Chapter 8. The Unwanted Warrior

"Do you know what he have been through? Alaric was crying in the first nights when he got sent of the War!!

-Ser Hector the Brave Knight

My P.O.V

The Weeping Soldier was nearly empty at this hour, save for a few slumped figures—mercenaries, drunkards, and men who had no homes to return to. A low fire crackled in the hearth, its dying embers casting faint shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of old ale and damp straw filled the air. I sat in the farthest corner, my fingers idly tracing the rim of an untouched tankard.

I had spent the entire night here, away from the palace, away from the suffocating weight of duty and expectation. I had no illusions about my place in that council chamber—I was a bastard, an afterthought, a soldier to be used and discarded. Devran’s arrogance, Leo’s sneering disdain, and Queen Anna’s cold, calculated gaze were nothing new. But Leo’s words had struck something deep within me. Do I even care for the men under me?

How dare he? A man who had never set foot on a battlefield, who had never heard the dying screams of comrades, who had never had to choose between ordering an impossible charge or letting his men be slaughtered. I wanted to believe he was just goading me, but there was something in his tone—something that made me wonder if I had truly lost sight of why I fought.

I was unwanted in Elria. I had always known it, but tonight, it felt heavier than before. I had only stayed for Aria, only swallowed my pride and anger for her sake. But now, I wasn’t sure if that was enough anymore.

Then there was Eadric.

The letter he had sent was simple, almost meaningless—asking how I was, as if we were two comrades meeting after years apart. It was an opening, a reminder that I still had a place beyond these cold palace halls. And perhaps… an invitation.

I could go to him now. No one would stop me.

Duke Eadric was no fool. He knew the Crown’s weakness. Without me, the Royal Army was nothing more than a collection of knights and conscripts led by commanders who had never fought a real war. Devran was not his father, and Ser Lanselot, for all his skill with a sword, was not a man who could lead a campaign. Gildas was too old. Midryn was too self-absorbed. And Leo? Leo thought wars were won with words and titles.

Without me, Eadric would win. And he knew it.

But if I went to him, what then? I had spent my life fighting for a kingdom that had never wanted me. If I fought for Eadric, I would be nothing more than his sword, a means to his victory. And Aria… Aria would never forgive me.

The door creaked open, and heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The unmistakable presence of Ser Gildas was enough. He did not say a word as he pulled up a chair across from me, his weathered face unreadable.

“You’ve been gone all night,” he finally said. “She’s worried about you.”

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. “I needed to think.”

Gildas leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “And did you?”

I hesitated. “War is coming, Gildas.”

“Aye. It is.”

I clenched my fists. “Then tell me, old man—where should I stand?”

Gildas studied me for a long moment, his sharp eyes searching mine. “You already know the answer. You just don’t want to say it.”

Silence stretched between us. He was right. I knew where I had to stand. I just didn’t know if I had the strength to do it.

A sharp knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. One of the city watchmen stood there, looking nervous. “My lord, you are summoned to the throne room. A council has been called.”

I exchanged a glance with Gildas before rising.

It seemed my time to choose had already begun.

My P.O.V - Throne Room

The throne room felt colder than usual. Not in temperature, but in presence. The lingering echoes of bootsteps, the flickering torchlight reflecting off the polished marble floors—everything about this place had always felt unwelcoming, but today, it was suffocating.

I had no choice but to be here. Summoned like a hound, as if I were one of Devran’s sworn men rather than his half-brother. After Leo’s last insult, I had no interest in entertaining whatever self-righteous speech they had prepared, but Aria had asked me—no, begged me—to come.

She stood beside me now, her presence the only thing grounding me in this den of wolves.

“Take it easy,” she whispered under her breath, her hand lightly brushing my arm. “Don’t let them get to you.”

I said nothing, but I knew she could feel the tension in me.

The council chamber was full. The high lords who still supported the Crown, commanders, and of course, the royal family. Queen Anna sat upon the throne, silent but watchful. Her expression was unreadable, but I knew better. She was observing. Measuring. Calculating.

Devran stood before the assembled lords, his jaw tight, clearly irritated. Not by the war. Not by the dire state of our forces. No—he was irritated that Aria had dared to speak in my defense in the last council, as if her words had any weight against his own.

Leo stood beside him, arms crossed, watching me like a hawk. I knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to goad me again.

Ser Lanselot, now Grand Marshal of the Realm.

The title had been his for only a short time, awarded to him swiftly after the death of Ser Alden, the previous Grand Marshal. Before Devran had even been crowned, Lanselot had been given command of the Royal Army. Another piece of Queen Anna’s influence falling into place. I had no doubt she had orchestrated this. One by one, her allies were claiming the highest positions of power.

“The state of the Royal Army is a disaster,” he said bluntly, his deep voice carrying across the chamber. “We have five thousand men. Half of them are city watchmen, untrained for battle. The rest—poorly equipped levies. There is no cohesion, no discipline. If Duke Eadric reaches Lion’s Crest unopposed, we will not have the strength to stop him.”

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I listened in silence. None of this surprised me.

“The Drakemonts refuse to raise their banners,” Ser Lanselot continued, “and many of the lesser lords hesitate to commit. The Crown’s influence has been weakened.”

“What about the other duchies?” he asked, his tone sharp.

“It is not only the Drakemonts,” Callus said. “The Duchess of Montaklar, Duke Mandevill, and Duke Wulfrum have all declared neutrality. They refuse to send men to either side.”

A murmur spread through the chamber. Devran’s frown deepened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Devran cursed under his breath. “Cowards,” he muttered. “All of them.”

Queen Anna remained silent, but her smirk deepened ever so slightly.

Leo took the opportunity to speak.

“You hesitate to say it, Ser Lanselot, but we all know the truth,” he said, turning toward me. “Half the realm believes Duke Eadric has the better claim to rule. And why? Because the bastard standing before us refuses to take a side.”

Aria stiffened beside me, but Leo wasn’t finished.

“You spent the night in the Weeping Soldier, didn’t you, Alaric?” His tone was taunting. “Drinking, thinking, wondering if you should flee to Eadric’s side. Tell me—have you decided?”

I clenched my fists.

Aria spoke before I could.

“Stop it, Leo,” she snapped. “This isn’t helping.”

“Isn’t it?” Leo scoffed. “He stands here like some undecided fool while war looms over us.”

Aria stepped forward, her voice firm. “Enough.”

But Leo wasn’t done. He turned fully to her, his eyes narrowing.

“Why do you always defend this bastard?” he demanded.

"Leo Enough," Devran speaks in a tired and frustrated tone.

Silence.

Aria’s expression didn’t waver. She stood tall, her blue eyes fierce, her posture unshaken.

“Because Alaric is my brother,” she said. “And nothing in the world could change that fact. So enough.”

The room fell still. Even Queen Anna studied Aria with renewed interest.

Devran looked between us, frowning, as if trying to decide whether to scold Leo or allow this moment to pass.

I exhaled slowly, my jaw tight. Aria’s words had settled something in me, but they had also made it clear—no matter how much the world wanted to cast me aside, she never would.

I had come here to listen to what Devran had to say. I would endure this for Aria. But my patience had its limits.

“What do you want from me?” I finally asked, breaking the silence.

Devran straightened, regaining his composure. “Your sword.”

Of course. That was all I ever was to them.

I turned away from Leo, from Devran, from their petty power struggles. I looked at Aria, the only person who had ever seen me as more than just a weapon.

For now, I would stay.

For her.

I did not speak.

I did not argue, did not raise my voice, did not stay to hear their justifications or their commands.

I simply turned and left.

No one called after me. No one needed to. They all understood. That was my answer.

I would fight for them.

But not for the kingdom. Not for the throne. Not for the people who had shunned me, ridiculed me, and cast me aside like a broken sword.

I had sworn only to fight for her. For Aria.

And yet, here I was, preparing to spill blood for those who had never once stood for me. For those who had called me bastard before they called me prince. For a crown that had never once belonged to me.

The thought gnawed at me like a festering wound.

I had no choice.

Not if I wanted her to survive this war.

The halls of the palace felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of decisions I did not make. My footsteps echoed down the stone corridors, the cold biting into my skin, yet my blood burned.

The kingdom had taken everything from me—my name, my honor, my place. And now, it demanded my sword.

Fine.

They would have it.

But they would never have me.

The council had ended. I had left without a word, yet everyone understood what my silence meant—I would fight for them. Not because I believed in the crown, not because I felt loyalty to Devran or his mother, but because I had no choice.

The corridors of the palace were empty at this hour, the flickering torches casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. I was walking towards my quarters when I heard footsteps behind me—light, careful steps, followed by the steady, heavier pace of an old knight.

I didn’t turn. "If you're here to scold me, spare your breath, Gildas."

The old knight only let out a tired sigh. "I’ve long since given up on scolding you, lad. I’d sooner scold a storm for raging."

Aria was beside him. She stepped ahead, blocking my path, her blue eyes filled with concern. "Alaric," she said softly. "Talk to me."

I exhaled, rubbing my temple. "What do you want me to say, Aria? That I am grateful? That I’m proud to stand beside them? That I will fight with all my heart for a kingdom that would rather see me dead?" I shook my head. "I gave my answer when I walked out of that chamber."

She flinched at the bitterness in my tone, but she did not back down. "You are fighting for me," she reminded me. "Not for them."

I looked away. "I know."

"And I will never be ungrateful," she added.

Ser Gildas leaned against the cold stone wall, watching us both. "Aye, she won’t be. But others will." He met my gaze, his tone grim. "You know this already, boy. You could win them a dozen battles, bleed for them, save their damn city from ruin—and still, you’ll be nothing more than ‘the bastard.’"

"Then why fight at all?" I muttered.

Aria reached for my arm, her grip firm. "Because if you don’t, Eadric will win."

Silence stretched between us. I clenched my jaw. I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. She was right.

Ser Gildas sighed again, rolling his shoulders. "You were never meant to have an easy path, lad. But easy or not, it’s the one you’ve chosen. Just make sure you don’t lose yourself along the way."

I scoffed. "And what is left to lose?"

Aria’s grip tightened. "Me," she whispered.

That was the only answer that mattered.

I sighed, shaking my head before finally looking at her. "Go rest, Aria. We have a war to prepare for."

She hesitated, but she knew better than to argue. With one last glance, she turned and left.

Ser Gildas lingered a moment longer, studying me. Then he grunted and walked off after her, leaving me alone once more.

I stared down the empty corridor, the weight of my choice settling on my shoulders.

No, I wasn’t fighting for the kingdom. I was fighting for her.

That would have to be enough.

The Royal chamber was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. Tension hung heavy in the air, thick enough to suffocate. Queen Anna sat at the head of the room, her hands clenched tightly on the armrests of her chair, her expression unreadable—except for the fire burning in her eyes. Devran stood before her, arms crossed, his jaw set in frustration.

"You humiliated yourself today," the Queen finally spoke, her voice sharp as a blade.

"I did what was necessary," Devran replied coolly, meeting her gaze without flinching.

Anna’s grip on the chair tightened. “Necessary? You stained the *Pride of the Lion* by asking for a *bastard’s* sword.” She leaned forward, her voice laced with barely contained fury. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

Devran exhaled, his patience thinning. “I understand that war is coming, and we have no one else.”

A tense silence followed until Lord Varus, seated at the far end of the table, finally spoke. His voice was steady, measured, a stark contrast to the rising emotions in the room.

"If you still wish to enjoy your throne for longer, my Queen, then we need Alaric," he said. "I understand why Prince Devran asked for the bastard’s sword. War is upon us. Who do you think will lead our men when Eadric marches?”

Queen Anna turned her sharp gaze toward him, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in his words. “Ser Lanselot. The greatest swordsman in the realm.”

Devran scoffed, shaking his head. “Lanselot is not a general.”

Ignoring him, Anna continued, grasping at other options as if speaking them aloud would make them viable. “Then Ser Daudalus, a seasoned knight. Or Ser Midryn. And lastly, we have Leo. He is old enough to command. Just… don’t do this, my son.”

Devran sighed, exasperated. “You don’t understand, Mother.”

The Queen’s expression softened slightly, sensing his frustration. “Then help me understand.”

For a moment, Devran hesitated, as if debating whether to say what he truly thought. Then, his voice hardened. “I am not scared of Alaric. I just need to use him for now. That is all.”

The Queen studied him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but there was none. Devran had made up his mind. A heavy silence stretched between them before he finally turned to leave.

“Enough with this conversation,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to look back.

As the door closed behind him, Queen Anna remained seated, her nails digging into the fabric of her gown. The flames in the chamber flickered, casting shifting shadows on the walls, but the weight of what had just transpired lingered like a ghost in the air.

Duke Eadric’s Point of View

Milian Camp, Early Morning

The cold morning air bit at my skin as I stepped out of my tent, the first light of dawn casting a pale glow over the camp. Fires still smoldered from the night before, and the scent of damp earth and burning wood filled the air. My men were stirring—some sharpening their swords, others breaking their fast with stale bread and salted meat. The sound of steel clashing against whetstones was a familiar rhythm, one that spoke of preparation, of war.

Lion’s Crest was within reach, but I knew we were not ready. Not yet. Though more counts in Auria had formally declared for me, swelling my ranks, I was still wary. The Royal Army was weak—poorly trained, poorly led—but I would not underestimate them. Not when Alaric stood among them.

I did not fear King Valero’s bastard, but I could not ignore him either. He had been just a boy when I first met him, thrust into war before he could even grow into his own name. I still remember his first night in the Third Border War—how he had sat by the fire, silent and shaking, his eyes filled with the fear of a child who had seen too much too soon. He had cried that night, though he had tried to hide it. I had wondered then what kind of man the war would forge him into. Now, I would find out.

The tent flap rustled behind me, and I turned to see my son, Edward, striding toward me with a gleam in his eyes. Even before he spoke, I knew he carried important news.

“Father,” he said, his voice steady but filled with excitement. “It is done. Duke Romulus has agreed to the alliance.”

I felt a slow smile form on my lips. It was the answer I had been waiting for.

“And?” I pressed.

“More than that—he has offered a marriage between Victoria and me,” Edward continued, pride evident in his voice. “He marches with seven thousand men. Within weeks, they will arrive.”

Seven thousand. More than I had hoped for. Romulus was not a man who gave his loyalty freely—his agreement to this alliance meant he had finally abandoned any lingering ties to the Crown.

With his forces at my back, there would be no stopping us.

I turned toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise. The moment Duke Romulus arrived would be the moment the Lion’s Crest fell. And then, all of Gulvia would see the true strength of House Darien.

"Kill those disgusting Commoners!!!"

-King Brandon the Cruel to the People of Elria