congratulations, Lord Commander. It is reassuring to know that our allies are protected by warriors of such caliber. Let this be a lesson to us all on the virtues of efficiency."

The Queen's recovery was masterful. The Royalists, taking their cue, erupted in applause, not for JD, but for their Queen's magnanimous words. Marie rolled her eyes, whispering to Chrysta, "She could spin a pigsty into a palace with that tongue."

Princess Emmeline watched her counterpart, a flicker of cold, professional respect in her eyes. It was a move she recognized, a tactic to seize control of a losing narrative. Yanie, however, felt no such professional admiration. She stared at her aunt, her expression hardening into something cold and resolute. She saw the flash of fury in Alveri's eyes, the genuine rage at her follower's weakness, and understood completely. Her aunt didn't lead; she dominated.

Thalion saw the shift as well. The duel had served its purpose. "I believe the evening's excitement has come to a close," he announced smoothly, moving to his niece's side. "Princess, Lady Yanie, it is getting late."

With perfect poise, the Midland contingent and their allies took their leave, offering a final, polite nod to their host and to the Queen, whose smile never quite reached her eyes.

Back within the safe, warded walls of Thalion's private estate, the group gathered in a sitting room.

"Well," JD said, finally breaking his silence as he removed his helmet, "that was more interesting than standing still."

"You were magnificent, JD," Emmeline said with a warm smile.

"But the Queen's recovery was just as impressive," Thalion noted, pouring a round of drinks. "We exposed the weakness of her followers, and the neutral lords saw it. But we also revealed our strength, and she will not underestimate us again."

"She doesn't rule," Yanie said, her voice low but carrying a newfound strength that made everyone turn to look at her. "She preys on our people, using them as pawns and discarding them when they fail her. I saw it in her eyes tonight." She looked at each of her friends, her expression one of ironclad resolve. "This must end."

A heavy silence followed Yanie's declaration, settling over the room. It was a moment of transformation, where the quiet, rightful heir had fully embraced the mantle of a revolutionary leader.

Just as Thalion was about to speak, a section of the room's darkest shadows seemed to detach itself from the wall. A figure coalesced from the gloom, clad in form-fitting dark leather armor that made no sound. A hood obscured the woman's features, but her presence was sharp and precise, like a drawn dagger. It was Nightingale, leader of the Umbras.

JD and Chrysta tensed instantly, but Emmeline held up a hand, her expression calm and authoritative. Nightingale's silent gaze was fixed solely on the princess. She gave a slight, respectful bow.

"Princess," Nightingale began, her voice a low, professional whisper. "My Umbras have confirmed the Queen's deception." She stepped forward and presented a rolled-up scroll, not to Thalion, but directly to Emmeline.

Emmeline took the scroll. "What did you find, Nightingale?"

"The Royalist spies at the feast were spreading rumors of a great victory in the north, claiming General Voron's forces had repelled a major assault with minimal losses," Nightingale explained. "This is the narrative the Queen is selling to the Southern Houses to maintain their confidence and secure war taxes." She paused, letting the weight of her next words settle. "It's a complete fabrication. My contacts within the Northern Army's supply corps have been keeping a true record. That is the butcher's bill."

With steady hands, Emmeline unrolled the parchment. Her eyes, usually filled with compassion, narrowed and turned to chips of ice as she scanned the neat columns of figures. The others watched her, seeing the color drain slightly from her face, replaced by a cold, regal fury.

"Gods above," she breathed, her voice tight with disbelief and anger. She looked up at Thalion, her expression grim. "She hasn't just been hiding losses. She's reporting victories where there were massacres. The regiment General Voron lost two weeks ago… she reported it as a successful tactical retreat. According to this, fewer than fifty men survived."

Thalion's face hardened as he absorbed the news. "This is the weapon we needed," he said, his mind immediately grasping the political implications. "The neutral lords value two things above all else: stability and profit. They tolerate Alveri because they believe she is winning. This proves the war is a bleeding wound that's draining the entire kingdom."

A grim smile touched Marie's lips. "So, we show them the truth they've been paying to ignore."

Yanie looked at the scroll in Emmeline's hands, then at her aunt's treachery laid bare in ink. Her resolve, already forged in the fire of the evening, now had a direction. It was no longer just about her birthright. It was about saving her people from a queen who would lead them to ruin to protect her own pride.

"Thalion, can you arrange a private meeting?" Emmeline asked, her voice having shed all warmth, leaving only the cold command of a ruling monarch. "Lord Finian and Lady Elara. Immediately."

"At once, Princess," Thalion replied with a bow, recognizing the shift in command.

Emmeline rolled the scroll back up, her knuckles white. She looked at Yanie, her eyes filled with a fierce, protective resolve. "It's time they saw the true face of the queen they are funding. We will show them the butcher's bill."