There he was, lying in the open battlefield, among the corpses of his comrades, alone without any breath or strength left in him, but still trying to muster every bit of energy his muscles could provide him to stand up and fight. The fight for his pride, the fight against injustice, the fight against all odds, and the fight against his own brother, who, with a grin on his face, sits proudly on his horse with his huge army of 50,000 all staring at him on the ground, ready to charge on their general’s order. Untroubled by the gaze of an entire army, he got up and picked up his sword, taking the support of his spear as he could not feel his left leg, and took the stance, limping to face his brother one last time in the battle.
Aric, King of Frostholme, dismounted slowly.
The snow that had once blanketed the land in white was now soaked crimson. Broken shields, severed banners, and dying men lay scattered across the field. Some still gasped for breath, staring at a sky that had already forgotten them.
But Aric saw only one man standing.
Alaric.
His fur coat was torn. His silver armor scratched and stained red. His left leg trembled beneath him, yet his grip on the sword did not loosen.
Aric walked forward without drawing his weapon.
Before he could speak, Alaric roared, “NOW DIE!” and swung with the last of his strength.
Aric caught the blade mid-strike.
“You should not attack a weaponless man,” he said calmly. “Though in your condition, I hardly need one.”
Alaric tried to push forward, but his strength was gone.
Aric signaled his army to stand down and called his horse. As he mounted, his voice rose over the silent battlefield.
“You cannot defeat me today. And I have no interest in ending a war so… disappointingly.”
His gaze hardened.
“So I, King Aric of Frostholme, grant you mercy.”
Murmurs spread through the ranks.
“Return to your fallen kingdom, Alaric of Silverpeak. Hide behind your sorrow. Let the dead rest in peace — you, however, will live with failure.”
Alaric’s jaw tightened.
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“If you ever wish to face me again,” Aric continued, “at least try to scratch my armor first.”
Then he turned his horse.
The army followed.
Alaric staggered after them, fury driving him forward. On the third step, his leg failed. He collapsed into the blood-soaked snow.
The world dimmed.
Is this how it ends?
The sun dipped below the horizon, turning the battlefield gold for one final moment.
Alaric closed his eyes.
“Sun… my day ends with yours.”
But as darkness crept in, another thought surfaced.
How did it come to this?
A name echoed in his mind.
Erwin.
---
They were twenty-one when it began.
The oak tree in the forest had been theirs since childhood — a place untouched by titles or expectations.
“Alaric! Climb faster!” Erwin’s voice rang from above.
Alaric looked up to see his friend grinning from a high branch.
He climbed. Erwin offered a hand — then withdrew it at the last second.
Alaric fell hard.
Erwin laughed. “You trust too easily.”
Alaric brushed snow from his armor. “Careful. I am the King’s brother.”
Erwin’s smile faded slightly. “Is that what you are?”
The words lingered.
“You know what people say,” Erwin continued. “They say you and your brother barely speak. That you fight his wars so he doesn’t have to.”
Alaric’s expression hardened. “Speak carefully.”
“I am speaking carefully.”
Before the tension could thicken further, the sound shattered the forest air.
Gong. Gong. Gong.
Three strikes.
Emergency.
They exchanged a glance and ran.
The town was chaos.
Bodies in the streets. Soldiers shouting orders. Smoke rising from shattered homes.
The captain saluted urgently. “There was an assassination attempt on His Majesty. The threat is neutralized.”
Alaric did not wait to hear more.
He stormed into the castle chamber.
“Brother! Are you hurt?”
Aric stood near the window, composed.
Kael, armored and silent, stood beside him holding a parchment.
“I am alive,” Aric said. “Thanks to Kael.”
He dismissed Kael and Erwin with a gesture.
The room fell silent.
Aric did not turn around.
“Where is your royal stamp, Alaric?”
Alaric frowned. “With me. Why?”
“And Erwin’s?”
A chill ran through him.
“It should be with him.”
Aric finally faced him.
He slammed the parchment onto the table and turned it over.
“Because your friend orchestrated the ambush.”
Alaric grabbed the parchment.
Three lines.
Ambush will go as planned.
Alaric will be with me; he knows everything.
Don’t fail me this time.
Below it, Erwin’s royal seal.
Alaric’s breath stalled.
“That is impossible,” he whispered.
“Is it?” Aric stepped closer. “Or have I been blind?”
“Brother, I swear—”
Aric’s hand seized his throat.
“If not for Kael reminding me you share my blood, you would already be dead.”
Alaric struggled to breathe.
“I did not betray you.”
Aric released him violently.
“You stood to gain the throne.”
“I never wanted it!”
Aric studied him — searching, measuring.
Finally, he spoke.
“You will not die today.”
Alaric’s heart pounded.
“You will be exiled.”
The word struck harder than steel.
“You will vanish. If you survive, it will not be under my name.”
Before Alaric could respond, Aric struck him across the neck with his armored forearm.
The world tilted.
Voices blurred.
“Take him,” Aric ordered coldly. “Throw him far enough that even Frostholme forgets him.”
Darkness swallowed everything.
