The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic

The next morning, Kael strode through the heart of Sparves, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, eyes scanning every detail around him. The city was silent—too silent for a place meant to be a stronghold. The usual bustling streets were empty, save for a few sluggish merchants trying to set up stalls. Soldiers patrolled the walls, but their movements were slow, as if exhaustion clung to their bones.

At his side, Gare let out a low whistle. "Damn, this place looks dead."

Kael hummed in agreement. "A fortress on the brink of collapse. Let’s see how deep the rot goes."

They arrived at the central barracks, where Cedric and Valen were already waiting. The training grounds were almost empty—only a handful of knights were present, going through slow, lethargic drills. A few sparred, but their strikes were weak, lacking the aggression and precision of battle-hardened warriors.

Kael stopped in front of them, arms crossed. "This all you’ve got?"

Cedric flinched slightly, but Valen remained composed. "This is what remains of Sparves’ forces."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Numbers."

Valen spoke without hesitation. "Before the illness, we had 5,000 trained knights, with an additional 2,000 auxiliary troops. Now, we have roughly 800 knights still standing—most weakened by fatigue. Our auxiliary force has dwindled to 500. The rest are either dead or too sick to fight."

Handel, standing nearby, frowned. "That’s less than a quarter of your total force. How many capable fighters do you actually have?"

Valen’s expression remained unreadable. "At most? Five hundred."

Kael let out a short, sharp laugh. "Three hundred knights in a city meant to hold the northern gate. Tell me, what about your beasts? Warhorses? Any tamed creatures?"