Chapter 208: TWO LETTERS
Three days after the slaughter at the Narrow Valley, Rianor Sudrath’s convoy passed through the northern gates of Torshavn.
The sun was nearly swallowed by the western horizon. Wolf-Tusk and Titan MK-1 tanks rumbled slowly down the main thoroughfare, their steel treads grinding against the cracked asphalt. Infantry marched alongside them, their faces etched with fatigue but their eyes remaining vigilant.
Riven was already waiting in the city square, standing beside his command tank with his arms crossed. Behind him, Thorne and several other officers stood in a loose formation. Count Eddard was nearby, his aged face showing a relief he couldn’t hide.
Rianor descended from his command vehicle. He approached his older brother, his stride steady despite the travel dust clinging to his uniform. The two brothers stood face-to-face—one a titan with a chain-axe on his back, the other a scholar with a crystal tablet in hand.
"You’re late," Riven said.
"Alistair didn’t want to cooperate." Rianor offered a thin smirk. "He chose to take the long way around."
Riven snorted—a sound that was almost a laugh. "How many are left?"
"A thousand. Maybe less. He took a bullet to the shoulder himself."
"Good." Riven looked toward the south, where the lights of the royal camp were beginning to flicker in the distance. "Leonardo still has over forty thousand. But their morale is starting to crumble. Over the last two days, their assaults haven’t been as ferocious as before."
Rianor nodded. "They’re waiting for Alistair. They have no idea he’s been broken."
"They’ll find out soon enough." Riven turned, gesturing to Thorne. "Prepare the command room. We need to talk."
Meanwhile, inside the royal encampment, the atmosphere was vastly different.
Grey tents stretched as far as the eye could see, filled with thousands of exhausted soldiers. Mud from the rain two days ago still pooled everywhere, mixed with footprints and horse dung. The stench of sweat, iron, and damp earth had become a permanent, inescapable aroma.
In the largest command tent, Prince Leonardo sat in his wooden chair. The same map remained spread before him—a map whose every contour, hill, and river he had memorized. But tonight, he wasn’t looking at the map. He was staring at a piece of parchment in his hand.
A letter from his mother.
"You are the Crown Prince. Do not fail. Marcus is already dead at their hands. Do not let his name be tarnished by your failure. Do not shame your mother."
Leonardo read the letter for the third time. The handwriting was neat and elegant, like every letter Eleanor had ever written. But behind every stroke, Leonardo could feel a suffocating pressure—the pressure of a mother who was never satisfied, who always demanded more, who viewed her children not as human beings but as pawns on the chessboard of power.
He folded the letter slowly, placing it on the corner of the table.
"You’ve read that letter three times now."
Leonardo looked up. Prince Cedric stood at the tent entrance, his Archmage robes rumpled and stained—a rare sight for someone who usually obsessed over his appearance. His face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, and his usually meticulously combed blonde hair was a mess.
"I was making sure I didn’t miss anything," Leonardo replied flatly.
Cedric entered, sinking into the chair opposite Leonardo. "Miss anything? What is there to miss? Mother says we must win. That’s it. Nothing else."
"She said do not fail. There’s a difference."
"How is there a difference?" Cedric leaned forward, his voice rising. "We’ve been here for days, Leonardo. Days! And what have we gained? Those tanks are still standing. Our infantry sleeps in the mud like swine. Our mages run out of mana every single day. And Alistair..." He paused, clenching his fists. "Alistair hasn’t even shown up. Perhaps he’s already dead."
"He isn’t dead."
"Are you sure? Because if he’s alive, where is he? Why isn’t he here, hitting them from the rear as he promised?"
Leonardo didn’t answer. He stared at the map, but his mind drifted elsewhere—to the first battle, to the rain of fire that couldn’t pierce the enemy’s shields, to the cannons that decimated his formations before his soldiers could even get close.
"We cannot win against those iron toys," Cedric said finally, his voice lower, more desperate. "We can’t. Not like this."
Leonardo lifted his gaze. His eyes were cold, but there was something else there—not anger, but an exhaustion so deep it almost resembled resignation.
"Those iron toys," he said softly, "just killed three-quarters of Alistair’s forces."
Cedric froze. "What?"
"Reports from our scouts. Alistair walked into a trap at the Narrow Valley. His cavalry is decimated. He himself is wounded. Only a thousand men survived."
Cedric fell silent. The frustration on his face was replaced by a ghostly paleness. "A thousand... out of five thousand?"
"Do you still want to claim we can win with magic and steel?" Leonardo stared at his brother. "They don’t fight like us. They don’t think like us. Every time we advance, they are already waiting. Every time we look for a gap, it turns out to be a trap."
"Then what?" Cedric stood up, his voice trembling. "We surrender? Go home to Mother and tell her we lost? Do you want to be the Crown Prince who was defeated?"
Leonardo did not answer.
The following morning, in Torshavn, Rianor and Riven sat in a makeshift command room established in a warehouse near the southern wall. A large map was spread between them, marked with their own positions and the estimated enemy locations.
"We can’t keep playing defense," Rianor said, his finger pointing at dots on the map. "Every day we hold, they lose more men. But we also lose ammunition, fuel, and time. A war of attrition does not favor us in the long run."
Riven nodded. "Then what’s your proposal? We attack them?"
"No. We offer peace."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Peace? After everything that’s happened?"
"Precisely because of everything that’s happened." Rianor leaned back. "Leonardo isn’t Eleanor. He isn’t Alistair. He’s a soldier, not a fanatic. He’s seen for himself how his troops are dying in vain. If we give him an honorable way out, he might just take it."
"And if he doesn’t?"
"At least we tried." Rianor looked at his brother. "And if he continues to attack, we will not hesitate to destroy him."
Riven was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. We’ll send an envoy. Carry a letter."
By afternoon, a Sudrath envoy—a young officer named Lieutenant Farrow—rode out of the Torshavn gates carrying a white flag. He crossed the no-man’s land strewn with corpses and debris, heading toward the royal front lines.
In the royal camp, the envoy’s arrival caused a stir. Exhausted soldiers stared with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Some officers wanted to arrest him, but Leonardo ordered him to be brought to the command tent.
Lieutenant Farrow stood before Prince Leonardo, his posture rigid despite knowing his life was at stake just by being there. He handed over a parchment scroll sealed with wax bearing the Sudrath Wolf crest.
Leonardo received it. He broke the seal, unfurled the scroll, and read.
"To Prince Leonardo, Crown Prince of Aethelgard.
Stop this war. We do not need to kill each other.
What do you seek here? Victory? There will be no victory—only an ever-growing pile of corpses. Honor? Honor is not found in the mounds of your own soldiers’ bodies.
Northreach never wanted this war. We only wish to live, to build, and to protect our people. If you withdraw now, no more blood will be spilled. No more mothers will lose their children. No more soldiers will die in the mud for a cause even you do not believe in.
The choice is yours.
Rianor Sudrath & Riven Sudrath"
Leonardo read the letter twice. His eyes moved slowly, processing every word. Something in his expression shifted—not anger, not insult, but doubt. A deep, gnawing doubt.
Cedric, standing beside him, glanced at the letter. "What does it say?"
Leonardo didn’t answer. He simply handed the letter to his brother.
Cedric read it quickly. His face flushed red. "They dare offer peace? After killing Marcus? After crushing Alistair’s army? This is an insult!"
"It isn’t an insult." Leonardo’s voice was quiet. "It’s... an exit."
"An exit?" Cedric looked at his brother in disbelief. "You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly be considering this."
Leonardo didn’t answer. He stared at the letter in Cedric’s hand, then at the map on his table, and finally out of the tent—toward Torshavn, toward the enemy offering him peace.
Lieutenant Farrow was still standing there, waiting for an answer.
"You may go," Leonardo said finally. "Take my message: I will consider it."
Lieutenant Farrow bowed and exited.
The moment the tent flaps closed, Cedric exploded. "Consider it? Leonardo, you’re mad! Mother will—"
"I know what Mother will do." Leonardo cut him off, his voice icy. "But I am the one leading this army. Not Mother. Not you. Me."
Cedric fell silent, his jaw tightening.
Night fell. Leonardo stood alone outside his tent, gazing at the star-studded sky. In his hand was the letter from Rianor and Riven. In his pocket was the letter from Eleanor.
Two letters. Two directions. Two futures.
He looked up at the countless stars—each star like the life of a fallen soldier. And for the first time in his life, the Crown Prince of Aethelgard did not know which one to choose.
From a distance, the sound of wings echoed. A white pigeon descended from the darkness, landing on Leonardo’s shoulder. A small tube was tied to its leg—a letter from Sol-Regis.
Leonardo opened it with hands that trembled slightly.
"Take one more step back, and you are no son of mine."
There was no signature. There didn’t need to be. Leonardo recognized the script.
He looked at the letter in his left hand—the peace offering from his enemy. Then he looked at the letter in his right hand—the threat from his own mother.
The night wind blew, fluttering both letters.
Leonardo did not move. He simply stood there, frozen, staring at a sky that gave him no answers.