Chapter 205: STALEMATE
Night fell over the Southern Valley, bringing with it an eerie silence.
The war drums that had shaken the earth since dawn finally ceased. Campfires began to ignite on both sides of the valley—hundreds of dancing orange dots in the darkness, marking each army’s position. Between them lay a no-man’s land strewn with corpses and debris—the grim remnants of the day’s slaughter.
Riven Sudrath sat on a folding chair beside his command tank, his right hand gripping a cup of black coffee that had long since gone cold. His eyes were fixed on the campfire before him, but his mind drifted through the figures Thorne had just reported.
"Seven tanks heavily damaged. Two might be beyond field repair. Our infantry lost a hundred and twenty men. Another eighty are wounded." Thorne stood beside him, a crystal tablet in hand. "The enemy lost far more. By our estimates, at least two thousand of their infantry died today."
Riven didn’t answer. Two thousand. A massive number. But out of the forty-five thousand Leonardo had brought, two thousand was barely a scratch on the surface.
"They’ll be back tomorrow," Riven finally said. His voice was raspy, not from exhaustion, but from shouting over the thunder of cannons. "And the day after. And the day after that. Until one of us runs out of men or runs out of shells."
Thorne looked at his commander. "We still have ammunition. The factories in Iron Hearth are sending supplies daily."
"I know." Riven took a sip of the cold coffee. "But the question isn’t whether we have bullets. The question is how long we can hold before they find a crack."
On the other side of the valley, inside the royal command tent, the atmosphere was no better.
Prince Leonardo sat on a simple wooden chair, a map spread before him. Candles flickered around him, casting long, dancing shadows against the tent walls. His face was as calm as ever, but his eyes moved slowly—weary, yet still calculating.
Facing him, three division commanders stood with tense expressions. One of them, a middle-aged man with a grey beard, had just finished his report.
"The forward division has lost nearly half its strength, Your Highness. Those tanks... we can’t get close. Every time we advance, those cannons tear through the formations before we can even reach firing range."
"Our mages?" Leonardo asked, his voice flat.
"Still intact. But they are exhausted. Maintaining that storm all day drained their mana. Several have already collapsed."
Leonardo nodded slowly. He had expected this. The first battle was always the most brutal—both sides measuring each other’s strength, searching for a weakness. No one had won today. But no one had lost either.
"Withdraw all forces. Let them rest. Tomorrow, we—"
"Tomorrow, we what?!"
The voice cut through the air from the tent entrance. Every head turned.
Prince Cedric strode in, his dark blue Archmage robes billowing behind him. His usually handsome and composed face was flushed red—not from fatigue, but from a frustration that had reached its breaking point. His blonde hair, usually meticulously combed, was a mess, and his eyes burned with a fire that did not come from magic.
"I’ve heard the same reports, Leonardo." Cedric stood before the table, both hands slamming onto the wooden surface. "The forward division is decimated. The tanks are unreachable. The mages are spent. And what do we do? Withdraw? Retreat?"
Leonardo looked at his younger brother. "We aren’t retreating. We are consolidating."
"Consolidating?" Cedric laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "You call it consolidation. I call it cowardice. Where is the pride of the kingdom? Where is the glory of the Aethelgard bloodline? We have forty-five thousand troops, Leonardo! Forty-five thousand! And we can’t defeat a few hundred iron boxes?!"
"You didn’t see what happened on the field, Cedric." Leonardo’s voice remained calm, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it. "You stood in the back, chanting spells from a safe distance. You didn’t see how those cannons ripped through our ranks. You didn’t hear the screams of soldiers whose bodies were pulverized before they could even raise a sword."
Cedric fell silent, his jaw tightening.
"I do not deny your power," Leonardo continued, his voice softening slightly. "But your magic—no matter how strong—cannot destroy those tanks from this distance. And as long as you cannot get close, you are as helpless as any common soldier."
"Then what is your proposal?" Cedric hissed. "To sit here, waiting, while Mother sends letters of pressure every day? What do you want me to tell her? That the Crown Prince of the kingdom cannot pierce the defenses of a few hundred armed peasants?"
Leonardo stood up. His movements were slow but carried an immense weight of authority. He stood nearly eye-to-eye with Cedric, and his cold gaze forced the Archmage to instinctively take half a step back.
"I will tell her that we are fighting an enemy we have never faced before. That victory will not come in a day, or two, or even a week. That if she wanted quick results, she should never have started this war."
Cedric opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out.
Leonardo sat back down, picking up a cup of water. "Now, if you are finished with your tantrum, I have a more important question. Where is Alistair?"
Hundreds of kilometers to the southwest, in a makeshift camp on the edge of a forest, Alistair Solari sat on a large boulder. His armor was still coated in dust—the residue of a long journey following the defeat on the eastern route. Before him, Sir Romeni stood with a bandaged arm, pale but still vigilant.
"How many are left?" Alistair asked. His voice was low, nearly a growl.
"Four thousand, my lord. Out of the original five." Sir Romeni bowed his head. "The rest... died on that path. Or were trapped and captured."
Alistair didn’t answer. His leather-gloved hand clenched into a fist over his knee. Four thousand. Out of five thousand Highgarden cavalry—the pride of the region, trained for years, equipped with the finest armor.
"They knew we were coming," Alistair finally said. "Rianor Sudrath... he read my movements. He knew exactly which path I would choose."
Sir Romeni looked up. "How is that possible, my lord? Only we knew that route."
Alistair didn’t answer the question. His mind had already leaped further—to the next step, to other possibilities, to a gap that the enemy might not have closed yet.
"He thinks he’s won," Alistair muttered. "He thinks by crippling my cavalry, he can secure Oakhaven." He stood up and walked toward his horse tethered near a tree. "But he’s forgotten one thing."
"What is that, my lord?"
Alistair mounted his horse with a grace that belied his age. "War is not won by defending. War is won by attacking from an unexpected direction."
He turned his horse, facing north—not toward Oakhaven, but in a different direction.
"We will join Leonardo at Torshavn. From there, we strike together."
Sir Romeni frowned. "But my lord, haven’t we failed to cut their retreat? If we join the main force, we will only be part of a standard wave of attacks."
Alistair smiled—a thin, mirthless smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You think I’ll be cannon fodder like a common soldier? No. I will wait. Until the right moment. Until Rianor Sudrath thinks I am no longer a threat."
He spurred his horse, followed by the remnants of his cavalry. Dust rose behind them, marking their journey east—toward Torshavn.
The next day, in Oakhaven, Rianor sat in his command tent. A map was spread before him, and the crystal tablet beside him displayed data from the remaining mana sensors. Elara was at his side, as always, holding her own tablet.
"Alistair is moving east," Elara said, her finger tracing a line on the screen. "He isn’t heading back to Highgarden. He’s going toward Torshavn."
Rianor nodded. "He wants to join Leonardo."
"Do we pursue?"
"No." Rianor leaned back.
Elara looked at her husband. "But you don’t believe he’ll just stay idle."
Rianor offered a faint smile. "Alistair isn’t the type to give up. He retreated not because he was defeated, but because he needed logistics. His horses need water; they need fodder. He can’t last long on the battlefield without supplies." He pointed to a spot on the map. "Look at this. The only water source south of Oakhaven is the small river in the Narrow Valley. If he wants to resupply before joining Leonardo, he has to pass through there."
Elara studied the map. "And if he passes through there..."
"We’ve prepared a welcome." Rianor looked at his tablet. "I’ve sent a message to Roland. I asked him to ensure there are no Solari spies left who could warn Alistair."
In the distance, the sound of maneuvering tanks still echoed. But inside that tent, a new plan was taking shape.
In the Southern Valley, the second dawn arrived with the same sounds—war drums, marching feet, and the whistle of arrows. But this time, there was no storm. The royal mages were still spent, and Leonardo chose not to push them.
The second day’s battle was shorter. The royal infantry advanced in looser formations, attempting to minimize casualties from the tank cannons. Riven retaliated with more measured fire—conserving ammunition for the long haul.
By late afternoon, both sides withdrew once more. No one advanced. No one retreated. A stalemate.
In his command tent, Riven received a message from Rianor via his crystal pager. Short, concise, and to the point.
Alistair heading to Torshavn. Bringing four thousand cavalry. I’ve set a trap in the Narrow Valley. Do not let Leonardo know.
Riven read the message twice. Then he deleted it.
"Thorne."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare the troops. We defend again tomorrow. But the day after..." Riven looked at the map before him. "The day after, we start hitting back."
Thorne nodded, asking no questions. He had known Riven long enough to know when to speak and when to remain silent.
Outside, night began to fall again. Campfires were lit. Soldiers rested, recovering their strength for the next clash.
The war was far from over. But slowly, the wind was beginning to change.